Crime and Punishment .......................................................................................................................................1

Fyodor Dostoyevsky................................................................................................................................1

ON AN exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high,

fivestoried house and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret,

dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her

kitchen, the door of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick,

frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but for some time past he had been in

an overstrained irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in

himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but 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 importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady

could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial,

irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for

excuses, to prevaricate, to lieno, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out

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

"I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm . .

. yes, all is in a man's hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It would be interesting to

know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most. . . .

But I am talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do

nothing. I've learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking . . . of Jack the

Giantkiller. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It's

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

summerall worked painfully upon the young man's already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench

from the pothouses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom he

met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression

of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man's refined face. He was, by the way,

exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, wellbuilt, with beautiful dark eyes and dark

brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind;

he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. From time to time, he would

mutter something, from the habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he

would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days

He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in

the street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have

created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of establishments of bad character,

the preponderance of the trading and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart

of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would have

caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man's heart, that, in

spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter

when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any

time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge

waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: "Hey there, German

hatter" bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at himthe 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

"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 remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little

conspicuous as possible. . . . Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it's just such trifles that always ruin

He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly

seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put

no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a

month later, he had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered

at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this "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

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 kindstailors, 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 doorkeepers were employed on the building. The young man was very glad to meet

none of them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back

staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these

surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.

"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I were really going to do it?" he

could not help asking himself as he 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. . . . He

started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the

old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little

eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened

the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen.

The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered

up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled

hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked

like a hen'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

"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow,

"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the old woman said distinctly, still

"And here . . . I am again on the same errand," Raskolnikov 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

The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and pointing to the door of the room,

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 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 dressingtable with a

lookingglass fixed on it between the windows, chairs along the walls and two or three halfpenny prints in

yellow frames, representing German damsels with birds in their handsthat 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;

"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

"What do you want?" the old woman said severely, coming into the room and, as before, standing in front of

"I've brought something to pawn here," and he drew out of his pocket an oldfashioned flat silver watch, on

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

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

"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 jeweler's for a rouble and a half."

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

"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

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

"It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on

a steel 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 strongbox . . . that's worth

knowing. Strongboxes always have keys like that . . . but how degrading it all is."

"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 thirtyfive copecks altogether. So I must give you a rouble and

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

"I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovnaa valuable thingsilvera

cigarette box, as soon as I get it back from a friend . . ." he broke off in confusion.

"Goodbyeare you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?" He asked her as casually as

"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick. . . . Goodday, Alyona Ivanovna."

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and more intense. As he went

down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as though 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 rubbish!" he added resolutely. "And how could such an atrocious thing come into my head?

What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!and for a

whole month I've been. . . ." But no words, no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of

intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old

woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to do

with himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man, regardless

of the passersby, 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

"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in it all to worry about! It's simply physical

derangement. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry breadand in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful as though he were suddenly set free

from a terrible burden: and he gazed 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 consisting of about five men and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure

left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were a man who appeared to be an

artisan, drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with a

grey beard, in a short fullskirted 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

But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with positive hostility and mistrust at all these

manifestations. There was another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government clerk.

He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared

RASKOLNIKOV was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided society of every sort, more

especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be

taking place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was so weary after a whole month

of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some

other world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay

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 turnover tops coming into view each time before the rest of his

person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face

seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was

another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the counter lay some sliced cucumber,

some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably

close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an atmosphere might well make a man

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment, before a word is spoken.

Such was the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked

like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to

presentiment. He looked repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring persistently at

him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the other persons in the room, including the

tavernkeeper, the clerk looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing a shade of

condescending contempt for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own, with whom it would

be useless for him to converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly

built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids

out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very strange in him; there

was a light in his eyes as though of intense feelingperhaps there were even thought and intelligence, but at

the same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged

black dress coat, with all its buttons missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to

this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front covered with spots and stains, protruded from his

canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin

looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable and like an official about his manner

too. But he was restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands

dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov,

"May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Forasmuch as, though your exterior

would not command respect, my experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not

accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in conjunction with genuine sentiments, and

I am besides a titular counsellor in rank. Marmeladovsuch is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold to

"No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the grandiloquent style of the speaker

and also at being so directly addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for company

of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any

"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 in selfapproval. "You've been a

student or have attended some learned institution! . . . But allow me. . . ." He got up, staggered, took up his

jug and glass, and sat down beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke

fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He pounced

upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a month.

"Honoured sir," he began almost with solemnity, "poverty is not a vice, that's a true saying. Yet I know too

that 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 beggaryneverno one. For beggary a man

is not chased out of human society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliating

as possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first to humiliate myself. Hence

the pothouse! Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very

different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me to ask you another question out of simple curiosity:

"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 undressed or washed for the last five days. His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and

His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The boys at the counter fell to

sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the "funny

fellow" and sat down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a

familiar figure here, and he had most likely acquired his weakness for highflown speeches from the habit of

frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops into a

necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those who are looked after sharply and kept in order at home.

Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify themselves and even if possible obtain

"Funny fellow!" pronounced the innkeeper. "And why don't you work, why aren't you at your duty, if you are

"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. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his

own hands, and I lay drunk, didn't I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you . . . hm . . .

"Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will get nothing by it. You know, for

instance, beforehand with positive certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will on

no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he? For he knows of course that I shan'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

"Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must have somewhere to go. Since

there are times when one absolutely must go somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a

yellow ticket, then I had to go . . . (for my daughter has a yellow passport)," 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 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

"Well," the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity, after waiting for the laughter in the

room to subside. "Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina

Ivanovna, my spouse, is a person of education and an officer's daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel,

but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet . . . oh, if only she felt

for me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man ought to have at least one place where people feel

for him! But Katerina Ivanovna, though she is magnanimous, she is unjust. . . . And yet, although I realise

that when she pulls my hair she only does it out of pityfor 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

"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

shoesthat would be more or less in the order of things, but her stockings, her stockings I have sold for

drink! Her mohair shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own property, not mine; and we live

in a cold room and she caught cold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too. We have three

little children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrubbing and cleaning and

washing the children, for she's been used to cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and she has a

tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I don'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

"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 laughingstock 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

highclass school for the daughters of noblemen, and on leaving she danced the shawl dance before the

governor and other personages for which she was presented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The

medal . . . well, the medal of course was sold long ago, hm . . . but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still

and not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she is most continually on bad terms with the

landlady, yet she wanted to tell 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 recollection of the past, and all the rest

is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and has

nothing but black bread to eat, but won'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 although she paid him back, of which I

have authentic documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she throws him up to me;

and I am glad, I am glad that, though only in imagination, she should think of herself as having once been

happy. . . . And she was left at his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I happened to

be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty that, although I have seen many ups and downs of all

sort, I don't feel equal to describing it even. Her relations had all thrown her off. And she was proud, too,

excessively proud. . . . And then, honoured sir, and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a daughter of

fourteen left me by my first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You

can judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and culture and distinguished

family, should have consented to be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands, she

married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you

have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don't understand yet. . . . And for a whole year, I performed

my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch this" (he tapped the jug with his finger), "for I

have feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I lost my place too, and that through no fault of

mine but through changes in the office; and then I did touch it! . . . It will be a year and a half ago soon since

we found ourselves at last after many wanderings and numerous calamities in this magnificent capital,

adorned with innumerable monuments. Here I obtained a situation. . . . I obtained it and I lost it again. Do

you understand? This time it was through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come out. . . . We have

now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel's; and what we live upon and what we pay our rent

with, I could not say. There are a lot of people living there besides ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect

Bedlam . . . hm . . . yes . . . And meanwhile my daughter by my first wife has grown up; and what my

daughter has had to put up with from her stepmother 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 shorttempered. . . .

Yes. But it's no use going over that! Sonia, as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an effort

four years ago to give her a course of geography and universal history, but as I was not very well up in those

subjects myself and we had no suitable books, and 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 had read with great interest a book

she got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, Lewes' Physiologydo 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 counsellorhave

you heard of him?has not to this day paid her for the halfdozen 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 landlady. '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 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 Ivanovna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her in silence. She did not utter a word,

she did not even look at her, she simply picked up our big green drap de 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 shuddering. . . . And I went on lying there, just as before. . . . And then I

saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to Sonia's little bed; she was on her

knees all the evening kissing Sonia's feet, and would not get up, and then they both fell asleep in each other's

Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and

"Since then, sir," he went on after a brief pause"Since then, owing to an unfortunate occurrence and

through information given by evilintentioned personsin all which Darya Frantsovna took a leading part

on the pretext that she had been treated with want of respectsince then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has

been forced to take a yellow ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For our landlady,

Amalia Fyodorovna would not hear of it (though she had backed up Darya Frantsovna before) and Mr.

Lebeziatnikov too . . . hm. . . . All the trouble between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia'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 too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but

Sonia has her own, partitioned off. . . . Hm . . . yes . . . very poor people and all with cleft palates . . . yes.

Then I got up in the morning, and put on my rags, lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency

Ivan Afanasyevitch. 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 . . . I'll take you

once more on my own responsibility'that's what he said, 'remember,' he said, 'and now you can go.' I kissed

the dust at his feetin thought only, for in reality he would not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman

and a man of modern political and enlightened ideas. I returned home, and when I announced that I'd been

taken back into the service and should receive a salary, heavens, what a todo 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 tavernkeeper and the

boys were busy with the newcomers. 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 money for a decent

outfiteleven roubles, fifty copecks, I can't guess. Boots, cotton shirtfrontsmost 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 dinnersoup and salt meat with horse radishwhich

we had never dreamed of till then. She had not any dresses . . . none at all, but she got herself up as though

she were going on a visit; and not that she'd anything to do it with, she smartened herself up with nothing at

all, she'd done her hair nicely, put on a clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different

person, she was younger and better looking. Sonia, my little darling, had only helped with money 'for the

time,' she said, 'it won't do for me to come and see you too often. After dark 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 Ivanovna

had quarrelled to the last degree with our landlady Amalia Fyodorovna only a week before, she could not

resist then asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were sitting, whispering together. 'Semyon Zaharovitch

is in the service again, now, and receiving a salary,' says she, 'and he went himself to his excellency and his

excellency himself came out to him, made all the others wait and led Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before

everybody into his study.' Do you hear, do you hear? 'To be sure,' says he, 'Semyon Zaharovitch,

remembering your past services,' says he, 'and in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since you

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 fulltwentythree roubles forty copecks altogethershe

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, you would not think much of me as a husband, would you? . . . Well, 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. Raskolnikov listened intently but with

"Honoured sir, honoured sir," cried Marmeladov recovering himself "Oh, sir, perhaps all this seems a

laughing matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of all the

trivial details of my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me. For I can feel it all. . . . And the whole of

that heavenly day of my life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I would arrange

it all, and how I would dress all the children, and how I should give her rest, and how I should rescue my own

daughter from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of her family. . . . And a great deal more. . . . Quite

excusable, sir. Well, then, sir (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head and gazed intently 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

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

"You don't say she gave it to you?" cried one of the newcomers; he shouted the words and went off into a

"This very quart was bought with her money," Marmeladov declared, addressing himself exclusively to

Raskolnikov. "Thirty copecks she gave me with her own hands, her last, all she had, as I saw. . . . She said

nothing, she only looked at me without a word. . . . Not on earth, but up yonder . . . they grieve over men,

they weep, but they don't blame them, they don't blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don't

blame! Thirty copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my dear sir? For now

she's got to keep up her appearance. It costs money, that smartness, that special smartness, you know? Do you

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

understand what all that smartness means? And here I, her own father, here I took thirty copecks of that

money for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on a man

like me, eh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? Hehehe!"

"What are you to be pitied for?" shouted the tavernkeeper 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

"To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly declaimed, standing up with his arm

"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 merrymaking I seek but tears and tribulation! . . . Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of

yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have

found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men

and all things, He is the One. He too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask: 'Where is the

daughter who gave herself for her cross, consumptive stepmother and for the little children of another?

Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by his

beastliness?' And He will say, 'Come to me! I have already forgiven thee once. . . . I have forgiven thee once.

. . . Thy sins which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast loved much. . . .' And he will forgive my Sonia,

He will forgive, I know it . . . I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge and 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 shall understand all!

. . . and all will understand, Katerina Ivanovna even . . . she will understand. . . . Lord, Thy kingdom come!"

And he sank down on the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one, apparently oblivious of his

surroundings and plunged in deep thought. His words had created a certain impression; there was a moment

"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 Ivanovnatime I did."

Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he had meant to help him. Marmeladov was much

unsteadier on his legs than in his speech and leaned heavily on the young man. They had two or three

hundred paces to go. The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay and confusion as they drew

"It's not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now," he muttered in agitation"and that she will begin pulling

my hair. What does my hair matter! Bother my hair! That's what I say! Indeed it will be better if she does

begin pulling it, that's not what I am afraid of . . . it's her eyes I am afraid of . . . yes, her eyes . . . the red on

her cheeks, too, frightens me . . . and her breathing too. . . . Have you noticed how people in that disease

breathe . . . when they are excited? I am frightened of the children's crying, too. . . . For if Sonia has not taken

them food . . . I don't know what's happened! I don't know! But blows I am not afraid of. . . . Know, sir, 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 relieves her heart . . . it's better so . . . There is the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet

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 Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at

A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poorlooking room about ten paces long

was lighted up by a candleend; the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered

up with rags of all sorts, especially children's garments. Across the furthest corner was stretched a ragged

sheet. Behind it probably was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered

with American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal kitchentable, unpainted and uncovered.

At the edge of the table stood a smoldering tallowcandle 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.

Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly

emaciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and

down in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in

nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And that

consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candleend playing upon it made a

sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for

Marmeladov. . . . She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in

thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose

from the staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco

smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep,

sitting curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the

corner, probably he had just had a beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a

thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and

barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother's neck. She was trying to comfort

him, whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep him from whimpering again. At the same

time her large dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were watching her

mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway,

pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing him, coming

to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what he had come for. But evidently she decided that he

was going into the next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him, she

walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in

"Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "he has come back! The criminal! the monster! . . . And where is the money?

What's in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the

And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently held up both arms to facilitate the

"Where's 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

"And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a positive consolation, honoured 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 been drinking with

The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door was thrown wide open and

inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps

thrust themselves in at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in dressing gowns flung open, in

costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted,

when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation to him. They even began to

come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself

pushing her way amongst them and trying to restore order after her own fashion and for the hundredth time to

frighten the poor woman by ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out,

Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had received in exchange

for his rouble in the tavern and to lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed his

"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 today, for there is always a risk, hunting big game . . . digging for gold . . . then

they would all be without a crust tomorrow 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

"And what if I am wrong," he cried suddenly after a moment's thought. "What if man is not really a

scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole race of mankindthen all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial

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

irritable, illtempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces

in length. It had a povertystricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was

so lowpitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he

would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room: there were three old

chairs, rather rickety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the dust that

lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the

whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags

and served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without undressing, without sheets,

wrapped in his old student'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 disorder, 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 sometimes into his room made him

writhe with nervous irritation. He was in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely

concentrated upon one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and he

had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only

servant, was rather pleased at the lodger's mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only

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

"Get up, why are you asleep!" she called to him. "It's past nine, I have brought you some tea; will you have a

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

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

"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 me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the

"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

"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

"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

Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to laughter and when anything amused her, she

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

"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of a few coppers?" he answered, reluctantly, as though replying

"Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the loaf or not?"

"I can't say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will you pay me back?"

"Then bring it to me, for God's sake, bring it," cried Raskolnikov greatly excited"good God!"

A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother, from the province of R___. He

turned pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also

"Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness' sake; here are your three copecks, but for goodness' sake, make

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 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

"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 kindhearted 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 Svidrigrailovs' house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all

about itwhat could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole truth to you, I dare say you would

have thrown up everything and have come to us, even if you had to walk all the way, for I know your

character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what

could I do? And, besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then. What made it all so difficult was that

Dounia received a hundred roubles in advance when she took the place as governess in their family, on

condition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it was impossible to throw up the situation

without repaying the debt. This sum (now I can explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) she took chiefly in

order to send you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly then and which you received from us last year.

We deceived you then, writing that this money came from Dounia's savings, but that was not so, and now I

tell you all about it, because, thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better, and that you may know

how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At first indeed Mr. Svidrigailov treated her very rudely and

used to make 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 regimental habits, was under the influence

of Bacchus. And how do you think it was all explained later on? Would you believe that the crazy fellow had

conceived a passion for Dounia from the beginning, but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and

contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes, considering his years and

his being the father of a family; and that made him angry with Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his

rude and sneering behaviour to hide the truth from others. But at last he lost all control and had the face to

make Dounia an open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of inducements and offering, besides, to

throw up everything and take her to another estate of his, or even abroad. You can imagine all she went

through! To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on account of the money debt, but also to

spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose suspicions would have been aroused; and then Dounia would

have been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it would have meant a terrible scandal for Dounia too;

that would have been inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dounia could not hope to

escape from that awful house for another six weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know how clever she

is and what a strong will she has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even in the most difficult cases she has

the fortitude to maintain her firmness. She did not even write to me about everything for fear of upsetting me,

although we were constantly in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally

overheard her husband imploring Dounia in the garden, and, putting quite a wrong interpretation on the

position, threw the blame upon her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place between

them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so far as to strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and

was shouting at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should be packed off at once to me in

a plain peasant's cart, into which they flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pellmell, without

folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dounia, insulted and put to shame,

had to drive with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only think now what answer

could I have sent to the letter I received from you two months ago and what could I have written? I was in

despair; I dared not write to you the truth because you would have been very unhappy, mortified and

indignant, and yet what could you do? You could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would not

allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart was so full of sorrow, I could not. For a whole month

the town was full of gossip about this scandal, and it came to such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even go

to church on account of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about us. All our

acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks

were intending to insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with pitch, so that the landlord

began to tell us we must leave. All this was set going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and

throw dirt at her in every family. She knows 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 husbandwhich is not at all right so in a short time

she had spread her story not only in the town, but over the whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but

Dounia bore it better than I did, and if only you could have seen how she 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,

unhappy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly and touchingly written that I sobbed

when I read it and to this day I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the servants, too,

cleared Dounia's reputation; they had seen and known a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigailov had himself

supposedas indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken aback, and

'again crushed' as she said herself to us, but she was completely convinced of Dounia's innocence. The very

next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to

give her strength to bear this new 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 behavior. What was more, she showed and read to every one the letter in Dounia's own handwriting

to Mr. Svidrigailov and even allowed them to take copies of itwhich 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 unnecessary; but that's Marfa Petrovna's character. Anyway she

succeeded in completely reestablishing Dounia's reputation and the whole ignominy of this affair rested as

an indelible disgrace upon her husband, as the only person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry for

him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several

families, but she refused. All of a sudden 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 consent, I think you will not be

aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our

decision till we heard from you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on the spot. This

was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly

related to Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match about. It began with his expressing

through her his desire to make our acquaintance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very

next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer and begged for a speedy and decided

answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to

him. At first, of course, we were greatly surprised, as it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We

thought and talked it over the whole day. He is a welltodo man, to be depended upon, he has two posts in

the government and has already made his fortune. It is true that he is fortyfive years old, but he is of a fairly

prepossessing appearance and might still be thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very

respectable and presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat conceited. But possibly that

may only be the impression he makes at first sight. And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Petersburg,

as he shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely, as your way is, if there is anything you

do not like in him at first sight. I give you this warning, although I feel sure that he will make a favourable

impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand any man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid

forming prejudices and mistaken ideas, which are very difficult to correct and get over afterwards. And Pyotr

Petrovitch, judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us

that he was a practical man, but still he shares, as he expressed it, many of the convictions '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 goodnatured.

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 to doubt, though it must be

admitted the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of great prudence and he will see, to

be sure, of himself, that his own happiness will be the more secure, the happier Dounia is with him. And as

for some defects of character, for some habits and even certain differences of opinionwhich indeed are

inevitable even in the happiest marriagesDounia has said that, as regards all that, she relies on herself, that

there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future

relationship can be an honourable and straightforward one. He struck me, for instance, at first, as rather

abrupt, but that may well come from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For instance,

at his second visit, after he had received Dounia'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 reputation, without

dowry and, above all, one who had experienced poverty, because, as he explained, a man ought not to be

indebted to his wife, but that it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as her benefactor. I must add that

he expressed it more nicely and politely than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and only

remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said of design, but slipped out in the heat of

conversation, so that he tried afterwards to correct himself and smooth it over, but all the same it did strike

me as somewhat rude, and I said so afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that '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

"I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off for Petersburg, where he has a great deal of

business, and he wants to open a legal bureau. He has been occupied for many years in conducting civil and

commercial litigation, and only the other day he won an important case. He has to be in Petersburg because

he has an important case before the Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in every

way indeed, and Dounia and I have agreed that from this very day you could definitely enter upon your career

and might consider that your future is marked out and assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This

would be such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential blessing. Dounia is dreaming of

nothing else. We have even ventured already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch. He was

cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could not get on without a secretary, it would be better

to be paying a salary to a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted for the duties (as though

there could be doubt of your being fitted!) but then he expressed doubts whether your studies at the university

would leave you time for work at his office. The matter dropped for the time, but Dounia is thinking of

nothing else now. She has been in a sort of fever for the last few days, and has already made a regular plan

for your becoming in the end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr Petrovitch's business, which might well

be, seeing that you are a student of law. I am in complete agreement with her, Rodya, and share all her plans

and hopes, and think there is every probability of realising them. And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch'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 daydream.

Nor has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have of his helping us to pay for

your university studies; we have not spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pass of itself, later

on, and he will no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia

that) the more readily since you may by your own efforts become his right hand in the office, and receive this

assistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your own work. Dounia wants to arrange it all like this

and I quite agree with her. And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, because I

particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when you first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with

enthusiasm about you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing him close, for

oneself, and that he looked forward to forming his own opinion when he makes your acquaintance. Do you

know, my precious Rodya, I think that perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though,

simply for my own personal, perhaps oldwomanish, 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 mothersinlaw, and I don't want to be the least bit in any

one's way, and for my own sake, too, would rather be quite independent, so long as I have a crust of bread of

my own, and such children as you and Dounia. If possible, I would settle somewhere near you, for the most

joyful piece of news, dear Rodya, I have kept for the end of my letter: know then, my dear boy, that we may,

perhaps, be all together in a very short time and may embrace one another again after a separation of almost

three years! It is settled 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 Pyotr Petrovitch

for that alone. She is an angel! She is not writing anything to you now, and has only told me to write that she

has so much, so much to tell you that she is not going to take up her pen now, for a few lines would tell you

nothing, and it would only mean upsetting herself; she bids me send you her love and innumerable kisses. But

although we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall send you as much money as I can in a day or two. Now

that 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 seventyfive roubles on the security of my pension,

so that perhaps I shall be able to send you twentyfive or even thirty roubles. I would send you more, but I

am uneasy about our travelling expenses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has been so kind as to undertake part of

the expenses of the journey, that is to say, he has taken upon himself the conveyance of our bags and big

trunk (which will be conveyed through some acquaintances of his), we must reckon upon some expenses 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 twentyfive, 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 usour 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 today! If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in your childhood, when your father was

living, you used to lisp your prayers at my knee, and how happy we all were in those days. Goodbye, till we

Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov's face was wet with tears; but when he finished it,

his face was pale and distorted and a bitter, wrathful and malignant smile was on his lips. He laid his head

down on his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered, pondered a long time. His heart was beating violently, and

his brain was in a turmoil. At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow room that was like a

cupboard or a box. His eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up his hat and went out, this time without

dread of meeting any one; he had forgotten his dread. He turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky Ostrov,

walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though hastening on some business, but he walked, as his habit was,

without noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the

HIS MOTHER'S letter had been a torture to him, but as 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 anticipating 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 posthaste, 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

" . . .But I should like to know why mother has written to me about 'our most rising generation'? Simply as a

descriptive touch, or with the idea of prepossessing me in favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I

should like to know one thing more: how far they were open with one another that day and night and all this

time since? Was it all put into words, or did both understand that they had the 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 understood that it

was useless to discuss it. And why does she write to me, 'love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more than

herself'? Has she a secret conscienceprick at sacrificing her daughter to her son? 'You are our one comfort,

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

"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 something, 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 sacking (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is only ninety versts and then they can

'travel very comfortably, third class,' for a thousand versts! Quite right, too. One must cut one's coat

according to one's cloth, but what about you, Mr. Luzhin? She is your bride. . . . And you must be aware that

her mother has to raise money on her pension for the journey. To be sure it's a matter of business, a

partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares and expenses;food and drink provided, but pay for your

tobacco. The business man has got the better of them, too. The luggage will cost less than their fares and very

likely go for nothing. How is it that they don't both see all that, or is it that they don't want to see? And they

are pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only the first blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come!

But what really matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the 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

"Well, . . . mother I don't wonder at, it's like her, God bless her, but how could Dounia? Dounia, darling, as

though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty when I saw you last: I understood you then. Mother

writes that 'Dounia can put up with a great 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, 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 bountywho 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 SchleswigHolstein, 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 a bitter thing to spend one's life a governess in the provinces for two

hundred roubles, but I know she would rather be a 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 commonfor 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

comfort, 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 clear as

daylight. It's clear that Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one

else. Oh, yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university, 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, precious Rodya, her first born! For such a son who

would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh, loving, overpartial 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 that not 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 regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the

curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother feel

then? Even now she is uneasy, she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what

have you taken me for? I won't have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won't have it, mother! It shall not be, so long as

"It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You'll forbid it? And what right have you? What

can you promise them on your side to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will

devote to them when you have finished your studies and obtained a post? Yes, we have heard all that before,

and that's all words, but now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And what are you

doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their hundred roubles pension. They borrow from the

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 to a shadow with

fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may have become of your sister in ten years? What may

So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all

these questions were not new ones suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was long since

they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it

had waxed and gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken the form of a fearful,

frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured his heart and mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now

his mother'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.

"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?"

Marmeladov'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 beforehand, that it must come back, he was

expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday's thought. The difference was that a month ago, yesterday

even, the thought was a mere dream: but now . . . now it appeared not a dream at all, it had taken a new

menacing and quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself. . . . He felt a hammering

He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a

seat; he was walking along the K____ Boulevard. There was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He

walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little adventure which absorbed all his

attention. Looking for the seat, he had noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at

first he took no more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It had happened to him many

times going home not to notice the road by which he was going, and he was accustomed to walk like that. But

there was at first sight something so strange about the woman in front of him, that gradually his attention was

riveted upon her, at first reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and more intently. He felt a

sudden desire to find out what it was that was so strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared to

be a girl quite young, and she was walking in the great heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves,

waving her arms about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely

awry, not properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the waist: a great piece was rent

and hanging loose. A little kerchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl was

walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to side. She drew Raskolnikov's whole attention

at last. He overtook the girl at the seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner; she let her

head sink on the back of the seat and closed her eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her

closely, he saw at once that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking sight. He could hardly

believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the face of a quite young, fairhaired girlsixteen,

perhaps not more than fifteen years old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy looking and, as it were,

swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it

indecorously, and showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street.

Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her, and stood facing her in perplexity. This

boulevard was never much frequented; and now, at two o'clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And

yet on the further side of the 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,

thicklyset 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

"Hey! You Svidrigailov! What do you want here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering

"What do you mean?" the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty astonishment.

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

"That's enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What do you want? Who are you?" he asked

Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straightforward, sensible, soldierly face, with grey moustaches

"You are just the man I want," Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm. "I am a student, Raskolnikov. . . . You

may as well know that too," he added, addressing the gentleman, "come along, I have something to show

"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 somebody, she has not

dressed herself, and dressed by unpractised hands, by a man's hands; that's evident. And now look there: I

don't know that dandy with whom I was going to fight, I see him for the 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

myself watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he is just waiting for me to go away. Now

he has walked away a little, and is standing still, pretending to make a cigarette. . . . Think how can we keep

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

"Here," said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty copecks, "here, call a cab and tell him to

"Missy, missy!" the policeman began again, taking the money. "I'll fetch you a cab and take you home

"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

"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!

"I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in the boulevard. She only just reached the

"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

Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, "looking like ladies and refined" with pretensions to gentility

"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 gentleman heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage

again, but thought better of it, and confined himself to a contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another

"Keep her out of his hands we can," said the constable thoughtfully, "if only she'd tell us where to take her,

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

"Don't be anxious, I won't let him have her," the policeman said resolutely, and he set off after them.

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

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

"Well!" ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and he walked after the dandy and the girl,

"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 alivewhat is to me?

In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on the deserted seat. His thought strayed

aimlessly. . . . He found it hard to fix his mind on anything at that moment. He longed to forget himself

altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life anew. . . .

"Poor girl!" he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat "She will come to herself and weep, and

then her mother will find out. . . . She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe,

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 yearsa 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 I had read the

letter I came out. . . . I was going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That's what it was . . . now I

remember. What for, though? And what put the idea of going to Razumihin into my head just now? That's

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 down upon them all as children, as though he were superior in development, knowledge

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 goodhumoured and

candid youth, goodnatured to the point of simplicity, though both depth and dignity lay concealed under that

simplicity. The better of his comrades understood this, and all were fond of him. He was extremely

intelligent, though he was certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearancetall, thin,

blackhaired and always badly shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be of great physical

strength. One night, when out in a festive company, he had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on his

back. There was no limit to his drinking powers, but he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes

went too far in his pranks; but he could do without pranks altogether. Another thing striking about

Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no unfavourable circumstances could crush

him. He could lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold and hunger. He was very poor, and kept

himself entirely on what he could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of no end of resources by

which to earn money. He spent one whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to declare that he liked

it better, because one slept more soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, had been obliged to give up the

university, but it was only for a time, and he was working with all his might to save enough to return to his

studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to see him for the last four months, and Razumihin did not even

know his address. About two months before, they had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away and

even crossed to the other side that he might not be observed. And though Razumihin noticed him, he passed

"OF COURSE, I've been meaning lately to go to Razumihin's to ask for work, to ask him to get me lessons or

something . . ." Raskolnikov thought, "but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he 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

He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long musing, suddenly, as if it were

"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

"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

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 around, he

forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he was going. In this way he walked right

across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the

islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town and the

huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness, no

stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still

before a brightly painted summer villa standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in

the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies, and children running in the gardens. The

flowers especially caught his attention; he gazed at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by

luxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot

about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and counted his money; he found he

had thirty copecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must have given

fortyseven 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

eatinghouse or tavern, and felt that he was hungry. . . . Going into the tavern he drank a glass of vodka and

ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked away. It was a long while since he had taken vodka

and it had an effect upon him at once, though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and

a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped

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

In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary

semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so

truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer,

were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such

sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and

Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood in the little town of his birth. He

was a child about seven years old, walking into the country with his father on the evening of a holiday. It was

a grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in

his dream than he had done in memory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a

willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces

beyond the last market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling of

aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was always a crowd there, always

shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and horriblelooking

figures were hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when he met

them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty track, the dust of which was always black. It was a winding

road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the

graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year

with his father and mother, when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had long been dead,

and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a

special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the

oldfashioned, unadorned 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 riffraff 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 carthorses

and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at those great carthorses, 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 straining their

utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in a rut. And

the peasants would be at them so cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes and he felt so sorry, so

sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away from the window. All of a

sudden there was a great uproar of shouting, singing and the 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 thicknecked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll

"Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the cart, seizing the reins and standing

straight up in front. "The bay has gone with Marvey," 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! I'll make

her gallop! She'll gallop!" and he picked up the whip, preparing himself with relish to flog the little mare.

