 XII. This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Distrustfully, and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scammed Raskolnikov's low and narrow cabin. With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinized the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face, without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place, reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this cabin by attempting to overaw them, the gentleman softened somewhat, incivilly, though with some severity, emphasizing every syllable of his question, addressed Zosimov. Leon Ramanovich Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student? Zosimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him. It is lying on the sofa. What do you want? This familiar, what do you want, seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zosimov again. This is Raskolnikov. Zosimov nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch, and a round hunter's case, opened it, looked at it, and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back. Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonizing operation, or had just been taken from the rack. But the newcomer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion, and even alarm. When Zosimov said, this is Raskolnikov, he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa, and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking voice, articulated, Yes, I am Raskolnikov. What do you want? The visitor scrutinized him, and pronounced impressively. Piotr Petrovich Luzhin, I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you. But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Piotr Petrovich for the first time. Is it possible that you can, up to the present, have received no information? Not Piotr Petrovich, somewhat disconcerted. In reply, Raskolnikov sang languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head, and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin's face. Zosimov and Vrazumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment. I had presumed and calculated. He faltered. That a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago. I say, why are you standing in the doorway? Vrazumihin interrupted suddenly. If you've something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here's a chair. Thread your way in. He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to thread his way in. The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Vrazumihin. No need to be nervous. The latter blurted out. Rodya has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of Rodya's, like him formerly a student, and now I am nursing him. So don't you take any notice of us, but go on with your business. Thank you, but shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation? Piotr Petrovich asked of Zosimov. No. Mumbled Zosimov. You may amuse him. He onned again. He has been conscious a long time, since the morning. Went on, Vrazumihin, whose familiarity seems so much like unaffected good nature that Piotr Petrovich began to be more cheerful, partly perhaps because the shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student. Your mama. Began Luzhin. Vrazumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly. Well, that's all right. Go on. Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. Your mama had commenced a letter to you while I was surgeoning in her neighborhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of the tidings. But now to my astonishment. I know, I know. Raskonokov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. So you are the fiancée. I know, and that's enough. There was no doubt about Piotr Petrovich's being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment's silence. Meanwhile, Raskonokov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him. He rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Piotr Petrovich's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of fiancée so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place it was evident, far too much so indeed, that Piotr Petrovich had made eager use of his few days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed. A perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding indeed. In his own, perhaps too complacent consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Piotr Petrovich had taken up the role of fiancée. All his clothes were fresh from the tailors, and were all right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Piotr Petrovich treated it too respectfully, and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves—real louvain—told the same tail, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand, for show. Light and youthful colors predominated in Piotr Petrovich's attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambrick with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was this all-suited Piotr Petrovich. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-shop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly upon his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with gray, though it had been combed and curled at a hairdressers, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Lusian unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling as before. But Mr. Lusian hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities. I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation. He began, again breaking the silence with an effort. If I had been aware of your illness, I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate. Not to mention other preoccupations, which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mama and sister any minute. Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak. His face showed some excitement. Piotr Petrovich paused, waited, but as nothing followed he went on. Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival. Where? Asked Raskolnikov weakly. Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house. That's in Voskursensky. Put in Razumihin. There are two stories of rooms, led by a merchant called Lusian. I've been there. Yes. Rooms. A disgusting place, filthy, stinking, and what's more of doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It's cheap, though. I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself. Piotr Petrovich replied huffily. However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time. I have already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat. He said, addressing Raskolnikov. And I am having it done up, and, meanwhile, I am myself cramped for room, in a lodging with my friend Andrei Semionovich Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lipov-Exel. It was he who told me of Bakaleev's house, too. That'd be Zepnikov. Sev Raskolnikov slowly, as if for calling something. Yes, Andrei Semionovich Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the ministry. Do you know him? Yes. No. Raskolnikov answered. Excuse me. I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian. A very nice young man, and advanced. I like to meet young people. One learns new things from them. Lucian looked round hopefully at the mall. How do you mean? Asked Razumihin. In the most serious and essential matters. Piotr Petrovich replied, as though delighted at the question. You see, it's ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces. But to see it all more clearly, one must be in Petersburg. And it's my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted. At what? Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views. More, so to say, criticism, more practicality. That's true. Zosimov let drop. Nonsense, there's no practicality. Razumihin fluid him. Practicality is a difficult thing to find. It does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting. He said to Piotr Petrovich. And desire for good exists, though it's in a childish form. And honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there's no practicality. Practicality goes well shod. I don't agree with you. Piotr Petrovich replied with evident enjoyment. Of course people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence. Those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been done, the time has been but short of means I will not speak. It's my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a mature form. Many injurious prejudices have been rooted up and turned into ridicule. In a word we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past. And that, to my thinking, is a great thing. He's learned it by heart to show off. Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly. What? Asked Piotr Petrovich, not catching his words. But he received no reply. That's all true. Zosimov hastened to interpose. Isn't it so? Piotr Petrovich went on, glancing affably at Zosimov. You must admit— He went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness. He almost added, young man— That there is an advance, or as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth. A common place. No, not a common place. Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, love thy neighbor. What came of it? Piotr Petrovich went on, perhaps with excessive haste. It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbor, and we both were left half-naked. As a Russian proverb has it— Catch several hairs, and you won't catch one. Science now tells us— Love yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly, and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organized in society, the more whole coats, so to say. The firmer are its foundations, and the better is the common welfare organized, too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to pass my neighbors getting a little more than a torn coat, and that not from private personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality, and yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it. Excuse me, I've very little wit myself. And so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I've grown so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of common places always the same, that by Jove I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your requirements, and I don't blame you. That's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late, and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That's enough. Excuse me, sir, said Lusian, affronted and speaking with excessive dignity. Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I, too? Oh, my dear sir, how could I? Come, that's enough. And he turned abruptly to Zelsimov to continue their previous conversation. Piotr Petrovich had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two. I trust our acquaintance. May upon your recovery, and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware, become closer. Above all, I hope for your return to health. Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Piotr Petrovich began getting up from his chair. One of her customers must have killed her. Not a doubt of it. Replied Razumihin. Porfiry doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there. Examining them? Raskolnikov asked aloud. Yes. What then? Nothing. How does he get hold of them? Asked Zelsimov. Kolk has given the names of some of them. Other names are on the wrappers of the pledges, and some have come forward of themselves. It must have been a cunning and practiced Ruffian. The boldness of it. The coolness. That's just what it wasn't. Interposed Razumihin. That's what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not practiced, and probably this was his first crime. The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn't work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it's clear that it was only a chance that saved him, and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps. And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty rubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman's trunks, her rags, and they found fifteen hundred rubles besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest. He did not know how to rob. He could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime. He lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel. You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe. Piotr Petrovich put in, addressing Zosimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favorable impression, and his vanity overcame his prudence. Yes, you heard of it? Oh yes, being in the neighborhood. Do you know the details? I can't say that, but another circumstance interests me in the case. The whole question, so to say, not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere. What strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student robbing the mail on the high road. In another place, people of good social position forge false banknotes. In Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history. Then our secretary abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain. And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society, for peasants don't pawn gold trinkets, how are we to explain this demoralization of the civilized part of our society? There are many economic changes. How are we to explain it? It might be explained by our inveterate impracticality. How do you mean? What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich, too. I don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing without waiting or working. We've grown used to having everything Renny made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck, and every man showed himself in his true colors. Translators note, the emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant. End translator's note. But morality, and so to speak, principles. But why do you worry about it? Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. It's in accordance with your theory. In accordance with my theory? Why, carry out logically the theory you were advancing just now. And it follows that people may be killed. Upon my word. Cried Luzhin. No, that's not so. Put in Zosimov. Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. There's a measure in all things. Luzhin went on superciliously. Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder. And one has but to suppose. And is it true? Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him. Is it true that you told your fiancee, within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most was that she was a beggar? Because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor. Upon my word. Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion. To distort my words in this way. Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I suspect who. In a word, this arrow. In a word, your mama. She seemed to me in other things with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking, but I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way. And indeed, indeed. I tell you what. Cry Vyskonekov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him. I tell you what. What. Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds. Why, if ever again, you dare to mention a single word about my mother. I shall send you flying downstairs. What's the matter with you? So that's how it is. Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. Let me tell you, sir. He began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself, but breathing hard. At the first moment I saw you, you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you never after this. I am not ill, cried Vyskonekov. So much the worse. Go to hell! But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair. Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zosimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it, as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received. How could you? How could you? Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity. Let me alone. Let me alone, all of you. Razkonekov cried in a frenzy. Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of anyone. Anyone now. Get away from me. I want to be alone, alone, alone. Come along, said Zosimov, nodding to Razumihin. But we can't leave him like this. Come along, Zosimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him. It might be worse not to obey him, said Zosimov on the stairs. He mustn't be irritated. What's the matter with him? If only he could get some favorable shock. That's what would do it. At first he was better. You know he has got something on his mind. Some fixed idea weighing on him. I am very much afraid so. He must have. Perhaps it's that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovich. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness. Yes, confound the man. He may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed? He takes no interest in anything. He does not respond to anything except one point, on which he seems excited. That's the murder. Yes, yes. Razumihin agreed. I noticed that too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office. He fainted. Tell me more about that this evening, and I'll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much. In half an hour I'll go and see him again. There'll be no inflammation, though. Thanks, and I'll wait with Pashankami in time, and we'll keep watch on him through Nastasia. Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasia, but she still lingered. Won't you have some tea now? She asked. Later, I am sleepy. Leave me. He turned abruptly to the wall. Nastasia went out. End of Part 2, Chapter 5. But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again, and began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm, not a trace of his recent delirium, nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange, sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite. A firm purpose was evident in them. Today, today. He muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment's thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five rubles. He took also all the copper change from the ten rubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs, and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasia was standing with her back to him, blowing up the landlady Samavar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street. It was nearly eight o'clock. The sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy. A sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes, and his wasted pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going. He had one thought only. That all this must be ended today. Once for all, immediately, that he would not return home without it. Because he could not go on living like that. How, with what, make an end? He had not an idea about it. He did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought. Thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt, was that everything must be changed. One way or another. He repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination. From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the hay market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general shop, and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle, and a straw hat with a flame-colored feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five-copek piece, and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted abruptly to the organ grinder. Come on! And both moved on to the next shop. You like street music? Svetlis Konyakov addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering. I left air singing to his street organ. Svetlis Konyakov and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject. I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings. They must be damp. When all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down. When there's no wind, you know what I mean? And the street lamp shined through it. I don't know. Excuse me. Muttered the stranger, frightened by the question, Anvraskonyakov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street. Raskonyakov walked straight on and came out of the corner of the hay market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Visavietta. But they were not there now. Recognizing the place, he stopped, looked round, and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt, who stood gaping before a corn-channeler's shop. Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner? All sorts of people keep boats here, answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskonyakov. What's his name? Vatheels Krysand. Aren't you as a rice-ski man, too? Which province? The young man looked at Raskonyakov again. It's not a province, your Excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me your Excellency. Is there a tavern at the top there? Yes, it's an eating-house, and there's a billiard-room, and you'll find princesses there, too. La-la! Raskonyakov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people, but the peasants took no notice of him. They were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little, and took a turning to the right in the direction of V. He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the marketplace to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wonder about this district when he felt oppressed, that he might feel more so. Now he walked along thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings entirely let out in jam shops and eating-houses. Women were continually running in and out, bare-headed, and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the lower stories. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar, and shouts of merriment floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door. Some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing. He seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarreling with another, and a man-dead drunk was lying right across the road. But as Conokov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices, they were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and goat-skinned shoes. There were women of forty, and some not more than seventeen. Almost all had blackened eyes. He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below. Someone could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar, and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily, and dreamily, bending down at the entrance, and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement. O my handsome soldier, don't beat me for nothing! Trilled the thin voice of the singer, but as Conokov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that. Shall I go in? He thought. They're laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk? Won't you come in? One of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical, and less thick than the others. She was young, and not repulsive. The only one of the group. Why, she's pretty. He said, drawing himself up and looking at her. She smiled, much pleased at the compliment. You're very nice looking yourself. She said. Isn't he thin, though? Observed another woman in a deep base. Have you just come out of a hospital? They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they're all snub noses. Interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. See how jolly they are. Go along with you. I'll go, sweetie. And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskonikov moved on. I say, sir. The girl shouted after him. What is it? She hesitated. I will always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman. But now I feel shy. Give me six copex for a drink. There's a nice young man. Raskonikov gave her what came first—fifteen copex. Ah, what a good natured gentleman. What's your name? Ask for Duklida. Well, that's too much. One of the women observed, shaking her head at Duklida. I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame. Raskonikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pockmarked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. Where is it? Thought, Raskonikov. Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says, or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once. Only to live, to live and live. Life, whatever it may be. How true it is. Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature. And vile as he you calls him vile for that. He added a moment later. He went into another street. Bah! The Palais de Cristal. Razumikin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. Zosimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers? He asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Razumikin fancied that Zamietov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. What if it is? He thought. Will you have vodka? Asked the waiter. Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones, for the last five days, and I'll give you something. Yes, sir. Here's to-days. No vodka? The old newspapers and the tea were brought, but as Konokov sat down and began to look through them. Oh, damn, these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in pesky, a fire in the Petersburg quarter, another fire in the Petersburg quarter, and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. Ah, here it is. He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it, the lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up. It was the head clerk Zamietov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch chain, with the curly black hair parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat, and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humoredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk. What, you here? He began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you? Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zamietov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile. I know you have. He answered. I've heard it. You look for my sock. And do you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Louisa Ivanovna's. You know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the explosive lieutenant, and he would not understand? Do you remember? How could he fail to understand? It was quite clear, wasn't it? What a hot head he is! The explosive one? No, your friend Razumihin. You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zamietov. Entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now? We've just been having a drink together. You talk about pouring it into me. By way of a fee, you profit by everything. But it's gonna cover laughed. It's all right, my dear boy. He added, slapping Zamietov on the shoulder. I am not speaking from temper. But in a friendly way, for sport. As that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Demetri, in the case of the old woman. How do you know about it? Perhaps I know more about it than you do. How strange you are. I am sure you are still very unwell. You're wanting to have come out. Oh, do I seem strange to you? Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers? Yes. There's a lot about the fires. No, I am not reading about the fires. Here he looked mysteriously at Zamietov. His lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. No. I am not reading about the fires. He went on, winking at Zamietov. But confess now, my dear fellow. You're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about. I am not in the least. May not I ask a question? Why do you keep on— Listen. You are a man of culture and education. I was in the sixth class at a gymnasium. Said Zamietov with some dignity. Sixth class? Ah, my cockspero. With your parting and your rings, you're a gentleman of fortune. Foo, what a charming boy. Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zamietov's face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended. Foo, how strange you are. Zamietov repeated very seriously. I can't help thinking you are still delirious. I am delirious. You are fibbing, my cockspero. So I am strange. You find me curious to you. Yes, curious. Shall I tell you what I was reading about? What I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh? Well, what is it? You prick up your ears. How do you mean, prick up my ears? I'll explain that afterwards. But now, my boy, I declare to you. No, better I confess. No, that's not right, either. I make a deposition, and you take it. I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching. He screwed up his eyes and paused. I was searching, and came here on purpose to do it. For news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman. He articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of Zamietov. Zamietov looked at him steadily, without moving or drying his face away. What struck Zamietov afterwards, as the strangest part of it all, was the silence that followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while. What if you have been reading about it? He cried at last, perplexed and impatient. That's no business of mine, but of it. The same old woman. Breskonokov went on in the same whisper, not heeding Zamietov's explanation. About whom you were talking in the police office, you remember? When I fainted. Well, do you understand now? What do you mean? Understand what? Zamietov brought out, almost alarmed. Breskonokov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled, with extraordinary vividness of sensation, a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it. And he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. You're either mad or— Began Zamietov, and he broke off as though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind. Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me. Nothing. Said Zamietov, getting angry. It's all nonsense. Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter, Breskonokov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zamietov. The silence lasted for some time. Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold. Said Zamietov. What? Tea? Oh, yes. Breskonokov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth, and, suddenly looking at Zamietov, seemed to remember everything, and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea. There have been a great many of these crimes lately. Said Zamietov. Only the other day I read in the Moscow news that a whole gang of false coiners have been called in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets. Oh, but it was a long time ago. I read about it a month ago. Breskonokov answered calmly. So you consider them criminals? He added, smiling. Of course they are criminals. They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals. Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object. What an idea. Three would be too many. And then they want to have more faith in one another than in themselves. One has only to blab in his cups, and it all collapses. Simpletons. They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes. What a thing to trust to a casual stranger. Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a million. And what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life. Better hang oneself at once. And they did not know how to change the notes, either. The man who changed the notes took five thousand rubles and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth thousand. He was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to crash through one fool. Is it possible? That his hands trembled? Observes, Amiettov. Yes, that's quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can't stand things. Can't stand that? Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred rubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it's their business to spot that sort of thing? No, I should not have the face to do it. Would you? Raskolnikov had an intense desire again to put his tongue out. Shivers kept running down his spine. I should do it quite differently. Raskolnikov began. This is how I would change the notes. I count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note. And then I'd set it to the second thousand. I count that halfway through and then hold some fifty rubles note to the light. Then turn it. Then hold it to the light again to see where there was a good one. I am afraid, I would say. A relation of mine lost twenty-five rubles the other day through a false note. Then I tell them the whole story. And after I began counting third, no excuse me, I would say. I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand. I am not sure. And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished I'd pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, change them please, and put the clerk in such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out I'd come back. No excuse me, and ask for some explanation. That's how I'd do it. Foo! What terrible things you say! Said Samyetov, laughing. But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself much less you and I. To take an example near home that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow. He risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle, but his hand shook too. He did not succeed in robbing the place. He couldn't stand it. That was clear from the— But it's going to seem defended. Clear? Why don't you catch him then? He cried, maliciously jibing at Samyetov. Well, they will catch him. Who, you? Do you suppose you could catch him? You have a tough job. A great point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no money, and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man, so that any child can mislead you. The fact is, they always do that, though. Answered Samyetov. A man will commit a clever murder at your risk of his life, and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money. They are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course. Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Samyetov. You seemed to enjoy this subject, and would like to know how I should behave in that case, too. He asked with displeasure. I should like to. Samyetov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks. Very much? Very much. All right, then. This is how I should behave. Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Samyetov's, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper so that the latter positively shuttered. This is what I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels. I should have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences round it, and scarcely anyone to be seen. Some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hundred weight or more, which had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone. There would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search. There'd be no trace. You are a madman, said Samyetov, and for some reason he, too, spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale, and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Samyetov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute. He knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door. In another moment it will break out. In another moment he will let it go. He will speak out. And what if it was I who murdered the old woman in Liza Veta? He said suddenly and realized what he had done. Samyetov looked wildly at him, and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile. But is it possible? He brought out faintly, but Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him. Own up that you believed it. Yes, you did. Not a bit of it. I