V
The latter was already entering the main room. He entered with the air of a man doing all he could not to explode with laughter. Following him in, with a thoroughly downcast, scowling countenance, as red as a peony, all lanky and awkward, came a sheepish Razumikhin. There really was, at that moment, something comical about his face and entire appearance that warranted Raskolnikov’s laughter.
Raskolnikov, yet to be introduced, bowed to their host, who was standing in the middle of the room and looking at them quizzically, then shook the latter’s hand while continuing to make apparently desperate efforts to suppress his gaiety and at least string a few words together by way of an introduction. But no sooner did he manage to assume a serious expression and mumble something than suddenly, as if unable to help himself, he glanced at Razumikhin again, and that was that: the suppressed laughter, held in for so long and with such effort, burst out uncontrollably.
The ferocity of the scowls which this ‘heartfelt’ laughter drew from Razumikhin gave to the whole scene an air of the sincerest gaiety and, most importantly, spontaneity.
Razumikhin, as if on cue, gave another helping hand. ‘Damn you!’ he roared with a great swing of his arm, which smacked straight into a little round table bearing an emptied glass of tea. Everything went flying with a clink and a tinkle. ‘No need to break the chairs, gentlemen – there’s the 12 public purse to think about!’shouted Porfiry Petrovich gaily.
The scene was as follows: Raskolnikov, his hand forgotten in that of his host, was still laughing, but, not wishing to overdo it, was waiting for the right moment to
stop. Razumikhin, hopelessly embarrassed by the toppled table and broken glass, glowered at the fragments, spat and turned around sharply to face the window, with his back to his audience and his face all furrowed, looking out of the window and seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was laughing and was eager to do so, but it was also clear that he was waiting for an explanation. On a chair in the corner sat Zametov, who had half-risen when the guests came in and was waiting expectantly, his lips parted to form a smile, though he was looking at the whole scene with bewilderment, not to say scepticism, and at Raskolnikov even with a certain discomfort. Zametov’s presence came as an unpleasant shock to Raskolnikov. ‘What’s he doing here?’ went through his mind. ‘Please forgive me,’ he began, with a great show of embarrassment, ‘Raskolnikov . . .’ ‘Don’t mention it. It’s my pleasure, sir, and a pleasure to see you make such an entrance . . . But isn’t he even going to say hello?’ said Porfiry Petrovich, with a nod in the direction of Razumikhin. ‘I can’t think why he’s so mad at me. I merely said to him, on the way over, that he’s like Romeo and . . . and proved it, and that’s really all there was to it.’ ‘Swine!’ Razumikhin shot back, without turning round. ‘He must have had good reason to get so upset about one little word,’ laughed Porfiry. ‘Look at you – investigator! . . . Well, to hell with you all anyway!’ snapped Razumikhin, before he, too, suddenly burst out laughing and, with a cheerful expression, as if nothing had happened, walked up to Porfiry Petrovich. ‘Enough of this! We’re idiots, the lot of us. Now then: my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, has heard a lot about you and was keen to meet you, that’s the first thing; secondly, he’s here on a bit of business. Ha! Zametov! What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you know each other?
When did that happen?’
‘Now what?’ thought Raskolnikov anxiously.
Zametov seemed embarrassed, though only a little. ‘We met yesterday, at your place,’ was his nonchalant reply. ‘Oh well, that’s one less job for me, then. All last week he was pestering me to arrange an introduction with you, Porfiry, but I see you’re already in cahoots . . . Now where’s your tobacco?’ Porfiry Petrovich was dressed for indoors – a dressing gown, immaculate linen and soft, down-at-heel shoes. He was a man of about thirty-five, of somewhat less than average height, plump and even with a bit of a belly, clean- shaven, with neither a moustache nor whiskers, and with thick cropped hair on a big round head, its roundness somehow especially marked from behind. His puffy, round and slightly snub-nosed face was of a sickly, dark-yellow hue, but lively enough and with a touch of mockery about it. It might even have been good-natured, were it not for the expression of the eyes, with their vaguely watery sheen and lashes that were almost white and kept blinking, as if winking at someone. This expression was somehow strangely at odds with his general appearance, which even had something womanish about it, and imparted a far more serious aspect than might have been expected at first glance.
As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that his visitor had come ‘on a bit of business’, he immediately offered him a seat on the couch, sat himself down at the other end and stared at his guest, eagerly waiting for him to explain what this business was, with that emphatically and excessively serious attention which can be quite oppressive and disconcerting when first encountered, especially in a stranger and especially when what you are explaining is, in your own opinion, completely incommensurate with the unusual solicitude being shown to you. But Raskolnikov, in a few brief and coherent sentences, lucidly and precisely
explained the matter and was so satisfied with his efforts that he even managed to take a good look at Porfiry. Nor did Porfiry Petrovich take his eyes off Raskolnikov, during all this time. Razumikhin, who had sat down opposite them at the same table, was following Raskolnikov’s summary with a burning impatience, constantly shifting his eyes from one to the other and back again, which seemed a little
excessive. ‘Idiot!’ Raskolnikov swore to himself. ‘You ought to submit a statement to the police,’ Porfiry responded with the most business-like air, ‘to the effect, sir, that being apprised of such-and-such an incident – the murder, I mean – you are requesting, in your turn, that the investigator entrusted with this matter be informed that items such-and-such belong to you and that you wish to redeem them . . . or whatever . . . but they’ll write it for you themselves, in any case.’ ‘The problem is,’ said Raskolnikov, with as much embarrassment as he could muster, ‘that I’m a bit out of pocket right now . . . and I can’t even stump up the petty cash for . . . You see, for the moment all I wish to do is declare that the items are mine, and when the money comes in . . .’ ‘Makes no odds, sir,’ replied Porfiry Petrovich, unmoved by this clarification about the state of his finances, ‘but if you prefer you may write directly to me to the same effect, namely, that being apprised of such-and-such and declaring items such-and-such to be mine, I request . . .’ 13 ‘Ordinary paperwill do, I take it?’ Raskolnikov hastened to interrupt, expressing his interest once again in the financial side of the matter. ‘Oh, as ordinary as you like, sir!’ – and Porfiry Petrovich suddenly looked at him with a sort of blatant mockery, narrowing his eyes and even winking at him. Or perhaps this was just Raskolnikov’s impression, for it lasted no
more than an instant. In any case, something of the sort occurred. Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, the devil only knew why. ‘He knows!’ flashed through him like lightning. ‘Forgive me for bothering you with such trifles,’ he went on, somewhat knocked off his stride. ‘My items are only worth five roubles, but they’re especially dear to me, as a memento of who they came from, and I admit I had a real fright when I heard . . .’ ‘So that’s why you got in such a flap yesterday when I blurted out to Zosimov that Porfiry was questioning the pawners?’ Razumikhin put in, with obvious intent.
This was too much to bear and Raskolnikov’s black eyes flashed fire in the direction of Razumikhin. But he instantly came to his senses. ‘You seem to be making fun of me, brother?’ he said to him with artfully affected irritation. ‘I understand that in your eyes a bit of junk may not be worth all this fuss, but that’s no reason to think me either selfish or greedy, and in my eyes these two paltry little things might not be junk at all. Didn’t I tell you just now that the silver watch, which is barely worth a copeck, is the only thing of my father’s to have survived? Laugh all you like, but my mother has come to see me’ – he suddenly turned to Porfiry – ‘and if she were to find out’ – he turned back sharply to Razumikhin, trying his best to make his voice tremble – ‘that the watch has vanished, she’d be distraught, I swear! Women!’ ‘No! That’s not what I meant at all! Quite the opposite!’ cried an aggrieved Razumikhin. ‘Any good? Natural enough? Not over the top?’ Raskolnikov asked himself anxiously. ‘Why did I go and say “women”?’ ‘So your mother has come to see you, has she?’ Porfiry
Petrovich enquired for some reason.