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, rosycheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded

headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing. The crowd round them was laughing

too and indeed, how could they help laughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a

gallop! Two young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to help Mikolka. With the cry of "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

"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 all. I'll beat her to death!" And he thrashed and

"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 gasping, standing still, then tugging again

"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.

"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

All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the mare, roused by the shower of blows,

began feebly kicking. Even the old man could not help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast like that

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

"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 greyheaded old man with the

grey beard, who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the hand and would have

taken him away, but he tore himself from her and ran back to the mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but

"I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down the whip, bent forward and picked up

from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort

"It's my property," shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a swinging blow. There was a sound of

And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time on the spine of the luckless mare. She

sank back on her haunches, but lurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on one

side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six whips were attacking her in all directions, and

the shaft was raised again and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka

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

"I'll 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

"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the cart. Several young men, also

flushed with drink, seized anything they could come acrosswhips, 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

"My property!" shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar in his hands. He stood as though

"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,

"Father! Why did they . . . kill . . . the poor horse!" he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words came in

"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 outand 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

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

"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

"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 torturing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday,

when I went to make that . . . experiment, yesterday I realised completely that I could never bear to do it. . . .

Why am I going over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said myself

that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile . . . the very thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.

"No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted, granted that there is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I

have concluded this last month is clear as day, true as arithmetic. . . . My God! Anyway I couldn't bring

myself to it! I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Why, why then am I still . . .?"

He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at finding himself in this place, and went

towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed suddenly to

breathe more easily. He felt he had cast off that fearful burden that had so long been weighing upon him, and

all at once there was a sense of relief and peace in his soul. "Lord," he prayed, "show me my pathI

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,

Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him during those days, minute by minute, point

by point, he was superstitiously impressed by one circumstance, which though in itself not very exceptional,

always seemed to him afterwards the predestined turningpoint of his fate. He could never understand and

explain to himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more convenient for him

to go home by the shortest and most direct way, he had returned by the Hay Market where he had no need to

go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. It is true that it happened to

him dozens of times to return home without noticing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always

asking himself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance

meeting happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no reason to go) at the very hour, the very

minute of his life when he was just in the very mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting was

able to exert the gravest and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As though it had been lying in

It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and

the shops, all the market people were closing their establishments or clearing away and packing up their

wares and, like their customers, were going home. Ragpickers and costermongers of all kinds were crowding

round the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly liked this

place and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not attract

contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in any attire without scandalising people. At the corner of

an alley a huckster and his wife had two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, &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 thirtyfive, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and went in

fear and trembling of her sister, who made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was standing with

a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of something

with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensation

as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing astonishing about this meeting.

"You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," the huckster was saying aloud. "Come

"Tomorrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to make up her mind.

"Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna," gabbled the huckster's wife, a lively little

woman. "I look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not your own sister either nothing but a

"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."

"About seven o'clock tomorrow. And they will be here. You will be able to decide for yourself."

"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

suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and

only companion, would be away from home and that therefore at seven o'clock precisely the old woman

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

Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he could not reckon on a more certain step

towards the success of the plan than that which had just presented itself. In any case, it would have been

difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty, with greater exactness and less risk, and without

dangerous inquiries and investigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose life an attempt

LATER on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a

very ordinary matter and there was nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and

been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all women'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 to it. She spoke as a 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 afterwards disposed to see something strange and

mysterious, as it were the presence of some peculiar influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a

student he knew called Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the

address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For a long while

he did not go to her, for he had lessons and managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had

remembered the address; he had two articles that could be pawned: his father's old silver watch and a little

gold ring with three red stones, a present from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When he

found the old woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he knew

nothing special about her. He got two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way

home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a

Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he did not know and had never seen,

and with him a young officer. They had played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he

heard the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and give him her address. This of

itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of

course it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here some one

seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student began telling his friend various details about Alyona

"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

And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you were only a day late with your

interest the pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven

percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the

wretched little creature was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though

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 halfsister, being the child of a different mother. She was thirtyfive. 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 was of lower

rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that looked

as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What

the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with

"Yes, she is so darkskinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She

has such a goodnatured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are attracted by

her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything.

"From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill that damned old woman and make off with her

money, I assure you, without the faintest conscienceprick," the student added with warmth. The officer

"Listen, I want to ask you a serious question," the student said hotly. "I was joking of course, but look here;

on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but

doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in

"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 hospitalsand all with her money. Kill

her, take her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of humanity and the good of all.

What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life

thousands would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in exchangeit's

simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of that sickly, stupid, illnatured 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

"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, conscienceI

don't want to say anything against duty and conscience;but the point is what do we mean by them. Stay, I

"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 and thought, such as he had

often heard before in different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear such a

discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just conceiving . . . the very same

ideas? And why, just at the moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman

had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange to him. This

trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had really been in

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

Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never

recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was conscious of his former

fever and shivering, and he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep

He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o'clock the

next morning, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the second

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

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

"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.

"Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya and again received no answer. "You'd better go out and get a breath of

A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he

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 around in a complete circle; all the party were at dinner. But he

was drinking water from a spring which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful,

wonderful, blue, cold water running among the particoloured 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 drowsiness and

stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it were, distracted, haste. But the preparations to

be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on thinking of everything and forgetting nothing; and his

heart kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it into

his overcoata work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and picked out amongst the linen stuffed

away under it, a worn out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches wide and

about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two, took off his wide, strong summer overcoat of some

stout cotton material (his only outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside, under

the left armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed outside when

he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got ready long before and they lay on his table in a

piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose was intended for the

axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he

would still have had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable. Now he had only to put

the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his

coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very

full, a regular sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the hand that

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

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

noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the most important thing to doto 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 pruningknife, but he could

not rely on the knife and still less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in

passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one strange

characteristic: the more final they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his

eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for a single instant all that time could believe in

And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point could have been considered and finally

settled, and no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all as something

absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for

getting the axe, that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasya was

continually out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and

always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her about. And so when the

time came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when

everything was over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned an

hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by

and wait till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an

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 (i.e. his visit with the object of a

final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one

should say "come, let us go and try itwhy 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 firstlong before indeedhe had been much occupied with one question; why almost all crimes are so

badly concealed and so easily detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He had come

gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in

the material impossibility of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is

subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very

instant when prudence and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and

failure of will power attacked a man like a disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point just

before the perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer

or shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The question

whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always

accompanied by something of the nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to decide.

When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there could not be such a morbid

reaction, that his reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the

simple reason that his design was "not a crime. . . ." We will omit all the process by means of which he

arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far ahead already. . . . We may add only that the practical,

purely material difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his mind. "One has but to keep all

one's will power and reason to deal with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has

familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the business. . . ." But this preparation had never been begun.

His final decisions were what he came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite

One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left the staircase. When he reached the

landlady's kitchen, the door of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in

Nastasya's absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the 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

"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

He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go for a walk for appearance sake was revolting;

to go back to his room, even more revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for ever!" he muttered, standing

aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter's little dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he

started. From the porter's room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right

caught his eye. . . . He looked about himnobody. He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps

into it and in a faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the

door is wide open." He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it lay

between two chunks of wood; at once before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both hands into

his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him! "When reason fails, the devil helps!" he

He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the

passersby, 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

Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on the wall that it was ten minutes past

seven. He had to make haste and at the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the

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

"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 house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck once. "What! can it

Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very moment, as though expressly for his

benefit, a huge waggon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the

gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard, before he had slipped in a

flash to the right. On the other side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one noticed

him and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that moment,

but he did not raise his headhe had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman's room was

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 there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the flat opposite, the empty one. The flat

underneath the old woman's was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn

offthey 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

But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite him, it throbbed more and more violently.

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

No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she

was suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her habits . . . and once more he put his ear to the door.

Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose), or the sound was really very distinct.

Anyway, he suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at

the very door. 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 purpose and

muttered something aloud that he might not have the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly,

soberly and without impatience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly,

forever; 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.

THE DOOR was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and suspicious eyes stared at him out of

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

"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 uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was

"Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me . . . Raskolnikov . . . here, I brought you the pledge I promised the

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,

"Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?" he said suddenly, also with malice. "Take it if you

He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself,

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

"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

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.

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

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 as from an

overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; she was dead.

Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and contorted

He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her pocket (trying to avoid the streaming

body)the same right hand pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full

possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were still trembling. He

remembered afterwards that he had been particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get

smeared with blood. . . . He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring.

He ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images.

Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a

third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as

he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up

and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself,

when suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might

be still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up

the axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that she

was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the skull was broken and

even battered in on one side. He was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was

evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her

neck; he tugged at it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked with blood. He

tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and prevented its coming. In his

impatience he raised the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not dare, and with

difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two minutes' hurried effort, he cut the string and

took it off without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistakenit 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

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 goodsized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red

leather and studded with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white

sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress, then a shawl and it seemed as

though there was nothing below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his bloodstained hands on

the red brocade. "It's red, and on red blood will be less noticeable," the thought passed through his mind; then

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

pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed bracelets, chains, earrings, pins and such things. Some

were in cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with tape.

Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without examining or undoing

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 on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the

head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatched up her bundle, dropped it again

Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He

longed to run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing

and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the difficulties of his position, the

hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and,

perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that place and to make his way home, it is

very possible that he would have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from

fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up

within him and grew stronger every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the room

But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess had begun by degrees to take possession of him; at moments he

forgot himself, or rather, forgot what was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the

kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe.

His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap

that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the bucket. When they were clean,

he took out the axe, washed the blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where

there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to

dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window. There

was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat.

Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his

boots. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the

boots. But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something quite noticeable that he was

overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind the

idea that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he

ought perhaps to be doing something utterly different from what he was now doing. "Good God!" he

muttered "I must fly, fly," and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had

He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer door from the stairs, at which he had

not long before waited and rung, was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all

the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God!

Why, he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must

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, significant? The steps were heavy,

even and unhurried. Now 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 shaking in its fastening, and in

blank terror expected every minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem possible, so

violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the fastening, but he might be aware of it. A giddiness

came over him again. "I shall fall down!" flashed through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he

"What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? Ddamn them!" he bawled in a thick voice, "Hey, Alyona

Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or

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

At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the stairs. Some one else was approaching.

"You don't say there's no one at home," the newcomer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first

"Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the lock," 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'."

"So they are not at home? That's queer? It's awfully stupid though. Where could the old woman have gone?

"Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aieaie! And I was hoping to get some money!" cried the young

"We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to

come herself. It's out of my way. And where the devil she can have got to, I can't make out. She sits here

from year's end to year's end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!"

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

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

"That shows it's not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how the hook clanks?"

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

the door from the outside with the key and not with the hook from inside. 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

"Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What are they about in there!" And he began furiously

"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 . . ."

"I'm studying the law you see! It's evident, evident there's something wrong here!" the young man cried

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 doorhandle 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

"But what the devil is he about? . . ." Time was passing, one minute, and anotherno one came. Koch began

"What the devil?" he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying

Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the doorthere 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 voice belowwhere could he go! There was

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

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

Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling "come what must!" If they stopped himall was

lost; if they let him pass all was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only

a flight from himand 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

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

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

At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and

here 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

He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the worse it was. He remembered

however, that on coming out on to the canal bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being

more conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost falling from fatigue, he went a

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 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, afterwards 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

washe 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. . . .

SO HE lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at such moments he noticed that it

was far into the night, but it did not occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was beginning to get

light. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion. Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from

the street, sounds which he heard every night, indeed, under his window after two o'clock. They woke him up

"Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns," he thought, "it's past two o'clock," and at once he

He sat down on the sofaand instantly recollected everything! All at once, in one flash, he recollected

For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came over him; but the chill was from

the fever that had begun long before in his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that

his teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and began listening; everything in the

house was asleep. With amazement he gazed at himself and everything in the room around him, wondering

how he could have come in the night before without fastening the door, and have flung himself on the sofa

without undressing, without even taking his hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near his

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

to foot, all his clothes; were there no traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began

taking off everything and looking over again. He turned everything over to the last threads and rags, and

But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where some thick drops of congealed blood

were clinging to the frayed edge of his trousers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the frayed threads.

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, getting up and gazing blankly at the hole which bulged out more than ever.

Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror; "My God!" he whispered in despair: "what's the matter with me?

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

"But now, now, what am I glad of?" he thought, "Is that hiding things? My reason's deserting mesimply!"

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

Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on

"How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not taken the loop off the armhole! I

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 concentration he fell to gazing about him

again, at the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten anything. The conviction, that all

his faculties, even memory, and the simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to be an insufferable

"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

Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps,

there were a great many stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were

failing, were going to pieces . . . his reason was clouded. . . . Suddenly he remembered that there had been

blood on the purse too. "Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my

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 into that pool. . . .

"But what am I to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?"

"In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There

are no matches even. No, better go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away," he

repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, "and at once, this minute, without lingering . . ."

But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his

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

"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."

"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 discovered. Resist or open? Come what may! . . ."

His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya

Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who

"He's downright ill!" observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a

Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without opening it. "Don't you get up then,"

Nastasya went on compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. "You're ill, and so

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 . . ."

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

"There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and rubbed and already discoloured. No one

who had no suspicion could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed, thank

God!" Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading; he was a long while reading,

before he understood. It was an ordinary summons from the district police station to appear that day at half

"But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the police! And why just today?" he

He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughternot at the idea of prayer, but at

He began, hurriedly dressing. "If I'm lost, I am lost, I don't care! Shall I put the sock on?" he suddenly

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 againand 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

"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 lightheaded . . . 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, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. "Only to

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 pothouses, again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars and

halfbrokendown cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt

his head going roundas a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the street on a bright sunny

When he reached the turning into the street, in an agony of trepidation he looked down it . . . at the house . . .

"If they question me, perhaps I'll simply tell," he thought, as he drew near the police station.

The police station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been moved to new rooms on the fourth

floor of a new house. He had been once for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the

gateway, he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with a book in his hand. "A

houseporter, no doubt; so then, the office is here," and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did

"I'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, policemen, and persons of all sorts and

both sexes. The door of the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There, too, the heat

was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.

After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room. All the rooms were small and

lowpitched. A fearful impatience drew him on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room

some clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queerlooking set. He went up to one

The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a particularly unkempt person with the

"There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no interest in anything," thought

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

He went into that roomthe 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 purplishred, 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.

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

"Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself! Hm . . . it's a pity there's no air here,"

he added, "it's stifling. . . . It makes one's head dizzier than ever . . . and one's mind too . . ."

He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing his selfcontrol; he tried to catch at

something and fix his mind on it, something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet the

head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess something from his face.

He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile face that looked older than his years. He

was fashionably dressed and foppish, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore

a number of rings on his wellscrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words

"Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down," he said casually to the gailydressed, purplefaced 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 airballoon 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 easychair. The small lady positively skipped from her seat on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in

a sort of ecstasy; but the officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to sit down again

in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He had a reddish moustache that stood out horizontally

on each side of his face, and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except a certain insolence.

He looked askance and rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of his

humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily

"What do you want?" he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged fellow was not annihilated by the

"For the recovery of money due, from the student," the head clerk interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from

his 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 indescribable relief. A load was lifted from his back.

"And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?" shouted the assistant superintendent, seeming for

some unknown reason more and more aggrieved. "You are told to come at nine, and now it's twelve!"

"The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago," Raskolnikov answered loudly over his shoulder.

To his own surprise he, too, grew suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. "And it's enough that I

"I'm not shouting, I'm speaking very quietly, it's you who are shouting at me. I'm a student, and allow no one

The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He

"You're in a government office, too," cried Raskolnikov, "and you're smoking a cigarette as well as shouting,

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 unnatural loudness. "Kindly make the declaration

demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don't pay your

But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the paper, in haste to find an explanation.

"It is for the recovery of money on an I.O.U., a writ. You must either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so

on, or give a written declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not to leave the

capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your

"That's not our business. Here, an I.O.U. for a hundred and fifteen roubles, legally attested, and due for

payment, has been brought us for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months

ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We therefore summon you hereupon."

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 timeas though he would say: "Well, how do you feel now?"

But what did he care now for an I.O.U., for a writ of recovery! Was that worth worrying about now, was it

worth attention even! He stood, he read, he listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but all

mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger, that was what

filled his whole soul that moment without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions or

surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But

at that very moment something like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant superintendent, still

shaken by Raskolnikov'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

"You shameful hussy!" he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The lady in mourning had left the

office.) "What was going on at your house last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you're a scandal to the whole

street. Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why, I have warned you ten times

over that I would not let you off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you . . . you . . .!"

The paper fell out of Raskolnikov's hands, and he looked wildly at the smart lady who was so

unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the

scandal. He listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh . . . all his nerves were on edge.

"Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped short, for he knew from experience

As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the storm. But strange to say, the more numerous

and violent the terms of abuse became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the smiles she

lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a

"There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain," she pattered all at once, like peas

dropping, speaking Russian confidently, though with a strong German accent, "and no sort of scandal, and his

honour came drunk, and it's the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain, and I am not to blame. . . . Mine is an

honourable house, Mr. Captain, and honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any

scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles again, and then he lifted up one leg, and

began playing the pianoforte with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honourable 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 window into

the street! Fie upon him! And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr. Captain,

he tore 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 ungentlemanly visitor and caused all the scandal. 'I will

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

" . . . 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 lockup, as it is

called in polite society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an author took five roubles for his coattail in an

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 respectable family of a civil

councillor, his wife and daughter. And there was one of them turned out of a confectioner's shop the other

day. They are like that, authors, literary men, students, towncriers . . . Pfoo! You get along! I shall look in

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 goodlooking 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.

"Again thunder and lightninga hurricane!" said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly

"Well, what then!" Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly nonchalance; and he walked with some papers

to another table, with a jaunty swing of his shoulders at each step. "Here, if you will kindly look: an author,

or a student, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an I.O.U., won't clear out of his room,

and complaints are constantly being lodged against him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest

against my smoking in his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him, please. Here's the

"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 were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you, but explosive, explosive! He

gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no stopping him! And then it's all over! And at the bottom he's a heart of

"And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified at this agreeable banter, though still

Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally pleasant to them all. "Excuse me, Captain,"

he began easily, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomitch, "will you enter into my position. . . . I am ready to

ask pardon, if I have been illmannered. I am a poor student, sick and shattered (shattered was the word he

used) by poverty. I am not studying, because I cannot keep myself now, but I shall get money. . . . I have a

mother and sister in the province of X. They will send it to me, and I will pay. My landlady is a goodhearted

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 I.O.U. at all. She is asking me to pay

"Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain . . ." Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing

Nikodim Fomitch, but trying his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently appeared to

be 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 beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it was a verbal promise, freely given . . . she was a girl .

. . indeed, I liked her, though I was not in love with her . . . a youthful affair in fact . . . that is, I mean to say,

that my landlady gave me credit freely in those days, and I led a life of . . . I was very heedless . . ."

"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

"But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain . . . how it all happened . . . In my turn . . . though I agree

with you . . . it is unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as before, and

when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said to me . . . and in a friendly way . . . that she had

complete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an I.O.U. for one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt

I owed her. She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would

never, neverthose were her own wordsmake use of that I.O.U. till I could pay of myself . . . and now,

when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?"

"All these affecting details are no business of ours." Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You must give a

written undertaking but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that."

"Come now . . . you are harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to

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 Petrovitch, 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

happening to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly with

all the intensity of sensation that he could never more appeal to these people in the police office with

sentimental effusion like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that if they had been his own

brothers and sisters and not police officers, it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in

any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation. And what was most

agonisingit was more a sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the

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

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

"But you can't write, you can hardly hold the pen," observed the head clerk, looking with curiosity at

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 talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him:

"It'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

"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

"That's just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in; and they'd have caught him for a

certainty if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the porter too. He must have seized the interval to

get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing himself and saying: "If I had been there, he

would have jumped out and killed me with his axe.' He is going to have a thanksgiving serviceha, ha!"

"They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah's Ark," said the head clerk, who was listening.

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 standing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from the chair.

"He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing," said the head clerk, settling back in his place, and

"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.

Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish

Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing at the head clerk who was looking

Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his departure, and above the rest rose

the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely.

"A searchthere will be a search at once," he repeated to himself, hurrying home. "The brutes! they

But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya had not touched it.

He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things out and lined his pockets with

them. There were eight articles in all: two little boxes with earrings 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

halfhour, 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

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 washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were swarming

everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious for

a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes were to float

instead of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was, 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 halfhour, worried and anxious in this dangerous

part without thinking of it before. And that halfhour 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

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 fourstoried 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 fencedoff place where rubbish of different sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the

corner of a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It

was probably a carriage builder's or carpenter's shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with coal

dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing any one in the yard, he slipped in, and at

once saw near the gate a sink, such as is often put in yards where there are many workmen or cabdrivers; and

on the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk the timehonoured witticism, "Standing here strictly

forbidden." This was all the better, for there would be nothing suspicious about his going in. "Here I could

Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed against the outer wall, between the

entrance and the sink, a big unhewn stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a

street. He could hear passersby, 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 immediately emptied his pocket into it. The

purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the stone again and with one twist

turned it back, so that it was in the same position again, though it stood a very little higher. But he scraped the

earth about it and pressed it at the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed.

Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost 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 laughing 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!"

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

"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury. "If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the

new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is! . . . And what lies I told today! 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

Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple question perplexed and bitterly

"If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how

is it I did not even glance into the purse and don't know what I had there, for which I have undergone these

agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to

throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either . . . how'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 consideration, as though so it must be, as though it

could not possibly be otherwise. . . . Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been

settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewelcases out of it.

"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 yesterday 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

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do,

what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every

moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate,

malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to himhe loathed their faces, their

movements, their gestures. If any one had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him.

He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near 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

The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It was

four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressinggown, with slippers

"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

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own,

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

"Never mind," he said, "I have come for this; I have no lessons. . . . I wanted . . . but I don't want lessons. . . ."

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

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

would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for

at that moment was to be face to face with any one in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost

"Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is . . . almost insulting! I won't let you

"Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help . . . to begin . . . because you are

kinder than any oneclever, I mean, and can judge . . . and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear?

Nothing at all . . . no one's services . . . no one's sympathy. I am by myself . . . alone. Come, that's enough.

"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, Heruvimovand 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 circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I

was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced,

not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German

textin my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, 'Is woman a human being?' And, of

course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the

woman question; I am translating it; he will expand 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 fifteen roubles for the job, and I've had six already in advance. When we have

finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of

the second part of Les Confessions we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that

Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don't contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like

to do the second signature of 'Is woman a human being?' If you would, take the German and pens and

paperall those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole

thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be

another three roubles for you. And please don't think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as

you came in, I saw how you could help me; to 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

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,

"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. "What farce is this? You'll drive me

"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full

consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave

him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses' 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.

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

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.

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

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 timesgenerally on his way

homestood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a

vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him

blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself,

put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to

him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he

should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same

thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him . . . so short a time ago. He

felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to

him nowall 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 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

Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and

where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down

It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds,

He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with

agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he

caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so

that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for

she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage

that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying

and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognized the voiceit was the voice of Ilya

Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the

stepsthat's clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world

topsyturvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard

voices, exclamations, 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 themalmost 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

"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You've been trudging about all day, and you're shaking

"Just now . . . half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistantsuperintendent, on the stairs. . . . Why was he

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

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

"I heard it myself. . . . I was not asleep . . . I was sitting up," he said still more timidly. "I listened a long

while. The assistantsuperintendent 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,

She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing

one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.

HE WAS not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes

delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though

there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal

of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid

of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted

something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he

distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who

he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at

other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of thatof 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

trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get

up, would have run away, but some one always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and

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, shortwaisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always

shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all badlooking, fat and

buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, goodnatured 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,

"What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always knocking my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious,

"And who are you?" Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing 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

"I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I've come on business."

"Please sit down." Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the table. "It's a good thing you've come to,

brother," he went on to Raskolnikov. "For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We

had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He

examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serioussomething 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 firstrate 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

"That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is

"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 intelligible condition, I've thirtyfive roubles to remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from

Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma's request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you

"You hear, he knows Vahrushin," cried Razumihin. "He is in 'an intelligible condition'! And I see you are an

"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 thirtyfive roubles in the hope of better

"That 'hoping for better to come' is the best thing you've said, though 'your mamma' is not bad either. Come

"Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold you. Take the pen and scribble 'Raskolnikov' for him. For just

"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."

"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.

Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his

mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. "I believe I am not wandering. I believe it's reality," he

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

"It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We

"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, although he was able to sit up, and with

his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him. But the soup was only

just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a

few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he

"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

"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

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 up on the sofa

without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about.

But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a

time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find

out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls

of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow.

There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and

"Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam today to make him some raspberry tea," said Razumihin, going

"And where is she to get raspberries for you?" asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread

"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, because I did not know it;

and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov's house. I kept

trying to find that Harlamov's house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov's, but Buch's. How

one muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next

day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there."

"I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I was there. Well, it's a long story.

But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairsall, all, brother, I know

everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and

the houseporter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but

"You are a one!" Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. "I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna," she

"I'll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to

uproot all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to find

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

"Ah, the sly dog!" Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her unspeakable delight.

"It's a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her

differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later. . . .

How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I.O.U.?

You must have been mad to sign an I.O.U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya

Yegorovna, was alive? . . . I know all about it! But I see that'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

"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 thirtysix, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge

her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up

between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don't understand it! Well, that's all nonsense. Only, seeing that

you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and 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 relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she's been cherishing that design a

long time, but was sorry to lose the I.O.U. for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay."

"It was base of me to say that. . . . My mother herself is almost a beggar . . . and I told a lie to keep my

"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

I.O.U.?' Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and

twentyfive 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 boyit's not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective

soninlaw, 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 I.O.U. by way of payment to

this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I

wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and

Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you,

brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I.O.U. back from him,

and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have

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

"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse

"Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?" Raskolnikov asked, after a moment's pause without

"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, firstrate . . . in his own way, of course. Now we are friendssee 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

"What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about. . . . Well, brother, now I must not lose

"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 earrings and chains, and about Krestovsky

Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And another

thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, 'Give me my sock.' Zametov hunted

all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ringbedecked fingers he gave you the rag.

And only then were you comforted, and for the next twentyfour 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 thirtyfive roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account

of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long

ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants

a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Goodbye!"

"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

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, switching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work.

"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 am I to do now? That's what I've forgotten, as though on purpose;

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,

fumbledbut 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

"Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police office? Where's the notice? Bah! I am

mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now . . . now I have been ill. But what did

Zametov 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 coatthey passed that over!

And here is money on the table, thank God! And here's the I.O.U. . . . I'll take the money and go and take

another lodging. They won't find me! . . . Yes, but the address bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin will find

me. Better escape altogether . . . far away . . . to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I.O.U. . . .

it would be of use there. . . . What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don't know that I can walk,

hahaha! 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 therepolicemen! 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 disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a

sense of comfort he nestled his head in the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt

which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.

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

"Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!" Razumihin shouted down the stairs. "You

"Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it's almost evening, it will be six o'clock directly. You have slept more

"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 today, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that's

no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now,

Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked

"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."

"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

"Come, Rodya, my boy, don't oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan't sleep all night, for I bought it

by guess, without measure. Just right!" he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, "just your size! A proper

headcovering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine,

is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear

their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but it'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

"Twenty copecks, silly!" he cried, offended. "Why, nowadays you would cost more than thateighty

copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it's bought on condition that when's it's worn out, they

will give you another 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 its 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 thingswarmer 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 twentyfive copecks! And remember the conditions: if you wear these out,

you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fedyaev's; if you've bought a

thing once, you are satisfied for life, for 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 weekhe had only worn them

"Not fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov's old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry

mud. "I did not go emptyhandedthey 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 twentyfive copecks the suittogether three roubles

five copecksa rouble and a half for the bootsfor, you see, they are very goodand that makes four

roubles fiftyfive copecks; five roubles for the underclothesthey were bought in the lotwhich makes

exactly nine roubles fiftyfive copecks. Fortyfive copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so,

Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rigout, 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 twentyfive 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

"Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin's efforts

"Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging around for nothing," Razumihin insisted. "Nastasya, don't be

bashful, but help methat's it," and in spite of Raskolnikov's resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank

"It will be long before I get rid of them," he thought. "What money was all that bought with?" he asked at

"Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you

"I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and

The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.

ZOSSIMOV WAS a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, cleanshaven face and straight flaxen hair. He

wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twentyseven. He had on a light grey

fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and

able, his linen was irreproachable, his watchchain 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 selfimportance,

but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his

"I've been to you twice today, brother. You see, he's come to himself," cried Razumihin.

"I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?" said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and,

sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably 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 firstrate. Is your head

"I 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.

"He may have anything . . . soup, tea . . . mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he'd

better not have meat either, and . . . but no need to tell you that!" Razumihin and he looked at each other. "No

more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again tomorrow. Perhaps, today even . . . but never mind . . ."

"Tomorrow evening I shall take him for a walk," said Razumihin. "We are going to the Yusupov garden and

"I would not disturb him tomorrow at all, but I don't know . . . a little, maybe . . . but we'll see."

"Ach, what a nuisance! I've got a housewarming party tonight; 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 neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new toohe only arrived in

Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five years."

