Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"Never," answered Raskolnikov. "I have been meaning to buy a lock
for these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks," he
said, laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.
  "Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by
the way?" he added, as though he wanted to say something quite
different. He wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was
not easy.
  "Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday."
  "Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your
sister? Did I give her the address?"
  "Why, had you forgotten?"
  "No, I remember."
  "I had heard my father speak of you... only I did not know your
name, and he did not know it. And now I came... and as I had learnt
your name, I asked to-day, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?' I did
not know you had only a room too.... Good-bye, I will tell Katerina
  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 to-day, please, not to-day!" she kept muttering with a
sinking heart, as though entreating some one, like a frightened child.
"Mercy! to me... to that room... he will see... oh, dear!"
  She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman
who was watching her and following at her heels. 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.
  "Home? Where? I've seen that face somewhere," he thought. "I must
find out."
  At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming
the same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her
on the other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again,
overtook her and kept two or three yards behind her.
  He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad
high shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He
wore good and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of
position. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the
pavement at each step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad,
rather pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not
often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still abundant, and only
touched here and there with grey, and his thick square beard was
even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and
thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkedly
well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years.
  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 No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart.
  "You lodge at Kapernaumov's," he said, looking at Sonia and
laughing. "He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close
here at Madame Resslich's. How odd!" Sonia looked at him attentively.
  "We are neighbours," he went on gaily. "I only came to town the
day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present."
  Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt
for some reason ashamed and uneasy.
  On the way to Porfiry's, Razumihin was obviously excited.
  "That's capital, brother," he repeated several times, "and I am
glad! I am glad!"
  "What are you glad about?" Raskolnikov thought to himself.
  "I didn't know that you pledged things at the old woman's, too.
And... was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?"
  "What a simple-hearted fool he is!"
  "When was it?" Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. "Two or three
days before her death it must have been. But I am not going to
redeem the things now," he put in with a sort of hurried and
conspicuous solicitude about the things. "I've not more than a
silver rouble left... after last night's accursed delirium!"
  He laid special emphasis on the delirium.
  "Yes, yes," Razumihin hastened to agree- with what was not clear.
"Then that's why you... were struck... partly... you know in your
delirium you were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes,
yes... that's clear, it's all clear now."
  "Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this
man will go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it
cleared up why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea
must have on all of them!"
  "Shall we find him?" he asked suddenly.
  "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 hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your
  "On what grounds is he so anxious?"
  "Oh, it's not exactly... you see, since you've been ill I happen
to have mentioned you several times.... So, when he heard about you...
about your being a law student and not able to finish your studies, he
said, 'What a pity!' And so I concluded... from everything together,
not only that; yesterday, Zametov... you know, Rodya, I talked some
nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk... I am
afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, you see."
  "What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right," he said
with a constrained smile.
  "Yes, yes.... That is, pooh, no!... But all that I said (and there
was something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense."
  "But why are you apologizing? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov
cried with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however.
  "I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One's
ashamed to speak of it."
  "If you are ashamed, then don't speak of it."
  Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov
perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin
had just said about Porfiry.
  "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!"
  "In this grey house," said Razumihin.
  "The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old
hag's flat yesterday... and asked about the blood? I must find that
out instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face;
otherwise... I'll find out, if it's my ruin."
  "I say, brother," he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly
smile, "I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously
excited. Isn't it so?"
  "Excited? Not a bit of it," said Razumihin, stung to the quick.
  "Yes, brother, I assure you it's noticeable. Why, you sat on your
chair in a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed
to be writhing all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One
moment you were angry, and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat.
You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you
blushed awfully."
  "Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?"
  "But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove,
there he's blushing again."
  "What a pig you are!"
  "But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I'll tell of
you to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I'll make mother laugh, and some one else,
  "Listen, listen, listen, this is serious.... What next, you
fiend!" Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror.
"What will you tell them? Come, brother... foo, what a pig you are!"
  "You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits
you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how you've washed to-day- you
cleaned your nails, I declare. Eh? That's something unheard of! Why, I
do believe you've got pomaturn on your hair! Bend down."
  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 guffawing in the passage.
  "Not a word here or I'll... brain you!" Razumihin whispered
furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

                             Chapter Five
  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 tea-glass on it. Everything was
sent flying and crashing.
  "But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the
Crown," Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.
  Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry
Petrovitch's, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment
to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion
by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the
fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the window where he stood
looking out with his back to the company with a fiercely scowling
countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was
ready 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. "Raskolnikov."
  "Not at all, very pleasant to see you... and how pleasantly you've
come in.... Why, won't he even say good-morning?" Porfiry Petrovitch
nodded at Razumihin.
  "Upon my honour I don't know why he is in such a rage with me. I
only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo... and proved
it. And that was all, I think!"
  "Pig!" ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.
  "There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious
at the word," Porfiry laughed.
  "Oh, you sharp lawyer!... Damn you all!" snapped Razumihin, and
suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a
more cheerful face as though 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?"
  "What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily.
  Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.
  "Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday," he said easily.
  "Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging
me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other
out without me. Where is your tobacco?"
  Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen,
and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty,
short, stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair
cut short and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the
back. His soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly
yellowish colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression.
It would have been good-natured, except for a look in the eyes,
which shone with a watery, mawkish light under almost white,
blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out
of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something
far more serious than could be guessed at first sight.
  As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little
matter of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and
sat down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his
business, with that careful and over-serious attention which is at
once oppressive and 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.
  "Fool," Raskolnikov swore to himself.
  "You have to give information to the police," Porfiry replied,
with a most businesslike air, "that having learnt of this incident,
that is of the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the
case that such and such things belong to you, and that you desire to
redeem them... or... but they will write to you."