‘Yes.’ ‘And she arrived when, sir?’
‘Yesterday evening.’ Porfiry fell silent, as if working something out. ‘There’s no way your items could have vanished, no way at all,’ he continued calmly and coldly. ‘After all, I’ve been expecting you here for some time.’ And then, as if nothing had happened, he set about offering an ashtray to Razumikhin, who was scattering ash all over the rug. Raskolnikov flinched, but Porfiry, still preoccupied with Razumikhin’s papirosa, appeared not to notice. ‘What did you say? Expecting him? But how could you know he’d been pawning thingsthere too?’ Razumikhin shouted.
Porfiry Petrovich addressed Raskolnikov directly: ‘Both your items, the ring and the watch, were foundat hers wrapped up in the same piece of paper, and your name was clearly marked on the paper in pencil, as was the day of the month when she received them from you . . .’ ‘How very perceptive of you . . . ,’ said Raskolnikov, forcing an awkward grin and trying his best to look him straight in the eye; but he couldn’t restrain himself and suddenly added: ‘I said that just now because there must have been a great number of pawners . . . and it would have been hard for you to remember them all . . . Yet you remember them all so clearly and . . . and . . .’ (‘How stupid! How pathetic! Why did I go and say that?’) ‘Nearly all the pawners have now been identified – you alone did not see fit to visit,’ Porfiry replied, with a barely
discernible hint of mockery. ‘I wasn’t entirely well.’ ‘So I heard, sir. I even heard that you were terribly upset about something. You seem somewhat pale even now?’ ‘I’m not remotely pale . . . in fact, I’m perfectly well!’ Raskolnikov snapped back, suddenly changing his tone.
The spite was bubbling up inside him and he couldn’t keep it down. ‘I’ll end up saying something I regret!’ flashed
through his mind once more. ‘But why must they torment me?’ ‘Perfectly well, did he say?’ Razumikhin jumped in. ‘Poppycock! Even yesterday you were still raving, almost out of your mind . . . Consider this, Porfiry: he could barely stand, but the second Zosimov and I turned our backs yesterday he got dressed, made off and gadded about somewhere until it was nearly midnight, and all this, let me tell you, when he was completely and utterly delirious. Can you imagine? A most extraordinary case!’ ‘Completely and utterly delirious! Really? Well I never!’ said Porfiry, with a womanish shake of the head. ‘What nonsense! Don’t believe him! Though actually, you don’t believe a word of this anyway!’ Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovich appeared not to hear these strange words. ‘But how could you have gone out if you weren’t delirious?’ asked Razumikhin with a sudden rush of excitement. ‘Why did you go out? What for? . . . And why so secretly? You can’t have been thinking straight, can you? I can be frank with you now the danger’s passed!’ ‘I was sick to death of them yesterday,’ Raskolnikov suddenly told Porfiry with an insolent, defiant sneer, ‘so I ran off to rent a place where they couldn’t find me, and took a pile of money with me. Mr Zametov over there saw the cash. Well, Mr Zametov: was I delirious yesterday or was I clever? You settle the argument.’ He could have strangled Zametov there and then. The way he was looking at him without saying anything was more than he could stand. ‘If you ask me, you were speaking perfectly sensibly and even cunningly, sir, only you were much too irritable,’ came Zametov’s dry response. ‘And today,’ Porfiry Petrovich put in, ‘Nikodim Fomich was telling me that he met you yesterday, at a terribly late
hour, in the apartment of a man who’d been trampled by horses, a civil servant . . .’ ‘There you go – that civil servant!’ Razumikhin exclaimed. ‘I mean, what was that if not crazy? You gave away your every last copeck to a widow for the funeral! All right, you felt like helping out – so give her fifteen roubles, give her twenty, or at least leave yourself three, but no, you had to fork out all twenty-five!’ ‘What if I’ve found a hidden treasure somewhere and you don’t know? Wouldn’t that explain my fit of generosity yesterday? . . . Mr Zametov over there knows all about it! . . . Please excuse us,’ he said to Porfiry, lips trembling, ‘for bothering you with half an hour of such silliness. I expect you’ve had quite enough of us, eh?’ ‘The very idea, sir! On the contrary, on the contrary! If only you knew how much you intrigue me! How interesting it is to observe you and listen to you . . . and, I must admit, I’m so glad you’ve seen fit to visit at last . . .’ ‘You might at least offer us some tea! I’m parched!’ cried Razumikhin. ‘A splendid idea! Perhaps everyone will have a cup. But how about something a touch . . . more substantial, before
the tea, I mean?’ ‘Get out!’ Porfiry Petrovich went off to order the tea.
Thoughts whirled in Raskolnikov’s mind. He was terribly annoyed. ‘The main thing is they’re not even concealing it. They’re not even going to be polite about it! But what cause did you have, seeing as we’ve never met, to talk to Nikodim Fomich about me? So they can’t even be bothered to conceal the fact that they’re hounding me like a pack of dogs! Spitting in my face, that’s what they’re doing!’ He was shaking with fury. ‘Hit me if you have to, but don’t play cat-and-mouse.
That’s bad form, Porfiry Petrovich, and I may not stand for it, sir! . . . I’ll get up and I’ll blurt out the whole truth right
in your faces; then you’ll see how much I despise you!’ He could barely catch his breath. ‘But what if I’m imagining this? What if this is just a mirage and I’ve got everything wrong, if I’m angry through lack of experience, too angry to keep up my despicable act? Perhaps there’s no intent in any of this. Their words are all ordinary enough, but there’s something about them . . . something about these everyday phrases . . . Why did he say “at hers” so bluntly? Why did Zametov add that I was speakingcunningly? Why do they take this tone? Yes . . . their tone . . . Razumikhin was sitting right here – why doesn’t he sense anything? That harmless dimwit never senses anything! . . . And here’s the fever again! . . . Did Porfiry wink at me before or didn’t he?
What nonsense; why should he wink? Working on my nerves, are they? Or just teasing me? Either this is all a mirage or elsethey know! . . . Even Zametov’s got a nerve . . . Hasn’t he? . . . Changed his mind overnight. I had a feeling he would! He’s quite at home here, though it’s his first time. Porfiry doesn’t even think of him as his guest and sits with his back to him. They’re in cahoots! And all because of me, I’m sure of it! I’m sure they were speaking about me before we got here! . . . Do they know about the apartment, then? The sooner the better! . . . When I said I’d run off to rent a place yesterday he let it go, he didn’t react . . . Very clever of me to slip that in: it’ll come in handy later on! . . . Delirious, they say! . . . Ha-ha-ha! He knows all about yesterday evening! And didn’t know about Mother’s arrival! . . . That witch even put the date, with a pencil! . . .
Rubbish, you won’t catch me so easily! These aren’t facts yet – just a mirage! No, you give me facts, if you have any!
The apartment’s not a fact, either, it’s delirium; I know what to say to them . . . Do they know about the apartment?
I won’t leave till they tell me! Why have I come here? My being angry now – that’s a fact, I suppose! Ugh, how irritable I am! But maybe that’s good; the sick man’s act . .
. He’s feeling me out. Hoping to confuse me. Why have I come here?’ All this swept through his mind like lightning.