"He's been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixtyfivenot worth

talking about. . . . But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here . . .

"A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, won't you come then?"

"So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer

"Do tell me, please, what you or he"Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov"can have in common with this

"Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you won't

venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that's the only principle I go upon,

"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 waysare there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn't be worth a baked onion

"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 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 dullards! You don't understand. You

harm yourselves running another man down. . . . But if you want to know, we really have something in

"Why, it's all about a housepainter. . . . We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there's nothing to

"Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old

"Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it . . . partly . . . for one reason. . . . I read

"Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the

"Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you,

Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with

brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and

how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not

"But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nastasya's chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed

"Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that's what we have 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 tonight. . . . By the way, Rodya, you've heard

about the business already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office

"But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!" Zossimov observed.

"Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway," shouted Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table.

"What's the most offensive is not their lyingone can always forgive lyinglying is a delightful thing, for it

leads to truthwhat 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

"But don't excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help that. . . . And, by the way, I've met

"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 introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how to get on the track

of the real man. 'We have facts,' they say. But facts are not everythingat least half the business lies in how

"Anyway, one can't hold one's tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if

"Oh, yes! Well, here's the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch

and Pestryakovthough they accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaffan

unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dramshop facing the house, brought to

the police office a jeweller's case containing some gold earrings, and told a long rigamarole. 'The day before

yesterday, just after eight o'clock'mark the day and the hour!'a journeyman housepainter, Nikolay, who

had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold earrings 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

thinghe'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 pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not

cheat Nikolay out of a thirtyrouble 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 Dementyev, 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 work with Dmitri, who comes from the

same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and

went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that some one had murdered

Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the

earrings at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to

make careful inquiries without saying a word to any one. First of all I asked, "Is Nikolay 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 and is finishing the job alone. And their job is on

the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to 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 so very drunkhe 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 earrings?" I asked. "I found them in the street," and

the way he said it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. "Did you hear what happened that very 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 staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he

took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. "Wait a bit, Nikolay," said I, "won't you have a

drink?" And I signed to the 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 endit was his

"Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched

his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before

yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross

off his neck and asked for a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to

the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash

from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched

her hardest; people ran in. 'So that's what you are up to!' 'Take me,' he says, 'to suchandsuch a police

officer; I'll confess everything.' Well, they took him to that police stationthat is herewith a suitable

escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, 'twentytwo,' and so on. At the question, 'When you

were working with Dmitri, didn't you see any one on the staircase at suchandsuch 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

Soandso 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 earrings?' '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 suchandsuch 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?"

"I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question, of their own idea of themselves.

Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: '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 to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran

after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the porter and some

gentlemenand 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, saw some little hooks,

"Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?" Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a

blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he 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

"What next? As soon as he saw the earrings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to

Dushkin and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went

off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: 'I knew nothing of it, never heard of it till the

day before yesterday.' 'And why didn't you come to the police till now?' 'I was frightened.' 'And why did you

try to hang yourself?' 'From anxiety.' 'What anxiety?' 'That I should be accused of it.' Well, that's the whole

"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 earrings? You must admit that, if on the very same

day and hour earrings from the old woman's box have come into Nikolay's hands, they must have come

"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 naturehow 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 hand precisely as he has told ushe stepped on the box

"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, fighting and

laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take

careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or

Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me

to ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit

in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They'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

"No, brother, no buts. And if the earrings' being found in Nikolay's hands at the very day and hour of the

murder constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against himalthough the explanation

given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously against himone 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 factresting simply on a psychological impossibilityas irrefutable and conclusively breaking

down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won't accept it, they certainly won't, because

they found the jewelcase and the man tried to hang himself, 'which he could not have done if he hadn't felt

"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

"That's been proved," said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning. "Koch recognised the jewelcase

"That's bad. Now another point. Did any one see Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestryakov were going

"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 on in it, but they took

no special notice and could not remember whether there actually were men at work in it."

"Hm! . . . So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating one another and laughing. That

constitutes a strong presumption, but . . . How do you explain the facts yourself?"

"How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It's clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is

to be sought is clear, and the jewelcase points to it. The real murderer dropped those earrings. The

murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the door. Koch, like an ass, did not

stay at the door; so the murderer popped out and ran down, too, for he had no other way of escape. He hid

from Koch, Pestryakov and the porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had just run out of it. He stopped

there while the porter and others were going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing, and then went

calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was no one in

the entry; possibly he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have

dropped the earrings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and did not notice he dropped them,

because he had other things to think of. The jewelcase is a conclusive proof that he did stand there. . . .

"Aach!" Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and a personage came in who was

THIS WAS a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour

countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised

astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an

affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov's low and narrow "cabin." With

the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable

dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure

and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his

seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some

sceneshifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get

nothing in this "cabin" by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though

with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:

Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him.

This familiar "what do you want" seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was

"This is Raskolnikov," mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening

his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoatpocket, 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.

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 newcomer 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

"Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?"

But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no

"Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no information?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch,

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

"I had presumed and calculated," he faltered, "that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago . .

"I say, why are you standing in the doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly. "If you've something to say,

sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here's a 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,

"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 nursing him; so don't you take any

"Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked of

"He has been conscious a long time, since the morning," went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so

much like unaffected goodnature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because

"Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival

here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured

that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment . . ."

"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. "So you are the fiance? I know, and

There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at

him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something

new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something

peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of "fiance" 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 betrotheda perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed. Even his own,

perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been

forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the role of fiance. 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 fortyfive years at all times. His dark, muttonchop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both

sides, growing thickly about his shining, cleanshaven 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 weddingday. If there really was something

unpleasing and repulsive in his rather goodlooking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other

causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the

But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities.

"I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he began, again breaking the silence with an effort.

"If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a

very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjecture.

Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr

"That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin. "There are two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called

"A disgusting placefilthy, 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,

"I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself," Pyotr Petrovitch

replied huffily. "However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time . . . I have

already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done

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, too. . . ."

"Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?"

"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

"In the most serious and essential matters," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted at the question.

"You see, it's ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the 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 . . ."

"Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism,

"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

"I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment. "Of course, people do get carried

away and make mistakes, but one must 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 prejudice 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

"What?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no reply.

"Isn't it so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. "You must admit," he went on,

addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousnesshe almost added "young man" "that

there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth . . ."

"No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, 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 tearing 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

selfinterest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole.

Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised in societythe more whole coats, so to

saythe firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised too. Therefore, in

acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to

pass my neighbour's getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal liberality, but as

a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us,

being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it . .

"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,

"Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive dignity. "Do you mean to suggest so

"Oh, my dear sir . . . how could I? . . . Come, that's enough," Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to

Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another

"I trust our acquaintance," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "may, upon your recovery and in view of the

circumstances of which you are aware, become closer. . . . Above all, I hope for your return to health . . ."

Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from his chair.

"Not a doubt of it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all who have left

"Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have

"It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!"

"That's just what it wasn't!" interposed Razumihin. "That's what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain

that he is not cunning, nor 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 himand chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles,

perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with

them, ransacked the old woman's trunk, her rags and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a

box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I

assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel!"

"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

"I can't say that; but another circumstance interests me in the casethe 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 societyfor

peasants don't pawn gold trinketshow are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our

"How are we to explain it?" Razumihin caught him up. "It might be explained by our inveterate

"What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? 'Everybody is

getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.' I don't remember the exact words,

but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've grown used to

having everything readymade, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great

"But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. "It's in accordance with your theory!"

"Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed .

"There's a measure in all things," Luzhin went on superciliously. "Economic ideas are not an incitement to

"And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight

in insulting him, "is it true that you told your fiancee . . . within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased

you most . . . was that she was a beggar . . . because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you

may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?"

"Upon my word," Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, "to distort my words in this

way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather let me say, has been

conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I . . . suspect who . . . in a word . . . this arrow . . . in a word,

your mamma . . . She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat 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. . . . And indeed . . . indeed . . ."

"I tell you what," cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes

"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

"So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let me tell you, sir," he began deliberately, doing his

utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, "at the first moment I saw you you were illdisposed to me, but

I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but

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 Zossimov,

who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the

level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine

"Let me alonelet 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,

"Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to

"It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated."

"If only he could get some favourable shock, that's what would do it! At first he was better. . . . You know he

has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him. . . . I am very much afraid so; he must

"Perhaps it's that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister,

"Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in

anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excitedthat's the murder?"

"Yes, yes," Razumihin agreed, "I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the

"Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In

half an hour I'll go and see him again. . . . There'll be no inflammation though."

"Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya. . . ."

Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered.

BUT AS SOON as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought

in that evening and had tied up again and began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have

become perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It

was the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was

evident in them. "Today, today," he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his

intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and selfconfidence. 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 twentyfive 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 nothing. Who would have dreamed of his going out,

It was 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 today, 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 "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immovable

From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market. A darkhaired 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 flamecoloured 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

"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middleaged man standing idly by him. The man

"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping

with the subject"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn eveningsthey must be dampwhen all the

passersby have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's

"I don't know. . . . Excuse me . . ." muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's

Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his

wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round

and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler's shop.

"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.

"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"

"Yes, it's an eatinghouse and there's a billiardroom and you'll find princesses there too. . . . Lala!"

Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into

the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation

with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and

He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the marketplace to Sadovy

Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel

Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in

dram shops and eatinghouses; women were continually running in and out, bareheaded and in their indoor

clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various

festive establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a

guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door;

some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier,

smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way

somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was

lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They

were bareheaded and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not

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

trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though

"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

"Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have you just come out of a hospital?"

"They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly

"I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks

"Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can

Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pockmarked wench of thirty, covered with bruises,

with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "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 standing on a square yard

of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live

and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature! . . . And

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 drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could

"Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days and I'll give you something."

The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them.

"Oh, damn . . . these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a

shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . another fire in the Petersburg

quarter . . . and another fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . Ah, here 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 numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience 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 watchchain, 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 goodhumouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he

"What, you here?" he began in surprise, 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?

"You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring

"We've just been . . . having a drink together. . . . You talk about pouring it into me!"

"By way of a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear boy," he added,

slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I am not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that

workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman. . . ."

"How strange you are. . . . I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out."

"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

"Sixth class! Ah, my cocksparrow! With your parting and your ringsyou 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

"Foo, how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are still delirious."

"I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cocksparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?"

"Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them

"I'll 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 I was reading, that I was looking and searching. . .

." he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I was searchingand came here on purpose to do itfor 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

"What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. "That's no business of

"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

Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same

nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with

extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe

behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire

to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and

"You are either mad, or . . ." began Zametov, and he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that had

Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy.

He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten

"What! Tea? Oh, yes . . ." Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly

looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his

"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

"Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you

"They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an

objectwhat 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. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy

people to change the noteswhat 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 thousandhe 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!

"That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that's quite possible. That I feel quite sure is possible.

"Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible

experience! To go with false notes into a bank where it's their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should

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 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 againto see whether it was a good one? 'I am afraid,' I would say. 'A relation of mine

lost twentyfive roubles the other day through a false note,' and then I'd 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,'

"Foo, what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "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 homethat 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 miraclebut

his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he' couldn't stand it. That was clear from the . .

"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

"The fact is they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder at the risk

of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as

"You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave in that case, too?" he asked with

"I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear

"All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov's,

again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. "This is what I should

have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone

straight to 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 hundredweight or more which

had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stonethere would be 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,

"You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from

Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and

quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word.

This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word

trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another moment he

"And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly andrealised what he

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.

"I've caught my cocksparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe less than ever?"

"Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?"

"You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police

office? And why did the Explosive Lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there," he shouted to the

"And there 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, twentyfive roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new

clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You've crossexamined my landlady, I'll be bound. . . .

He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of

insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue

increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his

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.

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

"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?"

"It 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

"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

"Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm "can't you see that I don't want your

benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who . . . curses them, who feels them a

burden in 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 today 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 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, can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may

He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting

"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 housewarming this evening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my

uncle thereI just ran into receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if

you were an original instead of a translation . . . you see, Rodya, I recognise you're a clever fellow, but you're

a fool!and if you weren't a fool you'd come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in

the street! Since you have gone out, there's no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one

. . . a cup of tea, company. . . . Or you could lie on the sofaany way you would be with us. . . . Zossimov

"Rrubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patience. "How do you know? You can't answer for yourself! You

don't know anything about it. . . . Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run back to

them afterwards. . . . One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember, Potchinkov's house on the

"Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence."

"Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. . . ."

"I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you if you don't! Stay, hey, is Zametov in

"What about? Confound you, don't tell me then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!"

Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully.

Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs.

"Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He talked sensibly but yet . . . I am a fool! As if madmen didn't talk

sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov 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

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 gathering twilight, at one distant attic

window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water

of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes, the houses

seemed moving, the passersby, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he

started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of 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

recognized no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing,

then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a

moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her

"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were

thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.

"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her

"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 wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.

"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the same woman's voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The

other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look

after herand here she's in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman neighbour, we live close by, the second

The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, some one mentioned the police station. . . .

Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. "No, that's

loathsome . . . water . . . it's not good enough," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will come of it," he added,

"no use to wait. What about the police office . . .? And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The police

office is open till ten o'clock. . . ." He turned his back to the railing and looked about him.

"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and 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 had

"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 spaceha!

But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah . . . damn! How tired I am! If I could find

somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don't care about

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 possibly 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 unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through

the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth

storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with

curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. "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 walls, no furniture; it seemed

strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window sill. There were two workmen, both young

fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered

with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by

this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen

had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready

to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov's coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms

"She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very early, all dressed up. 'Why are you

preening and prinking?' says I. 'I am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way of going

"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 Saturday, 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 for the ladies' fluffles, they're beyond anything you can fancy."

"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger cried enthusiastically, "except father and mother,

"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

Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked

note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful

sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave

"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside

"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?"

"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there."

"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.

At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passersby; the two porters, a peasant woman, a

"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

"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil's house, not far from here, flat

Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning

"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:

"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going into that, what's in his mind, eh?"

"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered the workman.

"But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest"Why are you hanging

"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on

And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his

"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

AN ELEGANT carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one

in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle . . . A mass

of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was

turning on something lying close to the wheels. Every one was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman

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

"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 . . .

But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a

rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to

avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the

Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the

"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

"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

Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov's head and

"This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round! I'll pay, I'll make it worth your

Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little

room from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and

coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though

there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always

watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was

undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her

to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a

silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before himheels together and toes turned out.

He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and

wideopen eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still

younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open

to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought

on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown

even thinner during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever.

"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 mewho gave me the blessing when your father

and I were married, Polenkashe asked at once 'Isn't that the pretty girl who donced 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

tomorrowcough, cough, cough he will make the hole bigger," she articulated with effort.) "Prince

Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from Petersburg then . . . he danced the mazurka with me and

wanted to make me an offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him that my heart

had long been another's. That other was your father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry. . . . Is the water ready?

Give me the shirt, and the stockings! Lida," said she to the youngest one, "you must manage without your

chemise tonight . . . and lay your stockings out with it . . . I'll 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,

"Where are we to put him?" asked the policeman, looking round when Marmeladov, unconscious and

"On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way," Raskolnikov showed him.

Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida

"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 bring him here . . . I've been here

"He's done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she rushed to her husband.

Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed

under the luckless man's head a pillow, which no one had thought of and began undressing and examining

him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready

Raskolnikov meanwhile induced some one to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but

"I've sent for a doctor," he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, "don't be uneasy, I'll pay. Haven't you water? . . .

and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as you can. . . . He is injured, but not killed, believe me. .

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

attention herself. Raskolnikov began to realise that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man

"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,

"Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb

Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn't have dropped a pin. The policemen left,

all except one, who remained for a time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost

all Madame Lippevechsel's lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the flat; at first they were

squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into

"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! . . .

Her cough choked herbut her reproaches were not without result. They evidently stood in some awe of

Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner

feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and

dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and

Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying that they'd no business to make a

"No business to die!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them,

but in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident and

ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German.

"Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands, "your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital

"Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying," Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she

always took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might "remember her place" and even now could not

"I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna."

"You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers

like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's laughing behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of 'they are at it

again' was in fact audible 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 GovernorGeneral, himself, shall be informed of your conduct tomorrow. 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

pride, knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has

come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon Zaharovitch has known from a

All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short

Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan;

she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or understanding gazed at

Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of

his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began

looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her

"My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding," she said in despair. "We must take off his

Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame and exclaimed in despair:

"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,

"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."

The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him mistrustfully; he went up to the

sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the

bloodstained 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, sinisterlooking yellowishblack

bruisea cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught

"It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness," the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov.

"Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp. . . . His head is badly injured, too . . . Him . . . I could bleed him if

you like, but . . . it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes."

At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little, grey old man,

appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident.

The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain

All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little; he could only

utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in

the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling; but the

boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowed

down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. Katerina

Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy's shirt,

and managed to cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising

from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again.

In the passage the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did

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

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

fourthhand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that

filled up the whole doorway, and her lightcoloured shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it

was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flamecoloured feather. Under this

rakishlytilted 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 Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to

"What am I to do with these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones.

"Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss

"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

"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.

"Ah, father! That's words and only words! Forgive! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come home today

drunk 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

A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the

priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest

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,

"Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!" And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his

"Who's that? Who's that?" he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror

With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for

some time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire.

Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her

"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 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, seeing her husband's dead body. "Well, what's to be

"Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your husband told me all his life and circumstances. . . . Believe

me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you

all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness,

from that evening we became friends. . . . Allow me now . . . to do something . . . to repay my debt to my

dead friend. Here are twenty roubles I think and if that can be of any assistance to you, then . . . I . . . in

short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again . . . I shall, perhaps, come again tomorrow. . . .

And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he

suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions

in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.

"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

kindhearted 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

"Yes . . . I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went

He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new

overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be

compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase

he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with

him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Some one overtook

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 childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give.

"Tell me, what is your name? . . . and where do you live?" she said 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

"Mamma sent me, too . . . when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up, too, and said 'Run fast,

"I love her more than any one," Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver.

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

"I am sorry for father," she said a moment later, raising her tearstained face and brushing away the tears

with her hands. "It's nothing but misfortunes now," she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which

"He loved Lida most," she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like grownup 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

"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

"Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. 'And Thy servant Rodion,' nothing more."

"I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at

Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away

quite enchanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on

"Enough," he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. "I'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 herand 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 darkness. "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 by . . . let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction, toono matter! Strength,

strength is what one wants, you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strengththat's

what they don't know," he added proudly and selfconfidently and he walked with flagging footsteps from

the bridge. Pride and selfconfidence 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 conclusion, but he did not

"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. Halfway upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of

people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin's room

was fairly large; the company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the

landlady's servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, 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

"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

"Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak yourself, you must . . ."

"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

timeanother 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

"You must go to bed at once," he pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could, "and take something

"It's a good thing you are taking him home," observed Zossimov to Razumihin"we shall see how he is

tomorrow, today he's not at all amissa 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, you've three

times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad, you needn't care a hang that he has got such a wild

idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what's

brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation today with Zametov."

"Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov. . . . Well, the fact is, Rodya .

. . the point is . . . I am a little drunk now. . . . But that's . . . no matter . . . the point is that this idea . . . you

understand? was just being hatched in their brains . . . you understand? 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 timethat'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 today, today 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 . . ."

"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 today

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 suddenlyput 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

"Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother. . . . What struck him, you see, was that only that subject

seemed to interest you; now it's clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances. . . . and how that

irritated you and worked in with your illness . . . I am a little drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some

idea of his own . . . I tell you, he's mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him . . ."

"Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly: I've just been at a deathbed, a clerk

who died . . . I 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 flamecoloured feather . . . but I

am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me . . . we shall be at the stairs directly . . ."

"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,

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

"She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago, but . . . I don't care! Goodbye!"

"I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say goodbye to you here. So give me

They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after

"What is it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it wide and stood still in

His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he

never expected, never thought of them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would

arrive immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that hour and a half plying

Nastasya with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were

beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his "running away" today, ill and, as they understood from

her story, delirious! "Good Heavens, what had become of him?" Both had been weeping, both had been in

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

Anxiety, cries of horror, moans . . . Razumihin who was standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized

"It's nothing, nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister"it's only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the

doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is all right

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 conversation with Dounia.

RASKOLNIKOV got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to Razumihin to cut short the

flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the

hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his

expression. It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same time something immovable, almost

"Go home . . . with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin, "goodbye till tomorrow;

"This evening, Rodya," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the train was awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing

"I will stay with him," cried Razumihin, "I won't leave him for a moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them

"How, how can I thank you!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once more pressing Razumihin's

"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 for a minute," Dounia whispered in dismay; "we are

"Stay," he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get muddled. . . . Have you seen

"No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as

"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,

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

"Dounia," Raskolnikov continued with an effort, "I don't want that marriage, so at the first opportunity

"Brother, think what you are saying!" Avdotya Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked

herself. "You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired," she added gently.

"You think I am delirious? No . . . You are marrying Luzhin for my sake. But I won't accept the sacrifice.

And so write a letter before tomorrow, to refuse him . . . Let me read it in the morning and that will be the

"Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, tomorrow . . . Don't you see . . ." the mother interposed in dismay.

"He is raving," Razumihin cried tipsily, "or how would he dare! Tomorrow all this nonsense will be over . .

. today he certainly did drive him away. That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too . . . He made speeches here,

"Goodbye till tomorrow, brother," said Dounia compassionately "let us go, mother . . . Goodbye,

"Do you hear, sister," he repeated after them, making a last effort, "I am not delirious; this marriage isan

infamy. Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn't . . . one is enough . . . and though I am a scoundrel, I

"But you're out of your mind! Despot!" roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not

answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with

interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her glance.

"Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered in despair to Razumihin. "I will stay somewhere here . . .

"You'll spoil everything," Razumihin answered in the same whisper, losing patience"come out on to the

stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you," he went on in a half whisper on the stairs "that he was

almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The doctor himself! Even he gave way

and left him, so as not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off.

And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do himself some mischief. . . ."

"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

"But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, "Ill beseech her to find some corner for

This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady's door. Nastasya lighted them from a step

below. Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov

home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the

vast quantities he had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed

to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading

them, and giving them reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he uttered,

probably to emphasize his arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya

Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge

bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all the closer to him. If they'd told him

to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their service.

Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too

much, in her anxiety over her Rodya she looked on his presence as providential and was unwilling to notice

all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition,

she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded

confidence inspired by Nastasya's account of her brother's queer friend, which prevented her from trying to

run away from him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She realised, too, that even running away was

perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of

Razumihin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw

"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 I'll conduct you both home, you can't be in the streets alone; Petersburg

is an awful place in that way . . . But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour later,

on my word of honour, I'll bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I'll

run home in a twinklingI've a lot of friends there, all drunkI'll fetch Zossimovthat'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 hourfrom 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 I'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 jealous on my account of

Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know . . . of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an

absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too! . . . No matter! Come along! Do you

"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 ecstasy, "let us go!

Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I'll come in a quarter of an hour."

Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumihin

gave an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent

and goodnatured, 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 could hardly keep up with him, a fact he

did not observe, however. "Nonsense! That is . . . I am drunk like a fool, but that's not it; I am not drunk from

wine. It's 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 . . . I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I've taken you home, I'll pour a couple

of pailfuls of water over my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right . . . If only you knew how I

love you both! Don't laugh, 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 . . . that's why he mustn't

"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 tomorrow. 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

"Listen!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames.

"What do you think?" shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, "you think I am attacking them for talking

nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That's man's one privilege over all creation. Through error

you come to the truth! I am a 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 I'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, experience

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

"Yes, yes . . . though I don't agree with you in everything," added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once

"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.

"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. . . . I am not worthy to love you, but to do

homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I've done homage. . . . Here are your

lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away. . . . How dare he! how

dare he put you in such lodgings! It's a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you

his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes, well, then, I'll tell you, your fiance is a scoundrel."

"Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting . . ." Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning.

"Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it," Razumihin made haste to apologise. "But . .

. but you can't be angry with me for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because . . . hm, hm! That

would be disgraceful; in fact not because I'm in . . . hm! Well, anyway I won't say why, I daren't. . . . But we

all saw today 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 Zossimov, because he is an honest man

and knows his work. But enough, it's all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let's go on. I know this

corridor, I've been here, 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! Goodbye, I'll run."

"Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter

"Don't worry yourself, mother," said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape. "God has sent this gentleman to our

aid, though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has done

"Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself to leave Rodya? . . . And

how different, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us. .

"No, it's not that, mother. You didn't see, you were crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious

"Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he talked to you, Dounia!" said the mother,

looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia's standing

up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. "I am sure he will think better of it

"And I am sure that he will say the same tomorrow . . . 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

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 wellproportioned,

strong and selfreliantthe latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract

from the grace and softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described

as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother's; there was a proud light in her

almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor;

her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a

little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and

almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles,

how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm,

open, simplehearted, honest giant like Razumihin, 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 wordsand 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 fortythree, her face still

retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always

the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old age.

We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair

had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow's foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks

were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again,

twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not

sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even

of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin's departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door:

"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

"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

It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both

women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin's promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing

Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov's, but he came

reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated

condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as

an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria

Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young

doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the

slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the

dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and

addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He

declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his

observations the patient's illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few

months, but it had partly also a moral origin, "was so to speak the product of several material and moral

influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas . . . and so on." Noticing stealthily that Avdotya

Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this

theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna's anxiously and timidly inquiring as to "some suspicion of insanity," he

replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had

some fixed idea, something approaching a monomaniahe, Zossimov, was now particularly studying this

interesting branch of medicinebut that it must be recollected that until today 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

"We'll talk tomorrow; go to bed at once!" Razumihin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. "I'll be

"That's a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna," remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both

"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

"Let me go, you drunken devil," said Zossimov, struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him and

went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.

"Of course, I am an ass," he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, "but still . . . you are another."

They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov's lodgings, Razumihin broke the

"Listen," he said, "you're a firstrate 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 anythingand I call that dirty because it leads on 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. Youa

doctorsleep 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 tonight in the

landlady's flat here. (Hard work I've had to persuade her!) And I'll be in the kitchen. So here's a chance for

you to get to know her better. . . . It's not as you think! There's not a trace of anything of the sort, brother . .

"Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue . . . and yet she's sighing and melting

like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that's unholy! She's most prepossessing . . . I'll repay you,

"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 articleand well,

it all began with that song; Now you're a regular performer, a maitre, a Rubinstein. . . . I assure you, you

"But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?"

"Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not that sort at all. . . . Tchebarov tried that.

"Well, I can't, that's all about it! There's an element of attraction here, brother."

"I haven't fascinated her; perhaps, I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won't care a straw whether it's

you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing. . . . I can't explain the position, brother . . . look here,

you are good at mathematics, and working at it now . . . begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my

soul, I'm not joking. I'm in earnest, it'll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year

together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of

something)she just sighed and perspired! And you mustn't talk of loveshe's bashful to hystericsbut

just let her see you can't tear yourself awaythat's enough. It's fearfully comfortable; you're quite at home,

you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you're careful."

"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 featherbed element

here, brother,ach! and not only that! There's an attraction herehere 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 fishpies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot

stoves to sleep onas snug as though you were dead, and yet you're alivethe advantages of both at once!

Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I'm talking, it's bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I'll go in

and look at him. But there's no need, it's all right. Don't you worry yourself, yet if you like, you might just

look in once, too. But if you notice anything, delirium or feverwake me at once. But there can't be. . . ."

RAZUMIHIN waked up next morning at eight o'clock, troubled and serious. He found himself confronted

with many new and unlookedfor perplexities. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling

like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had

befallen him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he

recognised clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainableso

unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and

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

fiance 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 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 selfabasement, "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

And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He hadn't another suitif 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

He washed that morning scrupulouslyhe 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 stubby 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

"And . . . the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners of a pothouse; and . . . and even

admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman . . . what was there in that to be proud

of? 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 point then of being dirty,

He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's

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

"If 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

"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 sort of things . . . and amongst them that you were afraid that he . . . might become

"I 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 yesterday, you did, that is, with your story

about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known

what happened then at the police station and that some wretch . . . had insulted him with this suspicion! Hm .

. . I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a

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 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 startingpoint of

illness. Well, bother it all! . . . And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm . . . he

"And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with

"Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn't seem to dislike him . . . and they

"But what business is it of yours?" Razumihin cried with annoyance. "How can I tell whether they've a

"Foo, what an ass you are sometimes! Last night's wine has not gone off yet. . . . Goodbye; thank your

Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night's lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my bonjour

through the door; she was up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken in to her from the kitchen. I was not

At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev's house. Both ladies were waiting for

him with nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night,

bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria

Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced

timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression of such

gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unlookedfor respect (in place of the sneering looks and

illdisguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with

abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.

Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared

that she was glad to hear it, because "she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over

beforehand." Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with them; they had

waited to have it with him. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and

they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way, that the ladies

were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in

embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions, which showered in a

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

"Tell me, tell me! What do you think . . .? Excuse me, I still don't know your name!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna

"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 . . ."

"Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofitch!"

"Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time

he can scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years' 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 lateand perhaps for a long time beforehe has been suspicious and fanciful.

He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel

thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly

callous; it's as though he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He

says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn'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

"God grant it may," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by Razumihin's account of her Rodya.

And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while

he was talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table,

listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms folded and her lips

compressed, occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not

listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent scarf

round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya

Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she

was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and

he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who

"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.

"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

"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

"Do you suppose" Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. "Do you suppose that my tears, my

entreaties, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would

calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn't that he doesn't love us!"

"He has never spoken a word of that affair to me," Razumihin answered cautiously. "But I did hear something

from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather

"Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, 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."

"God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don't know which of them would have caused most

misery to the otherhe to her or she to him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively

questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at

Dounia, obviously to the latter's annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her

uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own

conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse

"I 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 certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch.

"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 politeness, but because . . . simply because Avdotya

Romanovna has of her own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was

because I was disgustingly drunk and . . . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely . . . and

He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not

Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and

continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance.

"You see, Dmitri Prokofitch," she began. "I'll be perfectly open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?"