  "That's just the point, that at the present moment," Raskolnikov
tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, "I am not quite in funds...
and even this trifling sum is beyond me... I only wanted, you see, for
the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I
have money...."
  "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 such and such as your property, you beg..."
  "On an ordinary sheet of paper?" Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly,
again interested in the financial side of the question.
  "Oh, the most ordinary," and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with
obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and as it were winking at
him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov's fancy, for it all lasted but a
moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could
have sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why.
  "He knows," flashed through his mind like lightning.
  "Forgive my troubling you about such trifles," he went on, a
little disconcerted, "the things are only worth five roubles, but I
prize them particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to
me, and I must confess that I was alarmed when I heard..."
  "That's why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov
that Porfiry was inquiring for every one who had pledges!" Razumihin
put in with obvious intention.
  This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at
him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but
immediately recollected himself.
  "You seem to be jeering at me, brother?" he said to him, with a
well-feigned irritability. "I dare say I do seem to you absurdly
anxious about such trash; but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping
for that, and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I
told you just now that the silver watch, though it's not worth a cent,
is the only thing left us of my father's. You may laugh at me, but
my mother is here," he turned suddenly to Porfiry, "and if she
knew," he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, 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 about women?"
  "Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovitch inquired.
  "When did she come?"
  "Last night."
  Porfiry paused as though reflecting.
  "Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and
coldly. "I have been expecting you here for some time."
  And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully
offered the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering
cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry
did not seem to be looking at him, and was still concerned with
Razumihin's cigarette.
  "What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges
there?" cried Razumihin.
  Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.
  "Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together,
and on the paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together
with the date on which you left them with her..."
  "How observant you are!" Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his
very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and
suddenly added:
  "I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges...
that it must be difficult to remember them all.... But you remember
them all so clearly, and... and..."
  "Stupid! Feeble!" he thought. "Why did I add that?"
  "But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who
hasn't come forward," Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony.
  "I haven't been quite well."
  "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," flashed through his mind again. "Why are they
torturing me?"
  "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!
  "Really delirious? You don't say so!" Porfiry shook his head in a
womanish way.
  "Nonsense! Don't you believe it! But you don't believe it anyway,"
Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem
to catch those strange words.
  "But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious?"
Razumihin got hot suddenly. "What did you go out for? What was the
object of it? And why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did
it? Now that all danger is over I can speak plainly."
  "I was awfully sick of them yesterday." Raskolnikov addressed
Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, "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 dryly.
  "And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day," put in Porfiry
Petrovitch, "that he met you very late last night in the lodging of
a man who had been run over."
  "And there," said Razumihin, "weren't you mad then? You gave your
last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give
fifteen or twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at
least, but he flung away all the twenty-five at once!"
  "Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So
that's why I was liberal yesterday.... Mr. Zametov knows I've found
a treasure! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour
with such trivialities," he said turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with
trembling lips. "We are boring you, aren't we?"
  "Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how
you interest me! It's interesting to look on and listen... and I am
really glad you have come forward at last."
  "But you might give us some tea! My throat's dry," cried Razumihin.
  "Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn't you
like... something more essential before tea?"
  "Get along with you!"
  Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea.
  Raskolnikov's thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible
  "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... ha-ha-ha! He knows all
about last night! He didn't know of my mother's arrival! The hag had
written the date on in pencil! You are wrong, you won't catch me!
There are no facts... it's all supposition! You produce facts! The
flat even isn't a fact but delirium. I know what to say to them.... Do
they know about the flat? I won't go 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?"
  All this flashed like lightning through his mind.
  Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial.
  "Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather.... And I am
out of sorts altogether," he began in quite a different tone, laughing
to Razumihin.
  "Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting
point. Who got the best of it?"
  "Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting 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 talked our heads off."
  "What is there strange? It's an everyday social question,"
Raskolnikov answered casually.
  "The question wasn't put quite like that," observed Porfiry.
  "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 causes admitted!..."
  "You are wrong there," cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably
animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin which made him
more excited than ever.
  "Nothing is admitted," Razumihin interrupted with heat.
  "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 India-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile
and won't revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything
to the building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a
phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature
is not ready for the phalanstery- it wants life, it hasn't completed
its vital process, it's too soon for the graveyard! You can't skip
over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there
are millions! Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of
comfort! That's the easiest solution of the problem! It's
seductively clear and you musn't think about it. That's the great
thing, you mustn't think! The whole secret of life in two pages of
  "Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!" laughed
Porfiry. "Can you imagine," he turned to Raskolnikov, "six people
holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a
preliminary! No, brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a
great deal in crime; I can assure you of that."
  "Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a
child of ten; was it environment drove him to it?"
  "Well, strictly speaking, it did," Porfiry observed with
noteworthy gravity; "a crime of that nature may be very well
ascribed to the influence of environment."
  Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. "Oh, if you like," he roared.
"I'll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed
to the Church of Ivan the Great's being two hundred and fifty feet
high, and I will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even
with a Liberal tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?"
  "Done! Let's hear, please, how he will prove it!"
  "He is always humbugging, confound him," cried 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, nothing, all pure
  "Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes
in fact that made me think of taking you in."
  "Are you such a good dissembler?" Raskolnikov asked carelessly.
  "You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in,
too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All these questions
about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of
yours which interested me at the time. 'On Crime'... or something of
the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago
in the Periodical Review."
  "My article? In the Periodical Review?" Raskolnikov asked in
astonishment. "I certainly did write an article upon a book six months
ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the Weekly Review."
  "But it came out in the Periodical."
  "And the Weekly Review ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't
printed at the time."
  "That's true; but when it ceased to exist, the Weekly Review was
amalgamated with the Periodical, and so your article appeared two
months ago in the latter. Didn't you know?"