Porfiry Petrovich was back in a flash. He seemed merrier, somehow. ‘You know, brother, my head’s aching from last night at your place . . . I feel a wreck,’ he began in a quite different tone, turning to Razumikhin and laughing. ‘You had a good time, then? I left you at the most interesting point, remember? Who won?’ ‘No one, of course. We alighted on the sempiternal question, our heads in the heavens.’ ‘Can you imagine, Rodya, what it was they alighted on yesterday: does crime exist or does it not? Didn’t I say the devil would have blushed to hear them?’ ‘What’s so surprising about that? Just an ordinary sociological question,’ replied Raskolnikov absently. ‘That’s not how it was formulated,’ remarked Porfiry. ‘Not exactly, that’s true,’ Razumikhin hurriedly agreed, as excited as ever. ‘Rodion, just listen to this and tell me what you think. I want to know. I was at my wits’ end with them yesterday and was just waiting for you. I’d even told them you’d be coming . . . It all began with the socialist position. No surprises there: crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social order – and that’s all there is to it!
They accept no other causes! Nothing else!’ ‘Liar!’ cried Porfiry Petrovich. He was becoming increasingly animated and laughed whenever he looked at Razumikhin, which only goaded him on. ‘Nothing else at all!’ Razumikhin interrupted him hotly. ‘And I’m not lying! . . . I’ll show you the kind of books they 14 write: with them it’s always “the environment”that’s to blame and nothing else! They love that word! Their conclusion? The proper organization of society would lead to all crime disappearing at once, as there’d be no reason
to protest and everyone would become righteous, just like that. Human nature is discounted, banished, surplus to requirements! With them it’s not humanity, which, having developed along its historical,living path to the end, will eventually turn into a normal society on its own, but rather the social system, which, emerging from some kind of mathematical head, will immediately organize all humanity and make it righteous and sinless, just like that, quicker than any living process, and without the need for any historical, living path! That’s why they have such an instinctive dislike of history: “mere chaos and stupidity” – stupidity being the only explanation required. And that’s why they have such a dislike of life as aliving process: a living soul is the last thing they want! Living souls demand life; living souls don’t obey mechanics; living souls are suspicious; living souls are reactionary! Whereas here – all right, there may be a whiff of carrion about it, and you could make it from rubber if you had to, but at least it’s not alive, at least it has no will, at least it’s slavish and it won’t 15rebel! So all that’s left is to lay bricks for the phalanstery and arrange the corridors and rooms! Well, the phalanstery may be ready, but your nature is not: it wants life; it wants to complete its living process; it’s a bit too early for the cemetery! You can’t leap over nature by logic alone! Logic foresees three eventualities, but there’s a million of them!
So cut them all off, the whole million, and boil everything down to just one thing: comfort! The easy solution!
Seductively simple! No need to think! That’s the main thing – no need to think! All life’s mystery reduced to two printer’s sheets!’ ‘Look at him explode! He needs tying down!’ laughed Porfiry. ‘Just imagine,’ he turned to Raskolnikov, ‘this is exactly how it was yesterday evening, in a single room, six voices all going at once, after he’d served us some punch for good measure – can you picture that? No, brother,
you’re lying: the “environment” has a lot to do with crime. I can confirm it.’ ‘I know that myself, but tell me this: a forty-year-old man abuses a ten-year-old girl – was it the environment, then, that made him do it?’ ‘Well, strictly speaking, it probably was the environment,’ remarked Porfiry with astonishing solemnity. ‘A crime committed against a young girl may very easily be explained by the “environment” – very easily indeed.’ Razumikhin was almost beside himself. ‘Fine, so allow me toprove to you right now,’ roared Razumikhin, ‘that the only reason you have white eyelashes 16 is that the Ivan the Great Bell Toweris two hundred and forty-five feet high; what’s more, I’ll prove it clearly, precisely, progressively and even with a touch of liberalism!
I’m game! Fancy a bet?’ ‘You’re on! Let’s hear it!’ ‘He’s always pretending, damn him!’ cried Razumikhin, jumping to his feet and waving him away. ‘Is there any point talking to you? He does it all on purpose – you just don’t know him yet, Rodion! Yesterday, too, he took their side, with the sole intention of making fools of everyone.
The things he was saying – good God! And they loved him for it! . . . He can keep this up for two weeks at a time, believe me. Last year he assured us for some reason that he was set on becoming a monk: he banged on about it for a whole two months! Recently he started assuring us he was getting married, told us everything was already in place. He even had a suit made specially. We were already congratulating him. No bride, nothing: it was all a mirage!’ ‘Now that’s a lie! I’d had the suit made earlier. It was the suit that gave me the idea of making such asses of you all!’ ‘Is it true you’re always pretending?’ asked Raskolnikov nonchalantly.
‘And you thought it wasn’t? Give me a chance and I’ll take you in too – ha-ha-ha! No, sir, let me tell you the whole truth. Apropos all these questions, crimes, the environment, young girls, I’m suddenly reminded – though, in fact, it has always intrigued me – of a little article of yours: “On Crime” . . . was that the title? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind. I had the pleasure of reading it two months ago in thePeriodical Review.’ ‘An article of mine? InPeriodical Review?’ asked Raskolnikov with surprise. ‘It’s true that a year and a half ago, after leaving university, I did write an article about some book, but at the time I offered it to theWeekly
Review, not thePeriodical.’ ‘Well, it ended up in thePeriodical.’ ‘But theWeekly Review has ceased to exist; that’s why they never published it . . .’ ‘True enough, sir; but, ceasing to exist, theWeekly 17 Review merged withPeriodical Review,which is why, two months ago, that little article of yours appeared in the
Periodical. You mean you didn’t know?’ Raskolnikov did not know. ‘For pity’s sake – you should ask to be paid for it! You are a funny one! You live such an isolated existence that you are ignorant even of things that concern you directly. And that’s a fact, sir.’ ‘Bravo, Rodka! I didn’t know either!’ cried Razumikhin. ‘I’ll stop by at the reading room today and call up that issue! Two months ago? What was the date? Never mind, I’ll track it down! Well, this is a turn-up! Trust him not to mention it!’ ‘But how did you know it was mine? It’s only signed with an initial.’ ‘By chance, just the other day. Via the editor, an acquaintance . . . I was most intrigued.’
‘I was analysing, as I recall, the psychological condition of a criminal during the entire course of a crime.’ ‘Exactly, sir, and you insist that the act of carrying out the crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but . . . speaking for myself, it wasn’t this part of your article that intrigued me, but a certain thought which you let slip at the end, but which, unfortunately, is only hinted at and remains rather obscure . . . In short, what is hinted at, as you may recall, is the apparent existence in the world of certain individuals who are able . . . or rather not so much able as fully entitled . . . to commit all manner of outrageous and criminal acts, and that they are, as it were, above the law.’ Raskolnikov sneered at this gross and deliberate distortion of his idea. ‘What’s that? Come again? Entitled to commit crimes?
Surely not because of the effect of “the environment”?’ enquired Razumikhin, who looked almost frightened. ‘No, no, not exactly,’ replied Porfiry. ‘In the gentleman’s article, you see, everyone is divided into two categories, the “ordinary” and the “extraordinary”. Ordinary people should live a life of obedience and do not have the right to overstep the law, because, you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary people have the right to carry out all manner of crimes and to break the law as they please, all because 18 they are extraordinary.I think that’s the gist, or am I mistaken?’ ‘What on earth? Impossible!’ muttered Razumikhin in bewilderment.
Raskolnikov sneered once more. He’d grasped at once what this was all about and why he was being provoked; he remembered his article. He decided to accept the challenge. ‘That’s not quite it,’ he began, simply and unassumingly. ‘Your summary is mostly fair, I’ll admit; even, one might
say, entirely fair . . .’ (Conceding this seemed to give him a kind of pleasure.) ‘The only difference is that I am far from insisting that extraordinary people have always, without fail, had a duty and obligation to commit all manner of outrageous acts, as you put it. In fact, I’m inclined to think that such an article would never have even seen the light of day. All I did was hint that an “extraordinary” person has the right . . . not an official right, that is, but a personal one, to permit his conscience to step over . . . certain obstacles, but if and only if the fulfilment of his idea (one that may even bring salvation to all humanity) demands it.