"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

Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as follows:

"DEAR MADAM, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that owing to unforeseen

obstacles I was 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow evening at eight o'clock precisely, and

herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovitch may

not be present at our interviewas he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my

visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable and

circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I

have the honour to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I

shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write on the

assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and

so, being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my

own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young

woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twentyfive roubles on the pretext of the funeral, which gravely

surprised me knowing what pains you were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing my special respect to

your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful homage of "Your humble

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

"Oh, dear me! She says . . . goodness knows what she says, she doesn't explain her object! She says that it

would be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it's absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a

point of being here at eight o'clock and that they must meet. . . . I didn't want even to show him the letter, but

to prevent him from coming by some stratagem with your help . . . because he is so irritable. . . . Besides I

don't understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have given the daughter

"He was not himself yesterday," Razumihin said thoughtfully, "if you only knew what he was up to in a

restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too. . . . Hm! He did say something, as we were going home

yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn't understand a word. . . . But last night, I myself . .

"The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and there I assure you we shall see at once

what's to be done. Besides, it's getting lategood 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

"We must start, Dounia, we must start," her mother cried in a flutter. "He will be thinking we are still angry

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

"My God," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my

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

"Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna . . . she was all in

white . . . she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were

blaming me. . . . Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don't know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's

"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?"

"I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault with me. . . . But, dear me, what a

cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room?

Listen, you say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my . . . weaknesses?

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

"Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown! don't ask him too much about his health;

"Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the stairs. . . . What an awful staircase!"

"Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling," said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing

eyes she added: "He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so."

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 darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam

He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was

sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some

time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to

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

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

"Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well," said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of

welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. "And I don't say this as I did yesterday," he

"Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him today," 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.

"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, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not,

it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don't know, but they must be known to you. You are

an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement

coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a

"Yes, yes; you are perfectly right. . . . I will make haste and return to the university: and then everything will

Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat

mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an

instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially for his visit to their

"What! he saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. "Then you have not slept either after

"Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o'clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before two at home."

"I don't know how to thank him either," Raskolnikov went on suddenly frowning and looking down. "Setting

aside the question of paymentforgive 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 candidly."

"Don't be irritated." Zossimov forced himself to laugh. "Assume that you are my first patientwellwe

fellows just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in

"I say nothing about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, "though he has had nothing from me

"What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood today, 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

"As for you, mother, I don't dare to speak," he went on, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. "It is

only today that I have been able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting

When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile

there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed

and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute the previous day. The mother's face

lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. "Yes, that is what I

love him for," Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. "He has

"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 sistersimply by holding out his

hand at the right minute and looking at her like that. . . . And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole

face is! . . . He is even better looking than Dounia. . . . But, good heavens, what a suithow 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 himbut I am afraid. . . . Oh, dear, he's so strange! He's talking kindly, but I'm

"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 againI can tell

you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that womanah, 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, Rodyawho 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 on the point of

rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help. . . . Because we were alone, utterly alone," she said

plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr

"Yes, yes. . . . Of course it's very annoying. . . ." Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied

"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 today and was waiting for you to come first."

"What are you saying, Rodya?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised.

"Is he answering us as a duty?" Dounia wondered. "Is he being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though

"I've only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to

ask her . . . Nastasya . . . to wash out the blood . . . I've only just dressed."

"Oh, nothingdon't be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced

"That's true," Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. "I remember everything even to the slightest

detail, and yetwhy I did that and went there and said that, I can't clearly explain now."

"A familiar phenomenon," interposed Zossimov, "actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most

cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions

"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 dozensperhaps hundreds of thousandshardly

At the word "madman," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite subject, every one

Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He

"Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!" Razumihin cried hastily.

"What?" Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. "Oh . . . I got spattered with 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 children, starving . . . nothing in the house . . . there's a daughter, too . . . perhaps you'd

have given it yourself if you'd seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially as I knew how you

needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens, si vous

"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 overstep, you will be unhappy . . . and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier. . . . But

all that's nonsense," he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. "I only meant to say that I beg your

"That's enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good," said his mother, delighted.

A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the

"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.

"Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.

"Aah! Yes, I remember. . . . So she's dead! Oh, really?" he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up.

"Only imagine, quite suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity.

"On the very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the

"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

"Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending

"No, no, he's an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!" Dounia answered, almost with a shudder,

"That had happened in the morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. "And directly afterwards

she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive

"That was always her . . . habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the

bathhouse. . . . You see, she was undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and

she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had a

"H'm! But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother," said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in

"Ah, my dear, I don't know what to talk about," broke from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"That's certainly true," said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her brother. "Mother was crossing herself

"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 all the way, in the

train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything together. . . . And I was so happy, I did not

notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now. . . . You should not, Dounia. . . . I am happy

"Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. "We shall have time to

As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he

had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to

him that he had just told a fearful liethat he would never now be able to speak freely of everythingthat

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 himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at any one walked towards the

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,

"Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna,

"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

"Yes, excellent, splendid, welleducated, intelligent," Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising

rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. "I can't remember where I met him before my illness. . . .

I believe I have met him somewhere . . . And this is a good man, too," he nodded at Razumihin. "Do you

like him, Dounia?" he asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.

"Foowhat a pig you are," Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible confusion, and he got up from his

"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."

"So it is not a present from her fiance," thought Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted.

"Aah! 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 subject and the way he spoke of it.

"H'm, yes. What shall I tell you? I don't remember much indeed. She was such a sickly girl," he went on,

growing dreamy and looking down again. "Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and

was always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes,

yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don't know what drew me to her

thenI 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."

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.

"Her? Now? Oh, yes. . . . You ask about her? No . . . that's all now as it were, in another world . . . and so

long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems somehow far away." He looked attentively at them.

"You now . . . I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away . . . but, goodness knows why we are

talking of that! And what's the use of asking about it," he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, he fell

"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

"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 must be settled one way or the

other that dayso 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

"Brother," Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "In all this there is a mistake on your part. I

thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself

to 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

"She is lying," he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. "Proud creature! She won't admit she wants

to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate. . . . Oh, how I .

"In fact," continued Dounia, "I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend

to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him. . . . Why did you smile just now?" She, too,

"Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch's courtship showed me at once what he

wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too. . . . Why are you

"And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine

obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me. . . . You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked

with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I am glad at

"It is not true. I am not lying," cried Dounia, losing her composure. "I would not marry him if I were not

convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced

that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very day . . . and such a marriage is

not a vileness, as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not

merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have

not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin any one, it is only myself. . . . I am not committing a murder.

Why do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what's the matter?"

"No, no, nonsense! It's nothing. A little giddinessnot fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H'm, yes,

what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof today that you can respect him, and

With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before

"It is strange," he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. "What am I making such a fuss for? What is it

He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled.

He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and

attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and

"What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing 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

"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 legalbusiness languagenot so very uneducated, and not quite educatedbusiness

"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 summoning you to Petersburg. Well,

what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to

"Nno," 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 daughtera 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

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

"You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this evening, and that he will go away if you

"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

"I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o'clock," she said, addressing Razumihin. "Mother, I am inviting

"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

AT THAT moment the door was softly opened, and a young 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 poorlydressed young girl, very young, indeed almost like a child, with a

modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightenedlooking face. She was wearing a very

plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby oldfashioned 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 protested 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

"I did not expect you," he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her stop. "Please sit down. You come, no

At Sonia's entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov's three chairs, close to the door,

got up to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where Zossimov had

been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a bed, was too familiar a place, he hurriedly

Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost

inconceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that

"I . . . I . . . have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you," she began falteringly. "I come from

Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you . . . to be at the service

. . . in the morning . . . at Mitrofanievsky . . . and then . . . to us . . . to her . . . to do her the honour . . . she told

"I will try, certainly, most certainly," answered Raskolnikov. 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

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. Sonia, hearing herself

"I wanted to ask you," said Raskolnikov, hastily, "how things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried

"No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause of death . . . they did not worry us . . . only the lodgers

"At the body's remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, today, they will carry it to the cemetery,

into the chapel, until tomorrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it's

"She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church tomorrow for the service, and then to be present at the

"Yes . . . just a little. . . . She told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we

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 carefully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather

irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her blue

eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression

that one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar

characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little girlalmost a child. And in some of

"But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does she even mean to have a

"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 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

"You gave us everything yesterday," Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she

looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by

Raskolnikov's poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There

was a light in 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. . . . I am afraid we have

"Yes, yes, I'll come," he answered, getting up fussily. "But I have something to see to."

"But surely you will have dinner together?" cried Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. "What do

"Yes, yes, I am coming . . . of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do

"Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining with us?"

Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all strangely embarrassed.

"Goodbye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying goodbye. Goodbye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said

Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a

But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive,

courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant

discomfort in her face, as though Avdotya Romanovna's courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful

"Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?" said Dounia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him.

"Come, that's capital," he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at her. "God give peace to the dead,

Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at her for some moments in silence.

The whole history of the dead father floated before his memory in those moments. . . .

"Heavens, Dounia," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in the street, "I really feel relieved

myself at coming away more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of

"I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must

"Well, you were not very patient!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. "Do you

know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul.

You are both melancholy, both morose and hot tempered, both haughty and both generous. . . . Surely he

can't be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!"

"Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch breaks it off?" poor Pulcheria

"He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dounia, sharply and contemptuously.

"We did well to come away," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. "He was in a hurry about some

business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air . . . it is fearfully close in his room. . . . But where is

one to get a breath of air here. The very streets here feel like shutup rooms. Good heavens! what a town! . . .

stay . . . this side . . . they will crush youcarrying something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I declare . . .

"I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute,

"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 usto you! So

"People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that

"And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer," Dounia snapped out, suddenly.

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

"Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming," Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart.

"One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way. I want to have another word

or two with you. Listen!" he turned suddenly to Razumihin again. "You know that . . . what's his name . . .

"Is not he managing that case . . . you know about that murder? . . . You were speaking about it yesterday."

"He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some pledges there, tootriflesa ring

my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father's silver watchthey are only worth five or

six roubles altogether . . . but I value them. So what am I to do now? I do not want to lose the things,

especially the watch. I was quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of

Dounia'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

"Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry," Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement.

"Well, how glad I am. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him."

"And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often talked to him of you at different

times. I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that's it! It is all turning

"Sofya Semyonovna," corrected Raskolnikov. "Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a

"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 today, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you

He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed

"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.

"Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister? Did I give her the address?"

"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 today, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?' I did not know

She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as

possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly

along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to meditate on every word, every detail.

Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening before

her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her that day, perhaps at once!

"Only not today, please, not today!" 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. 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 waiting for

something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and that Sonia was going home.

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

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 cheekbones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen

hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with grey, and his thick square beard was even

lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a

When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on the pavement. He observed her

dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he

followed her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner. "Bah!" muttered the

unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the third

storey, turned down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, "Kapernaumov,

Tailor." "Bah!" the stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at

"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. Goodbye for the

Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy.

"That's capital, brother," he repeated several times, "and I am glad! I am glad!"

"I didn't know that you pledged things at the old woman's, too. And . . . was it long ago? I mean, was it long

"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. "I've not more than a silver rouble left . . . after last night's accursed delirium!"

"Yes, yes," Razumihin hastened to agreewith 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 . . .

"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

"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 incredulous, sceptical, cynical . . . he likes to

impose on people, or rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial method. . . . But he

understands his work . . . thoroughly. . . . Last year he cleared up a case of murder in which the police had

"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,

"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,

"But why are you apologizing? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was

"I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One's ashamed to speak of it."

Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was

"I shall have to pull a long face with him too," he thought, with a beating heart, and he turned white, "and do

it naturally, too. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No,

carefully would not be natural again. . . . Oh, well, we shall see how it turns out. . . . We shall see . . . directly.

Is it a good thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating, that's what's bad!"

"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,

"I say, brother," he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly smile, "I have been noticing all day that

"Yes, brother, I assure you it's noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair in a way you never do sit, on the edge

somehow, and you seemed to be writhing all the time. You kept 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

"But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there he's blushing again."

"But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I'll tell of you today. Hahaha! I'll make mother

"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 todayyou cleaned your nails, I declare. Eh? That's something unheard of! Why, I do

Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch's

flat. This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be heard laughing as they came in, still

"Not a word here or I'll . . . brain you!" Razumihin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

RASKOLNIKOV was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty

not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as

a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure really were ridiculous

at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction,

bowed to Porfiry Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out

his hand and shook hands, still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words

to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something

when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself:

his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity

with which Razumihin received this "spontaneous" mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most

genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose.

"Fool! You fiend," he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little round table with an empty

"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 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 presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.

"I've got to think of that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he began, affecting extreme embarrassment.

"Not at all, very pleasant to see you . . . and how pleasantly you've come in. . . . Why, won't he even say

"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

"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 nothing had happened. "That'll do! We are all

fools. To come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the first place he has

heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you.

Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?"

"Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and

Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressinggown, very clean linen, and troddendown slippers. He was a man

of about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had

a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round, rather snubnosed face was of a sickly

yellowish colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been goodnatured, 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

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 overserious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and

especially if what you are discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such exceptional

solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was

so well satisfied with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petrovitch did

not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and

impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest.

"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

"That's no matter," answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly,

"but you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and claiming

"On an ordinary sheet of paper?" Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the

"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

"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

"That's why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for every one

This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his

"You seem to be jeering at me, brother?" he said to him, with a wellfeigned 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, carefully making his voice

tremble, "that the watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!"

"Not a bit of it! I didn't mean that at all! Quite the contrary!" shouted Razumihin distressed.

"Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?" Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that

"Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and coldly. "I have been expecting you here

And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ashtray to Razumihin, who was

ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be

"What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges there?" cried Razumihin.

"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

"I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges . . . that it must be difficult to remember them

"But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn't come forward," Porfiry answered

"I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still."

"I 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,"

"Not quite well!" Razumihin caught him up. "What next! He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday.

Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and

gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time! Would you believe it!

"Nonsense! Don't you believe it! But you don't believe it anyway," Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But

"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

"I was awfully sick of them yesterday." Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent

defiance, "I ran away from them to take lodgings where they 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 hated were his expression and his silence to him.

"In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were extremely irritable," Zametov pronounced

"And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me today," put in Porfiry Petrovitch, "that he met you very late last

"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

"Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that's why I was liberal yesterday. . . .

Mr. Zametov knows I've found a treasure! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such

trivialities," he said turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling lips. "We are boring you, aren't we?"

"Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you interest me! It's interesting to look

"Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn't you like . . . something more essential before

"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 didn'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 ill fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude. . . .

Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here,

while it's my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits with his back to him. They're as thick as

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 . . . hahaha! 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 without 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?"

"Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather. . . . And I am out of sorts altogether," he began in

"Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who got the best of it?"

"Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space."

"Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we

"What is there strange? It's an everyday social question," Raskolnikov answered casually.

"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 against the abnormality of the social organization and nothing more, and nothing more; no other

"You are wrong there," cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked

"I am not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is 'the influence of environment,' and

nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it follows that, if society is normally organized, 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 Indiarubber, 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 phalansteryit wants life, it hasn't completed its vital process, it's too soon for the graveyard! You can't

skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut away a million,

and reduce it all to the question of comfort! That's the easiest solution of the problem! It's seductively clear

and you musn't think about it. That's the great thing, you mustn't think! The whole secret of life in two pages

"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

"Well, strictly speaking, it did," Porfiry observed with noteworthy gravity; "a crime of that nature may be

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?"

"He is always humbugging, confound him," cried Razumihin, 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 monastery: he stuck to it for two

months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that he had everything

ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride,

"Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you

"You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too. Hahaha! No, I'll tell you the truth.

All these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which interested

me at the time. 'On Crime' . . . or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months

"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."

"And the Weekly Review ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't printed at the time."

"That's true; but when it ceased to exist, the Weekly Review was amalgamated with the Periodical, and so

"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 today to the readingroom and

ask for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? It doesn't matter though, I will find it. Think of not

"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. . . . I was very much interested."

"It 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

"What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the influence of environment?" Razumihin

"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?"

Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided

"That wasn't quite my contention," he began simply and modestly. "Yet I admit that you have stated it almost

correctly; 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 hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not

follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market.

Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all . . . well, legislators and leaders of men, such as Lycurgus,

Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making

a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the

people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshedoften of innocent persons fighting

bravely in defence of ancient lawwere of use to their cause. It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority,

indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that

all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must

from their very nature be criminalsmore or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the

common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and

to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that.

The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary

and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only

believe in my leading idea that men are 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 subdivisions, but the distinguishing features of

both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in

temperament and lawabiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their

duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second

category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities.

The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the

destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step

over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for

wading through bloodthat depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak

of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There's no need for such

anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or

less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals

on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of

the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the

world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with meand

"I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept

"You don't say so. . . . I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question; they are not

"Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and then . . ."

"If it's necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty."

"Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are

there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural

anxiety of a practical lawabiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn't

they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of one

category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to 'eliminate obstacles,' as you so happily expressed it,

"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 unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of

grovelling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be

uneasy for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy

run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn't necessary as they

castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others

chastise themselves with their own hands. . . . They will impose various public acts of penitence upon

themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you've nothing to be uneasy about. . . . It's a law of

"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 regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced

that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in

order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to

bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten

thousand perhapsI speak roughly, approximatelyis born with some independence, and with still greater

independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the

crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the

retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of

"Why, are you both joking?" Razumihin cried at last. "There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you

Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent,

nervous, and discourteous sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful

"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 fanaticism. . . . 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 bloodshed. . . ."

"Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You can't think that! I shall read it."

"Yes, yes." Porfiry couldn't sit still. "Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . excuse me for

my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you've removed my anxiety as

to the two grades' getting mixed, but . . . there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if

some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahometa future one of courseand suppose he

begins to remove all obstacles. . . . He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it . . . and

Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.

"I must admit," he went on calmly, "that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly

"What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that's not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just

now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons,

banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the

"If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishmentas well as the prison."

"But the real geniuses," asked Razumihin frowning, "those who have the right to murder? Oughtn't they to

"Why the word ought? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his

victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men

must, I think, have great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation.

He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison

"Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry Petrovitch began again, "but I can't resist.

Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express,

"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, hehe, fancying yourself . . . just a

little, an 'extraordinary' man, uttering a new word in your sense. . . . That's so, isn't it?"

"And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship or for some service to

"If I did I certainly should not tell you," Raskolnikov answered with defiant and haughty contempt.

"No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point of view . . ."

"Allow me to observe," he answered dryly, "that I don't consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any

personage of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell you how I should act."

"Oh, come, don't we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?" Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming

"Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last week?" Zametov blurted out

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

"Are you going already?" Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. "Very, very

glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still,

come to me there yourself in a day or two . . . tomorrow, 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

"You want to crossexamine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov asked sharply.

"Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and . .

. I've talked with all who had pledges. . . . I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last. . . .

Yes, by the way," he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, "I just remember, what was I thinking of?" he

turned to Razumihin, "you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay . . . of course, I know, I know very

well," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri

too. . . . This is the point, this is all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn't it?"

"Yes," answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke that he need not

"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

"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 moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna's. . . . I remember . . . I

remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But

painters . . . no, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I don't think that there was a flat open

"What do you mean?" Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realised. "Why, it was on

the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you asking?"

"Foo! I have muddled it!" Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. "Deuce take it! This business is turning

my brain!" he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. "It would be such a great thing for us to find

out whether any one had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have

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

"I DON'T BELIEVE it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's

They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been

expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the 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

"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 himbut

"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."

"If they had had factsI mean, real factsor 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 mirageall 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 vexationor

perhaps he has some plan . . . he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to

know. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all. Stop!"

"And it's insulting, insulting! I understand you. But . . . since we have spoken openly now (and it is an

excellent thing that we have at lastI am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this

idea. Of course the merest hint onlyan insinuationbut why an insinuation even? How dare they? What

foundation have they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student,

unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain,

proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some

wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U.

presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people,

the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomachhe

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!

"Damn them? But the crossexamination again, tomorrow?" 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

"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

"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 question 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 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

"Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is

ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can't be

avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give

them another significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be sure to

answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation."

"But he would have told you at once, that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that

therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o'clock. And so he would have caught

"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

"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

Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own

frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the

preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from necessity.

"I am getting a relish for certain aspects!" he thought to himself. But almost at the same instant, he became

suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on

"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, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding

rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he

would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna,

When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly

up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed

to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the thing; put his hand in, and for some minutes

felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep

breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev's, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or

even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman's handwriting on it, might somehow

have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive

He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took

his cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the

The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked

like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He

stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his

little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.

The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he

"Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I

The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering for a moment he turned and went

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

"You were inquiring for me . . . of the porter?" Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.

The man made no answer; he didn't even look at him. Again they were both silent.

"Why do you . . . come and ask for me . . . and say nothing. . . . What's the meaning of it?"

The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov.

Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and

his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So

"What do you mean . . . what is. . . . Who is a murderer?" muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly.

"You are a murderer," the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant

hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and stricken eyes.

They had just reached the crossroads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov

remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still

standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of

With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling

chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving.

Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for

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 childhood or met somewhere once, whom he

would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers

playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite

dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from

somewhere. . . . The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried

to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not

overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant. . . . The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an

He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin

opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the

"Quite so," answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another halfhour passed.

Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head.

"Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all,

that's clear. Where was he then? And 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 doorwas that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and

you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?" He felt with sudden

loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. "I ought to have known it," he thought with a bitter

smile. "And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought

to have known beforehand. . . . Ah, but I did know!" he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill

"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

One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched

skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bedit'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

At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. "The old woman is of no

consequence," he thought, hotly and incoherently. "The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not

what matters! The old woman was only an illness. . . . I was in a hurry to overstep. . . . I didn't kill a human

being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn't overstep, I stopped on this side. . . . I was only

capable of killing. And it seems I wasn't even capable of that . . . Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin

abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; 'the happiness of all' is their case. No, life is

only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don't want to wait for 'the happiness of all.' I want to

live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn't pass by my mother starving, keeping my trouble 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. Haha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want. . . . Ech, I am an

aesthetic louse and nothing more," he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. "Yes, I am certainly a louse,"

he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with 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 objecthaha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing,

measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her

only as much as I needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery,

according to her will, haha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse," he added, grinding his teeth, "is

that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and I felt beforehand that I should tell

myself so after killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that! The vulgarity! The abjectness!

I understand the 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and 'trembling' creation must obey!

The 'prophet' is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the 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 desires, for that's

His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

"Mother, sisterhow 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. . . . I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember. . . . To embrace her

and think if she only knew . . . shall I tell her then? That's just what I might do. . . . 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 Lizaveta! 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. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come

out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood

still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at

once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. "Stay,

did he really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he

recognised him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat.

Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did

not look round. "Does he know I am following him?" thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway

of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign

to him. In the 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 . . .

but 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 storey, should he go on? There was a stillness that was

dreadful. . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was!

The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in.

It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the

parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the chairs, the lookingglass, the

yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copperred moon looked in at the windows. "It's

the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a

long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still

the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still

again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed

in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is

that cloak here?" he thought, "it wasn't 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 over her. "She is afraid," he thought. He

stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say

she 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

He drew a deep breathbut his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom

Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without

"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in

He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a

moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put

his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that

he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a

Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room.

Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was

"I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. "Arkady

"Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in bewilderment.

"I've come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make your personal acquaintance, as I have

already heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope that you

may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna.

For without your support she might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me, but with

"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?"

"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 natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim? And

what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I

may have cherished the deepest respect for her, and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual

happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself than

"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!"

"But you're . . . but there's no getting round you," he said, laughing in the frankest way. "I hoped to get round

"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

"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 I'll

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

"But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with a switchthere were no marks

even . . . 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

At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so finishing the interview. But some

"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 gentleman who thrashed the German, I

feel no sympathy with him, because after all what need is there for sympathy? But I must say that there are

sometimes such provoking 'Germans' that I don't believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for

himself. No one looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that's the truly humane point of view, I

After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again. Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man

"Scarcely any one. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an adaptable man?"

"Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But why take offence? As you

asked, so I answered," he replied, with a surprising expression of simplicity. "You know, there's hardly

anything I take interest in," he went on, as it were dreamily, "especially now, I've nothing to do. . . . You are

quite at liberty to imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want

to see your sister about something. But I'll confess frankly, I am very much bored. The last three days

especially, so I am delighted to see you. . . . Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be

somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there's something wrong with you, and now, too . . .

not this very minute, I mean, but now, generally. . . . Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't scowl! I am not such a

"You are not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "I fancy indeed that you are a man of very good breeding, or at

"I 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.

"But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, 'not without connections.' What can you

"That's true that I have friends here," Svidrigailov admitted, not replying to the chief point. "I've met some

already. 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. I 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

"But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, may bewell, all that can go on without me,"

he went on, again without noticing the question. "Besides, who wants to be a cardsharper?"

"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 wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a

treasure. You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never left the

country. And, take note, that all my life she held a document over me, the I.O.U. for thirty thousand roubles,

so if I were to elect to be restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And she would have done it!

"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 seayou 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

"I . . . No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigailov really seeming to be deep in thought.

"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

"Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe in ghosts?"

"Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile.

"She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was

the day before I left to come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey

at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was

"Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the

"What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?" Raskolnikov said suddenly.

"What! Did you think so?" Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. "Did you really? Didn't I say that there was

"I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut, pretending, I said to myself at once

"What do I mean? I really don't know. . . ." Svidrigailov muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were

"That's all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. "What does she say when she comes to you?"

"She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and man is a strange creatureit 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 today, 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 always 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 looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside 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 today, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from a cookshop; I

was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress

with a long train. '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 anything!' To tease her I said, 'I want to get married, Marfa

Petrovna.' 'That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a 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 laughingstock to all good people.' Then she went out and her

"I rarely lie," answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, apparently not noticing the rudeness of the question.

"Yyes, 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

"I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know what's wrong; I believe I am five times

as strong as you are. I didn't ask you whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that

"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

"No? You don't think so?" Svidrigailov went on, looking at him deliberately. "But what do you say to this

argument (help me with it): ghosts are as it were shreds and fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them.

A man in health has, of course, no reason to see them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is

bound for the sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as one is ill, as soon as the

normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the

more seriously ill one is, the closer becomes one'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

"And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort," he said suddenly.

"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 bathhouse 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

"Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it's what I would certainly have made it,"

This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and

"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

"Kindly allow me," Raskolnikov went on irritably, "to ask you to explain why you have honoured me with

your visit . . . and . . . and I am in a hurry, I have no time to waste. I want to go out."

"By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr

"Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her name? I can't understand how

"I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine

through my wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for

Avdotya Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the

sake of . . . for the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the

match could be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you personally, I am

"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

"I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that even I could not help being

"I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the

moment I arrived in Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya

"Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want

"With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and determining on a certain . . . journey, I should like to make

some necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided for; and

they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too! I have taken nothing but what

Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That's enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point. Before

the journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It's not that I detest him so much, but it was

through him I quarrelled with Marfa Petrovna when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want

now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you like in your presence, to explain to her

that in the first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then begging her pardon for all

past unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin,

a rupture to which I believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it."

"You are certainly mad," cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as astonished. "How dare you talk like

"I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not rich, this ten thousand roubles is

perfectly free; I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in

some more foolish way. That's the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is perfectly easy; I make the offer

with no ulterior motive. You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna and you will know. The

point is, that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and unpleasantness, and

so, sincerely regretting it, I wantnot 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

"I beg you to say no more," said Raskolnikov. "In any case this is unpardonable impertinence."

"Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour in this world, and is prevented from

doing the tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities. That's absurd. If I died, for instance, and left

"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."

"In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her myself and worry her by doing so."

"I don't know really what to say. I should like very much to see her once more."

"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 morning."

"I saw you by chance. . . . I kept fancying there is something about you like me. . . . But don't be uneasy. I am

not intrusive; I used to get on all right with cardsharpers, 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."

"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.

"But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it. Well, goodbye for the present.

Oh, yes, I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Rodion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered

her in her will and left her three thousand rubles. That's absolutely certain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week

before her death, and it was done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in

IT WAS nearly eight o'clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev's, to arrive before Luzhin.

"It 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 out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa

Petrovna begged Dounia's forgiveness afterwards, and she's just died suddenly. It was of her we were talking

this morning. I don't know why I'm afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife's funeral. He is

very strange, and is determined on doing something. . . . We must guard Dounia from him . . . that's what I

"Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya, for speaking to me like that. .

"Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a thousand; I have a good memory for faces."

"Hm! . . . that's all right," muttered Raskolnikov. "Do you know, I fancied . . . I keep thinking that it may

"Well, you all say," Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, "that I am mad. I thought just now

"Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that happened all these days may be

"Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again! . . . But what did he say, what did he come for?"

"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 tomorrow?" 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

In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at eight, and was looking for the number, so

that all three went in together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first,

while Pyotr Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria

Alexandrovna came forward at once to greet him in the doorway, Dounia was welcoming her brother. Pyotr

Petrovitch walked in and quite amiably, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked,

however, as though he were a little put out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who

seemed also a little embarrassed, hastened to make them all sit down at the round table where a samovar was

boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides of the table. Razumihin and

Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna, Razumihin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was

A moment's silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliberately drew out a cambric handkerchief reeking of scent

and blew his nose with an air of a benevolent man who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to insist

on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so

give the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson and make them feel the gravity of the position. But he could

not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure uncertainty and he wanted an explanation: if his

request had been so openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was better to find it

out beforehand; it rested with him to punish them and there would always be time for that.

"I trust you had a favourable journey," he inquired officially of Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"I 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

"Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly disheartening," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare with

peculiar intonation, "and if Dmitri Prokofitch had not been sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we

should have been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch Razumihin," she added, introducing him to

"I had the pleasure . . . yesterday," muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with a hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin;

Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very polite in society, who make a great

point of punctiliousness, but who, directly they are crossed in anything, are completely disconcerted, and

become more like sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society. Again all was silent; Raskolnikov

was obstinately mute, Avdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the conversation too soon. Razumihin had

"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 Petersburg immediately after his wife's funeral. So at

"Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in view the rapidity of his departure, and all the

"Good heavens! won't he leave Dounia in peace even here?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you

are yourselves desirous of getting into communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and am now

"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

"It's impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I do not dispute that he may have

contributed to accelerate the course of events by the moral influence, so to say, of the affront; but as to the

general conduct and moral characteristics of that personage, I am in agreement with you. I do not know

whether he is well off now, and precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within a

very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any pecuniary resources, he will relapse at once

into his old ways. He is the most depraved, and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have

considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was so unfortunate as to fall in love with him and to

pay his debts eight years ago, was of service to him also in another way. Solely by her exertions and

sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and homicidal brutality for which he might

well have been sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That's the sort of man he is, if you care to know."

"Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of this?" Dounia asked sternly and

"I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view

the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner,

who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other commissions, and with this woman Svidrigailov had

for a long while close and mysterious relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf

and dumb girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich hated this girl, and grudged her every

crust; she used to beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the inquest the

verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but, later on, information was given that

the child had been . . . cruelly outraged by 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, 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

"Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him, to suicide, was the systematic persecution and

"I don't know that," answered Dounia, dryly. "I only heard a queer story that Philip was a sort of

hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher, the servants used to say, 'he read himself silly,' and that he

hanged himself partly on account of Mr. 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

"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 anticipated from him. For my part it's my firm conviction, that he will end in a

debtor's prison again. Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling anything substantial on him,

having regard for his children's interests, and, if she left him anything, it would only be the 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 a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and introduced himself," Raskolnikov

continued. "He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and quite 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

"Thank God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "Pray for her soul, Dounia!"

"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

"I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in your way," he added with an air of

"Don't go, Pyotr Petrovitch," said Dounia, "you intended to spend the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself

"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 to 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. Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been disregarded. . . ."

"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."

"There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us forget. There is a line in

everything which it is dangerous to overstep; and when it has been overstepped, there is no return."

"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 today, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my brother is

"I am surprised at your putting the question like that," said Luzhin, getting more and more irritated.

"Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you, I may at 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

"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 consider, you to be. I've given you a great

promise, I am your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, I shall be capable of judging

impartially. My assuming the part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted

on his coming to our interview today after your letter, I told him nothing of what I meant to do. Understand

that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose between youit 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,

"Avdotya Romanovna," Luzhin declared huffily, "your words are of too much consequence to me; I will say

more, they are offensive in view of the position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing

of your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy, you admit the possibility of

breaking your promise to me. You say 'you or he,' showing thereby of how little consequence I am in your

eyes . . . I cannot let this pass considering the relationship and . . . the obligations existing between us."

"What!" cried Dounia, flushing. "I set your interest beside all that has hitherto been most precious in my life,

what has made up the whole of my life, and here you are offended at my making too little account of you."

Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but Pyotr Petrovitch did not accept the reproof; on the

contrary, at every word he became more persistent and irritable, as though he relished it.

"Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, 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, nevertheless, I intend now to ask your

honoured mother for a necessary explanation on a point of great importance closely affecting my dignity.

Your son," he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin (or . . . I think

that's it? excuse me I have forgotten your surname," he bowed politely to Razumihin) "insulted me by

misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation, drinking coffee, that is, that marriage

with a poor girl who has had experience of trouble is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than

with one who has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally

exaggerated the significance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me of malicious intentions,

and, as far as I could see, relied upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulcheria

Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of an opposite conclusion, and thereby considerately

reassure me. Kindly let me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion

"I don't remember," faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I repeated them as I understood them. I don't know

"Pyotr Petrovitch," Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, "the proof that Dounia and I did not take

"Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have just written what was false about

"You wrote," Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, "that I gave money yesterday not to the widow

of the man who was killed, as was the fact, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen till yesterday). You

wrote this to make dissension between me and my family, and for that object added coarse expressions about

"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

"To my thinking, you with all your virtues are not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you

"I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down today with mother and Dounia."

"Rodya!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned, Razumihin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled

"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 Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter was addressed to

"You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Pyotr Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason

your desire was disregarded, she had the best intentions. And indeed you write as though you were laying

commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a command? Let me tell you on the contrary

that you ought to show particular delicacy and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up

everything, and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case in a sense in your hands."

"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

"Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were reckoning on our helplessness," Dounia

"But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularly desire not to hinder your discussion of the

secret proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, which he has entrusted to your brother and which have, I

"I 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,

"Avdotyo Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will

"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

"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 all. . . ."

"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 Petrovitch, that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the

effort of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious.

"Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you.

Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us, hand

"Enough, mother, no more please," Avdotya Romanovna implored. "Pyotr Petrovitch, do be kind and go!"

"I am going, but one last word," he said, quite unable to control himself. "Your mamma seems to have

entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all

over the district in regard to your reputation. 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

"Not a word! Not a movement!" cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumihin back; then going close up to Luzhin,

"Kindly leave the room!" he said quietly and distinctly, "and not a word more or . . ."

Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that worked with anger, then he turned, went

out, and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov.

Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined

that his case was perhaps not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned, all might "very well

THE FACT was that up to the last moment he had never expected such an ending; he had been overbearing to

the last degree, never dreaming that two destitute and defenceless women could escape from his control. This

conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who

had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to selfadmiration, 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

When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take her in spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch

had spoken with perfect sincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such "black ingratitude." And

yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had

been everywhere contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved by all the townspeople, who

were warm in Dounia'a defence. And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still

thought highly of his own resolution in lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as something heroic. In

speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not

understand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a

benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear agreeable flattery. And as he went

downstairs now, he considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.

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 of a girlvirtuous, poor (she must be poor), very young, very pretty, of good birth and

education, very timid, one who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who would

all her life look on him as her saviour, worship him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how many

amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And,

behold, the dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna

had impressed him; her helpless position had been a great allurement; in her he had found even more than he

dreamed of. Here was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to his own (he felt

that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble

herself in the dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her! . . . Not long before,

he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now entering

on a wider circle of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society

seemed likely to be realised. . . . He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that

women could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might

make his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an aureole round him, and now

everything was in ruins! This sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a

hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply

made a joke, been carried awayand it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in

his own way; he already possessed her in his dreamsand 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. . . .

"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

"God has delivered us! God has delivered us!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as

They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now and then Dounia turned white and

frowned, remembering what had passed. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was

glad: she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune. Razumihin was delighted.

He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though a tonweight had

fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them. . . . Anything might happen

now! But he felt afraid to think of further possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But

Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent

on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had happened. Dounia could not help

thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.

"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 drily) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting his account of the

"At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he would do his utmost to obtain an

interview with you without my help. He assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now

he has no feeling for you. He doesn't want you to marry Luzhin. . . . His talk was altogether rather muddled."

"I 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 is he 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

"God rest her soul," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I 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

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.

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

Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna

gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her.

A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened

"And why, why should you go away?" he flowed on ecstatically. "And what are you to do in a little town?

The great thing is, you are all here together and you need one anotheryou do need one another, believe me.

For a time, anyway. . . . Take 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

booksellers know nothing at all of what they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad publishers,

and that any decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumihin

had, indeed, been dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had been working in

publishers' 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

"Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief means of successmoney of our

own!" cried Razumihin warmly. "Of course there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya

Romanovna, I, Rodion. . . . You get a splendid profit on some books nowadays! And the great point of the

business is that we shall know just what wants translating, and we shall be translating, publishing, 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 knowand I kept the secrettwo 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 hesitatethey are such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you

trust to me, I know my way about. We'll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any case it will get us

"I know nothing about it, of course," put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "it may be a good idea, but again God

knows. It's new and untried. Of course, we must remain here at least for a time." She looked at Rodya.

"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

"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. I'll pawn your watch tomorrow and bring you the money, and everything can

be arranged then. You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But where are you off to,

Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave

"One would think you were burying me or saying goodbye 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.

"Oh, I'm quite obliged to . . ." he answered vaguely, as though hesitating what he would say. But there was a

"I meant to say . . . as I was coming here . . . I meant to tell you, mother, and you, Dounia, that it would be

better for us to part for a time. I feel ill, I am not at peace. . . . I will come afterwards, I will come of myself . .

. when it's possible, I remember you and love you. . . . Leave me, leave me alone. I decided this even before .

. . I'm absolutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone.

Forget me altogether, it's better. Don't inquire about me. When I can, I'll come of myself or . . . I'll send for

you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me, give me up . . . else I shall begin to hate you, I

"Good God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin

"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.

"Brother, what are you doing to mother?" she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation.

"No matter, I shall come. . . . I'm coming," he muttered in an undertone, as though not fully conscious of what

"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 horrorstricken

"I knew you would run after me," he said. "Go back to thembe with them . . . be with them tomorrow and

"But where are you going? What are you doing? What's the matter with you? How can you go on like this?"

"Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you. Don't come to see me. Maybe I'll come

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

I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested

that Rodya needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every day,

that he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Razumihin, would watch over him,

would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consultation. . . . In fact from that evening Razumihin took his

RASKOLNIKOV WENT straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonia lived. It was an old green

house of three storeys. He found the porter and obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of

Kapernaumov, the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard the entrance to the dark and narrow

staircase, he mounted to the second floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey

over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov's door, a

"It's I . . . come to see you," answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the tiny entry.

"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 exceeding lowpitched room, the only one let by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a

closed door led in the wall on the left. In the opposite side on the right hand wall was another door, always

kept locked. That led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging. Sonia's room looked like a barn; it

was a very irregular quadrangle and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking

out on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see in it

without very strong light. The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in

the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table

covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Two rushbottom

chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of

drawers looking, as it were, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow, scratched and

shabby wallpaper was black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There

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

"Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh, yes, it is," she added, hastily, as though in that lay her means of escape. "My

"I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went on gloomily, although this was the first time. "I may

"I don't know. I shall know tomorrow morning. . . . Never mind that: I've come to say one word. . . ."

He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting down while she was all the while

"Why are you standing? Sit down," he said in a changed voice, gentle and friendly.

"Of course, you were," he added abruptly and the expression of his face and the sound of his voice changed

"They are very good people, very kind," answered Sonia, who still seemed bewildered, "and all the furniture,

everything . . . everything is theirs. And they are very kind and the children, too, often come to see me."

"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

"Your father told me, then. He told me all about you. . . . And how you went out at six o'clock and came back

"Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, about ten o'clock and he seemed to be walking in

"Yes," Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and looking down.

"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

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

"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

"They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands before, though. . . . And your father came

"I don't know. . . . They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady, I hear, said today that she wanted to get

"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 today! Her mind is unhinged, haven't you

noticed it? At one minute she is worrying like a child that everything should be right tomorrow, 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

"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

"Yes, II. 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!"

"Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; she will soon die," said Raskolnikov after a pause,

And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though imploring that she should not.

"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

"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 today, and the children will cry. . . . Then she will fall down, be taken to the

"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

Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A minute passed. Sonia was standing with her hands

"And can't you save? Put by for a rainy day?" he asked, stopping suddenly before her.

"No, no! It can't be, no!" Sonia cried aloud in desperation, as though she had been stabbed. "God would not

"But, perhaps, there is no God at all," Raskolnikov answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked

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

"What are you doing to me?" she muttered, turning pale, and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart.

"I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering 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!

"It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you, but because of your great suffering. But

you are a great sinner, that's true," he added almost solemnly, "and your worst sin is that you have destroyed

and betrayed 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

"But what would become of them?" Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with eyes of anguish, but not seeming

Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she must have had that thought already,

perhaps many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly, that now

she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty of his words. (The significance

of his reproaches and his peculiar attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed either, and that, too,

was clear to him.) But he saw how monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shameful position was

torturing her and had long tortured her. "What, what," he thought, "could hitherto have hindered her from

putting an end to it?" Only then he realised what those poor little orphan children and that pitiful halfcrazy

Katerina Ivanovna, 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 previous life might, one

would have thought, have killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her upsurely not

depravity? All that infamy had obviously only touched her mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had

penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him. . . .

"There are three ways before her," he thought, "the canal, the madhouse, or . . . at last to sink into depravity

The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, he was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so

"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

He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation indeed better than any other. He began

"What should I be without God?" she whispered rapidly, forcibly, glancing at him with suddenly flashing

Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak chest kept heaving with emotion.

"Be silent! Don't ask! You don't deserve!" she cried suddenly, looking sternly and wrathfully at him.

"That's 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

angerand it all seemed to him more and more strange, almost impossible. "She is a religious maniac!" he

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

Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every moment. He carried the book to

Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was standing sideways to the table.

"You are not looking in the right place. . . . It's in the fourth gospel," she whispered sternly, without looking

"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

"In three weeks' time they'll welcome me in the madhouse! I shall be there if I am not in a worse place," he

Sonia heard Raskolnikov's request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly to the table. She took the book

"Yes. . . . She was good . . . she used to come . . . not often . . . she couldn't. . . . We used to read together and

The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new again: the mysterious meetings

Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read to him. He looked almost with

"What for? You don't believe? . . ." she whispered softly and as it were breathlessly.

Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her voice failed her. Twice she tried to

"Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany . . ." she forced herself at last to read, but at the third

word her voice broke like an overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath.

Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read to him and the more he saw this, the more

roughly and irritably he insisted on her doing so. He understood only too well how painful it was for her to

betray and unveil all that was her own. He understood that these feelings really were her secret treasure,

which she had kept perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy father and a

distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches.

But at the same time he knew now and knew for certain that, although it filled her with dread and suffering,

yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to 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

"And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning their brother.

Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went and met Him: but Mary sat still in the house.

Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother 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.

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

(And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as though she were making a public

"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 thirtysecond verse.

"Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord

When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, He groaned in the

And some of them said, could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this

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, hetoo, 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

"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

"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,

And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may

(She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were seeing it before her eyes.)

"Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them,

Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which Jesus did believed on Him."

"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 feverishly. The candleend was flickering

out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the povertystricken room the murderer and the harlot

who had so strangely been reading together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed.

"I came to speak of something," Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He 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.

"I have abandoned my family today," he said, "my mother and sister. I am not going to see them. I've

"What for?" asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and sister had left a great impression

"I have only you now," he added. "Let us go together. . . . I've come to you, we are both accursed, let us go

"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

"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

"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 tomorrow? 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 and a thief. 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.

"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 creation 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 tomorrow, 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.

"Why, do you know who killed her?" she asked, chilled with horror, looking wildly at him.

"I 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

He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But she herself was like one insane and felt it. Her head

"Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It's awful!" But at the

same time the idea did not enter her head, not for a moment! "Oh, he must be 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

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 long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the canal

advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room's being uninhabited. But all that time Mr.

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 interesting

and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed itso much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the

future, tomorrow, for instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but might listen

WHEN NEXT morning at eleven o'clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the department of the

investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in to Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept

waiting so long: it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they would

pounce upon him. But he stood in the waitingroom, and people, who apparently had nothing to do with him,

were continually passing to and fro before him. In the next room which looked like an office, several clerks

were sitting writing and obviously they had no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily

and suspiciously about him to see whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on

him to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty

details, then other people, no one seemed to have any concern with him. He might go where he liked for

them. The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that phantom sprung out

of the earth, had seen everything, they would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have

waited till he elected to appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet given information, or . . . or simply he

knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen anything?) and so all that had happened to him

the day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained imagination. This conjecture

had begun to grow strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now

and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was tremblingand he felt a rush of

indignation at the thought that he was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he

dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred and was

afraid his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that he ceased trembling at once; he made ready

to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and

listen and for once at least to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry

He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a

large writingtable, that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in the

corner and several chairsall government furniture, of polished yellow wood. In the further wall there was a

closed door, beyond it there were, no doubt, other rooms. On Raskolnikov's entrance Porfiry Petrovitch had at

once closed the door by which he had come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently

genial and goodtempered 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

Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. "In our domain," the apologies for familiarity, the

"He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me onehe drew it back in time," struck him

suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away.

"I brought you this paper . . . about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right or 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

A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the table and put it on his bureau.

"I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me . . . formally . . . about my acquaintance with the

murdered woman?" Raskolnikov was 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 'I believe'?" came in a second flash. And he suddenly

felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an

instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his

"Yes, yes, yes! There's no hurry, there's no hurry," muttered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the

table without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at

one moment avoiding Raskolnikov's suspicious glance, then again standing still and looking him straight in

His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from one side to the other and rebounding

"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?"

"A capital thing, a capital thing," repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as though he had just thought of something

quite different. "Yes, a capital thing," he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping

This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance

But this stirred Raskolnikov's spleen more than ever and he could not resist an ironical and rather incautious

"Tell me, please," he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his

own insolence. "I believe it's a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal traditionfor all investigating lawyersto

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 crossexamining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an unexpected

knockdown blow with some fatal question. Isn't that so? It's a sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the

"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 goodhumoured, crafty look passed

over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened

and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over and looking Raskolnikov straight

in the face. The latter forced himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into

such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov's repulsion overcame all precaution; he left off

laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally

prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch

seemed to be laughing in his visitor's face and to be very little disturbed at the 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 unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and

"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 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, goodbye, as we have evidently

"Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?" cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a

change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. "Please don't disturb 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, I'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 Indiarubber ball for half an hour at a time. . . . I'm often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down.

Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but still held

"I 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 conversationthey 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, but people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tonguetied 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

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 distract my attention with his silly babble?"

"I can't offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a friend," Porfiry pattered on, "and you

know all these official duties . . . please don't mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am

very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensable for me. I'm always sitting and so

glad to be moving about for five minutes . . . I suffer from my sedentary life . . . I always intend to join a

gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks, even Privy Councillors may be seen skipping gaily there;

there you have it, modern science . . . yes, yes. . . . But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such

formalities . . . you mentioned inquiries yourself just now . . . I assure you these interrogations are sometimes

more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the interrogated. . . . You made the observation yourself just

now very aptly and wittily. (Raskolnikov had made no observation of the kind.) One gets into a muddle! A

regular muddle! One keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and we shall be

called by a different name, at least, hehehe! 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 knockdown blow,

hehehe!your felicitous compacts son, hehe! So you really imagined that I meant by government

quarters . . . hehe! You are an ironical person. Come. I won't go on! Ah, by the way, yes! One word leads to

another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But what's the use of formality?

In many cases it's nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a 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

Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few

enigmatic words and again reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving his fat

little legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right hand behind his back, while with his left

making gesticulations that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed

that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door, as though he were

"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, hehe! Some of these elaborate psychological methods are exceedingly ridiculous

and perhaps useless, if one adheres too closely to the forms. Yes . . . I am talking of forms again. Well, if I

recognise, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect some one or other to be a criminal in any case entrusted to

"Well, then it is a precedent for you for the futurethough don't suppose I should venture to instruct you

after the articles you publish about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took this man

or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him prematurely, even though I had evidence against him?

In one case I 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, hehehe! But I see you don't quite

understand, so I'll give you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely give him, so

Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry

"Yes that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so different. You say evidence. Well, there may

be evidence. But evidence, you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a

weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say, mathematically clear, I should like to make a

chain of evidence such as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof! And if I shut him up

too sooneven though I might be convinced he was the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the

means of getting further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a definite position, I

shall put him out of suspense and set his 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 an 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 before. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes

occur. If I leave one man quite alone, if I don't touch him and don't worry him, but let him 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 fourit'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, hehe? Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially

as I am watching and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the country perhaps? But you

know, peasants live there, real rude Russian peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living

with such strangers as our peasants. Hehe! 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, hehe! 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, hell weave

a tangle round himself, he'll worry himself to death! What's more he will provide me with a mathematical

proofif I only give him long enough interval. . . . And he'll keep circling round me, getting nearer and

nearer and thenflop! He'll fly straight into my mouth and I'll swallow him, and that will be very amusing,

Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with the same intensity into Porfiry's

"It'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. 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 . . .

And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times he longed to fall on Porfiry and

strangle him. This anger was what he dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked

with foam, his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till the right moment. He realised

that this was the best policy in his position, because instead of saying too much he would be irritating his

enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for.

"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 Hofkriegsrath, 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, hehehe! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are laughing at a civilian like me, taking examples

out of military history! But I can't help it, it's my weakness. I am fond of military science. And I'm ever so

fond of reading all military histories. I've certainly missed my proper career. I ought to have been in the army,

upon my word I ought. I shouldn't have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a major, hehehe! Well, I'll

tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about this special case, I mean: actual fact and a man's temperament,

my dear sir, are weighty matters and it's astonishing how they sometimes deceive the sharpest calculation!

Ilisten to an old manam speaking seriously, Rodion Romanovitch (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch

who was scarcely five and thirty actually seemed to have grown old; even his voice changed and he seemed

to shrink together) moreover, I'm a candid man . . . am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I

really am: I tell you these things for nothing and don't even expect a reward for it, hehe! Well, to proceed,

wit in my opinion is a splendid thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life, and

what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know where he is,

especially when he'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 liethat 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! Anyway 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 deceived at first, he

will think differently next day if he is not a fool, and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts himself

forward where he is not wanted, speaks continually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of

allegorical allusions, hehe! Comes and asks why didn't you take me long ago, hehehe! 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

"Oh, don't trouble, please," cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke into a laugh. "Please don't trouble."

Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa,

"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though his legs trembled and he could scarcely

stand. "I see clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murdering that old woman 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.

"I won't allow it!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. "Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I

"Good heavens! What does it mean?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently quite frightened. "Rodion

"Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just think, what could we say to them?" Porfiry Petrovitch

"I won't allow it, I won't allow it," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.

"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,

Porfiry Petrovitch's alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at

"Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have

He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again

"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 disconcerted. "Good heavens, you must take

more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yesterdayI 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

"No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went," Raskolnikov answered sharply.

"Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you; I know about everything. I know

how you went to 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 . . . I'll 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 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

"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 Appeals went into it and the poor fellow was

acquitted and put under proper care. Thanks to the Court of Appeals! Tuttuttut! 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 a window or from a belfry. Just the same with bellringing. . . . It's all illness, Rodion

Romanovitch! You have begun to neglect your illness. You should consult an experienced doctor, what's the

good of that fat fellow? You are lightheaded! You were delirious when you did all this!"

"Is it possible, is it possible," flashed through his mind, "that he is still lying? He can't be, he can't be." He

rejected that idea, feeling to what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury might drive him

"I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing," he cried, straining every faculty to penetrate Porfiry's game,

"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! Aach! . . . Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were

actually a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, would you insist that you were not

delirious but in full possession of your faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be possible?

Quite impossible, to my thinking. If you had anything on your conscience, you certainly ought to insist that

There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and

"Another thing about Razumihinyou 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."

"You keep telling lies," he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into a sickly smile, "you are trying again

to show that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand," he 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 said. "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 believe 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,

"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

"What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on

"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

commonsense view of things. To return to bellringing, 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

knockdown 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

"You are lying all the while," he cried, "I don't know your object, but you are lying. You did not speak like

"I am lying?" Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a goodhumoured 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! Hehehe! Though,

indeed, all those psychological means of defence are not very reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I

don't rememberthat'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? Hehehe!"

"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 suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry

"What a business I'm having with you!" cried Porfiry with a perfectly goodhumoured, 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

"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

"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 goodnature and alarm in his face. Now he

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.

"I will not allow myself to be tortured," he whispered, instantly 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

"Don't worry about the form," Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment

"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

"And won't you see my little surprise?" chuckled Porfiry, again taking him by the arm and stopping him at

"My little surprise, it's sitting there behind the door, hehehe! (He pointed to the locked door.) I locked him

"You are lying," roared Raskolnikov without restraint, "you lie, you damned punchinello!" and he rushed at

"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

"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 rubbishly 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

"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 there's no escaping form, as you see," Porfiry

"Ah, they're coming," cried Raskolnikov. "You've sent for them! You expected them! Well, produce them all:

But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor

For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several persons at the door, and that

"He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What's he doing here? How irregular!" cried Porfiry,

Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then some one gave a violent shove, and then a man,

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 was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with

thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing

Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place

"Go away, it's too soon! Wait till you are sent for! . . . Why have you brought him so soon?" Porfiry

Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of his reckoning.

"I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer," Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but

For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb; even the warder stepped back,

"What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary stupefaction.

"What . . . you . . . what . . . whom did you kill?" Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered.

"Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I . . . killed . . . with an axe. Darkness came over me," he

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

"You're in too great a hurry," he shouted at him, almost angrily. "I didn't ask you what came over you. . . .

"Don't be in a hurry about Mitka! Aach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters

"It was to put them off the scent . . . I ran after Mitka," Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared

"I knew it!" cried Porfiry, with vexation. "It's not his own tale he is telling," he muttered as though to himself,

He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little

"My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!" he flew up to him, "this won't do; I'm afraid you must go . . . it's

no good your staying . . . I will . . . you see, what a surprise! . . . Goodbye!"

"I suppose you didn't expect it?" said Raskolnikov who, though he had not yet fully grasped the situation, had

"You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling! Hehe!"

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, hehe! You are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!"

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 no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning

"One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some

"You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed . . . I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov,

who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.

"Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too . . . I have a wicked

temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another."

"Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes,

"I 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, proving 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! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!"

"Hehehe! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?"

"Hehe! You are quickwitted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten

on the comic side . . . hehe! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers."

Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a

quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he

was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazingsomething beyond his

understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him

at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, 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 terrible Porfiry's "lead" had been for him. A little more and he

might have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from

the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There's no

denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no facts had come to light as yet; there

was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn't he mistaken? What had Porfiry

been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been

expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of

Porfiry had shown almost all his cardsof course, he had risked something in showing themand 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 yesterday's visitor? What had become of him? Where was he today? If Porfiry really

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 today, at least, he might consider himself out of danger. He had a

sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna's. He would 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.

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 figureyesterday's visitor from underground.

The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and took a step forward into the

room. He was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in

his face; he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to his cheek and leaned his

"What do you want?" asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed

"I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go to the police station and asked about

the blood, I was vexed that they let you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And

"I was standing at the gate with them . . . don't you remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for

years past. We cure and prepare hides, we take work home . . . most of all I was vexed. . . ."

And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came clearly before Raskolnikov's mind; he

recollected that there had been several people there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered

one voice 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

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 circumstance. So this man could tell nothing

except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porfiry, too, had nothing but that 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.

"I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he worried you."

THE MORNING that followed the fateful interview with Dounia and her mother brought sobering influences

to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch. Intensely unpleasant as it was, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact

beyond recall what had seemed to him only the day before fantastic and incredible. The black snake of

wounded vanity had been gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed, Pyotr Petrovitch

immediately looked in the lookingglass. He was afraid that he had jaundice. However his health seemed

unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble, clearskinned countenance which had grown fattish of late, Pyotr

Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the conviction that he would find another bride and,

perhaps, even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his present position, he turned aside and spat

vigorously, which excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, the young friend with

whom he was staying. That smile Pyotr Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his young friend's

account. He had set down a good many points against him of late. His anger was redoubled when he reflected

that he ought not to have told Andrey Semyonovitch about the result of yesterday's interview. That was the

second mistake he had made in temper, through impulsiveness and irritability. . . . Moreover, all that morning

one unpleasantness followed another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case in the Senate. He

was particularly irritated by the owner of the flat which had been taken in view of his approaching marriage

and was being redecorated at his own expense; the owner, a rich German tradesman, would not entertain the

idea of breaking the contract which had just been signed and insisted on the full forfeit money, though Pyotr

Petrovitch would be giving him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way the upholsterers

refused to return a single rouble of the instalment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the

"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 wishing it, Pyotr Petrovitch

"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 knickknacks, dressingcases, 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 consciences

would prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto been so generous and delicate?. . . . H'm! I've

And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called himself a foolbut not aloud, of course.

He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina

Ivanovna's excited his curiosity as he passed. He had heard about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he

had been invited, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no attention. Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel

who was busy laying the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery, he heard that the

entertainment was to be a great affair, that all the lodgers had been invited, among them some who had not

known the dead man, that even Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous

quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch, was not only invited, but was eagerly expected as

he was the most important of the lodgers. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great ceremony in

spite of the recent unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations and was taking a positive

pleasure in them; she was moreover dressed up to the nines, all in new black silk, and she was proud of it. All

this suggested an idea to Pyotr Petrovitch and he went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov's, somewhat

Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning. The attitude of Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman

was strange, though perhaps natural. Pyotr Petrovitch had despised and hated him from the day he came to

stay with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not come to stay with him on

his arrival in Petersburg simply from parsimony, though that had been perhaps his chief object. He had heard

of Andrey Semyonovitch, who had once been his ward, as a leading young progressive who was taking an

important part in certain interesting circles, the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had

impressed Pyotr Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient circles who despised 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 panicstricken.

Some years before, when he was just entering on his own career, he had come upon two cases in which rather

important personages in the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly shown up. One instance had ended in

great scandal for the person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reason

Pyotr Petrovitch intended to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, if necessary, to

anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour of "our younger generation." He relied on Andrey

Semyonovitch for this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current

phrases. He soon discovered that Andrey 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 objecthe simply wanted to find out at once what was

happening here. Had these people any power or not? Had he anything to fear from them? Would they expose

any enterprise of his? And what precisely was now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to

them and get round them if they really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not? Couldn't he gain

Andrey Semyonovitch was an anaemic, scrofulous little man, with strangely flaxen muttonchop whiskers of

which he was very proud. He was a clerk and had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was

rather softhearted, but selfconfident and sometimes extremely conceited in speech which had an absurd

effect, incongruous with his little figure. He was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia Ivanovna, for

he did not get drunk and paid regularly for his lodgings. Andrey Semyonovitch really was rather stupid; he

attached himself to the cause of progress and "our younger generation" from enthusiasm. He was one of the

numerous and varied legion of dullards, of halfanimate abortions, conceited, halfeducated coxcombs, who

attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vulgarise it and who caricature every cause they serve,

Though Lebeziatnikov was so goodnatured, he, too, was beginning to dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This

happened on both sides unconsciously. However simple Andrey Semyonovitch might be, he began to see that

Pyotr Petrovitch was duping him and secretly despising him, and that "he was not the right sort of man." He

had tried expounding to him the system of Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late Pyotr Petrovitch

began to listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun 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 thirdhand; 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

Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise some five per cent. bonds and now he sat down to

the table and counted over bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch who hardly ever had any money walked

about the room pretending to himself to look at all those bank notes with indifference and even contempt.

Nothing would have convinced Pyotr Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really look on the money

unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept thinking bitterly that Pyotr Petrovitch was capable of entertaining

such an idea about him and was, perhaps, glad of the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding

He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though he, Andrey Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his

favourite subject, the foundation of a new special "commune." The brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr

Petrovitch between the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame betrayed unmistakable and discourteous

irony. But the "humane" Andrey Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch's illhumour 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 development.

"There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that . . . at the widow's, isn't there?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked

"Why, don't you know? Why, I was telling you last night what I think about all such ceremonies. And she

"I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on this feast all the money she got from

that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was surprised just now as I came through at the preparations there, the wines!

Several people are invited. It'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 destitute widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on that account, hasn't

"I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well hesitate, hehe!"