  Raskolnikov had not known.
  "Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a
strange person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know
nothing of matters that concern you directly. It's a fact, I assure
  "Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!" cried Razumihin.
"I'll run to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two
months ago? What was the date? It doesn't matter though, I will find
it. Think of not telling us!"
  "How did you find out that the article was mine? It's only signed
with an initial."
  "I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I
know him.... 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 to commit
breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them."
  Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion
of his idea.
  "What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the
influence of environment?" Razumihin inquired with some alarm even.
  "No, not exactly because of it," answered Porfiry. "In his article
all men are divided into 'ordinary' and 'extraordinary.' Ordinary
men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law,
because, don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men
have a right to commit any crime and to transgress the law in any way,
just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not
  "What do you mean? That can't be right?" Razumihin muttered in
  Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where
they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge.
  "That wasn't quite my contention," he began simply and modestly.
"Yet I admit that you have stated it almost 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 bloodshed- often of innocent persons
fighting bravely in defence of ancient law- were of use to their
cause. It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these
benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage.
In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of
the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must
from their very nature be criminals- more or less, of course.
Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to
remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very
nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to 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 sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both
categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally
speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they
live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is
their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and
there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all
transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction
according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course
relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways
the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such
a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade
through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his
conscience, a sanction for wading through blood- that 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 me- and vive la guerre eternelle-
till the New Jerusalem, of course!"
  "Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?"
  "I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and
during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on
the carpet.
  "And... and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity."
  "I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.
  "And... do you believe in Lazarus' rising from the dead?"
  "I... I do. Why do you ask all this?"
  "You believe it literally?"
  "You don't say so.... I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let
us go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the
  "Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in
this life, and then..."
  "They begin executing other people?"
  "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 law-abiding
citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance,
couldn't they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know
if 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, then..."
  "Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"Thank you."
  "No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in
the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps
unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to
obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature,
sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves
advanced people, 'destroyers,' and to push themselves into the 'new
movement,' and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really new people
are very often 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 nature."
  "Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score;
but there's another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there
many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary
people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must
admit it's alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?"
  "Oh, you needn't worry about that either," Raskolnikov went on in
the same tone. "People with new ideas, people with the faintest
capacity for saying something new, are extremely few in number,
extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the
appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow
with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course,
is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one
day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and
only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process,
by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world
at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of
independence. One in ten thousand perhaps- I speak roughly,
approximately- is born with some independence, and with still
greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is
one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear
on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not
peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there
certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of
  "Why, are you both joking?" Razumihin cried at last. "There you sit,
making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?"
  Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no
reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and discourteous
sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and
mournful face.
  "Well, brother, if you are really serious... You are right, of
course, in saying that it's not new, that it's like what we've read
and heard a thousand times already; but what is really original in all
this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you
sanction bloodshed in the name of conscience, and, excuse my saying
so, with such 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...."
  "You are quite right, it is more terrible," Porfiry agreed.
  "Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read
it. You can't think that! I shall read it."
  "All that is not in the article, there's only a hint of it," said
  "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 Mahomet- a
future one of course- and suppose he begins to remove all
obstacles.... He has some great enterprise before him and needs
money for it... and tries to get it... do you see?"
  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 apt to fall into that
snare; young people especially."
  "Yes, you see. Well then?"
  "What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that's not my fault. So
it is and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at
Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by
prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude.
There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief."
  "And what if we do catch him?"
  "Then he gets what he deserves."
  "You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?"
  "Why do you care about that?"
  "Simply from humanity."
  "If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be
his punishment- as well as the prison."
  "But the real geniuses," asked Razumihin frowning, "those who have
the right to murder? Oughtn't they to suffer at all even for the blood
they've shed?"
  "Why the word ought? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition.
He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are
always inevitable for a large 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 with his manner at his
entrance, and he felt this. Every one got up.
  "Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry
Petrovitch began again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little
question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little
notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it."
  "Very good, tell me your little notion," Raskolnikov stood
waiting, pale and grave before him.
  "Well, you see... I really don't know how to express it properly....
It's a playful, psychological idea.... When you were writing your
article, surely you couldn't have helped, he-he, fancying
yourself... just a little, an 'extraordinary' man, uttering a new word
in your sense.... That's so, isn't it?"
  "Quite possibly," Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.
  Razumihin made a movement.
  "And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly
difficulties and hardship or for some service to humanity- to overstep
obstacles?... For instance, to rob and murder?"
  And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly
just as before.
  "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..."
  "Foo, how obvious and insolent that is," Raskolnikov thought with
  "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 familiarity.
  Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his
  "Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona
Ivanovna last week?" Zametov blurted out from the corner.
  Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at
Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to
be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of
gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go.
  "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...
to-morrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain.
We'll arrange it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be
there, you might perhaps be able to tell us something," he added
with a most good-natured expression.
  "You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov
asked sharply.
  "Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You misunderstand
me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and... I've talked with all who
had pledges.... I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the
last.... Yes, by the way," he cried, 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 have said it.
  "Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see
in a flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember, two
workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn't
you notice them? It's very, very important for them."
  "Painters? No, I didn't see them," Raskolnikov answered slowly, as
though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking
every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly
as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. "No, I
didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like that open....
But on the fourth storey" (he had mastered the trap now and was
triumphant) "I remember now that some one was 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 anywhere, no,
there wasn't."
  "What do you mean?" Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had
reflected and realised. "Why, it was on the day of the murder the
painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are
you asking?"
  "Foo! I have muddled it!" Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead.
"Deuce take it! This business is turning my brain!" he addressed
Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. "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 told us
something.... I quite muddled it."