You observe that my article is obscure; I am ready to elucidate its meaning to you, as best I can. I am not mistaken, it seems, in assuming that to be your wish; very well, sir. In my view, if, owing to a combination of factors, the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have become public knowledge without the lives of one, ten, a hundred or however many people who were interfering with these discoveries, or standing in their way, being sacrificed, then Newton would have had the right and would even have been obliged . . . toremove these ten or one hundred people, so as to make his discoveries known to all humanity. In no way, however, does it follow from this that Newton had the right to kill whomsoever he wanted, whenever the mood took him, or to steal every day at the market. Subsequently, as I recall, I develop in my article the thought that . . . well, take, for want of a better example, the legislators and founders of humanity, beginning with the most ancient and continuing with the Lycurguses, Solons, Muhammads, Napoleons and so on – they were criminals to a man, if for no other reason than that, by introducing a new law, they violated the ancient law held sacred by society and handed down from the fathers, and it goes without saying that they did not flinch from bloodshed, so long as this blood (sometimes perfectly innocent blood, shed valiantly for the ancient law) could
help them. In fact, it’s remarkable how terribly bloodthirsty the majority of these benefactors and founders of humanity have been. In short, I infer that actually all those who, never mind being great, diverge even a little from the beaten path, i.e., are even the slightest bit capable of saying something new, must, by their very nature, be criminals – to a greater or lesser degree, needless to say.
Otherwise, how would they ever leave the path, which, of course, they cannot agree to keep to, by their very nature – indeed, I think it is their duty not to agree. In short, as you can see, there’s nothing particularly new here up to this point. It’s all been published and read a thousand times before. As regards my dividing people into the ordinary and the extraordinary, well this, I agree, is somewhat arbitrary, but I’m hardly insisting on exact numbers. What I believe in is my main idea. It consists precisely in the fact that people, by a law of nature, are dividedin general into two categories: the lower one (the ordinary), i.e., the material, as it were, that serves solely to generate its own likeness, and actual people, i.e., those with the gift or the talent to utter, within their own environment,a new word. Needless to say, the number of subdivisions here is infinite, but the distinctive features of both categories are unmistakable: the first category, i.e., the base material, is made up, generally speaking, of people who are conservative and deferential by nature, who live a life of obedience and enjoy being obedient. In my view, they are simply obliged to be obedient, because that is their purpose, and for them there is absolutely nothing demeaning about it. In the second category, everyone oversteps the law; they are destroyers or they are that way inclined, in accordance with their abilities. The crimes committed by these people are, needless to say, relative and diverse; in the majority of cases they demand, in a great multitude of forms, the destruction of the present in the name of something better.
But if such a man needs, for the sake of his idea, to step
right over a corpse, over blood, then in my view he may, inside himself, as a matter of conscience, grant himself permission to step over this blood – though this depends, please note, on the idea and its magnitude. Only in this sense do I speak in my article about their right to commit 19 crime.(You’ll remember, after all, that we began with a question of law.) There’s no great cause for alarm, though: the mass of humanity almost never accepts their right, punishes them and hangs them (more or less) and in so doing fulfils its perfectly reasonable conservative purpose, even if, in subsequent generations, these same masses will place those they’ve punished on a pedestal and bow down before them (more or less). The first category is always master of the present, the second – master of the future.
The first preserves the world and multiplies; the second moves the world and leads it towards a goal. The first and the second have exactly the same right to exist. In short, with me everyone has an equal right, and so –Vive la 20 guerre éternelle,until, needless to say, the New 21Jerusalem!’ ‘So you do believe in the New Jerusalem?’ ‘I do,’ answered Raskolnikov firmly. While saying this, and throughout the course of his long tirade, he’d been staring at the floor, having chosen for himself a particular spot on the rug. ‘And . . . you believe in God? Please forgive my curiosity.’ ‘I do,’ repeated Raskolnikov, lifting his eyes towards Porfiry.
22‘And . . . you believe in the raising of Lazarus?’
‘I . . . do. But why are you asking?’
‘You believe in it literally?’ ‘Literally.’ ‘I see, sir . . . Well, I was just being curious. Do forgive me. But with respect – I refer to your earlier remark – they are notalways punished; in fact, some . . .’
‘Are victorious during their lifetime? Oh yes, some get their way even during their lifetime, and then . . .’ ‘They begin handing out punishments themselves?’ ‘If necessary, and actually, you know, more often than not. Rather witty of you, I must say.’ ‘My humble thanks. But tell me, if you would: how exactly are the extraordinary to be distinguished from the ordinary? Should we look out for birthmarks of some kind?
The reason I ask is that we could do with some accuracy here, some objective certainty, as it were: please forgive the natural anxiety of a practical and well-intentioned man, but couldn’t one introduce some special type of clothing, for example; couldn’t they be, I don’t know, branded in 23 some way?Because wouldn’t you agree that if things got muddled and one person from one category fancied that he belonged to the other, and began to “remove all obstacles”, as you so felicitously put it, then . . .’ ‘Oh, that happens all the time! This observation is even
wittier than your previous one . . .’ ‘My humble thanks . . .’ ‘Don’t mention it, sir. But please bear in mind that such a mistake is possible only on the part of the first category, i.e., “ordinary” people (a rather unfortunate phrase, I’ll admit). For despite their innate predisposition towards obedience, a very great number of them, by virtue of a certain natural playfulness, such as even a cow possesses, like to fancy themselves as the vanguard, as “destroyers”, to claim their slice of the “new word”, and they couldn’t be more sincere, sir. And very often they don’t even notice 24 those who really arenew,and even look down on them as people with outmoded and demeaning ways of thinking.
But, in my view, there can be no significant danger here, and you really have nothing to worry about, because if they take one step forward they take two steps back. Of course, you could flog them a little every now and again for getting
carried away, so as to put them in their place, but no more than that; you don’t even need to find someone to do it: being so well-behaved, they’ll do it themselves. Some will render this service to their peers, others will even flog themselves . . . They’ll also submit themselves to various forms of public penance – it’s all rather beautiful and edifying, and there’s nothing, in short, for you to worry about . . . There’s a law at work here.’ ‘Well, on this point, at least, you’ve reassured me a little.
But there’s something else that worries me, sir. Tell me, please, are there many such people, “extraordinary ones”, I mean, who have the right to butcher others? I don’t mind bowing down, of course, but wouldn’t you agree that having a lot of them would be rather frightful, sir?’ ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, either,’ Raskolnikov continued in the same tone. ‘In general, the number of people born with new ideas, with the ability to say something, anything, even the slightest bitnew, is extraordinarily small, strangely so, in fact. Only one thing is clear: the pattern according to which these people are born, of these categories and subdivisions, must be very reliably and precisely determined by some law of nature.