"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, hehehe!" and Pyotr Petrovitch, as though

"It's all slander and nonsense!" cried Lebeziatnikov, who was always afraid of allusions to the subject. "It was

not 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 permissable for any one I should

hope to defend himself and I never allow any one to use violence to me on principle, for it's an act of

"You keep on like that because you are out of humour yourself. . . . But that's nonsense and it has nothing,

nothing whatever to do with the woman question! You don't understand; I used to think, indeed, that if

women are equal to men in all respects even in strength (as is maintained now) there ought to be equality in

that, too. Of course, I 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. . . . I am sorry there won't be any priests at it. I should

"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

enlightenment and propaganda. It's a duty of every man to work for enlightenment and propaganda and the

more harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea. . . . And something might grow up from that

seed. How should I be insulting them? They might be offended at first, but afterwards they'd see I'd done

them a service. You know, Terebyeva (who is in the community now) was blamed because when she left her

family and . . . devoted . . . herself, she wrote to her father and mother that she wouldn't go on living

conventionally and was entering on a free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh, that she might

have spared them and have written more kindly. I think that's all nonsense 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 I cannot be happy with you. I can never

forgive you that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there is another organisation of society by

means of the communities. I have only lately learned it from a greathearted 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.'

"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! Hehe! Well, be that as you will," Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted, "but tell me this; do you know

the dead man's daughter, the delicatelooking little thing? It's true what they say about her, isn't it?"

"What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction, that this is the normal condition of women.

Why not? I mean, distinguons. In our present society, it is not altogether normal, because it is compulsory,

but in the future society, it will be perfectly normal, because it will be voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite

right: she was suffering and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she had a perfect right to

dispose of. Of course, in the future society, there will be no need of assets, but her part will have another

significance, rational and in harmony with her environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I regard

her action as a vigorous protest against the organization of society, and I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice

"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

"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

meanwhile I'm still developing Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!"

"Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself how timid, chaste and modern she is

"And you, of course, are developing her . . . hehe! trying to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense?"

"Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidlyexcuse me saying soyou misunderstand the word

development! Good heavens, how . . . crude you still are! We are striving for the freedom of women and you

have only one idea in your head. . . . Setting aside the general question of chastity and feminine modesty as

useless in themselves and indeed prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that's for her to

decide. Of course if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me, I should think myself very lucky, because

I like the girl very much; but as it is, no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more respect

"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 refuse 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 protestingwhich she has already shown onceshe

has little selfreliance, 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."

"We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of the community the right to enter another member's

"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

stumblingblock to people like you, they turn into ridicule before they understand it. And how proud they are

of it, too! Tfoo! I've often maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice till he has a

firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you find so shameful even in cesspools? I should be the

first to be ready to clean out any cesspool you like. And it's not a question of selfsacrifice, 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

"What do you mean by 'more honourable'? I don't understand such expressions to describe human activity.

'More honourable,' 'nobler' all those are oldfashioned 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

Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money and was putting it away. But some of

the notes he left on the table. The "cesspool question" had already been a subject of dispute between them.

What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while it amused Luzhin and at that moment he

"It's your illluck yesterday that makes you so illhumoured and annoying," blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who

in spite of his "independence" and his "protests" did not venture to oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still behaved

"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."

"Oh, I want to. I am leaving here today or tomorrow 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

"I shan't imagine anything. I only asked and, if you've anything to say to her, nothing is easier than to call her

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 familiarity 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 herat Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying

on the table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes remained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was

moving to the door. Pyotr Petrovitch signed to Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov.

"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

"I 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. I'll stand here at the

Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia, looked attentively at her and assumed an

extremely dignified, even severe expression, as much as to say, "don't you make any mistake, madam." Sonia

"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 you?" Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity,

"Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable circumstances I am forced to be absent and

"Wait, that's not all," Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of good manners,

"and you know me little, my dear Sofya Semyonovna, if you suppose I would have ventured to trouble a

person like you for a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I have another object."

Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the grey and rainbowcoloured notes that

remained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it horribly

indecorous, especially for her, to look at another person's money. She stared at the gold eyeglass which Pyotr

Petrovitch held in his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with a yellow stone on his

middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not knowing where to turn, ended by staring Pyotr

Petrovitch again straight in the face. After a pause of still greater dignity he continued.

"I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That

was sufficient to enable me to ascertain that she is in a positionpreternatural, if one may so express it."

"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 povertystricken family

"Allow me to ask," Sonia rose to her feet, "did you say something to her yesterday of the possibility of a

"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 serviceif only she has patronage . . . but apparently your late

parent had not served his full term and had not indeed been in the service at all of late. In fact, if there could

be any hope, it would be very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in that case, far

from it. . . . And she is dreaming of a pension already, hehehe! . . . A goahead lady!"

"Yes, she is. For she is credulous and goodhearted, and she believes everything from the goodness of her

heart and . . . and . . . and she is like that . . . yes . . . You must excuse her," said Sonia, and again she got up

"Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad, as I have said before, so far as lies in

my power, to be of service, that is, so far as is in my power, not more. One might for instance get up a

subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is always arranged in such cases by friends or

even outsiders desirous of assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it might be done."

"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 today, we will talk it over this evening and lay

the foundation so to speak. Come to me at seven o'clock. Mr. Lebeziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there

is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for which I venture to trouble you, Sofya

Semyonovna, to come here. In my opinion money cannot be, indeed it's unsafe to put it into Katerina

Ivanovna's own hands. The dinner today is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to speak, a crust of bread

for tomorrow and . . . well, boots or shoes, or anything; she has bought today Jamaica rum, and even, I

believe, Madeira and . . . and coffee. I saw it as I passed through. Tomorrow 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?"

"I don't know . . . this is only today, 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 . .

"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 tenrouble note carefully unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson,

jumped up, muttered something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her ceremoniously to

the door. She got out of the room at last, agitated and distressed, and returned to Katerina Ivanovna,

All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked about the room, anxious not to interrupt the

conversation; when Sonia had gone he walked up to Pyotr Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand.

"I heard and saw everything," he said, laying stress on the last verb. "That is honourable, I mean to say, it's

humane! You wanted to avoid gratitude, I saw! And although I cannot, I confess, in principle sympathise

with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the evil but even promotes it, yet I must admit that I saw

"That's all nonsense," muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebeziatnikov.

"No, it's not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as you did yesterday and who yet can

sympathise with the misery of others, such a man . . . even though he is making a social mistakeis still

deserving of respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovitch, especially as according to your ideas

. . . oh, what a drawback your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for instance by your ill luck

yesterday," cried the simplehearted 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 humanity. . . . 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

"Children? You referred to children," Lebeziatnikov started off like a warhorse at the trumpet call. "Children

are a social question and a question of first importance, I agree; but the question of children has another

solution. Some refuse to have children altogether, because they suggest the institution of the family. We'll

speak of children later, but now as to the question of honour, I confess that's my weak point. That horrid,

military, Pushkin expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of the future. What does it mean indeed? It's

nonsense, there will be no deception in a 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

absurdity, were to be legally married, I should be positively glad of it. I should say to my wife: 'My dear,

hitherto I have loved you, now I respect you, for you've shown you can protest!' You laugh! That's because

you are of incapable of getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I understand now where the

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

despicable position in which both are 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 considering you incapable

of opposing her happiness and avenging yourself on her for her new husband. Damn it all! I sometimes dream

if I were to be married, foo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or not, it's just the same, I should present my

wife with a lover if she had not found one for herself. 'My dear,' I should say, 'I love you, but even more than

Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listened, but without much merriment. He hardly heard it indeed. He was

preoccupied with something else and even Lebeziatnikov at last noticed it. Pyotr Petrovitch seemed excited

and rubbed his hands. Lebeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected upon it afterwards.

IT WOULD be difficult to explain exactly what could have originated the idea of that senseless dinner in

Katerina Ivanovna's disordered brain. Nearly ten of the twenty roubles, given by Raskolnikov for

Marmeladov's funeral, were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to honour the memory of

the deceased "suitably," that all the lodgers, and still more Amalia Ivanovna, might know "that he was in no

way their inferior, and perhaps very much their superior," and 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 ceremony, 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 brokenspirited 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 brokenspirited; she might have been killed by circumstance, but her spirit could not have been

broken, that is, she could not have been intimidated, her will could not be crushed. Moreover Sonia had said

with good reason that her mind was unhinged. She could not be said to be insane, but for a year past she had

been so harassed that her mind might well be overstrained. The later stages of consumption are apt, doctors

There was no great variety of wines, nor was there Madeira; but wine there was. There was vodka, rum and

Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there

were three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all prepared in Amalia Ivanovna's kitchen.

Two samovars were boiling, that tea and punch might be offered after dinner. Katerina Ivanovna had herself

seen to purchasing the provisions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an unfortunate little Pole who had

somehow been stranded at Madame Lippevechsel's. He promptly put himself at Katerina Ivanovna's disposal

and had been all that morning 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 called her "Pani." She was heartily sick of him before the end, though

she had declared at first that she could 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 contemptuously repulse the person she had only a few hours before been

literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay, lively and peaceloving disposition, but from continual failures

and misfortunes she had come to desire so keenly that all should live in peace and joy and should not dare to

break the peace, that the slightest jar, the smallest disaster reduced her almost to frenzy, and she would pass

in an instant from the brightest hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and knocking her head

Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance 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 preparations. 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. 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! As a

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

Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feelings for the time and contented herself with treating

her coldly, though she decided inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set

her in her proper place, for goodness only knew what she was fancying herself. Katerina Ivanovna was

irritated too by the fact that hardly any of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except the Pole who

had just managed to run into the cemetery, while to the memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of

them had turned up, the wretched creatures, many of them not quite sober. The older and more respectable of

them all, as if by common consent, stayed away. Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, for instance, who might be said to

be the most respectable of all the lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina Ivanovna had the evening before

told all the world, that is Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole, that he was the most generous,

noblehearted 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 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 because he was sharing

the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch and was a friend of his, so that it would have been awkward not to invite

Among those who failed to appear were "the genteel lady and her oldmaidish daughter," who had only been

lodgers in the house for the last fortnight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar in

Katerina Ivanovna's room, especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk. Katerina Ivanovna heard this

from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarrelling with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole family out

of doors, had shouted at her that they "were not worth the foot" of the honourable 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 colonelmajor (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

A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was drunk, had a loud and most unseemly laugh

and only fancywas without a waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down to the table without even

greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appeared in his dressing gown, but this was too

much, and the efforts of Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The Pole brought with

him, however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna's and whom no one had seen here before.

All this irritated Katerina Ivanovna 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

Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with increased dignity, and even

haughtiness. She stared at some of them with special severity, and loftily invited them to take their seats.

Rushing to the conclusion that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were absent, she began

treating her with extreme nonchalance, which the latter promptly observed and resented. Such a beginning

Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly

delighted to see him, in the first place, because he was the one "educated visitor, and, as 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

"It's all that cuckoo's fault! You know whom I mean? Her, her!" Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the

landlady. "Look at her, she's making round eyes, she feels that we are talking about her and can't understand.

(Coughcoughcough.) 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 sensible woman to invite people, especially those who

knew my late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought! The sweeps! Look at that one with the

spotty face. And those wretched Poles, hahaha! (Coughcoughcough.) Not one of them has ever poked

his nose in here, I've never set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask you? There they sit in a

row. Hey, Pan!" she cried suddenly to one of them, "have you tasted the pancakes? Take some more! Have

some beer! Won't you have some vodka? Look, he's jumped up and is making his bows, they must be quite

starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They don't make a noise, anyway, though I'm really afraid for

our landlady's silver spoons . . . Amalia Ivanovna!" she addressed her suddenly, almost aloud, "if your spoons

should happen to be stolen, I won't be responsible, I warn you! Hahaha!" 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, a real owl! An owl in new ribbons,

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

"Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak, for inviting that lady and her daughter,

you understand of whom I am speaking? It needed the utmost delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has

managed things so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial nonentity, simply because she is the

widow of a major, and has come to try and get a pension and to fray out her skirts in the government offices,

because at fifty she paints her face (everybody knows it) . . . a creature like that did not think fit to come, and

has not even answered the invitation, which the most ordinary good manners required! I can'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 unpunctual. Rodion

Romanovitch, make room for her beside you. That's your place, Sonia . . . take what you like. Have some of

the cold entree with jelly, that's the best. They'll bring the pancakes directly. Have they given the children

some? Polenka, have you got everything? (Coughcoughcough.) That's all right. Be a good girl, Lida, and,

Kolya, don't fidget with your feet; sit like a little gentleman. What are you saying, Sonia?"

Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch's apologies, trying to speak loud enough for every one to hear and

carefully choosing the most respectful phrases which she attributed to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added that Pyotr

Petrovitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he possibly could, he would come immediately to

discuss business 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 absentminded, though she kept looking at

Katerina Ivanovna, trying to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get mourning;

Sonia was wearing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her only dress, a dark striped cotton one.

The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. Listening to Sonia with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna

inquired with equal dignity how Pyotr Petrovitch was, then at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov

that it certainly would have been strange for a man of Pyotr Petrovitch's position and standing to find himself

in such "extraordinary company," in spite of his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her father.

"That's why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch, that you have not disdained my hospitality, even

in such surroundings," she added almost aloud. "But I am sure that it was only your special affection for my

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

"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

"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;

"No doubt you think, like every one, that I was too severe with him," she went on, addressing Raskolnikov.

"But that's not so! He respected me, he respected me very much! He was a kindhearted 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

"Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often," roared the commissariat clerk again, swallowing another

"Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as well as having their hair pulled. I am not talking of

The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. In another minute she would have

been ready to make a scene. Many of the visitors were sniggering, evidently delighted. They began poking

the commissariat clerk and whispering something to him. They were evidently trying to egg him on.

"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!"

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 invitation. 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 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

Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and at the same time deeply wounded by Katerina

Ivanovna's haughtiness, and to restore the goodhumour of the company and raise herself in their esteem she

began, apropos of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers "Karl from the chemist's," who was

driving one night in a cab, and that "the cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very 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

"Listen to the owl!" Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her goodhumour almost restored, "she meant to

say he kept his hands in his pockets, but she said he put his hands in people's pockets. (Coughcough.) 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 'Karl from the chemist's pierced his heart from

fear' and that the idiot instead of punishing the cabman, 'clasped his hands and wept, and much begged.' Ah,

the fool! And you know she fancies it's very touching and does not suspect how stupid she is! To my thinking

that 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

Regaining her goodhumour, Katerina Ivanovna began at once telling Raskolnikov that when she had

obtained her pension, she intended to open a school for the daughters of gentlemen in her native town T___.

This was the first time she had spoken to him of the project, and she launched out into the most alluring

details. It suddenly appeared that Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate of honour of which

Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov in the tavern, when he told him that Katerina Ivanovna, his wife, had

danced the shawl dance before the governor and other great personages on leaving school. This certificate of

honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina Ivanovna's right to open a boardingschool; but she

had armed herself with it chiefly with the object of overwhelming "those two stuckup draggletails" if they

came to the dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna was of the most noble, "she might even

say aristocratic family, a colonel's daughter and was far superior to certain adventuresses who have been so

much to the fore of late." The certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands of the drunken guests,

and Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain it, for it actually contained the statement en toutes lettres, that her

father was of the rank of a major, and also a companion of an order, so that she really was almost the

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 boardingschool, one a

most respectable old Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Ivanovna 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

Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be disdainfully unaware of it, she raised her voice and began at

once speaking with conviction of Sonia's undoubted ability to assist her, of "her gentleness, patience,

devotion, generosity and good education," tapping Sonia on the cheek and kissing her warmly twice. Sonia

flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immediately observing that she was

"nervous and silly, that she was too much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner was over, it was

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 boardingschool she would have to pay particular attention to die Wasche,

and that there certainly must be a good Dame to look after the linen, and secondly that the young ladies must

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 highclass boardingschool to look after die Wasche, and

as for novel reading, that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be silent." Amalia Ivanovna fired up

and getting angry observed that she only "meant her good," and that "she had meant her very good," and that

Katerina Ivanovna at once "set her down," saying that it was a lie to say she wished her good, because only

yesterday when her dead husband was lying on the table, she had 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 Ivanovna, hoping for a fight.

But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at once declared, so that all could hear, that Amalia

Ivanovna probably never had a father, but was simply a drunken 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

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 fatherif

she really had onewas probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably she never had a father at all,

since it was still uncertain whether her name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna.

At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist, and shrieked that she was Amalia

Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, "that her Vater was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that

Katerina Ivanovna's Vater was quite never a burgomeister." Katerina Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with

a stern and apparently calm voice (though she was pale and her chest was heaving) observed that "if she

dared for one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level with her papa, she, Katerina

Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her head and trample it under foot." Amalia Ivanovna ran 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

At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin appeared on the threshold. He stood scanning

"PYOTR PETROVITCH," she cried, "protect me . . . you at least! Make this foolish woman understand that

she can't behave like this to a lady in misfortune . . . that there is a law for such things. . . . I'll go to the

governorgeneral himself. . . . She shall answer for it. . . . Remembering my father's hospitality protect these

"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."

Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though thunderstruck. She could not understand how

Pyotr Petrovitch could deny having enjoyed her father's hospitility. Though she had invented it herself, she

believed 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 consequence, that some exceptional cause must have brought him and that

therefore something was going to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved aside to let him pass;

Pyotr Petrovitch did not seem to notice him. A minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway; he

did not come in, but stood still, listening with marked interest, almost wonder, and seemed for a time

"Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it's a matter of some importance," Pyotr Petrovitch observed,

addressing the company generally. "I am glad indeed to find 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 hundredrouble 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 understand. Some seconds passed.

"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 purposes several five per cent. securities for the sum of approximately three

thousand roubles. The account is noted down in my pocketbook. On my return home I proceeded to count

the money,as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will bear witnessand after counting two thousand three hundred

roubles I put the rest in my pocketbook in my coat pocket. About five hundred roubles remained on the

table and among them three notes of a hundred roubles each. At that moment you entered (at my

invitation)and all the time you were present you were exceedingly embarrassed; so that three times you

jumped up in the middle of the conversation and tried to make off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness to

this. You yourself, mademoiselle, probably will not refuse to confirm my statement that I invited you through

Mr. 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 tenrouble 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 embarrassmentafter which, being left

alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten minutes, then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I

returned to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count it and to put it aside, as I proposed doing

before. To my surprise one hundredrouble note had disappeared. Kindly consider the position. Mr.

Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. I am ashamed to allude to such a supposition. I cannot have made a mistake

in my reckoning, for the minute before your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the total correct.

You will admit that recollecting your embarrassment, your eagerness to get away and the fact that you kept

your hands for some time on the table, and taking into consideration your social position and the habits

associated with it, I was, so to say, with horror and positively against my will, compelled to entertain a

suspiciona cruel, but justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in spite of my positive

conviction, I realise that I run a certain risk in making this accusation, but as you see, I could not let it pass. I

have taken action and I will tell you why: solely, madam, solely, owing to your black ingratitude! Why! I

invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative, I present you with my donation of ten roubles and you, on

the spot, repay me for all that with such an action. It is too bad! You need a lesson. Reflect! Moreover, like a

true friend I beg youand you could have no better friend at this momentthink what you are doing,

"I 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

"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.

"Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the police and therefore I humbly beg you meanwhile to

"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."

"What!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the position, and she rushed at Luzhin. "What! You

And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as in a vise.

"Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? Foolish girl! Give it to me! Give me the ten roubles at

And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and flung it straight into Luzhin's face.

It hit him in the eye and fell on the ground. Amalia Ivanovna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost his

At that moment several other persons, besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in the doorway, among them the two

"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

Ivanovna 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! I'll go to our Sovereign, to our Sovereign, to our

gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet, today, this minute! I am 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! You relied upon that! But I am not so submissive, let me tell you! You've gone too far yourself.

"I am ready, I'll be responsible . . . but calm yourself, madam, calm yourself. I see that you are not so

submissive! . . . Well, well, but as to that . . ." Luzhin muttered, "that ought 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

"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 handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! D'you see,

And Katerina Ivanovna turnedor rather snatchedboth pockets inside out. But from the right pocket a

piece of paper flew out and 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 hundredrouble note folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held up the note showing it to

"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 unconscious. She was hardly able to feel

surprise. Suddenly the colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands.

"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 continually, then snatching at her hands and kissing

them, too. "You took it! How stupid these people are! Oh dear! You are fools, fools," she cried, addressing

the whole room, "you don't know, you don't know what a heart she has, what a girl she is! She take it, she?

She'd sell her last rag, she'd go barefoot to help you if you needed it, that's what she is! She has the yellow

passport because my children were starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband! Do you see? Do

you see? What a memorial dinner for you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all standing still?

Rodion Romanovitch, why don't you stand up for her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little

The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a great effect on her audience. The

agonised, wasted, consumptive face, the parched bloodstained 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

"Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!" he cried impressively, "no one would take upon

himself to accuse you of being an instigator or even an accomplice in it, especially as you have proved her

guilt by turning out her pockets, 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 addressed the

whole company, "gentlemen! Compassionate and so to say commiserating these people, I am ready to

overlook it even now in spite of the personal insult lavished upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to

you for the future," he said, addressing Sonia, "and I will carry the matter no further. Enough!"

Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov's seemed ready to

reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging

Sonia like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on all sides, and Polenka,though she did

not fully understand what was wrong,was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her pretty

Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive startall noticed it and recalled it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the

"I mean that you . . . are a slanderer, that's what my words mean!" Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at

He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at him, as though seizing and weighing each word.

Again there was a silence. Pyotr Petrovitch indeed seemed almost dumbfounded for the first moment.

"If you mean that for me, . . ." he began, stammering. "But what's the matter with you? Are you out of your

"I'm in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard everything. I kept waiting on purpose to

understand it, for I must own even now it is not quite logical. . . . What you have done it all for I can't

"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

hundredrouble noteI saw it, I was a witness, I'll take my oath! He did it, he!" repeated Lebeziatnikov,

"Are you crazy, milksop?" squealed Luzhin. "She is herself 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 although 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 goodbye 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!"

"What lies!" he cried impudently, "why, how could you, standing by the window, see the note! You fancied it

"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 trueI knew for certain that it was a hundredrouble

note, because, when you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna ten roubles, you took up from the table a

hundredrouble 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

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

"I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her part! She is an orphan. God has sent

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 I gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What

"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 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 hundredrouble note in her pocket. (For I

know some benevolent people are very fond of decking out their charitable actions in that way.) Then the

idea struck me, too, that you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found it, she would come to thank

you. Then, too, that you wanted to avoid thanks and that, as the saying is, your right hand should not know . .

. something of that sort, in fact. I thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it, but still thought

it indelicate to show you I knew your secret. But another idea struck me again that Sofya Semyonovna might

easily lose the money before she noticed it, that was why I decided to come in here to call her out of the room

and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in her pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame

Kobilatnikov'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 hundredrouble note in her pocket?"

When Lebeziatnikov finished his longwinded harangue with the logical deduction at the end, he was quite

tired, and the perspiration streamed from his face. He could not, alas, even express himself correctly in

Russian, though he knew no other language, so that he was quite exhausted, almost emaciated after this

heroic exploit. But his speech produced a powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehemence, with such

conviction that every one obviously believed him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt that things were going badly with

"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 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,

"I can explain why he risked such an action, and if necessary, I, too, will swear to it," Raskolnikov said at last

He appeared to be firm and composed. Every one felt clearly, from the very look of him that he really knew

"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 intrigue at the bottom of it. I began to suspect it

from some special circumstances known to me only, which I will explain at once to 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 ladymy 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 roomI 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 quarrelledthe day before yesterdayhe saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for

the funeral, as a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a note to my mother and informed her

that I had given away all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna, but to Sofya Semyonovna, and referred in a

most contemptible way to the . . . character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at the character of my

attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this you understand was with the object of dividing me from my mother

and sister, by insinuating that I was squandering on unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and

which was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister and in his presence, I declared that I

had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral and not to Sofya Semyonovna and that I had no

acquaintance with Sofya Semyonovna and had never seen her before, indeed. At the same time I added that

he, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, with all his virtues was not worth Sofya Semyonovna's little finger, though he

spoke so ill of her. To his questionwould I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my sister, I answered

that I had already done so that day. Irritated that my mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at

his insinuations, he gradually began being unpardonably rude to them. A final rupture took place and he was

turned out of the house. All this happened yesterday evening. Now I beg your special attention: consider: if

he had now succeeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he would have shown to my mother

and sister that he was almost right in his suspicions, that he had reason to be angry at my putting my sister on

a level with Sofya Semyonovna, that, in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving the honour of my

sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through all this, have been able to estrange me from my family,

and no doubt he hoped to be restored to favour with them; to say nothing of revenging himself on me

personally, for he has grounds for supposing that the honour and happiness of Sofya Semyonovna are very

precious to me. That was what he was working for! That's how I understand it. That's the whole reason for it

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

"Yes, yes, that's it," Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, "that must be it, for he asked me, as soon as Sofya

Semyonovna came into our room, whether you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna's

guests. He called me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was essential for him that you should be

Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. He seemed to be deliberating on

some means of escape. Perhaps he would have been glad to give up everything and get away, but at the

moment this was scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth of the accusations brought

against him. Moreover, the company, which had already been excited by drink, was now too much stirred to

allow it. The commissariat clerk, though indeed he had not grasped the whole position, was shouting louder

than 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

shouting 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

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

"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

"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!"

"I told you myself today 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 illtreated 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 justificationwhen her first terror and stupefaction had passed and she could understand it all

clearlythe feeling of her helplessness and of the wrong done to her made her heart throb with anguish and

she was overcome with hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she rushed out of the room and

ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin's departure. When amidst loud laughter the glass flew at Amalia

Ivanovna, it was more than the landlady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at Katerina

And with these words she began snatching up everything she could lay her hands on that belonged to

Katerina Ivanovna, and throwing it on the floor, Katerina Ivanovna, pale, almost fainting, and gasping for

breath, jumped up from the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at Amalia Ivanovna. But the

"What! As though that godless calumny was not enoughthis vile creature attacks me! What! On the day of

my husband's funeral I am turned out of my lodgings! 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 see whether there is

And throwing over her head that green shawl which Marmeladov had mentioned to Raskolnikov, Katerina

Ivanovna squeezed her way through the disorderly and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room,

and, wailing and tearful, she ran into the streetwith 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 quarreled and swore at one another,

"Now it's time for me to go," thought Raskolnikov. "Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll say

RASKOLNIKOV had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against Luzhin, although he had such a

load of horror and anguish in his own heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort

of relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal feeling which impelled him to defend

Sonia. He was agitated too, especially at some moments, by the thought of his approaching interview with

Sonia: he had to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the terrible suffering it would be to him and, as it

were, brushed away the thought of it. So when he cried as he left Katerina Ivanovna's, "Well, Sofya

Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll say now!" he was still superficially excited, still vigorous and defiant

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 the door, asking himself the strange question: "Must I tell

her who killed Lizaveta?" It was a strange question because he felt at the very time not only that he could not

help telling her, but also that he could not put off the telling. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only

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

"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

"Well, Sonia?" he said, and felt that his voice was trembling, "it was all due to 'your social position and the

"Only don't talk to me as you did yesterday," she interrupted him. "Please don't begin it. There is misery

"I was silly to come away from there. What is happening there now? I wanted to go back directly, but I kept

He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging and that Katerina Ivanovna had run

"It's everlastingly the same thing!" said Raskolnikov, irritably. "You've no thought except for them! Stay a

"You won't lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she'll come to you herself since she has run out," he

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."

"And if you'd gone to prison, what then? Do you remember what I said yesterday?"

"I 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 would 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 insince you don't count yourself for anythingPolenka 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 Ivanovna should die?

Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this hesitating question, which seemed

"I felt that you were going to ask some question like that," she said, looking inquisitively at him.

"Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked things? You haven't dared to decide

"But I can't know the Divine Providence. . . . And why do you ask what can't be answered? What's the use of

such foolish questions? How could it happen that it should depend on my decisionwho has made me a

"Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there is no doing anything," Raskolnikov grumbled

"You'd better say straight out what you want!" Sonia cried in distress. "You are leading up to something

She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at her in gloomy misery. Five minutes

"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. . . . I said that

about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake. I was asking forgiveness, Sonia. . . ."

He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his pale smile. He bowed his head and

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

His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when he had stood over the old woman with the

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 unendurable; he turned his deadly

pale face to her. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through

"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 added suddenly, looking at her. "Why, really? I

He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke helplessly,

"It's all nonsense. . . . Listen, Sonia." He suddenly smiled, a pale helpless smile for two seconds. "You

"I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying goodbye for ever, but that if I came today I would tell you

"Then you really meant it yesterday?" she whispered with difficulty. "How do you know?" she asked quickly,

"Then how do you know about it?" she asked again, hardly audibly and again after a minute's pause.

"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," Raskolnikov 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 . . .

"You can't guess, then?" he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were flinging himself down from a steeple.

As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his heart. He looked at her and all at once

seemed to see in her face the face of Lizaveta. He remembered clearly the expression in Lizaveta's face, when

he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the wall, putting out her hand, with childish terror in

her face, looking as little children do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and

uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their little hands on the point of crying.

Almost the same thing happened now to Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror, she looked at

him for a while and, suddenly putting out her left hand, pressed her fingers faintly against his breast and

slowly began to get up from the bed, moving further from him and keeping her eyes fixed even more

immovably on him. Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the same way he

She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to

him, seized both his hands and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again with

the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look into him and catch some last hope. But there

was no hope; there was no doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that moment,

she thought it strange and wondered why she had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have

said, for instance, that she had foreseen something of the sortand yet now, as soon as he told her, she

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

"What have you donewhat have you done to yourself!" she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung

"You are a strange girl, Soniayou kiss me and hug me when I tell you about that. . . . You don't think what

"There is no oneno one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!" she cried in a frenzy, not hearing

A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at once. He did not struggle against it. Two

"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!"

"Yes, now! What's to be done now! . . . Together, together!" she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she

He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to his lips.

Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man the terrible idea of the murder

overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the murderer speaking. She looked at him

bewildered. She knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what object it had been. Now all these questions rushed

at once into her mind. And again she could not believe it: "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

herself. "How could you, you, a man like you. . . . How could you bring yourself to it? . . . What does it

"Oh, wellto plunder. Leave off, Sonia," he answered wearily, almost with vexation.

"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."

"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 suddenly, "that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna

"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. . . .

"And that money. . . . I don't even know really whether there was any money," he added softly, as though

reflecting. "I took a purse off her neck, made of chamois leather . . . a purse stuffed full of something . . . but I

didn't look in it; I suppose I hadn't time. . . . And the thingschains and trinketsI buried under a stone

with the purse next morning in a yard off the V__ Prospect. They are all there now. . . .."