  "Then you should be more careful," Razumihin observed grimly.
  The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw
them to the door with excessive politeness.
  They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some
steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath.

                             Chapter Six
  "I DON'T BELIEVE it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying
in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments.
  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 usual, but I was
weighing every word."
  "You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words... h'm...
certainly, I agree, Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and still
more that wretch Zametov!... You are right, there was something
about him- but why? Why?"
  "He has changed his mind since last night."
  "Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would
do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch
you afterwards.... But it was all impudent and careless."
  "If they had had facts- I mean, real facts- or at least grounds
for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their
game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search
long ago besides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all
mirage- all ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me
out by impudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts,
and blurted it out in his vexation- or perhaps he has some plan...
he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by
pretending to know. They have a psychology of their own, brother.
But it is loathsome explaining it all. Stop!"
  "And it's insulting, insulting! I understand you. But... since we
have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at
last- I am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long
ago, this idea. Of course the merest hint only- an insinuation- but
why an insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they?
If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a
poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a
severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has
not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots
without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with
their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the
I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur
and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the
murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an
empty stomach- he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is
what they found it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is,
but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit
in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. I'd hit
out in all directions, neatly too, and so I'd put an end to it. Damn
them! Don't be downhearted. It's a shame!"
  "He really has put it well, though," Raskolnikov thought.
  "Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?" he said
with bitterness. "Must I really enter into explanations with them? I
feel vexed as it is that I condescended to speak to Zametov
yesterday in the restaurant...."
  "Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him,
as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it
all! And as for Zametov..."
  "At last he sees through him!" thought Raskolnikov.
  "Stay!" cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. "Stay!
you were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a
trap? You say that the 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 answered, with
reluctance and obvious disgust.
  "But why speak against yourself?"
  "Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny
everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little
developed and experienced, he will certainly try to 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
  "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 you over a detail."
  "Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have
time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely
answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there
two days before."
  "But how could you forget it?"
  "Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people
are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he
suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning
a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not
such a fool as you think...."
  "He is a knave then, if that is so!"
  Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he
was struck by the strangeness of his own 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 increasing. They had just reached the entrance to
  "Go in alone!" said Raskolnikov suddenly. "I will be back directly."
  "Where are you going? Why, we are just here."
  "I can't help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them."
  "Say what you like, I will come with you."
  "You, too, want to torture me!" he screamed, with such bitter
irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin's hands dropped.
He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov
striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last,
gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze
Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence.
  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 evidence against him.
  He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated,
half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last
and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He
went dreamily through the gateway.
  "Here he is himself," shouted a loud voice.
  He raised his head.
  The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was
pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing
a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like
a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From
his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were
lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.
  "What is it?" Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
  The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at
him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of
the gate into the street without saying a word.
  "What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.
  "Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned
your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you
out and he went away. It's funny."
  The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after
wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
  Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of
him walking along the other side of the street with the same even,
deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in
meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him.
At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man
noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes
again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a
  "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?"
  Raskolnikov's voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the
words clearly.
  The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister
look at Raskolnikov.
  "Murderer!" he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct
  Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak,
a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand
still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were
set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in
  The man did not look at him.
  "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 cold hatred and
  With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made
his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took
off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood
without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak
moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
  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 almost pleasant sensation.
  He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes
and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for
some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped
softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov
heard Nastasya's whisper:
  "Don't disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later."
  "Quite so," answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed
the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes,
turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head.
  "Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was
he, what did he see? He has seen it all, that's clear. Where was he
then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the
earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm..." continued
Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, "and the jewel case Nikolay
found behind the door- was that possible? A clue? You miss an
infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence!
A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?" He felt with sudden
loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. "I ought to have
known it," he thought with a bitter smile. "And how dared 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 at some thought.
  "No, those men are not made so. The real Master to whom all is
permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, forgets an army in
Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off
with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death,
and so all is permitted. No, such people it seems are not of flesh but
of bronze!"
  One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the
pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with
a red trunk under her bed- it's a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch
to digest! How can they digest it! It's too inartistic. "A Napoleon
creep under an old woman's bed! Ugh, how loathsome!"
  At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish
excitement. "The old woman is of no 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. Ha-ha! 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 object- ha-ha! Thirdly,
because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing,
measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most
useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for
the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a
monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am
utterly a louse," 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 not for you!... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!"
  His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his
eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
  "Mother, sister- how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I
hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't bear them near
me.... 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 looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the
frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. "It's
the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought
Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more
silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was
painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary
sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A
fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz.
At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the
little 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 tried to scream and woke up.
  He drew a deep breath- but his dream seemed strangely to persist:
his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in
the doorway watching him intently.
  Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed
them again. He lay on his back without stirring.
  "Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids
hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still
watching him.
  He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door
after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his
eyes on Raskolnikov and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the
sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on
his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was
prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out
from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a
full, fair, almost whitish beard.
  Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk.
There was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the
stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane.
It was unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on
the sofa.
  "Come, tell me what you want."
  "I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger
answered oddly, laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov,
allow me to introduce myself...."

                              PART FOUR
                             Chapter One
  "CAN this be still a dream?" Raskolnikov thought once more.
  He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.
  "Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in
  His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.
  "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 your assistance I reckon on..."
  "You reckon wrongly," interrupted Raskolnikov.
  "They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?"
  Raskolnikov made no reply.
  "It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before.
Well, let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don't consider it
necessary to justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there
particularly criminal on my part in all this business, speaking
without prejudice, with common sense?"
  Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.