This law, needless to say, is not currently known, but I believe it exists and that it might become known in due course. The great mass of humanity, the base material, exists only for that reason – so that, in the end, by some special effort, via some hitherto mysterious process, through some intersection of blood and breed, it can make one last push and finally bring into the world that one person in, let’s say, a thousand, born with at least some measure of independence. Even broader will be the independence of the one in, say, ten thousand (these are approximate figures, of course). Still broader – the one in a hundred thousand. Geniuses take millions, while the great geniuses who crown human history may require the passing of many thousands of millions of people on this
earth. I’ve not peeked into the retort where all this takes place. But there simply must be a definite law. It can’t be chance.’ ‘Are the pair of you joking?’ cried Razumikhin at last. ‘Are you pulling each other’s legs? Look at them sitting there, laughing at the other’s expense! Are you being serious, Rodya?’ Raskolnikov silently lifted towards him his pale, almost sad face and made no reply. And to Razumikhin there seemed something strange, next to this quiet, sad face, about Porfiry’s unconcealed, importunate, petulant and discourteous sarcasm. ‘Well, brother, if you really are serious, then . . . Of course, you’re right to say that this isn’t new and resembles everything we’ve read and heard a thousand times before; but what is trulyoriginal about it all – and truly belongs to you alone, to my horror – is that, in the end, you permit bloodshedas a matter of conscience, and, if you’ll excuse me, you’re actually quite fanatical about it . . . This, then, must be the main idea of your article. But the permission to shed bloodas a matter of conscience, well . . . it’s more terrifying, to my mind, than any official permission, any legal permission . . .’ ‘Spot on, sir, it is more terrifying,’ Porfiry chimed in. ‘No, you must have got carried away somehow! There’s some mistake here. I’ll read it . . . You just got carried away! You can’t really think that . . . I’ll read it.’ ‘None of that’s in the article, only hints,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘Yes indeedy,’ – Porfiry just couldn’t sit still – ‘and your views on the subject of crime are by now almost clear to me, sir, but . . . do please forgive my persistence (what a nuisance I’m being – I’m quite ashamed of myself!), but you see, sir, you did so much to reassure me before about those erroneous cases in which the two categories are confused, but . . . I’m still rather bothered about how it all works in
practice! I mean, what if some man or youth were to fancy himself a Muhammad or Lycurgus – of the future, needless to say – and went around removing all the obstacles in his way . . . ? He’s making preparations for some big crusade, say . . . and needs to rustle up some funds . . . understand?’ Zametov gave a sudden snort from his corner.
Raskolnikov didn’t even look round. ‘I have to agree with you,’ he calmly replied, ‘that such cases must indeed occur. Those who are a bit stupid or a bit vain are particularly susceptible; the young, especially.’ ‘You see, sir. So what about it, sir?’ ‘What about it?’ Raskolnikov sneered. ‘It’s hardly my fault. That’s how it is and always will be. He was saying just now,’ (he nodded towards Razumikhin) ‘that I permit bloodshed. Well, so what? Society, after all, has more safeguards than it needs – exile, prisons, investigators, penal servitude – so why worry? Catch him if you can!’
‘And if we do?’ ‘Serves him right.’ ‘You’re logical, I’ll grant you that. But what about his
conscience, sir?’ ‘Why should you care about that?’ ‘You know, simply on grounds of humanity.’ ‘Well, he can suffer if he’s got one and if he acknowledges his mistake. That’ll be his punishment – besides hard labour.’ ‘So what about those who really are geniuses,’ asked Razumikhin, frowning, ‘the ones who’ve actually been given the right to butcher others – are you saying they shouldn’t suffer at all, not even for the blood they’ve shed?’ ‘What does the wordshould have to do with it? It’s not a matter of permitting something or forbidding something.
Let him suffer, if he’s sorry for his victim . . . Suffering and pain are always mandatory for broad minds and deep hearts. Truly great people, it seems to me, should feel great
sadness on this earth,’ he added with sudden pensiveness, in a tone that jarred with the conversation.
He looked up, fixed everyone with a thoughtful gaze, smiled and picked up his cap. He was far too calm compared to how he’d walked in, and he was aware of it.
Everyone stood up. ‘Well, sir, curse me if you must, be angry if you must, but I just can’t help myself,’ Porfiry Petrovich piped up once more. ‘Just one more tiny question (I know I’m being a nuisance, sir!), just one little idea I wanted to air, purely so as not to forget it later . . .’ ‘All right, share your little idea with us,’ said Raskolnikov, standing expectantly before him, serious and pale. ‘Well, here it is, sir . . . though I don’t know how best to put it . . . It’s a terribly playful little idea . . . a psychological one, sir . . . Well, here it is: when you were composing that little article of yours, well, it’s simply inconceivable – heh-heh! – that you didn’t also think of yourself as being at least a teeny bit “extraordinary” as well, as also having anew word to utter, in your understanding of those terms . . . Wouldn’t you say, sir?’ ‘Quite possibly,’ came Raskolnikov’s contemptuous reply.
Razumikhin stirred. ‘Well if that’s the case, then do you really mean to say that you would decide – in view of certain disappointments and hardships in everyday life or in order to assist all humanity in some way – to step right over this or that obstacle? . . . Say, for example, commit murder and robbery?’ And somehow he suddenly winked at him again with his left eye and broke into silent laughter – just like before. ‘I’d hardly tell you if I did step over them,’ Raskolnikov replied with defiant, haughty contempt. ‘No, sir, the only reason I ask, frankly, is to gain a better understanding of your article, in a purely literary respect, sir . . .’
‘Ugh, the brazen cheek of it all!’ thought Raskolnikov with disgust. ‘Permit me to observe,’ he replied stiffly, ‘that I consider myself neither a Muhammad nor a Napoleon . . . nor any such figure; consequently, I am unable, being none of the above, to give you a satisfactory account of how I’d behave.’ ‘Come come, which of us in Rus today does not consider 25 himself a Napoleon?’Porfiry suddenly uttered, with terrifying familiarity. This time, there was something blatant even in the tone of his voice. ‘What if it was some future Napoleon who bumped off Alyona Ivanovna last week with an axe?’ Zametov suddenly blurted out from his corner.
Raskolnikov said nothing, staring hard at Porfiry.
Razumikhin was frowning darkly. Even before this, he thought he could sense something. He cast an angry glance round the room. A minute passed in gloomy silence.
Raskolnikov turned to leave. ‘Don’t tell me you’re leaving!’ said Porfiry warmly, offering his hand with the utmost courtesy. ‘So, so glad to have met you. And do put your mind at rest about that request of yours. Just write it the way I told you. Or even better, come and find me there yourself . . . in the next few days . . . even tomorrow, if you like. I expect I’ll be there at about eleven. We’ll sort everything out . . . have a chat . . .
And you, as one of the last peoplethere, might even be able to tell us something . . . ,’ he added with the kindliest air. ‘So you want to question me officially, by the book?’ asked Raskolnikov curtly. ‘Whatever for, sir? That certainly won’t be necessary for now. You misunderstood me. I’m not one to miss an opportunity, you see . . . and I’ve already spoken to all the pawners . . . taken statements from some . . . and you, as the last . . . Ah, by the way,’ he cried, with sudden delight,
‘how could I forget?’ – he turned to Razumikhin – ‘Remember how you gave me an earful that time about that Mikolai . . . I know perfectly well, of course,’ – he turned to Raskolnikov – ‘that the boy’s clean, but it had to be done, and I had to bother Mitka as well . . . but here’s the thing, sir, the nub of the matter: climbing the stairs that time, sir . . . between seven and eight, if I’m not mistaken?’ ‘Correct,’ replied Raskolnikov, struck that same second by an unpleasant awareness that he need not have said it. ‘So, as I say, climbing the stairs, sir, between seven and eight, sir, did you at least happen to see, on the second floor, I mean, in the apartment with the open door – remember? – two workmen or at least one of the two? They were decorating, perhaps you noticed? It is of the utmost, utmost importance for them!’ ‘Decorators? No, I didn’t . . . ,’ Raskolnikov slowly replied, as if rummaging through his memory while tensing every muscle, rigid with the agony of suspense: where was the trap, what was he missing? ‘No, I didn’t, and I can’t say I noticed an open door either . . . but the fourth floor’ – he’d mastered the trap and now he could gloat – ‘now that I do remember, someone was moving out, a civil servant . . . opposite Alyona Ivanovna . . . I remember that . . . quite clearly, in fact . . . soldiers were carrying out some couch or other, squeezing me against the wall . . . but decorators – no, I don’t recall there being any decorators . . . and I’m fairly sure there weren’t any open doors. No, there weren’t . . .’ ‘What are you playing at?’ Razumikhin yelled, as if suddenly coming to his senses. ‘The decorators were painting on the day of the murder, but he was there three days earlier. So what are you on about?’ ‘Well I never! I got everything mixed up!’ cried Porfiry, slapping himself on the forehead. ‘This whole business is playing havoc with my mind!’ he said to Raskolnikov, almost as if he were apologizing. ‘It’s so terribly important
for us to find out whether anyone saw them, between seven and eight, in that apartment, that I had a sudden fancy just now that you might also be able to tell us something . . . I got it all mixed up!’ ‘Be a bit more careful next time,’ Razumikhin sullenly remarked.