"Then why . . . why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?" she asked quickly, catching at a straw.

"I don't know. . . . I haven't yet decided whether to take that money or not," he said, musing again; and,

seeming to wake up with a start, he gave a brief ironical smile. "Ach, what silly stuff I am talking, eh?"

The thought flashed through Sonia's mind, wasn't he mad? But she dismissed it at once. "No, it was

"Do you know, Sonia," he said suddenly with conviction, "let me tell you: if I'd simply killed because I was

hungry," laying stress on every word and looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, "I should be happy now.

You 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

"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 thingnot to

"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 another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such a mean wretch?"

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

"Ach, we are so different," he cried again, "we are not alike. And why, why did I come? I shall never forgive

"No, no, it was a good thing you came," cried Sonia. "It's better I should know, far better!"

"What if it were really that?" he said, as though reaching a conclusion. "Yes, that's what it was! I wanted to

"Nno," Sonia whispered naively and timidly. "Only speak, speak, I shall understand, I shall understand in

"You'll understand? Very well, we shall see!" He paused and was for some time lost in meditation.

"It was like this: I asked myself one day this questionwhat 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 not monumental .

. . that he would not have seen that there was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had had no other

way, he would have strangled her in a minute without thinking about it! Well, I too . . . left off thinking about

it . . . murdered her, following his example. And that's exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia,

"You had better tell me straight out . . . without examples," she begged, still more timidly and scarcely

"You are right again, Sonia. Of course that's all nonsense, 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 centered 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 everything 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 childrenand 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 itand 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."

"Oh, that's not it, that's not it," Sonia cried in distress. "How could one . . . no, that's not right, not right."

"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 comprehensible, but yet . . . "But how, how!

"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 . . . imagineyes, it's certainly

betterimagine 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, 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 stupidand I know they areyet 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 lawgiver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the right! So it has

Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared whether she understood or not. The

fever had complete hold of him; he was in a sort of gloomy ecstasy (he certainly had been too long without

talking to anyone). Sonia felt that his gloomy creed had become his faith and code.

"I 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 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

"Oh hush, hush," cried Sonia, clasping her hands. "You turned away from God and God has smitten you, has

"Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became clear to me, was it a temptation of the

"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 all, 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 have kept wanting to forget it and make a new

beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking. And you don't suppose that I went into it headlong like a fool? I

went into it like a wise man, and that was just my destruction. And you mustn't suppose that I didn't know,

for instance, that if I began to question myself whether I had the right to gain powerI certainly hadn't the

rightor 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 murderthat's nonsense I didn't do the murder to gain wealth

and power and to become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply did it; I did the murder for myself, for

myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my

web and sucking the life out of men, I couldn't have cared at that moment. . . . And it was not the 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,

"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!"

"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,

He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as in a vise.

"Well, what am I to do now?" he asked, suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face hideously

"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 crossroads, 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

"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 himself. How, how can he live by himself! What will become of you now?"

"Don't be a child, Sonia," he said softly. "What wrong have I done them? Why should I go to them? What

should I say to them? That's only a phantom. . . . They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a

virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And what should I say to themthat

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 understand and they don't deserve to understand. Why should I go to them? I won't. Don't be a child,

"It will be too much for you to bear, too much!" she repeated, holding out her hands in despairing

"Perhaps I've been unfair to myself," he observed gloomily, pondering, "perhaps after all I am a man and not

a louse and I've been in too great a hurry to condemn myself. I'll make another fight for it."

"I shall get used to it," he said grimly and thoughtfully. "Listen," he began a minute later, "stop crying, it's

time to talk of the facts: I've come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track. . . ."

"Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go to Siberia and now you are frightened? But let me tell you: I

shall not give myself up. I shall make a struggle for it and they won't do anything to me. They've no real

evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost; but today 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 today for certain; perhaps even now they will arrest me

today. . . . 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

They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on

some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it

suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see

Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and

now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than

"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

He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the hand he held out for the cross.

"Yes, yes, better," she repeated with conviction, "when you go to meet your suffering, then put it on. You

"Sofya Semyonovna, 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.

"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.

"At least it seems so. But . . . we don't know what to do, you see! She came backshe 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, including 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 barrelorgan, 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 wellborn children, whose father was an official, begging in the street.' She

keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She is teaching Lida to sing 'My Village,' the boy to dance,

Polenka the same. She is tearing up all the clothes, and making them little caps like actors; she means to carry

a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of music. . . . She won't listen to anything. . . . Imagine the state of

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

"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

"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

"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

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.

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 windowsills were pots of

sicklylooking geraniums. Linen was hung out of the windows . . . He knew it all by heart. He turned away

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!"

"I 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.

He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging through his mind. All at once the

door opened and Dounia came in. At first she stood still and looked at him from the doorway, just as he had

done at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place as yesterday, on the chair facing him. He

Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft. He saw that she too had come to him

"Brother, now I know all, all. Dmitri Prokofitch has explained and told me everything. They are worrying and

persecuting you through a stupid and contemptible suspicion. . . . Dmitri Prokofitch told me that there is no

danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I don't think so, and I fully understand

how indignant you must be, and that that 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; I will set her mind at rest; but don't you try her too

muchcome 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 need me or should need . . . all my life or anything . . . call me, and I'll

"Dounia!" Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. "That Razumihin, Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very

"He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love. . . . Goodbye, Dounia."

"But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting for ever that you . . . give me such a parting

He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked at him uneasily, and went out

No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant (the very last one) when he had longed to take her in his

arms and say goodbye to her, and even to tell her, but he had not dared even to touch her hand.

"Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her, and will feel that I stole her kiss."

"And would she stand that test?" he went on a few minutes later to himself. "No, she wouldn't; girls like that

There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was fading. He took up his cap and went out.

He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all 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

He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had begun to oppress him of late.

There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about

it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of an eternity "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 muttered bitterly.

"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 fryingpan and

making the children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the cross roads and in front of

"Simply frantic. That is, it's not Sofya Semyonovna's frantic, but Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya

Semyonova'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

On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away from the one where Sonia lodged, there was a

crowd of people, consisting principally of gutter children. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna

could be heard from the bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle likely to attract a street crowd.

Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress with the green shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way

on one side, was really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her wasted consumptive face looked more

suffering than ever, and indeed out of doors in the sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home.

But her excitement did not flag, and every moment her irritation grew more intense. She rushed at the

children, shouted at them, coaxed them, told them before the crowd how to dance and what to sing, began

explaining to them why it was necessary, and driven to desperation by their not understanding, beat them. . . .

Then she would make a rush at the crowd; if she noticed any decently dressed person stopping to look, she

immediately appealed to him to see what these children "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 fryingpan of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was

not there, at least Raskolnikov did not see it. But instead of rapping on the pan, Katerina Ivanovna began

clapping her wasted hands, when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polenka sing. She too joined in the

singing, but broke down at the second note with a fearful cough, which made her curse in despair and even

shed tears. What made her most furious was the weeping and terror of Kolya and Lida. Some effort had been

made to dress the children up as street singers are dressed. The boy had on a turban made of something red

and white to look like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida; she simply had a red knitted cap, or rather

a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov, decorated with a broken piece of white ostrich feather, which

had been Katerina Ivanovna's grandmother's and had been preserved as a family possession. Polenka was in

her everyday dress; she looked in timid perplexity at her mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears. She

dimly realised her mother's condition, and looked uneasily about her. She was terribly frightened of the street

and the crowd. Sonia followed Katerina Ivanovna, weeping and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina

"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 Petersburg see the children begging in the streets, though their father was an honourable man who

served all his life in truth and fidelity, and one may say died in the service." (Katerina Ivanovna had by now

invented this fantastic story and thoroughly believed it.) "Let that wretch of a general see it! And you are

silly, Sonia: what have we to eat? Tell me 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 organgrinders 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 children before me, show them to him, and say 'Defend us, father.' He is the

father of the fatherless, he is merciful, he'll protect us, you'll see, and 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

And she, almost crying herselfwhich did not stop her uninterrupted, rapid flow of talkpointed 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 organgrinder, as she was intending to

"A boardingschool, hahaha! A castle in the air," cried Katerina Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough.

"No, Rodion Romanovitch, that dream is over! All have forsaken us! . . . And that general. . . . You know,

Rodion Romanovitch, I threw an inkspot at himit happened to be standing in the waitingroom 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 anybody! 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 me in French, parlez moi

francais. Why, I've taught you, you know some phrases. Else how are you to show that you are of good

family, well broughtup children, and not at all like other organgrinders? 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 'Marlborough s'en vaten guerre,' for that's quite a child's song

she began singing. "But no, better sing 'Cinq sous.' Now, Kolya, your hands on your hips, make haste, and

you, Lida, keep turning the other way, and Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands!

(Coughcoughcough!) 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 wellborn children. I said at the time that the bodice should be cut longer, and made of two widths. It

was your fault, Sonia, with your advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite deformed by it. .

. . Why, you're all crying again! What's the matter, stupids? Come, Kolya, begin. Make haste, make haste!

A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that moment a gentleman in civilian

uniform and an overcoata solidlooking official of about fifty with a decoration on his neck (which

delighted Katerina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman)approached and without a word handed

her a green threerouble note. His face wore a look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave

"I thank you, honoured sir," she began loftily. "The causes that have induced us (take the money, Polenka:

you see there are generous and honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress).

You see, honoured sir, these orphans of good familyI might even say of aristocratic connectionsand 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,

"It's you're making a disturbance. It's just the same as if I were grinding an organ. What business is it of

"You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven't got one, and in that way you collect a crowd. Where

"What, a license?" wailed Katerina Ivanovna. "I buried my husband today. What need of a license?"

"Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself," began the official. "Come along; I will escort you. . . . This is no

"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

"Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful children! . . . Polenka! catch them. . . . It's

All ran up and crowded round. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the first at her side, the official too

hastened up, and behind him the policeman who muttered, "Bother!" with a gesture of impatience, feeling

"Lord have mercy upon us," said a woman, crossing herself. "Have they caught the little girl and the boy?

They're being brought back, the elder one's got them. . . . Ah, the 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.

"I've seen that before," muttered the official to Raskolnikov 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

"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 persons came in too

from the Kapernaumovs' room; the landlord, a lame oneeyed 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

openmouthed children with wonderstruck faces. Among these, Svidrigailov suddenly made his

appearance. Raskolnikov looked at him with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not

having noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest wore spoken of. The official whispered to Raskolnikov

that he thought it was too late now for the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran

Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased for a time. She looked with sick

but intent and penetrating eyes at Sonia, who stood pale and trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with

a handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on the bed, supporting her on both sides.

"Where are the children?" she said in a faint voice. "You've brought them, Polenka? Oh the sillies! Why did

Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes, looking about her.

"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."

"What, the priest? I don't want him. You haven't got a rouble to spare. I have no sins. God must forgive me

without that. He knows how I have suffered. . . . And if He won't forgive me, I don't care!"

She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered, turned her eyes from side to side,

recognised every one for a minute, but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and

"I said to him, your excellency," she ejaculated, gasping after each word. "That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah!

Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips, make haste! Glissez, glissez! pas de basque! Tap with your heels, be a

"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

She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking

"In the heat of midday! . . . in the vale! . . . of Dagestan! . . . With lead in my breast! . . ."

"Your excellency!" she wailed suddenly with a heartrending scream and a flood of tears, "protect the

orphans! You have been their father's guest . . . one may say aristocratic. . . ." She started, regaining

consciousness, and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once recognised Sonia.

"Sonia, Sonia!" she articulated softly and caressingly, as though surprised to find her there. "Sonia darling,

"Enough! It's over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!" she cried with vindictive despair, and

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 remained motionless with her head pressed to the dead

woman's wasted bosom. Polenka threw herself at her mother's feet, kissing them and weeping violently.

Though Kolya and 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

And how did "the certificate of merit" come to be on the bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the

"Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words with you," said Svidrigailov, coming up to them.

Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew. Svidrigailov drew Raskolnikov further

"I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know it's a question of money and, as I told

you, I have plenty to spare. I will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum, and I

will 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

"Ah! you sceptical 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

"Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich's, the other side of the wall. Here is Kapernaumov, and there lives

"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

A STRANGE period began for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in

a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind

had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till the final catastrophe. He was

convinced that he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for instance as to the date of certain

events. Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he learnt a great deal about himself

from what other people told him. He had mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to

circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness,

amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete

apathy, which came upon him as a reaction from his previous terror and might be compared with the

abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to escape

from a full and clear understanding of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate

consideration were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would have been to be free from some cares, the

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 of it. At times, finding

himself in a solitary and remote part of the town, in some wretched eatinghouse, 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 positively 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 Ivanovna'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

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

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. Raskolnikov 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 disturbing. He

looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the coffin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed,

"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 selfabnegation, at

Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been

possible to escape to some solitude, he would have thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole

life there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late, he had never been able to feel alone.

Sometimes he walked out of the town on to the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the

lonelier the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did not frighten

him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter

restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day at

dusk he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he positively enjoyed it. But at

last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as though his conscience smote him. "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 challenge 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

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

"Ah, he's eating, then he's not ill," said Razumihin. He took a chair and sat down at the table opposite

He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident annoyance, but without hurry or

"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 actions, and from your recent behavior to your mother and sister.

"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 in, you weren't here; she sat down,

and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said: 'If he's gone out, that is, if he

is well, and has forgotten his mother, it's humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand at his door

begging for kindness.' She returned home and took to her bed; now she is in a fever. 'I see,' she said, 'that he

has time for his girl.' She means by your girl Sofya Semyonovna, your betrothed or your mistress, I don't

know. I went at once to Sofya Semyonovna's, for I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I saw

the coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying on them 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."

"You always have been a very rational person and you've never been mad, never," he observed suddenly with

"I was talking with my sisterthe day before yesterday I think it wasabout you, Razumihin."

"About me! But . . . where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?" Razumihin stopped short and

"I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn't tell her you love her, because she

"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 . . . I shall find out the secret . . . and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense

and that you've made it all up. Anyway you are a capital fellow, a capital fellow!" . . .

"That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was a very good decision of yours not to

find out 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 air. I mean to go to him directly

"He's a political conspirator! He must be. And he's on the eve of some desperate step, that's certain. It can

"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

"She got a letter today. It upset her very muchvery 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."

"Goodbye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I . . . Never mind, goodbye. You see, there was a

time. . . . Well, goodbye! I must be off too. I am not going to drink. There's no need now. . . . That's all

He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again, and said,

"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 genius

of hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the lawyersso there's nothing much to

wonder at, I suppose! Of course people like that are always possible. And the fact that he couldn't keep up the

character, but 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

"What next? You ask me why it interests me! . . . Well, I heard it from Porfiry, among others . . . It was from

"Yes, yes; goodbye. 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! Goodbye, I'm going. I'll come again very soon."

"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 is now! His illness then, all his strange actions . . . before this, in the university, how morose

he used to be, how gloomy. . . . But what's the meaning now of that letter? There's something in that, too,

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

"Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonising.

A lethargy had come upon him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry's he had been

suffocating, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay's confession, on that very day had come the

scene with Sonia; his behaviour and his last words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined

beforehand; he had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed at the time with Sonia, he

had 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

"And so Porfiry 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

teteatete 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

gestures had passed between them, they had exchanged such glances, things had been said in such a tone and

had reached such a pass, that Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first gesture,

"And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect! The scene in the corridor under the lamp had

produced its effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry. . . . But what had induced the latter to receive him like

that? What had been his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? He must have some plan; there was

some design, but what was it? It was true that a long time had passed since that morningtoo long a

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 Svidrigailov," 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 those twoPorfiry or Svidrigailov. At least

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 he have been listening at the door?"

"You didn't expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch," Porfiry explained, laughing. "I've been meaning to look

in a long time; I was passing by and thought why not go in for five minutes. Are you going out? I won't keep

"Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down." Raskolnikov gave his visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly an

The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an

hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.

Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him without flinching. Porfiry screwed up

"Speak, speak," seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov's heart. "Come, why don't you speak?"

"AH THESE cigarettes!" Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having lighted one. "They are pernicious,

positively pernicious, and yet I can't give them up! I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and a

difficulty in breathing. You know I am a 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, hehehe, that I don't. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovitch, everything is relative!"

"Why, he's playing his professional tricks again," Raskolnikov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of

their last interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him then.

"I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn't know?" Porfiry Petrovitch went on,

looking round the room. "I came into this very room. I was passing by, just as I did today, 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

Raskolnikov's face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his state of mind.

"I've come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! I owe you an explanation and must

give it to you," he continued with a slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov's knee.

But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn look came into his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov

saw a touch of sadness in it. He had never seen and never suspected such an expression in his face.

"A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovitch. Our first interview, too, was a

strange one; but then . . . and one thing after another! This is the point: I 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

"What is he up to, what does he take me for?" Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and

"I've decided openness is better between us," Porfiry Petrovitch went on, turning his head away and dropping

his eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former wiles. "Yes,

such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolay 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 roomcan you realise

that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he came to you afterwards. But what you supposed then

was not true: I had not sent for 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 thoughteven if I let one thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of something elseI

shan't lose what I want, anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion Romanovitch, by temperament; it's out

of proportion with other qualities of your heart 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 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

"But what are you driving at now?" Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking the question without thinking.

"What is he talking about?" he wondered distractedly, "does he really take me to be innocent?"

"What am I driving at? I've come to explain myself, I consider it my duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to

you how the whole business, the whole misunderstanding arose. I've caused you a great deal of suffering,

Rodion Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man who has been

unfortunate, but who is proud, 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 acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my saying

so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from the first and indeed you've no reason 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

Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry

"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 openlyfor one may as well make a

clean breast of itI was the first to pitch on you. The old woman's notes on the pledges and the rest of

itthat all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred. I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office,

from a man who described it capitally, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just

one thing after another, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to certain

ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can'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 remember, on your first visit we

talked of it? I jeered at you at the time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovitch, you

are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and . . . had felt a great deal I recognised

long before. I, too, have felt the same, so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on

sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed

enthusiasm in young people is dangerous! I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary amateur, I

am awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in

the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there'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 himself be

carried away by notions: here I have Nikolay on my hands with actual evidence against himyou 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

matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you? That you may understand, and not blame my

malicious behaviour on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you, hehe! Do you suppose I didn't

come to search your room at the time? I did, I did, hehe! I was here when you were lying ill in bed, not

officially, not in my own person, but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first

suspicion; but umsonst! I thought to myself, now that man will come, will come of himself and quickly, too;

if he's guilty, he's sure to come. Another man wouldn't but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumihin

began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to excite you, so we purposely spread rumours, that

he might discuss the case with you, and Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zametov was

tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think of blurting out in a restaurant 'I killed her.' It

was too daring, too reckless. I thought so myself, if he is guilty he will be a formidable opponent. That 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 thisthat this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting you, and so it

"Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you remember? I saw it all plain as

daylight, but if I hadn't expected you so specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You

see what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumihin thenah, that stone, that stone under which the things were

hidden! I seem to see it somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zametov and

afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we began picking your article to pieces, how you

explained it! One could take every word of yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning

"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 little fact' I said. So when I heard of the bellringing, 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 hundred paces

beside that workman, after he had called you murderer to your face, and you did not dare to ask him a

question all the way. And then what about your trembling, what about your bellringing in your illness, in

"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 fruh. What has Nikolay got to do with it!"

"Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay guilty and had yourself assured him of it. . . ."

His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in indescribable agitation, as this man who had

seen through and through him went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it 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. "Hehehe! But I had to put Mr. Razumihin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin

is not the right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to me with a pale face. . . . But never mind

him, why bring him in! To return to Nikolay, would you like to know what sort of a type he is, how I

understand him, that is? To begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but something by way of

an artist. Really, don't laugh at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to influence. He has a

heart, and is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances, he tells stories, they say, so that people come from other

villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs till he cries if you hold up a finger to him; he will

drink himself senselessnot 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 stealing, if one picks it up?' And do you know he is

an Old Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers [1] 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 night, read

"Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the wine. He responds to everything and

he forgot the elder and all that. I learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see him, and

"Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can one get over the idea the people

have of Russian legal proceedings! The very word 'trial' frightens some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall

see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in prison, it seems, he remembered the

venerable elder, the Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovitch, the force of

the word 'suffering' among some of these people! It's not a question of suffering for 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 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

"So I suspect now that Nikolay wants to take his suffering or something of the sort. I know it for certain from

facts, indeed. Only he doesn't know that I know. What, you don't admit that there are such fantastic people

among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influencing him, especially since he tried to

hang himself. But he'll come and tell me all himself. You think he'll hold out? Wait a bit, he'll take his words

back. I am waiting from hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that

Nikolay and am studying him in detail. And what do you think? Hehe! He answered me very plausibly on

some points, he obviously had collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he

"No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn't come in! This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an

incident of today 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

bellringing, 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

All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that these words were too great a shock.

"Then . . . who then . . . is the murderer?" he asked in a breathless voice, unable to restrain himself.

Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at the question.

"Who is the murderer?" he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. "Why you, Rodion Romanovitch!

You are the murderer," he added almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.

Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His

"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

"It was not I murdered her," Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened child caught in the act.

"No, it was you, you Rodion Romanovitch, and no one else," Porfiry whispered sternly, with conviction.

They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on

the table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov

"You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method again. I wonder you don't get sick of

"Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but

we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether

you confess it or not is nothing to me now; for myself, I am convinced without it."

"If so, what did you come for?" Raskolnikov asked irritably. "I ask you the same question again: if you

"Oh, that's your question! I will answer you, point for point. In the first place, to arrest you so directly is not

"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 evidencethat's almost unseemly with his ugly mug, while you hit the mark exactly, for the

rascal is an inveterate drunkard and notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly several times

already that that psychology can be taken in two ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far more

probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you. And though I shall put you in prison and

indeed have comequite contrary to etiquetteto 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 . . ."

"Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation. I don't want you to look upon me as a

monster, as I have a genuine liking for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I've come to

you with a direct and open proposition that you should surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to

your advantage and to my advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part or not?"

Raskolnikov thought a minute. "Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have nothing but

psychology to go on, yet now you've gone on mathematics. Well, what if you are mistaken yourself, now?"

"No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even then, providence sent it me."

"I won't tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. And in any case, I haven't the right to put it off any longer, I

must arrest you. So think it over: it makes no difference to me now and so I speak only for your sake. Believe

"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, hehe! 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 an 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

Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at

"No!" he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances with Porfiry, "it's not worth it, I

"That's just what I was afraid of!" Porfiry cried warmly and, as it seemed, involuntarily. "That's just what I

"Ah, don't disdain life!" Porfiry went on. "You have a great deal of it still before you. How can you say you

"Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it? Seek and ye shall find. This may be

"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

He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in evident despair.

"Hang it, if you like! You've lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering you; but how long has your

life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down

and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out something base, that's true, but you are not hopelessly

base. By no means so base! At least you didn't deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the furthest

point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at

their torturer while he cuts their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will live.

You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is right in

wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe in itbut don't be overwise; fling yourself straight into life,

without deliberation; don't be afraidthe flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again.

What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before you. I know that you take all my

words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of

use some time. That's why I speak. It's as well that you only killed the old woman. If you'd invented another

theory you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God,

perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something. But keep a good heart and have less

fear! Are you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you

have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfil the demands of

justice. I know that you don't believe it, but indeed, life will bring you through. You will live it down in time.

"But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what majestic calm do you proclaim these

"Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that's all. A man perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe

of some knowledge too, but my day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for you.

Though who knows, maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come to nothing. Come, what does it

matter, that you will pass into another class of men? It's not comfort you regret, with your heart! What of it

that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It's not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and

all will see you. The sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? At my being such a

Schiller? I bet you're imagining that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, hehehe!

Perhaps you'd better not believe my word, perhaps you'd better never believe it altogether,I'm made that

way, I confess it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how far I am a base sort of man and how

"Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It's more

"No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable dissenter would run away, the flunkey of

another man's thought, for you've only to show him the end of your little finger and he'll be ready to believe

in anything for the rest of his life. But you've ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run

away with? And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need

more than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere

would you have? If you ran away, you'd come back to yourself. You can't get on without us. And if I put you

in prison,say you've been there a month, or two, or threeremember my word, you'll confess of yourself

and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand that you are coming with a

confession. I am convinced that you will decide, 'to take your suffering.' You don't believe my words now,

but you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never mind my having

grown fat, I know all the same. Don't laugh at it, there's an idea in suffering, Nokolay is right. No, you won't

"Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we don't have a storm. Though it would be a

"Porfiry Petrovitch, please don't take up the notion that I have confessed to you today," Raskolnikov

pronounced with sullen insistence. "You're a strange man and I have listened to you from simple curiosity.

"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 fashionlaying hands on yourself(it's an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for it) do

leave a brief but precise note, only two lines and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we

Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The latter went to the window and waited

with irritable impatience till he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too

HE 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 recognised 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

But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he fancied he couldn't. Why? He could

not have explained, but if he could, he would not have wasted much 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 himit 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, to contend with these new trivial difficulties? Was it

worth while, for instance, to manoeuvre 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?

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 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

But what could they have in common? Their very evildoing 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 perhaps to prevent Dounia from taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dounia had

received a letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps? It's true Razumihin was

there to protect her, but Razumihin knew nothing of the position. Perhaps it was his duty to tell Razumihin?

In any case he must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible, he decided finally. Thank God, the details of the

interview were of little consequence, if only he could get at the root of the matter; but if Svidrigailov were

Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that month that he could only decide such

A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle of the street and began looking about to see

where he was and which way he was going. He found himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty paces from the

Hay Market, through which he had come. The whole second storey of the house on the left was used as a

tavern. All the windows were wide open; judging from the figures moving at the windows, the rooms were

full to overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarionet and violin, and the boom of a Turkish drum.

He could hear women shrieking. He was about to turn back wondering why he had come to the X. Prospect,

when suddenly at one of the end windows he saw Svidrigailov, sitting at a teatable right in the open window

with a pipe in his mouth, Raskolnikov was dreadfully taken aback, almost terrified. 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 looking absentmindedly

away, while he watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently. Yet, 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 was seen and watched by the other. At last Svidrigailov broke

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 healthylooking redcheeked girl of eighteen, wearing a tuckedup striped

skirt, and a Tyrolese hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some servants'

"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 guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in

"As you like, I didn't mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don't want anything more today, you can go." He

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,

The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigailov was at home in this room and perhaps spent

"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!"

"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 Romanovitch. 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."

"Well, that's enough, you know," Svidrigailov was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so, he had not had

"I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having what you call an opinion of my

"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

"I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped mechanically on your memory. You turned

this way mechanically and yet precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware of it. When I

told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovitch.

And another thing, I'm convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves as they walk.

This is a town of crazy people. If only we had scientific men, doctors, lawyers and philosophers might make

most valuable investigations in Petersburg each in his own line. There are few places where there are so many

gloomy, strong and queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere influences of climate

mean so much. And it'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 householding 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

middle 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.

"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."

"Hehe! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and pretended to be asleep, though you were

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, 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

"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 myself 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 anythingfor I keep fancying all this time that you have something to tell memake

haste and tell it, for time is precious and very likely it will soon be too late."

"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

"Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the fantastic nature of your positionthat's

what it was! Besides you are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that person I had in

the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn't

that enough? Hahaha! 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

"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 nowyou saw her? . . . If

He pointed to a little table in the corner where the remnants of a terrible looking beefsteak and potatoes lay

"Have you dined, by the way? I've had something and want nothing more. I don't drink, for instance, at all.

Except for champagne I never touch anything, and not more than a glass of that all the evening, and even that

is enough to 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

halfpast four now. If only I'd been something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a

journalist . . . I am nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively bored. I really thought you would tell

"What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the cavalry, then I knocked about here in

Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. There you have my biography!"

"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

"Quite so," Svidrigailov smiled with engaging candour. "What of it? You seem to find something wrong in

"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

"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 everburning ember, for ever setting one on fire and maybe, not to be quickly

"Oh, that's what you think, is it? I agree, that it is a disease like everything that exceeds moderation. And, of

course, in this one must exceed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in one way or another,

and in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate and prudent, however mean it 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

"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 conversation. His face quite changed. "I admit it's an

unpardonable weakness, but I can't help it. I am afraid of death and I dislike its being talked of. Do you know

"Oh, don't talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg, confound them!" he cried with an air of

irritation. "Let's rather talk of that . . . though . . . H'm! I have not much time, and can't stay long with you, it's

"And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn't that affect you? Have you lost the

"And do you pretend to strength, too? Hehehe! You surprised me just now, Rodion Romanovitch, though I

knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to me about vice and aesthetics! Youa Schiller, youan

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 bytheway, are you fond

"Upon my word, I am not," answered Svidrigailov laughing. "However, I won't dispute it, let me be a

braggart, why not brag, if it hurts no one? I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now

when I come across an intelligent person like you intelligent and highly interestingI am simply glad to

talk and besides, I've drunk that halfglass 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

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.

"Aach! 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

"Oh, don't be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me, Avdotya Romanovna can only excite

"YOU know perhapsyes, I told you myself," began Svidrigailov, "that I was in the debtors' prison here, for

an immense sum, and had not any expectation of being able to pay it. There's no need to go into particulars 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 reproaches, condescended to enter into a kind

of contract with me which she kept throughout our married life? She was considerably older than I, and

besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There was so much swinishness in my soul and

honesty too, of a sort, as to tell her straight out that I couldn't be absolutely faithful to her. This confession

drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I

was unwilling to deceive her if I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know, that's

the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten contract was drawn up between us: first, that I would

never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never absent myself

without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent mistress; 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 Iwhich God forbidshould 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 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. Well, and that's enough, I think, by way of a

decorous oraison funebre for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled, I usually

held my tongue and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed to attain its object, it

influenced her, it pleased her, indeed. These were times when she was positively proud of me. But your sister

she couldn'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 herselfliterally fell in lovewith your sister. Well, little wonderlook 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 told Avdotya Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate

habit of telling literally every one all our family secrets and continually complaining of me; how could she

fail to confide in such a delightful new friend? I expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt

Avdotya Romanovna heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were current about me. . . . I don't mind

"I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child. Is that true?"

"Don't refer to those vulgar tales, I beg," said Svidrigailov with disgust and annoyance. "If you insist on

"I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom you treated badly."

"I 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,"

Svidrigailov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov fancied he caught a flash of spiteful mockery in that

"Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at

the first opportunity. Upon my soul! I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some people.

Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotya Romanovna such mysterious

and interesting gossip about me. I dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any case it worked in

my interests. With all Avdotya Romanovna's natural aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy and

repellent aspectshe did at least 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 herself. 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 proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who would endure

martyrdom and would have smiled when they branded her bosom with hot pincers. And she would have gone

to it of herself. And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked away into the Egyptian desert and

would have stayed there thirty years living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face

some torture for some one, and if she can't get her torture, she'll throw herself out of a window. I've heard

something of a Mr. Razumihinhe'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.

blackeyed wench, whom I had never seen beforeshe had just come from another villagevery 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 conversation by ourselves. I, of course, was

only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not

badly. Then came interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplications, even

tearswould 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 wellknown

resourceflattery. 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, 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 laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her

husband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little trouble! And the lady really had

principles, of her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly annihilated and prostrate before her

purity. I flattered her shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure of the hand, even a glance

from her, I would reproach myself for having snatched it by force, and would declare that she had resisted, so

that I could never have gained anything but for my being so unprincipled. I maintained that she was so

innocent that she could not foresee my treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In

fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all

her duties and obligations and had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me when I

explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna

was awfully weak on the side of flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her property settled

on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an awful lot of wine now and talking too much.) I hope you won'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 timesand one time in

particularbeen greatly displeased by the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was

sometimes a light in them which frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and more unguarded till it

was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in

the coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha came on to the scene again, and

not she alone; in fact there was a tremendous todo. 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 speaking the truth. I assure you that this glance has haunted my dreams; the very rustle of

her dress was more than I could stand at last. I really began to think that I might become epileptic. I could

never have believed that I could be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled, but by

then it was impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought by

frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovitch. I reflected that Avdotya Romanovna

was after all a beggar (ach, excuse me, that'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 moneythirty thousand roubles I could have realised thenif 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 themwhich would really have been

just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? I notice that you've begun to be very

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 unconsciously was affecting him and he

resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious of Svidrigailov.

"Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have come to Petersburg with designs on my

"Oh, nonsense," said Svidrigailov, seeming to rouse himself. "Why, I told you . . . besides your sister can't

"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.

"From some words you've dropped, I notice that you still have designsand of course evil oneson Dounia

"What, have I dropped words like that?" Svidrigailov asked in naive dismay, taking not the slightest notice of

"Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What are you so afraid of now?"

"Meafraid? 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

"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?"

"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

"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 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 lighthearted? 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 herin our class, of course,

or higher. She told me the father was a brokendown retired official, who has been sitting in a chair for the

last three years with his legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a son serving

in the provinces, but he doesn'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 present myselfa landowner, a widower, of a

wellknown name, with connections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty and she is not sixteen? Who thinks of

that? But it's fascinating, isn't it? It is fascinating, haha! 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 frockan unopened bud! Flushing like a sunsetshe 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! The present betrothed condition is perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called la

nature et la verite, haha! 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 hundred

roublesa set of diamonds and another of pearls and a silver dressingcase 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

unceremoniouslyshe 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 fascinating! 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 development excites your sensuality! Will you really make

"Why, of course. Every one thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily who knows best how to deceive

himself. Haha! But why are you so keen about virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful

"But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna. Though . . . though you had your own reasons.

"I am always fond of children, very fond of them," laughed Svidrigailov. "I can tell you one curious instance

of it. The first day I came here I visited various haunts, after seven years I simply rushed at them. You

probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew acquaintance with my old friends. I shall do without them as

long as I can. Do you know, when I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought of

these places where 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 denI like my dens dirtyit was a dance, so called, and there was a cancan such as I never saw in

my day. Yes, there you have progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely dressed, dancing

with a specialist in that line, with another one vis�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 andI like

your public, even the cancan publicthey laughed and shouted, 'Serves her rightserves 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 illbred 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 acquaintance as an honour. I found out that they had

nothing of their own and had come to town upon some legal business. I proffered my services and money. I

learnt that they had gone to the dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class. I

offered to assist in the young girl's education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted with enthusiasm

as an honourand we are still friendly. . . . If you like, we'll go and see them, only not just now."

"Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! O la vertu vatelle se nicher? But you know I shall tell you these things

Svidrigailov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill, and began getting up.

"I should rather think it must be a pleasure!" cried Raskolnikov, getting up. "No doubt it is a pleasure for a

wornout profligate to describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his

mindespecially under such circumstances and to such a man as me. . . . It's stimulating!"

"Well, if you come to that," Svidrigailov answered, scrutinising 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

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

preoccupied with something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and uneasy in

anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes, and he was

ruder and more sneering every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became very

"You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way. Only adieu, mon plaisir, may we meet

"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

Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he wished to make certain.

Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigailov's face changed. Having satisfied himself

that Raskolnikov was not frightened at his 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

"That's as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of

high rank, the patroness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by

depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to

the institution as well. I told her too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It

produced an indescribable effect on her. That's why Sofya Semyonovna has been invited to call today at the

"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

"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. Haha! 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 goodness' sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!"

"But I'm not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I'm talking of the way you keep sighing

and groaning now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors.

If that's how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance; you made a little mistake in your

theory. But if you are convinced that one mustn't listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one's

pleasure, you'd better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man! There may still be time. I'm

"I understand (but don't put yourself out, don't discuss it if you don't want to). I understand the questions you

are worrying over moral ones, aren't they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are nothing

to you now, haha! 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?"

"What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see, that's the way to Sofya

Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don't you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key

with him. Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone out?

Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won't be till late in the evening probably. Well, come to my room;

you wanted to come and see me, didn't 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 bureausee what a lot I've got of

them still this one will be turned into cash today. 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? I'll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will come

Svidrigailov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were at least for that

moment unjust. Without answering a word he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had

only turned round on his way he might have seen 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

"To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and

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

When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as usual, into deep thought. On the bridge

he stood by the railing and began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him.

He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing her. Dounia had never met him like this

in the street before and was struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether to call to him or

not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigailov coming quickly from the direction 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 observed Dounia for some time and had been

making signs to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak to her brother, but to come to him.

"Let us make haste away," Svidrigailov whispered to her, "I don't want Rodion Romanovitch to know of our

meeting. I must tell you I've been sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up and I had

great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter to you and suspects something. It

"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 curious secret of your beloved

"What are you afraid of?" he observed quietly. "The town is not the country. And even in the country you did

"No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain whether she is at home now. But most likely she

is. She has buried her stepmother today: 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 you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad

as betrayal in a thing like this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it. That's the porter of our

househe 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 mineshe lodges

in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child? Am I really so

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

"Though I know that you are not a man . . . of honour, I am not in the least afraid of you. Lead the way," she

"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 does not come back in ten minutes,

I will send her to you, today 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

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 Semyonovna's table; she sat there talking to Rodion Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two

successive evenings, for two hours each timeand of course I was able to learn something, what do you

He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sittingroom and offered her a chair. He sat down at the

opposite side of the table, at least seven feet from her, but probably there was the same glow in his eyes

which had once frightened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her distrustfully. It

was an involuntary gesture; she evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of

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, she had another trouble in her heart incomparably greater than fear

"Here is your letter," she said, laying it on the table. "Can it be true what you write? You hint at a crime

committed, you say, by my brother. You hint at it too clearly; you daren't deny it now. I must tell you that I'd

heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don't believe a word of it. It's a disgusting and ridiculous

suspicion. I know the story and why and how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to

prove it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don't believe you! I don't believe you!"

Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour rushed to her face.

"If you didn't believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms? Why have you come? Simply from

"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 lookout. 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?"

"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

pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister too, a pedlar woman called

Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought

with him. He murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and various things. . . . He told

all this, word for word, to Sofya Semyonovna, the only person who knows his secret. But she has had no

share by word or deed in the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don't be anxious, she won't

"It cannot be," muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for breath. "It cannot be. There was not the

"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

"But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?" cried Dounia, and she jumped up from the chair.

"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

"It's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here's . . . how shall I tell you?A theory of a sort, the same one by

which I for instance consider that a single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary

wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It's galling too, of course, for a young man of gifts and

overweening pride to know that if he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole

future would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability

from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid 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. . . . I am not blaming him, please don't think it; besides, it's not my business. A special

little theory came in tooa theory of a sortdividing mankind, you see, into material and superior persons,

that is persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of

mankind, the material, that is. It's all right as a theory, une theorie 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 toothat is, he was convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is still suffering from

the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapable of boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man

of genius. And that's humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially. . . ."

"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 illbred 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

"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

"I want to see Sofya Semyonovna," Dounia articulated faintly. "How do I go to her? She has come in,

"Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe not. She was to have been back at once, but

"Ah, then you are lying! I see . . . you were lying . . . lying all the time. . . . I don't believe you! I don't believe

Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigailov made haste to give her.

"Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water. Drink a little. . . ."

"It has acted violently," Svidrigailov muttered to himself, frowning. "Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself!

Believe me, he has friends. We will save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can

get a ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm

"To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in at that door and now it is locked.

"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

"It all depends on you, on you, on you alone," he begin with glowing eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly

"You . . . one word from you, and he is saved. I. . . . I'll save him. I have money and friends. I'll send him

away at once. I'll get a passport, two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends . . . capable people.

. . . If you like, I'll take a passport for you . . . for your mother. . . . What do you want with Razumihin? I love

you too. . . . I love you beyond everything. . . . Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let me. . . . The very

rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, 'do that,' and I'll do it. I'll do everything. I will do the impossible.

What you believe, I will believe. I'll do anything anything! Don't, don't look at me like that. Do you know

He was almost beginning to rave. . . . Something seemed suddenly to go to his head. Dounia jumped up and

"Open it! Open it!" she called, shaking the door. "Open it! Is there no one there?"

Svidrigailov got up and came to himself. His still trembling lips slowly broke into an angry mocking smile.

"There is no one at home," he said quietly and emphatically. "The landlady has gone out, and it's waste of

"This is an outrage," cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She rushed to the furthest corner, where she made

She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched every movement he made.

Svidrigailov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her. He was positively composed, at least

in appearance, but his face was pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face.

"You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you may be sure I've taken measures.

Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The Kapernaumovs are far awaythere 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."

"As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general proposition. It's my personal conviction

that you are perfectly rightviolence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse even

if . . . you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I suggest to you. You would be simply

submitting to circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think about it. Your brother's and

your mother's fate are in your hands. I will be your slave . . . all my life . . . I will wait here."

Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dounia. She had not the slightest doubt now of his

unbending determination. Besides, she knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it

"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

"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 were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I

"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

"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."

"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.

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

Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov not so much in terror as in a sort of wild amazement.

"Well, you missed! Fire again, I'll wait," said Svidrigailov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. "If you go on

"Let me be," she cried in despair. "I swear I'll shoot again. I . . . I'll kill you."

"Well . . . at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don't . . . then." His eyes flashed and he took two

"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's dropped it!" said Svidrigailov with surprise, and he drew a deep breath. A weight seemed to have

rolled from his heartperhaps 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

"Let me go," Dounia implored. Svidrigailov shuddered. Her voice now was quite different.

There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of Svidrigailov. He looked at her with an

indescribable gaze. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it. Another

He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table behind him, without turning or looking at

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

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.

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 contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of

despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand. He looked angrily at it, then wetted a

towel and washed his temple. The revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly

caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket threebarrel revolver of oldfashioned

construction. There were still two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He thought a

HE SPENT that evening till ten o'clock, going from one low haunt to another. Katia too turned up and sang

Svidrigailov treated Katia and the organgrinder and some singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He

was particularly drawn to these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and

the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was

one lanky threeyearold pine tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a "Vauxhall," which was in reality

a drinkingbar 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 quarreled 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 understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one of

them had stolen something and had even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the

spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon belonging to the Vauxhall.

It was missed and the affair began to seem troublesome. Svidrigailov 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

It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening stormclouds came over the sky about ten o'clock. There was

a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in

streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five.

Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau, took out all his money and tore up

two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking

out of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out

of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.

She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She was giving them tea. She received

Svidrigailov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at

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 today? 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, whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on living in the

"I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my stepmother," said Sonia hurriedly, "and if I've

"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 Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna's debt and not yours, so you ought

not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can't get through the world like that. If you are ever

questioned about metomorrow or the day after you will be askeddon'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 goodbye." (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

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.

"Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Goodbye, 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

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 Svidrigailov 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 question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands

and then, if she were obliged to ascertain somethingfor instance, when Svidrigailov would like to have the

weddingshe 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

Svidrigailov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time,

and therefore brought her fifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present from him, as he

had long been intending to make her this trifling present before their wedding. The logical connection of the

present with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose in pouring

rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all went off very well; even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder

and regret, the inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude

expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers. 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

wealththere was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away

money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange that

he was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of high

society didn'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

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 stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking

for something on the right side of the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately that there was a

hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large. and its name he remembered was something

like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that Godforsaken 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 together and led him at once to a close

and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other, all were

"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 cafe chantant and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed here."

He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room so lowpitched that Svidrigailov

could not 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 colouryellowcould

still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic, but

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 entered the room. He listened: some one was upbraiding and almost tearfully scolding, but he

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 his, had two occupants. One of

them, a very curlyheaded man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the pose of an orator, without his

coat, with his legs wide apart to preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached the

other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He declared that he had taken the other out of

the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The

object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but

can'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 himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. He took off his coat and,

wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. "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 remembered how he had disliked it when he passed

Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he felt cold again as he

had when standing there. "I never have liked water," he 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 animal that picks out a special place . . . for such an occasion. I ought to

have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold, haha! As though I were seeking pleasant

sensations! . . . By the way, why haven't I put out the candle?" he blew it out. "They've gone to bed next

door," he 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, a bad sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temperthat's a bad sign too.

And the promises I made her just now, tooDamnation! Butwho knows?perhaps she would have made

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 instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his heart . . .

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

The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling

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 persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images

of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday Trinity day. A

fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going

round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase,

carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows

nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He

was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawingroom

and again everywhereat the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itselfwere

flowers. The floors were strewn with freshlycut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air

came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table

covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a

thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin

dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair

hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked

as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery

and sorrowful appeal. 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 something like a garden, and apparently a

pleasure garden. There, too, probably there were tea tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain

flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that he could only just make out

some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigailov, bending down with elbows on the windowsill, gazed for five

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.

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 houseflannel. 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 from what she said that she was

a neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and frightened

her; that the child had broken a cup of her mother's and was so frightened that she had run away the evening

before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden

behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear

that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and

began undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been

standing in a puddle all night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped

her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank into dreary musing again.

"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 quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye

peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so.

Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to control them. But

now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative

in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French

harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited

him. . . . There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness

in the face of a child. "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

"I've had nightmare all night!" He got up angrily, feeling utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick

mist outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up, put on his still

damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a

notebook out of his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a 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

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 illhumouredly

staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cabman or a passerby in the street.

The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters. The cold and

damp penetrated his whole body and he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and

read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A

dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a 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

shouted, "here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness

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

"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

"You can't do it here, it's not the place," cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.

THE SAME day, about seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother's and sister's

lodgingthe 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

"Besides, it doesn't matter, they still know nothing," he thought, "and they are used to thinking of me as

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 twentyfour 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

"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 crying? 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.

"No, no," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, "you thought I was going to crossquestion 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 an truly I see for myself that they are better. I've made up my mind once for all: how could I understand

your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or

what ideas you are hatching; so it'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 mystery! Learned

people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I

worry him and upset him. I read it, my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but

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 twentythree. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines he

frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He

"But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leadingif

not the leading manin 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 itwhat do you say to that! Your father sent twice to magazinesthe

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 position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt

you don't care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters. . . ."

"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 you and respects you, my dear. I don't say that Dounia is very

wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got

some secrets of late and I never have any secrets 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, anyway, that you are

fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear about you from every one,

and sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you've come now to comfort your

"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."

"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

"Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything

"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

Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently.

"I don't know what is wrong with you, Rodya," she said at last. "I've been thinking all this time that we were

simply boring you and now I see that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that's why you are

miserable. I've foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking about it. I keep thinking about it and

lie awake at nights. Your sister lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I caught

something, but I couldn't make it out. I felt all the morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for

something, expecting something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You are going

"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 dearlyand 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?"

"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 after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet and

both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him this time. For some days she had

realised that something awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had come for him.

"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 evening you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed simply from your

eyes. My heart sank at once, and today when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour

"Rodya, don't be angry, I don't dare to question you. I know I mustn't. Only say two words to meis it far

"What God sends . . . only pray for me." Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched him and gazed

It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he

made haste. He wanted to finish all before sunset. He did not want to meet any one till then. Going up the

stairs he 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.

"I've been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be

"I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this moment to be able to control myself."

"I 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

"Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in

"I haven't faith, but I have just been weeping in mother's arms; I haven't faith, but I have just asked her to

"Have you been at mother's? Have you told her?" cried Dounia, horrorstricken. "Surely you haven't done

"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 am

"Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked

into the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong till now I'd better not be afraid of disgrace," he

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

"Oh, Rodya, hush!" cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the

floor; Dounia stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.

"It's late, it's time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I don't know why I am going to give

"Aren't you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering!" she cried, holding him close and kissing him.

"Crime? What crime?" he cried in sudden fury. "That I killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker

woman, of use to no one! . . . Killing her was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor

people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of expiating it, and why are you all

rubbing it in on all sides? '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

spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of

mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do good to men and would have done

hundreds, thousands of good deeds to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply

clumsiness, for the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it has failed. . . . (Everything seems

stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the

first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in

comparison. . . . But I . . . I couldn'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

"Ah, it's not picturesque, not aesthetically 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.

The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his last explanation, he happened to

meet Dounia'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 . . .

"Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty). Goodbye! 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 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 goodbye 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!

He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from between the pages a little

watercolour portrait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady's daughter, who had died of fever, that

strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate expressive face of his

"I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her," he said thoughtfully. "To her heart I confided much of

what has since been so hideously realised. Don't be uneasy," he returned to Dounia, "she was as much

opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point is that everything now is going to be

different, is going to be broken in two," he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. "Everything,

everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What's

the object of these senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed by

hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to

live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at

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

"I 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, 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 a criminal. Yes, that's it, that's it, that's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want.

Look at them 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

He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could be humbled before all of them,

indiscriminatelyhumbled 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

WHEN 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

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

alternativesSiberia 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

Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking intently out of the window, but from

it she could see nothing but the unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to feel

"Yes," said Raskolnikov, smiling. "I have come for your cross, Sonia. It was you told me to go to the cross

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

"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 answerthey'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

He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or concentrate his attention on

anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.

Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress wood and one of copper. She made

the sign of the cross over herself and over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck.

"It's the symbol of my taking up the cross," he laughed. "As though I had not suffered much till now! The

wooden cross, that is the peasant one; the copper one, that is Lizaveta'syou will wear yourself, show me!

So she had it on . . . at that moment? I remember two things like these too, a silver one and a little ikon. I

threw them back on the old woman's neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I ought to

put on now. . . . But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what matters; I'm somehow forgetful. . . . You see I

have come to warn you, Sonia, so that you might know . . . that's allthat's all I came for. But I thought I

had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I am going to prison and you'll have your wish.

Well, what are you crying for? 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 looking after me, like my mother or Dounia?

"Cross yourself, say at least one prayer," Sonia begged in a timid broken voice.

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

"What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I'll go alone," he cried in cowardly vexation,

and almost resentful, he moved towards the door. "What's the use of going in procession!" he muttered going

Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said goodbye to her; he had forgotten

"Was it right, was it right, all this?" he thought again as he went down the stairs. "Couldn't he stop and retract

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 goodbye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of the room in

her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same

instant, another thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then.

"Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told heron business; on what business? I had no sort of

business! To tell her I was going; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her away just now

like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I've sunk! No, I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror,

to see how her heart ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some friendly face to

see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch,

He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped

He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and could not fix his attention on anything;

everything slipped away. "In another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this bridge,

how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember this!" slipped into his mind. "Look at this sign!

How shall I read those letters then? It's written here 'Campany,' that's a thing to remember, that letter a, and to

look at it again in a monthhow shall I look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then? . . . How

trivial it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be interesting . . . in its way . . .

(Hahaha! What am I thinking about?) I am becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I

ashamed? Foo, how people shove! that fat mana German he must bewho 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

He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be in a crowd, but he walked just where he

saw most people. He would have given anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he would

not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to

dance and falling down. There was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd,

stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute later he had

forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where he

was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him

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 hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially of the last hours, had weighed so heavily

upon him that he positively clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came over him

like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in him

softened at once and the tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot. . . .

He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss

"He's going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying goodbye to his children and his country. He's bowing down

to all the world and kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its pavement," added a workman who was a

These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, "I am a murderer," which were

perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips, died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and

without looking round, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a glimpse of something on

the way which did not surprise him; he had felt 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 marketplace. 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

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 lieutenant," 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

Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office. There were very few people in it this

timeonly 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 uniform was settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was seating

"Aah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the Russian . . . how does it go on in the fairy

Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had just come in from the third

"You've come to see us? What about?" cried Ilya Petrovitch. He was obviously in an exceedingly good

humour and perhaps a trifle exhilarated. "If it's on business you are rather early. [1] It's only a chance that I

am here . . . however I'll do what I can. I must admit, I . . . what is it, what is it? Excuse me. . . ."

"Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn't imagine I'd forgotten? Don't think I am like that . . . Rodion

"Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. I made many inquiries about you. I assure

you I've been genuinely grieved since that . . . since I behaved like that . . . it was explained to me afterwards

that you were a literary man . . . and a learned one too . . . and so to say the first steps . . . Mercy on us! What

literary or scientific man does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and I have the greatest

respect for literature, in my wife it's a genuine passion! Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all

the rest can be gained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hatwell, 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

"I've even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sistera 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.

"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

featherheaded youngster, that's all; one might have expected something from him, but there, you know what

they are, our brilliant young men. He wanted to go in for some examination, but it's only to talk and boast

about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it's a very different matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there,

your friend. Your career is an intellectual one and you won't be deterred by failure. For you, one may say, all

the attractions of life nihil estyou are an ascetic, a monk, a hermit! . . . A book, a pen behind your ear, a

learned researchthat's where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself. . . . Have you read Livingstone's

"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

"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 man and a citizen. . . . You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will make a scandal

in the French style in a house of bad reputation, over a glass of champagne . . . that's all your Zametov is

good for! While I'm perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have rank,

consequence, a post! I am married and have children, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he,

may I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education . . . Then these midwives, too, have become

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

"I mean those cropheaded wenches," the talkative Ilya Petrovitch continued. "Midwives is my name for

them. I think it a very satisfactory one, haha! 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? Haha!" Ilya Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his

own wit. "It's an immoderate zeal for education, but once you're educated, that's enough. Why abuse it? Why

insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? Look at these

suicides, too, how common they are, you can't fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill themselves,

boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil

"Yes, that's so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in

such a shocking way. . . . He left in his notebook a few words; that he dies in full possession of his faculties

and that no one is to blame for his death. He had money, they say. How did you come to know him?"

"Bahbahbah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had no suspicion?"

"Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It's a pleasure to see you and I am glad to say so."

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 rollingpin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from

the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horrorstricken. 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

Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly nearer. He walked right to the table, leaned his

hand on it, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent sounds were audible.

Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the face of Ilya Petrovitch which expressed

unpleasant surprise. Both looked at one another for a minute and waited. Water was brought.

Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly, but distinctly said:

"It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them."

[1] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the

SIBERIA. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of the administrative centres of Russia; in

the town there is a fortress, in the fortress there is a prison. In the prison the secondclass convict Rodion

Raskolnikov 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, without making use of them, and that, what was more, he did not now remember

what the trinkets were like, or even how many there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse and

did not even know how much was in it seemed incredible. There turned out to be in the purse three hundred

and seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From being so long under the stone, some of the most valuable

notes lying uppermost had suffered from the damp. They were a long while trying to discover why the

accused man should tell a lie about this, when about everything else he had made a truthful and

straightforward confession. Finally some of the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was

possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so didn't know what was in it when he hid it under the

stone. But they immediately drew the deduction that the crime could only have been committed through

temporary mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without object or the pursuit of gain. This fell in

with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal cases.

Moreover Raskolnikov'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

To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the criminal scarcely attempted to defend

himself. To the decisive question as to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he answered

very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable position, his poverty and

helplessness, and his desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand roubles he

had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and cowardly nature,

exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he answered that it

The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected, perhaps partly because the criminal

had not tried to justify himself, but had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and

peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration. There could be no doubt of the abnormal

and povertystricken condition of the criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what he had

stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his abnormal mental condition at the time of the

crime. Incidentally the murder of Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man commits two

murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the confession, at the very moment when the case was

hopelessly muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and fanaticism, and when,

moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his

word)all this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the prisoner's favour came out

quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university

he had helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on supporting him for six

months, and when this student died, leaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained almost from his

thirteenth year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral when he died.

Raskolnikov's landlady bore witness, too, that when they had lived in another house at Five Corners,

Raskolnikov had rescued two little children from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This was

investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts made an impression in his favour.

And in the end the criminal was in consideration of extenuating circumstances condemned to penal servitude

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 Alexandrovna's illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied by a partial

When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had found her mother already ill, in

feverish delirium. That evening Razumihin and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother's

questions about Raskolnikov add made up a complete story for her mother's benefit of his having to go away

to a distant part of Russia on a business commission, which would bring him in the end money and

But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked them anything on the subject,

neither then nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own version of her son's sudden departure; she told

them with tears how he had come to say goodbye to her, hinting that she alone knew many mysterious and

important facts, and that Rodya had many very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary for him to be in

hiding. As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when certain sinister influences

could be removed. She assured Razumihin that her son would be one day a great statesman, that his article

and brilliant literary talent proved it. This article she was continually reading, she even read it aloud, almost

took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked where Rodya was, though the subject was obviously avoided by the

They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's strange silence on certain subjects. She did

not, for instance, complain of getting no letters from him, though in previous years she had only lived on the

hope of letters from her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of great uneasiness to Dounia; the idea occurred

to her that her mother suspected that there was something terrible in her son'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

It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave such a turn to the conversation that it

was impossible to answer her without mentioning where Rodya was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and

suspicious answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood lasted for a long time. Dounia saw

at last that it was hard to deceive her and came to the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely silent on

certain points; but it became more and more evident that the poor mother suspected something terrible.

Dounia remembered her brother's telling her that her mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the

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 incessantly of her son, of her hopes

of his future. . . . Her fancies were sometimes very strange. They humoured her, pretended to agree with her

Five months after Raskolnikov's confession, he was sentenced. Razumihin and Sonia saw him in prison as

often as it was possible. At last the moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that the

separation should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in his youthful ardour, had firmly

resolved to lay the foundations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four years, and saving

up a certain sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every natural resource and in need of workers,

active men and capital. There they would settle in the town where Rodya was and all together would begin a

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 money left to 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 between Raskolnikov and her on the

subject, but both knew it would be so. At the final leavetaking he smiled strangely at his sister's and

Razumihin's fervent anticipations of their happy future together when he should come out of prison. He

predicted that their mother's illness would soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at last set off.

Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and sorrowful wedding; Porfiry

Petrovitch and Zossimov were invited however. During all this period Razumihin wore an air of resolute

determination. Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans and indeed she could not but believe in

him. He displayed a rare strength of will. Among other things he began attending university lectures again in

order to take his degree. They were continually making plans for the future; both counted on settling in

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 disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was continually talking about them, even

entering into conversation with strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In public

conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener, she would begin the discourse about her son,

his article, how he had helped the student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on! Dounia did not know

how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there was the risk of 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 goodbye to her he said that they must expect him back in nine months.

She began to prepare for his coming, began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put

up new hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a

fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in joyful day dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill

in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever. She died within a fortnight. In

her delirium she dropped words which showed that she knew a great deal more about her son's terrible fate

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 husband could get little comfort out of the news, especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was

constantly sullen and not ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave him from their

letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told

him at last of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by it, not externally at

any rate. She told them that, although he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off

from every onehe took a very direct and simple view of his new life; that he understood his position,

expected nothing better for the time, had no illfounded hopes (as is so common in his position) and scarcely

seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he had known before. She wrote that his

health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirking or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent

about food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been glad to accept

some money from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything

else, declaring that all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in prison he shared the

same room with the rest, that she had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were

crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a rug under him and was unwilling to

make any other arrangement. But that he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply

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 guardroom, 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

About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some acquaintances in the town, that she did

sewing, and, as there was scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an indispensable person

in many houses. But she did not mention that the authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov;

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

HE WAS ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not the hard labour, the bad food, the

shaven head, or the patched clothes that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships! he

was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep.

And what was the food to himthe 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 particoloured 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 nothingthat

was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be

thirtytwo and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why

should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up

existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for

him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had

And if only fate would have sent him repentanceburning 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

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, in 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 commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so . . . strange. Oh, sceptics and halfpenny

"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

It was only in that that he recognized his criminality, only in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had

He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and

preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigailov

In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that, at the very time he had been standing

looking into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his

convictions. He didn't understand that that consciousness might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new

He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through

weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and

prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible

agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray

of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had

marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green

grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples.

In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see; he lived as it were with

downcast eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised

him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised

him most of all was the terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a

different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the

reasons of his isolation, but he would never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and

strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon all

the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant

men were in many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were just as

contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He was

disliked and avoided by every one; they even began to hate him at last,why, he could not tell. Men who

"You're a gentleman," they used to say. "You shouldn't hack about with an axe; that's not a gentleman's

The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his gang. He went to church and prayed

with the others. A quarrel broke out one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.

"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. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently;

his eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in intervening between him and his

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 sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And

when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats

to her. "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 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 conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible.

Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not

understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat

himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what

to consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other in

a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the

armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each

other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the

towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The

most ordinary trades were abandoned, because 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 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 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 atime she had to obtain

permission, and it was difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening,

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

He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing

that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she

had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon, come and see him at his work. His heart throbbed

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 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 daydreams, 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

How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet.

He wept and threw his arms round her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned

pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light if

infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and

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 infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while

On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and

thought of her. He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him

differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered

that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn'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 how; he knew with

what infinite love he would 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 concern. But he could not think for long together of anything that

evening, and he could not have analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into

the place of history 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 now?

She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happyand

so unexpectedly happythat she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At

the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to look on those seven years as

though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he

would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering.

But that is the beginning of a new storythe story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual

regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That