  "That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and
'insulted her with my infamous proposals'- is that it? (I am
anticipating you.) But you've only to assume that I, too, am a man
et nihil humanum... in a word, that I am capable of being attracted
and falling in love (which does not depend on our will), then
everything can be explained in the most 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 any one!"
  "But that's not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.
"It's simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We
don't want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go
  Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh.
  "But you're... but there's no getting round you," he said,
laughing in the frankest way. "I hoped to get round you, but you
took up the right line at once!"
  "But you are trying to get round me still!"
  "What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigailov, laughing openly.
"But this is what the French call bonne guerre, and the most
innocent form of deception!... But still you have interrupted me;
one way or another, I repeat again: there would never have been any
unpleasantness except for what happened in the garden. Marfa
  "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 conclusion that that, too, was quite
out of the question."
  Raskolnikov laughed.
  "I wonder you trouble yourself about it!"
  "But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just
twice with a switch- there were no marks even... don't regard me as
a cynic, please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and
all that; but I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very
likely pleased at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister
had been wrung out to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa
Petrovna had been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show
herself with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so with that
letter (you heard about her reading the letter). And all of a sudden
those two switches fell from heaven! Her first act was to order the
carriage to be got out.... Not to speak of the fact that there are
cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in spite of all
their show of indignation. There are instances of it with every one;
human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you
noticed that? But it's particularly so with women. One might even
say it's their only amusement."
  At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so
finishing the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of
prudence made him linger for a moment.
  "You are fond of fighting?" he asked carelessly.
  "No, not very," Svidrigailov answered, calmly. "And Marfa Petrovna
and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was
always pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven
years (not counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character).
The first time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we
arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which we are
speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary,
such a slave driver? Ha, ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion
Romanovitch, how a few years ago, in those days of beneficent
publicity, a nobleman, I've forgotten his name, was put to shame
everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in
the railway train. You remember? It was in those days, that very
year I believe, the 'disgraceful action of the Age' took place (you
know, 'The Egyptian Nights,' that public reading, you remember? The
dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are
they?). Well, as for the 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 assure
  After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again.
Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his
mind and able to keep it to himself.
  "I expect you've not talked to any one for some days?" he asked.
  "Scarcely any one. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an
adaptable man?"
  "No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man."
  "Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your 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 bear, you
know, as you think."
  Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.
  "You are not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "I fancy indeed that
you are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on
occasion to behave like one."
  "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 want with me, then, unless
you've some special object?"
  "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 only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!"


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, may
be- well, all that can go on without me," he went on, again without
noticing the question. "Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?"
  "Why, have you been a card-sharper then?"
  "How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the
best society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of
breeding, you know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in
our Russian society, the best manners are found among those who've
been thrashed, have you noticed that? I've deteriorated in the
country. But I did get into prison for debt, through a low Greek who
came from Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with
him and bought me off for thirty thousand silver pieces (I owed
seventy thousand). We were united in lawful 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! Women find nothing incompatible in that."
  "If it hadn't been for that, would you have given her the slip?"
  "I don't know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained
me. I didn't want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself
invited me to go abroad, seeing I was bored, but I've been abroad
before, and always felt sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise,
the bay of Naples, the sea- you look at them and it makes you sad.
What's most revolting is that one is really sad! No, it's better at
home. Here at least one blames others for everything and excuses
oneself. I should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North
Pole, because j'ai le vin mauvais and hate drinking, and there's
nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I've been told
Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov
Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?"
  "Why, would you go up?"
  "I... No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigailov really seeming to be deep
in thought.
  "What does he mean? Is he in earnest?" Raskolnikov wondered.
  "No, the document didn't restrain me," Svidrigailov went on,
meditatively. "It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and
nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my
name day and made me a present of a considerable sum of money, too.
She had a fortune, you know. 'You see how I trust you, Arkady
Ivanovitch'- that was actually her expression. You don't believe she
used it? But do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they
know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna
at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid of my over-studying."
  "You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?"
  "Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you
believe in ghosts?"
  "What ghosts?"
  "Why, ordinary ghosts."
  "Do you believe in them?"
  "Perhaps not, pour vous plaire.... I wouldn't say no exactly."
  "Do you see them, then?"
  Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly.
  "Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he said, twisting his mouth
into a strange smile.
  "How do you mean 'she is pleased to visit you'?"
  "She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the
funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to
come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at
daybreak, on the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the
third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was
  "Were you awake?"
  "Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me
for a minute and goes out at the door- always at the door. I can
almost hear her."
  "What made me think that something of the sort must be happening
to you?" Raskolnikov said suddenly.
  At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much
  "What! Did you think so?" Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. "Did
you really? Didn't I say that there was something in common between
us, eh?"
  "You never said so!" Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.
  "Didn't I?"
  "I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes
shut, pretending, I said to myself at once 'here's the man.'"
  "What do you mean by 'the man?' What are you talking about?" cried
  "What do I mean? I really don't know...." Svidrigailov muttered
ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.
  For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other's faces.
  "That's all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. "What does
she say when she comes to you?"
  "She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and-
man is a strange creature- it makes me angry. The first time she
came in (I was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral
ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my
study. I lighted a cigar and began to think), she came in at the door.
'You've been so busy to-day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten
to wind the dining room clock,' she said. All those seven years I've
wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it she would 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 to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable
dinner from a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa
Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress
with a long train. '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
laughing-stock to all good people.' Then she went out and her train
seemed to rustle. Isn't it nonsense, eh?"
  "But perhaps you are telling lies?" Raskolnikov put in.
  "I rarely lie," answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, apparently not
noticing the rudeness of the question.
  "And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?"
  "Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I
had a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting
'Filka, my pipe!' He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes
were. I sat still and thought 'he is doing it out of revenge,' because
we had a violent quarrel just before his death. 'How dare you come
in with a hole in your elbow,' I said. 'Go away, you scamp!' He turned
and went out, and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at
the time. I wanted to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed."