These last words were spoken in the entrance hall.
Porfiry Petrovich showed them right to the door, with the utmost courtesy. Both stepped outside with gloomy, scowling expressions, and for a while neither said a word.
Raskolnikov slowly caught his breath . . .
VI
‘... I don’t believe it! I can’t believe it!’ a bewildered Razumikhin kept saying, desperately trying to refute Raskolnikov’s arguments. They were already approaching Bakaleyev’s rooms, where Pulkheria Alexandrovna and Dunya had long been expecting them. Razumikhin kept stopping on the way, embarrassed and excited by the mere fact that they were talking aboutthat openly for the first time. ‘Well don’t, then!’ Raskolnikov replied with a cold and nonchalant sneer. ‘You, as usual, didn’t notice a thing, but I was weighing up every word.’ ‘You’re suspicious, that’s why . . . H’m . . . Porfiry’s tone really was rather strange, I agree, and especially that scoundrel Zametov! . . . You’re right, there was something
about him – but why? Why?’ ‘Changed his mind overnight.’ ‘No – just the opposite! If they really did have such a brainless idea, they’d be doing all they could to conceal it, keeping their cards close to their chest before pouncing later . . . Butnow – that would be insolent and reckless!’
‘If they had any facts, I mean real facts, or at least serious grounds for suspicion, then yes, they would try to hide their cards, in the hope of doubling their winnings (but in that case they’d have done a search ages ago!). But they have no facts, not a single one – it’s all a mirage, all double- edged, an idea plucked from the air – so they’re trying to trip me up with their insolence. Or perhaps he himself was angry at the lack of facts and his irritation boiled over. Or perhaps he’s got something up his sleeve . . . He looks a clever sort . . . Or perhaps he meant to frighten me with what he knows . . . There’s a whole psychology at work here . . . But it disgusts me to explain it. Just leave it!’ ‘And it’s positively insulting! How well I understand you!
But . . . seeing as we’re talking openly at last (and what a fine thing that is – I’m so pleased!), I’ll come straight out with it and admit that I’ve noticed it all along, this idea of theirs; no more than a sniff of an idea, of course, a worm of an idea, but why even a worm? How dare they? Where are the roots of all this hidden – where? If only you knew how furious I’ve been! What? All because a poor student, crippled by beggary and hypochondria, on the verge of succumbing to a vicious illness and delirium that (note!) may have been lying dormant in him already, a man who’s suspicious, proud, who knows his own worth, who hasn’t had anyone visit him in his corner for the last six months and is dressed like a tramp, in boots without soles, has to stand there before a bunch of local coppers and endure their mockery; not to mention a debt that comes out of the blue, an overdue promissory note from court counsellor 26 Chebarov, rotten paint, thirty degrees Réaumur,not a breath of fresh air, a throng of people, a story about the murder of someone he’d visited the day before – and all this on an empty belly! Try not fainting after that! And they base everything on this! Damn it all! I understand what a pain this is, but in your shoes, Rodka, I’d laugh in their
faces, or even better I’d spit on them all, gob at them, the thicker the better, dish out several slaps on each cheek – intelligently, of course, that’s the only way to do it – then leave it at that. Just spit on them! Pull yourself together!
The shame of it!’ ‘He actually put that rather well!’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Spit on them? Then face another grilling tomorrow!’ he said bitterly. ‘Do I really have to explain myself to them?
It’s bad enough that I stooped to Zametov’s level in the tavern yesterday . . .’ ‘Damn it all! I’ll go and see Porfiry myself! I’ll pin him down,in the family spirit. I’ll drag it out of him, all of it!
And as for Zametov . . .’ ‘The penny’s finally dropped!’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Wait a minute!’ shouted Razumikhin, grabbing him suddenly by the shoulder. ‘Wait! You’ve got it wrong! I’ve had a think and you’ve got it all wrong! I mean, how could it be a trick? You say the question about the workmen was a trick? Try this for size: if you had donethat, would you really have blurted out that you saw the apartment being painted . . . and the workmen? Just the opposite: you’d have seen nothing, even if you had! Who’d ever admit to something so damaging?’ ‘If I had donethat, then I’d have been sure to say I saw both the workmen and the apartment,’ Raskolnikov replied,
with reluctance and obvious disgust. ‘But why admit something so damaging?’ ‘Because only a peasant or the most inexperienced novice simply clams up under questioning. Any man with a bit of brains and experience would have been sure to admit, wherever possible, to every objective and undeniable fact; only he’d find different reasons for them and put his own, unexpected mark on them, thereby lending them an entirely different meaning and showing them in a quite different light. Porfiry could have counted on me replying like that and saying I’d seen everything, so
as to make it sound more convincing, while adding something by way of an explanation . . .’ ‘But he’d have shot back that the workers couldn’t have been there two days earlier, so you must have been present on the day of the murder, between seven and eight. He’d have caught you out on a petty detail!’ ‘That’s precisely what he was counting on – that I wouldn’t manage to think it through in time, that I’d hurry to say something convincing and forget that the workers couldn’t have been there two days before.’ ‘But how could anyone forget that?’ ‘Quite easily! It’s always the silly things that catch sly people out. The slyer a man is, the less he suspects he’ll be caught out by something simple. It’s the simplest things that catch out the slyest. Porfiry is far less stupid than you
think . . .’ ‘A scoundrel’s what he is now!’ Raskolnikov couldn’t help laughing. But as he did so he felt there was something strange about his own animation and the enthusiasm with which he’d just offered this last explanation, when until then he’d kept the conversation going with sullen disgust, for reasons of his own, out of sheer necessity. ‘I’m getting a taste for some of this!’ he thought to himself.
But almost as he did so he suddenly became anxious, as if struck by an unexpected and alarming thought. His anxiety grew. They’d already reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s rooms. ‘You go in,’ Raskolnikov suddenly said. ‘I’ll be right
back.’ ‘Where are you off to? We’re here now!’ ‘There’s something I have to do . . . I’ll be back in half an
hour . . . You tell them.’ ‘As you wish, but I’m coming with you!’
‘So you want to torment me, too, do you?’ he cried, with such bitter vexation, such despair in his gaze, that Razumikhin gave up. For a while he remained standing on the porch, watching sullenly as Raskolnikov strode off briskly in the direction of the lane in which he lived.
Eventually, clenching his teeth and his fists, swearing there and then that he would squeeze Porfiry dry, like a lemon, that very same day, he went up to reassure Pulkheria Alexandrovna, who was already alarmed by their lengthy absence.
When Raskolnikov got home, his temples were damp with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He hurriedly climbed the stairs, entered his room, which he’d left unlocked, and immediately put the door on the hook. Next, he rushed over in crazed terror to the corner, to that same hole in the wallpaper where he’d kept the items back then, stuck a hand inside and spent several minutes rummaging about, running his fingers over every nook and cranny, every crease in the wallpaper. Finding nothing, he got to his feet and took long, deep breaths. Walking up to Bakaleyev’s porch, he’d had a sudden fancy that one or other of the items, a little chain or cufflink, or even one of the scraps of paper in which they’d been wrapped, with a label in the old woman’s hand, might have slipped into some crack or other, only to confront him later as unexpected, irrefutable evidence.
He stood as if lost in thought and a strange, abject, almost senseless smile played on his lips. Eventually he picked up his cap and quietly left the room. His thoughts were all tangled. Still pensive, he came out by the arch. ‘There he is!’ shouted a booming voice. He lifted his head.
The caretaker was standing by the door to his lodge and was pointing him out to a shortish man, a tradesman in appearance, who was wearing some kind of dressing gown over his waistcoat, and from a distance looked a lot like a
woman. His head hung down beneath a soiled cap and there was something hunched about his entire appearance.
To judge by his flabby, wrinkled face he was over fifty and his puffy little eyes had a sullen, stern and dissatisfied look. ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Raskolnikov, walking up to the caretaker.
The tradesman looked askance at him from under his brows and measured him with an attentive, unhurried stare; then he slowly turned around and, without saying a word, walked out of the arch into the street. ‘What’s all this?’ cried Raskolnikov. ‘Some man asking if this is where the student’s living – he gave your name – and who you’re renting from. Then you come down, I point you out and he wanders off. Fancy that.’ The caretaker was also a little bewildered, though no more than a little, and after scratching his head about it for another second or two, turned round and went back to his lodge.
Raskolnikov rushed after the tradesman and spotted him immediately, walking on the opposite side of the street with the same steady, unhurried gait, his eyes glued to the ground, as if he were turning something over in his mind.
He soon caught up with him, but for a while he kept a few steps behind; eventually he drew level with him and stole a glance at his face. The man immediately noticed him, looked him over and lowered his gaze again, and they walked on like that for a minute or so, one beside the other and not a word between them. ‘You asked the caretaker for me?’ Raskolnikov eventually said, but his voice was strangely hushed.
The tradesman made no reply and didn’t even look up.
Silence again. ‘What . . . ? You come and ask for me . . . and say nothing . . . I mean, what is this?’ Raskolnikov’s voice kept breaking off and the words refused to come out clearly.
This time the tradesman lifted his eyes and gave Raskolnikov an ominous, dismal look. ‘Killer!’ he suddenly said in a soft, but clear and distinct voice . . .
Raskolnikov was walking beside him. His legs suddenly became dreadfully weak, his back felt cold and, for an instant, his heart seemed to stop; then it began pounding again, as if suddenly unhooked. They walked about a hundred paces like that, side by side and again in total
silence.
The tradesman did not look at him. ‘What is this . . . ? What are you . . . ? Who is a murderer?’ mumbled Raskolnikov in a barely audible voice.
27 ‘You’re the killer,’uttered the other, articulating each syllable ever more imposingly and half-smiling with triumph and loathing; then, once again, he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and deadened eyes. By now they’d reached the crossroads. The tradesman turned left along the street, without glancing back. Raskolnikov remained where he was, following him with his eyes. He saw how the other turned round after fifty paces or so and looked at him, still rooted to the spot. It was hard to be sure, but Raskolnikov thought that now, too, the tradesman had smiled at him with his cold, hateful, triumphant smile.
With slow, weak steps, knees trembling, chilled to the bone, Raskolnikov went back to his building and up to his cell. He took off his cap, put it on the table and stood motionless beside it for a good ten minutes. Then he sank feebly on to the couch and stretched out in pain, groaning weakly; his eyes were closed. He lay like that for about half an hour.
He wasn’t thinking about anything. There was just the odd random thought or scrap of thought, or the odd image without rhyme or reason: faces seen by him back in his childhood or people he’d met only once and would never
28 have recalled again; the bell tower of V—— Church;a billiard table in a tavern and some officer standing next to it; the smell of cigars in some basement tobacco shop; a drinking den; a back staircase, pitch dark, soaked in slops and spattered with eggshells; and from somewhere or other the ringing of Sunday bells . . . One object replaced another in a constant whirl. There were even some that he liked and he tried to cling on to them, but they faded, and something was pressing on him inside, but only a little. Sometimes it even felt nice . . . The shiveriness did not pass, and that, too, felt almost nice.
He heard Razumikhin’s hurried steps and voice, closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumikhin opened the door and stood for a while on the threshold, as if he were hesitating. Then he stepped softly into the room and tiptoed over to the couch. Nastasya’s whisper carried over.
‘Let ’im sleep. He’ll eat later.’ ‘All right,’ answered Razumikhin.
They tiptoed out and shut the door. Another half hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and again fell supine, clutching his head . . . ‘Who is he? Who is this man from out of the ground?
Where was he and what did he see? He saw everything, there’s no doubt about that. So where was he standing, then, and from where was he watching? Why has he only come out now? And how could he see – how’s that possible? . . . H’m . . . ,’ continued Raskolnikov, growing cold and shuddering. ‘Or what about the jewellery case that Mikolai found behind the door: how’s that possible? Evidence? Miss the hundred-thousandth little mark and there you go: evidence the size of an Egyptian pyramid! A fly flew past – a fly saw! How’s it all possible?’ And suddenly, with a sense of loathing, he felt how weak he’d become, how physically weak.
‘I should have known it,’ he thought with a bitter grin, ‘and how did I dare – knowing how I am,sensing in advance how I’d be – take an axe and steep myself in blood? I simply must have known beforehand . . . Ha! But I did know beforehand!’ he whispered in despair.
Every now and again he paused, rooted to the spot by some thought: ‘No, those people are made differently. A truemaster, to whom everything is permitted, sacks Toulon, unleashes slaughter in Paris,forgets an army in Egypt,expends half a million lives marching on Moscow, then laughs it all off with 29 a quip in Vilno;and he even has idols erected to him after his death – soeverything really is permitted. Such people 30are made not of flesh but of bronze!’ A sudden, extraneous thought almost reduced him to laughter: 31 ‘Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo– and a scraggy, horrid pen-pusher’s widow, a hag, a moneylender with a red box beneath her bed; it’s a bit much even for the likes of Porfiry Petrovich to digest! . . . Not to mention the rest of them! . . . Aesthetics will intervene: would a Napoleon really go crawling under the bed of some “old hag”!
Please!’ For minutes at a time he felt almost delirious, succumbing to a mood of feverish exaltation. ‘The hag’s neither here nor there!’ he thought impetuously. ‘Maybe she’s the mistake here – maybe it’s not about her at all! She was only the sickness . . . I was in such a hurry to step right over . . . I didn’t murder a person, I murdered a principle! Yes, I murdered the principle all right, but I didn’t step over; I remained on this side . . . All I managed to do was kill. I didn’t even manage that, as it turns out . . . Principle? What was Razumikhin, such a silly boy, berating the socialists for just now?
Hardworking folk, trading folk; concerned with “general
happiness” . . . No, I’m only given one life and that’s my lot: I don’t want to sit around waiting for “universal happiness”. I want to live myself or else I’d rather not live at all. Well? I just didn’t feel like walking past a hungry mother, gripping a rouble in my pocket and waiting for “universal happiness”. As if to say: “Look at me carrying 32 my little brick for universal happiness– so my heart is at peace.” Ha-ha! Why did you have to leave me out, of all people? I’ve only got one life, after all, and I also want . . .