  "You should go to a doctor."
  "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 they exist."
  "No, I won't believe it!" Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger.
  "What do people generally say?" muttered Svidrigailov, as though
speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head: "They say,
'You are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.' But
that's not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the
sick, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except to
the sick, not that they don't exist."
  "Nothing of the sort," Raskolnikov insisted irritably.
  "No? You don't think so?" Svidrigailov went on, 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 believe in that, too."
  "I don't believe in a future life," said Raskolnikov.
  Svidrigailov sat lost in thought.
  "And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that
sort," he said suddenly.
  "He is a madman," thought Raskolnikov.
  "We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception,
something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that,
what if it's one little room, like a 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 of anguish.
  "Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you
know it's what I would certainly have made it," answered Svidrigailov,
with a vague smile.
  This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov.
Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began
  "Only think," he cried, "half an hour ago we had never seen each
other, we regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter
unsettled between us; we've thrown it aside, and away we've gone
into the abstract! Wasn't I right in saying that we were birds of a
  "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 Petrovitch?"
  "Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from
mentioning her name? I can't understand how you dare utter her name in
my presence, if you really are Svidrigailov."
  "Why, but I've come here to speak about her; how can I avoid
mentioning her?"
  "Very good, speak, but make haste."
  "I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr.
Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have
only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no
match for Avdotya Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is
sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the sake of...
for the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that
you would be very glad if the match could be broken off without the
sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you personally, I am
convinced of it."
  "All this is very naive... excuse me, I should have said impudent on
your part," said Raskolnikov.
  "You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don't be uneasy,
Rodion Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would
not have spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess
something psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my
love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well,
let me tell you that I've no feeling of love now, not the slightest,
so that I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel something..."
  "Through idleness and depravity," Raskolnikov put in.
  "I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such
qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them. But
that's all nonsense, as I see myself now."
  "Have you seen that long?"
  "I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it
the day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in
Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to
try to get Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin."
  "Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the
object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out..."
  "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 that!"
  "I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I
am not rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have
absolutely no need for it. If Avdotya 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 want- not to
compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to
do something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all,
privileged to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth
fraction of self interest in my offer, I should not have made it so
openly; and I should not have offered her ten thousand only, when five
weeks ago I offered her more, Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry
a young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any
design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in
marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just the same, only from
another man. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, think it over
coolly and quietly."
  Svidrigailov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying
  "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 that sum to your sister in my will, surely
she wouldn't refuse it?"
  "Very likely she would."
  "Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten
thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case I
beg you to repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna."
  "No, I won't."
  "In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see
her myself and worry her by doing so."
  "And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?"
  "I don't know really what to say. I should like very much to see her
once more."
  "Don't hope for it."
  "I'm sorry. But you don't know me. Perhaps we may become better
  "You think we may become friends?"
  "And why not?" Svidrigailov said, smiling. He stood up and took
his hat. "I didn't quite intend to disturb you and I came here without
reckoning on it... though I was very much struck by your face this
  "Where did you see me this morning?" Raskolnikov asked uneasily.
  "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 card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a
great personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write
about Raphael's Madonna in Madam Prilukov's album, and I never left
Marfa Petrovna's side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at
Viazemsky's house in the Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up
in a balloon with Berg, perhaps."
  "Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?"
  "What travels?"
  "Why, on that 'journey'; you spoke of it yourself."
  "A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that's a wide
subject.... if only you knew what you are asking," he added, and
gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. "Perhaps I'll get married instead of
the journey. They're making a match for me."
  "How have you had time for that?"
  "But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly
beg it. Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes, I have forgotten
something. Tell your sister, Rodion 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 two or three weeks."
  "Are you telling the truth?"
  "Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you."
  As he went out, Svidrigailov ran up against Razumihin in the

                             Chapter Two
  IT WAS nearly eight o'clock. The two young men hurried to
Bakaleyev's, to arrive before Luzhin.
  "Why, who was that?" asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the
  "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
wanted to tell you, do you hear?"
  "Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you,
Rodya, for speaking to me like that.... We will, we will guard her.
Where does he live?"
  "I don't know."
  "Why didn't you ask? What a pity! I'll find out, though."
  "Did you see him?" asked Raskolnikov after a pause.
  "Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well."
  "You did really see him? You saw him clearly?" Raskolnikov insisted.
  "Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a thousand; I
have a good memory for faces."
  They were silent again.
  "Hm!... that's all right," muttered Raskolnikov. "Do you know, I
fancied... I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination."
  "What do you mean? I don't understand you."
  "Well, you all say," Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into
a smile, "that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am
mad, and have only seen a phantom."
  "What do you mean?"
  "Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps
everything that happened all these days may be only imagination."
  "Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again!... But what did he say, what
did he come for?"
  Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.
  "Now let me tell you my story," he began, "I came to you, you were
asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry's, Zametov was
still with him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn't
speak in the right way. They don't seem to understand and can't
understand, but are not a bit ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window,
and began talking to him, but it was still no use. He looked away
and I looked away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and
told him as a cousin I'd brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed
and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To Zametov I didn't
say a word. But, you see, I thought I'd made a mess of it, but as I
went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why should we trouble?
Of course if you were in any danger or anything, but why need you
care? You needn't care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at
them afterwards, and if I were in your place I'd mystify them more
than ever. How ashamed they'll be afterwards! Hang them! We can thrash
them afterwards, but let's laugh at them now!"
  "To be sure," answered Raskolnikov. "But what will you say
to-morrow?" he thought to himself. Strange to say, till that moment it
had never occurred to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he
knew. As he thought it, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin's account
of his visit to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much
had come and gone since then.