Oh, I’m an aesthetic louse, that’s all there is to it,’ he suddenly added with a volley of laughter, like a madman. ‘Yes, I really am a louse,’ he went on, clutching at this thought with grim delight, rummaging around in it, toying and amusing himself with it, ‘if for no other reason than because, firstly, here I am talking about it, secondly, because I’ve been bothering all-gracious Providence this whole month, summoning her as my witness to the fact that I set out on this venture not for my own carnal desires, but with a splendid and pleasing purpose in mind – ha-ha!
Thirdly, because I intended to observe in my actions the highest possible degree of justice, to weigh and to measure, to tot it all up; of all the lice in the world I chose the most utterly useless and, having killed her, intended to take from her the precise amount I needed for the first step, no more and no less (so the rest really would have gone to the monastery, in accordance with her will – ha-ha!) . . . Because, because I’m a louse, pure and simple,’ he added, gnashing his teeth, ‘because I myself may be still fouler and more horrid than the louse I killed, and because Isensed in advance that this is what I would tell myself after the murder! Can any horror compare to it? So vulgar!
So vile! . . . Oh, how I understand the “prophet”, with his sword, on horseback. Allah commands, so obey, O 33 “quivering” creature!How right the “prophet” is when he 34 lines up a top-notch batteryacross the street and fires a
salvo at the righteous and the guilty, without even deigning to explain himself! Submit, quivering creature, and –do not desire . . . for desiring is not your business! . . . Oh, never, never will I forgive the old hag!’ His hair was damp with sweat, his trembling lips caked, his gaze riveted to the ceiling. ‘Mother, sister, how I loved them! So why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them. I physically hate them. I can’t bear to have them near me . . . I went up to Mother earlier and kissed her, I remember . . . Embracing her, thinking that if she found out . . . would I really tell her? Wouldn’t put it past me . . . H’m!She must be just like me,’ he added, making an effort to think, as if struggling in the grip of delirium. ‘Oh, how I hate the hag now! I expect I’d murder her all over again if she came to! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she have to turn up? . . . Strange, though – why do I almost never think of her, as if I’d never murdered her? . . .
Lizaveta! Sonya! Poor things, meek, meek-eyed . . . So sweet! . . . Why don’t they cry? Why don’t they groan? . . .
Always giving . . . and their meek, quiet gaze . . . Sonya, Sonya! Quiet Sonya!’ Oblivion came over him; it seemed strange to him that he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up in the street. It was already late evening. The dusk was gathering, the full moon shone ever more brightly, but somehow it felt even more stifling than usual. People thronged the streets; craftsmen and employees were making their way home; others were out for a walk; it smelled of mortar, dust, stagnant water.
Raskolnikov walked along, sad and preoccupied. He clearly recalled that he’d left home with the intention of doing something and doing it quickly, but what that was he couldn’t remember. Suddenly he stopped and caught sight of a man on the opposite side of the street, on the pavement, standing there, waving to him. He crossed the street towards him, but the man suddenly turned and walked off as if nothing had happened, with his head down
and without turning round or giving any sign of having called him over. ‘Well maybe he didn’t?’ thought Raskolnikov, but set off after him all the same. When he was only ten paces away, he suddenly recognized him – and took fright; it was the tradesman from before, with the same dressing gown and the same hunch. Raskolnikov kept his distance; his heart was pounding; they turned into a lane – and still the man did not look round. ‘Does he know I’m following him?’ Raskolnikov wondered. The tradesman entered the gates of a big building. Raskolnikov hurried up to the gates and stared: would he glance back? Would he call him? And, indeed, after walking right through the archway and coming out into the yard, the man suddenly turned round and seemed to wave to him once more.
Raskolnikov immediately followed him into the yard, but the tradesman was no longer there. So he must have taken the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. And indeed, someone’s measured, unhurried footsteps could still be heard from two flights up. Strange: the staircase was somehow familiar! There was the window on the first floor – moonlight streamed through it, sadly and mysteriously – and here was the second floor. Ha! The very same apartment the workmen had been decorating . . .
How had he not recognized the place straight away? The footsteps of the man walking ahead of him died away: ‘So he must have stopped or found somewhere to hide.’ Here was the third floor. Should he carry on? Such silence . . . almost frightening . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and disturbed him. God, how dark!
The tradesman was surely hiding in some corner or other.
Ah! The apartment was wide open to the stairs. He thought for a moment, and went in. The entrance hall was very dark and empty; not a soul, as though everything had been taken out. Softly-softly, on tiptoe, he went through to the living room: the entire space was flooded in bright moonlight.
Nothing had changed: the chairs, the mirror, the yellow
couch, the little pictures in their frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon stared through the windows. ‘The silence comes from the moon,’ thought Raskolnikov, ‘and the moon must be posing a riddle.’ He stood and waited for a long while, and the quieter the moon, the louder the pounding of his heart, until it even began to hurt. Silence. Suddenly, a short dry crack, like the snapping of a twig, then everything went dead once more. A fly, waking up, suddenly hit a pane in full flight and began buzzing plaintively. At that very same moment, in the corner, between the small cupboard and the window, he noticed what seemed to be a lady’s velvet coat hanging on the wall. ‘What’s that coat doing here?’ he wondered. ‘Wasn’t here before . . .’ He stole up to it and sensed there might be someone hiding behind it. He carefully moved the coat to one side with his hand and saw a chair, and on the chair in the corner was the old hag, all curled up with her head bowed down, making it impossible for him to see her face, but it was her. He stood over her. ‘She’s afraid!’ he thought, gently freeing the axe from the loop and striking the old woman on the crown, once, twice. How strange: she didn’t even twitch from the blows, as if she were made of wood.
Frightened, he bent down and looked closer: but she, too, just bent her head down further. So he bent all the way to the floor and looked up from there into her face, looked up and went as numb as a corpse: the old woman was sitting there laughing – yes, she was almost bursting with soft, inaudible laughter, doing all she could to keep him from hearing. Suddenly he had the impression that the bedroom door had opened a fraction and that laughs and whispers were coming from there as well. He was seized with rage: he began hitting the old woman on the head as hard as he could, but with each blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder still, while the hag simply rocked with mirth. He wanted to run, but the entrance hall was already packed with people, the doors on
the staircase were wide open, and on the landing and all the way down the stairs there was nothing but people, a row of heads, all watching – but biding their time in silence . . . His heart clenched, and his legs were rooted to the spot . . . He wanted to scream – and woke up.
He drew deep breaths – but how strange! It was as if the dream still continued: the door was wide open, and there was a complete stranger standing on the threshold, studying him closely.
Raskolnikov hadn’t fully opened his eyes yet, and instantly closed them again. He lay prone, without stirring. ‘Am I still dreaming?’ he wondered, and again raised his eyelids a fraction: the stranger was standing on the same spot, still staring at him. Suddenly he stepped warily over the threshold, closed the door carefully behind him, walked over to the table, waited for a minute or so – his eyes fixed on him throughout – and softly, noiselessly sat down on the chair beside the couch. He placed his hat on its side, on the floor, and leant with both hands on his cane, resting his chin on his hands. Clearly, he was prepared to wait a very long time. Insofar as could be seen through blinking eyelids, this man was no longer young, solidly built and with a thick, light beard that was all but white . . .
Some ten minutes passed. Though it was still light, evening was closing in. In the room there was complete silence. No sounds even from the stairs. Only the buzzing and knocking of some big fly as it struck the pane in mid- flight. Eventually it became unbearable: Raskolnikov suddenly raised himself and sat up on the couch. ‘Well, go on: what do you want?’ ‘Just as I thought: you weren’t sleeping, merely pretending,’ came the stranger’s peculiar reply and easy laugh. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov . . .’