  In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually
at eight, and was looking for the number, so that all three went in
together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men
walked in first, while Pyotr Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered
a little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
came forward at once to greet him in the doorway, Dounia was welcoming
her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch walked in and quite amiably, though with
redoubled dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked, however, as
though he were a little put out and could not yet recover himself.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little embarrassed, hastened
to make them all sit down at the round table where a samovar was
boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides
of the table. Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, Razumihin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was
beside his sister.
  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
  "I trust you had a favourable journey," he inquired officially of
Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  "Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch."
  "I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is not over
fatigued either?"
  "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 without inconvenience?"
  "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 Luzhin.
  "I had the pleasure... yesterday," muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with
a hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; then he scowled and was
  Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface
very polite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but
who, directly they are crossed in anything, are completely
disconcerted, and become more like sacks of flour than elegant and
lively men of society. Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was
obstinately mute, Avdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the
conversation too soon. Razumihin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria
Alexandrovna was anxious again.
  "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 least I have excellent authority for believing."
  "To Petersburg? here?" Dounia asked in alarm and looked at her
  "Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in
view the rapidity of his departure, and all the circumstances
preceding it."
  "Good heavens! won't he leave Dounia in peace even here?" cried
Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  "I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any grounds
for uneasiness, unless, of course, you are yourselves desirous of
getting into communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and
am now discovering where he is lodging."
  "Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a fright you
have given me," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on. "I've only seen him
twice, but I thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he
was the cause of Marfa Petrovna's death."
  "It's impossible to be certain about that. I have precise
information. I do not dispute that he may have contributed 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
  "Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened
  "Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence
of this?" Dounia asked sternly and emphatically.
  "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 the abolition of serfdom."
  "I heard on the contrary that this Philip hanged himself."
  "Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him, to
suicide, was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr.
  "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 Philip's death."
  "I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed to
undertake his defence all of a sudden," Luzhin observed, twisting
his lips into an ambiguous smile, "there's no doubt that he is an
astute man, and insinuating where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa
Petrovna, who has died so strangely, is a terrible instance. My only
desire has been to be of service to you and your mother with my
advice, in view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be
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 shortly."
  "Thank God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "Pray
for her soul, Dounia!"
  "It's a fact!" broke from Luzhin.
  "Tell us, what more?" Dounia urged Raskolnikov.
  "Then he said that he wasn't rich and all the estate was left to his
children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying
somewhere not far from me, but where, I don't know, I didn't ask...."
  "But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?" cried
Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. "Did he tell you?"
  "What was it?"
  "I'll tell you afterwards."
  Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea.
  Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.
  "I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be
in your way," he added with an air of some pique and he began
getting up.
  "Don't go, Pyotr Petrovitch," said Dounia, "you intended to spend
the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an
explanation with mother."
  "Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna," Pyotr Petrovitch answered
impressively, sitting down again, but still holding his hat. "I
certainly desired an explanation with you and your honoured mother
upon a very important point indeed. But as your brother cannot speak
openly in my presence 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...."
  Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified silence.
  "Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting
was disregarded solely at my instance," said Dounia. "You wrote that
you had been insulted by my brother; I think that this must be
explained at once, and you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has
insulted you, then he should and will apologise."
  Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line.
  "There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no good-will can make
us forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to
overstep; and when it has been overstepped, there is no return."
  "That wasn't what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr Petrovitch,"
Dounia interrupted with some impatience. "Please understand that our
whole future depends now on whether all this is explained and set
right as soon as possible. I tell you frankly at the start that I
cannot look at it in any other light, and if you have the least regard
for me, all this business must be ended to-day, however hard that
may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he will ask your
  "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 incompatible with..."
  "Ah, don't be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch," Dounia
interrupted with feeling, "and be the sensible and generous man I have
always considered, and wish to 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 to-day after your letter,
I told him nothing of what I meant to do. Understand that, if you
are not reconciled, I must choose between you- it must be either you
or he. That is how the question rests on your side and on his. I don't
want to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your sake I
must break off with my brother, for my brother's sake I must break off
with you. I can find out for certain now whether he is a brother to
me, and I want to know it; and of you, whether I am dear to you,
whether you esteem me, whether you are the husband for me."
  "Avdotya Romanovna," Luzhin declared huffily, "your words are of too
much consequence to me; I will say more, they are offensive in view of
the position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say
nothing of your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an
impertinent boy, you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to
me. You say 'you or he,' showing thereby of how little 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
  "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 Romanovitch."
  "I don't remember," faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I repeated
them as I understood them. I don't know how Rodya repeated them to
you, perhaps he exaggerated."
  "He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation."
  "Pyotr Petrovitch," Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity,
"the proof that Dounia and I did not take your words in a very bad
sense is the fact that we are here."
  "Good, mother," said Dounia approvingly.
  "Then this is my fault again," said Luzhin, aggrieved.
  "Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself
have just written what was false about him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna
added, gaining courage.
  "I don't remember writing anything false."
  "You wrote," Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin,
"that I gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was
killed, as was the fact, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen
till yesterday). You wrote this to make dissension between me and my
family, and for that object added coarse expressions about the conduct
of a girl whom you don't know. All that is mean slander."
  "Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, quivering with fury. "I enlarged upon
your qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your
sister's and mother's inquiries how I found you and what impression
you made on me. As for what you've alluded to in my letter, be so good
as to point out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you
didn't throw away your money, and that there are not worthless persons
in that family, however unfortunate."
  "To my thinking, you with all your virtues are not worth the
little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw stones."
  "Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother
and sister?"
  "I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down
to-day with mother and Dounia."
  "Rodya!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned, Razumihin
knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.
  "You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna," he said, "whether
it is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question is at an
end, once and for all. I will withdraw, that I may not hinder the
pleasures of family intimacy, and the discussion of secrets." He got
up from his chair and took his hat. "But in withdrawing, I venture
to request that for the future I may be spared similar meetings,
and, so to say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honoured
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter was
addressed to you and to no one else."
  Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.
  "You seem to think we are completely under your 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 added sarcastically.
  "Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were
reckoning on our helplessness," Dounia observed irritably.
  "But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I 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 perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest
for you."
  "Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.
  "Aren't you ashamed now, sister?" asked Raskolnikov.
  "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, and his lips quivered.
  "Avdotyo Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a
dismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will never come back.
Consider what you are doing. My word is not to be shaken."
  "What insolence!" cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. "I don't
want you to come back again."
  "What! So that's how it stands!" cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the
last moment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown out
of his reckoning now. "So that's how it stands! But do you know,
Avdotya Romanovna, that I might protest?"
  "What right have you to speak to her like that?" Pulcheria
Alexandrovna intervened hotly. "And what can you protest about? What
rights have you? Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? Go away,
leave us altogether! We are to blame for having agreed to a wrong
action, and I above 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 and foot, not we!"
  "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 disregarding the universal verdict...."
  "Does the fellow want his head smashed?" cried Razumihin, jumping
  "You are a mean and spiteful man!" cried Dounia.
  "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 indeed" be set right again.

                            Chapter Three
  THE FACT was that up to the last moment he had never expected such
an ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never
dreaming that two destitute and defenceless women could escape from
his control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and
conceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who
had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to
self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and
capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his image in
the glass. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he had
amassed by his labour, and by all sorts of devices: that money made
him the equal of all who had been his superiors.
  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 girl- virtuous, poor (she must
be poor), very young, very pretty, of good birth and education, very
timid, one who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before
him, one who would all her life look on him as her saviour, worship
him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how many amorous
episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme, when his
work was over! And, behold, the dream of so many years was all but
realised; the beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna had
impressed him; her helpless position had been a great allurement; in
her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl of
pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to his
own (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful
all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself in
the dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power
over her!... Not long before, he had, too, after long reflection and
hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now
entering on a wider circle of business. With this change his cherished
dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely to be
realised.... He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune in
Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The
fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might
make his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him,
throwing an aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This
sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was
like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit
masterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke,
been carried away- and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too,
he did love Dounia in his own way; he already possessed her in his
dreams- and all at once! No! The next day, the very next day, it
must all be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush
that conceited milksop who was the cause of it all. With a sick
feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too, but, he soon
reassured himself on that score; as though a fellow like that could be
put on a level with him! The man he really dreaded in earnest was
Svidrigailov.... He had, in short, a great deal to attend to....
  "No, I, I am more to blame than any one!" said Dounia, kissing and
embracing her mother. "I was tempted by his money, but on my honour,
brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through
him before, nothing would have tempted me! Don't blame me, brother!"
  "God has delivered us! God has delivered us!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna
muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realise
what had happened.
  They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only
now and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what had
passed. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too,
was glad: she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a
terrible misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare to
express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though a
ton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote
his life to them, to serve them.... Anything might happen now! But
he felt afraid to think of further possibilities and dared not let his
imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost
sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on
getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had
happened. Dounia could not help thinking that he was still angry
with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.
  "What did Svidrigailov say to you?" said Dounia, approaching him.
  "Yes, yes!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
  Raskolnikov raised his head.
  "He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and he
desires to see you once in my presence."
  "See her! On no account!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "And how
dare he offer her money!"
  Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather drily) his conversation with
Svidrigailov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa
Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.
  "What answer did you give him?" asked Dounia.
  "At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said
that he would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without my
help. He assured me that his passion for you was a passing
infatuation, now he has no feeling for you. He doesn't want you to
marry Luzhin.... His talk was altogether rather muddled."
  "How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?"
  "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 great impression on him."
  "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 as to avoid borrowing
from that man until he offered help."
  Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov's offer. She still
stood meditating.
  "He has got some terrible plan," she said in a half whisper to
herself, almost shuddering.
  Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.
  "I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again," he said to
  "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, Avdotya Romanovna?"
  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 attentively for some time,
though he did not talk. Razumihin was the speaker.
  "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 another- you 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 payment for it. He had
told a lie, then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.
  "Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the
chief means of success- money of our own!" 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 know- and I kept the secret- two or three
books which one might get a hundred roubles simply for thinking of
translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five
hundred for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If
I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he'd hesitate- they are such
blockheads! And as for the business side, 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 our living and we shall
get back our capital."
  Dounia's eyes shone.
  "I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!" she said.
  "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
  "What do you think, brother?" said Dounia.
  "I think he's got a very good idea," he answered. "Of course, it's
too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring
out five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book
myself which would be sure to go well. And as for his being able to
manage it, there's no doubt about that either. He knows the
business.... But we can talk it over later...."
  "Hurrah!" cried Razumihin. "Now, stay, there's a flat here in this
house, belonging to the same owner. It's a special flat apart, not
communicating with these lodgings. It's furnished, rent moderate,
three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I'll pawn your watch
to-morrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged
then. You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But
where are you off to, Rodya?"
  "What, Rodya, you are going already?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked
in dismay.
  "At such a minute?" cried Razumihin.
  Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his
cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them.
  "One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever,"
he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out
a smile. "But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each
other..." he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and
it somehow was uttered aloud.
  "What is the matter with you?" cried his mother.
  "Where are you going, Rodya?" asked Dounia rather strangely.
  "Oh, I'm quite obliged to..." he answered vaguely, as though
hesitating what he would say. But there was a look of sharp
determination in his white face.