believe it less than ever now. Samyetov cried hastily. I've caught my cock's sparrow. So you did believe it before. If now you believe it less than ever. Not at all. Cried Samyetov, obviously embarrassed. Have you been freightening me so I still lead up to this? You don't believe it then. What were you talking about behind my back when I was out of the police office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there. He shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap. How much? Thirty kopecks. The latter replied, running up. And there is twenty kopecks for Vodka. See what a lot of money. He held out his shaking hand to Samyetov with notes in it. Red notes in blue, twenty-five rubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a kopeck. You've cross-examined my landlady, I'll be bound. Well, that's enough. I'll see Cozy till we meet again. He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed. Samyetov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Raskonokov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point, and had made up his mind for him conclusively. Ilya Petrovich is a blockhead. He decided. Raskonokov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded. Then anger, real anger, gleamed fiercely in his eyes. So here you are! He shouted at the top of his voice. You ran away from your bed. And here I've been looking for you under the sofa. We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasia on your account. And here he is after all. Rodia, what is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth. Confess. Do you hear? It means that I am sick to death of you all, and I want to be alone. Raskonokov answered calmly. Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath, Idiot! What have you been doing in the Polistik crystal? Own up at once. Let me go. Said Raskonokov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin. He gripped him firmly by the shoulder. Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do if you directly? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up. Listen, Razumihin. Raskonokov began quietly, apparently calm. Can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who curses them? Who feels them a burden, in fact? Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough today that you were torturing me? That I was sick of you? You seem to want to torture people. I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because it's constantly irritating me. You saw Zosimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness sake. What right have you indeed to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How? How can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful. I may be mean. Only let me be. For God's sake, let me be. Let me be. Let me be. He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for breath in a frenzy, as he had been with Muzhin. Razumihin stood a moment, thought, and let his hand drop. Well, go to hell, then. He said gently and thoughtfully. Stay! He roared as Raskolnikov was about to move. Listen to me. Let me tell you that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots. If you've any little trouble, you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists, even in that. There isn't a sign of independent life in you. You are made of spermacity ointment, and you've limped in your veins instead of blood. I don't believe in any of you. In any circumstances, the first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being. Stop! He cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement. Hear me out. You know I'm having a housewarming this evening. I daresay they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle there. I just ran in, to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation. You see, Rodya, I recognize you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool. And if you weren't a fool, you'd come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in the street. Since you have gone out, there's no help for it. I'd give you a snug, easy chair. My landlady has one. A cup of tea, company. Or you could lie on the sofa. Any way you would be with us. Zossimov will be there too. Will you come? No. Rubbish! Razumihin shouted out of patience. How do you know? You can't answer for yourself. You don't know anything about it. Thousands of times I fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards. One feels ashamed and goes back to a man. So remember, Pochinkov's house on the third story. Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence. Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere idea. Pochinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. I shall not come, Razumihin. Razumihin turned and walked away. I bet you will. Razumihin shouted after him. I refuse to know you if you don't. Stay. Hey, is Zamyatov in there? Yes. Did you see him? Yes. Talked to him? Yes. What about? Confound you. Don't tell me, then. Pochinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. Remember. Razumihin walked on and turned the corner into Sadovi Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then, with a wave of his hand, he went into the house, but stopped short of the stairs. Confound it. He went on almost aloud. He talked sensibly, but yet... I am a fool. As if madmen didn't talk sensibly. And this was just what Zosimov seemed afraid of. He struck his finger on his forehead. What if... How could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself. What a blunder. I can't. And he ran back to overtake Raskonokov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Cristal to questions Zamyatov. Raskonokov walked straight to X-Bridge, stood in the middle, and, leaning both elbows on the rail, stared into the distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes. The houses seemed moving. The passers-by, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing on the right side of him. He looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognized no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left, and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current. Her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back. A woman drowning! A woman drowning! shouted dozens of voices. People ran up. Both banks were thronged with spectators. On the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him. Mercy on it! It's a Afrosyna! A woman cried tearfully, close by. Mercy! Save her! Kind people! Pull her out! A boat! A boat! was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat. A policeman ran down the steps of the canal, threw off his great coat and his boots, and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her. She floated within a couple of yards from the steps. He caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him. The drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up, and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing. She's drunk herself out of her senses. The same woman's voice wailed at her side. Out of her senses! The other day she tried to hang herself. We cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her. And here she's in trouble again! A neighbor! Gentlemen! A neighbor! We live close by! The second house from the end! See yonder! The crowd broke up. The police still remained around the woman. Someone mentioned the police station. But as Konokov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy, he felt disgusted. No, that's loathsome. Water. It's not good enough. He muttered to himself. Nothing will come of it. He added. No use to wait. What about the police office? And why isn't Samyetov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o'clock. He turned his back to the railing and looked about him. Very well, then. He said resolutely. He moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed. There was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out to make an end of it all. Complete apathy had succeeded to it. Well, it's a way out of it. He thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. Anyway, I'll make an end, for I want to. But is it a way out? Or does it matter? There'll be the square yard of space. But what an end. Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah, damn how tired I am. If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon. What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don't care about that either. What idiotic ideas come into one's head. To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and make the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute's thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way. Possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked looking at the ground. Suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear. He lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of the house. He had not passed it. He had not been near it since that evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth story. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked around him with curiosity. On the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. That wasn't so, then. He thought. Here was the flat on the second story where Nicolai and Dimitri had been working. It shut up and the door newly painted. So it's too late. Then the third story and the fourth. Here. He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men there. He could hear voices. He had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It too was being done up. There were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him. He somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now bare walls, no furniture. It seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers instead of the old dirty yellow one. Raskonokov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time, and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskonokov's coming in. They were talking. Raskonokov folded his arms and listened. She comes to me in the morning, said the elder to the younger. Very early, all the rest stop. Thy are you painting and pranking? Said I. That's what they have going on. And she dressed up like a regular fashion book. And what is a fashion book? The younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority. The fashion book is a lot of pictures, colored, and they come to the tellers here, every Saturday, but post from abroad to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the female. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats, and for the ladies, flubbles. They're beyond anything you can fancy. There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg. The younger cried enthusiastically. Except father and mother, there's everything. Except them. There's everything to be found, my boy. The elder declared sententiously. Raskonokov got up and walked into the other room, where the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been. The room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same. The paper in the corner showed where the case of icons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked at him as scantz. What do you want? He asked suddenly. Instead of answering, Raskonokov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time. He listened and remembered. The hideous and agonizingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring, and it gave him more and more satisfaction. Bell, what do you want? Who are you? The workman shouted, going out to him. Raskonokov went inside again. I want to take a flat. He said. I am looking around. It's not the time to look at rooms at night, and you ought to come up with a porter. The floors have been washed. Will they be painted? Raskonokov went on. Is there no blood? What blood? Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there. But who are you? The workman cried, uneasy. Who am I? Yes. You want to know? Come to the police station. I'll tell you. The workman looked at him in amazement. It's time for us to go. They are all late. Come along, Galioshka. We must lock up. Said the elder workman. Very well, come along. Said Raskonokov indifferently, and going out first he went slowly downstairs. Hey, porter. He cried in the gateway. At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers-by. The two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat, and a few others. Raskonokov went straight up to them. What do you want? Asked one of the porters. Have you been to the police office? I've just been there. What do you want? Is it open? Of course. Is the assistant there? He was there for a time. What do you want? Raskonokov made no reply, but stood beside them, lost in thought. He's been to look at the flat. Said the elder workman, coming forward. Which flat? There we are at work. Why have you lost today, Ziblot? Says he, there has been a murder here. Says he, all those come to take it. And he began ringing at the bell, all the broken. Come to the police station. Says he, I'll tell you everything there. He won't leave us. The porter looked at Raskonokov, frowning and perplexed. Who are you? He shouted as impressively as he could. I am Radeon Ramonovich Raskonokov. Formerly a student. I live in Schill's house, not far from here. Flat number fourteen. Asked the porter, he knows me. Raskonokov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street. Why have you been to the flat? To look at it. Why is there to look at? Take him straight to the police station. The man in the long coat jerked in abruptly. Raskonokov looked intently at him over his shoulder, and said in the same slow, lazy tones. Come along. Yes, take him. The man went on more confidently. Why was he going into that? What's in his mind? Eh? He's not drunk. Oh, God knows what's the matter with him, muttered the workman. But what do you want? The porter shouted again, beginning to get angry and earnest. Why are you hanging about? You funk the police station, then. Raskonokov jeeringly. How funk it? Why are you hanging about? He's a rogue. shouted the peasant woman. Why was time talking to him? cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat, and with keys on his belt. Get along. He's a rogue, and makes no mistake. Get along. And, seizing Raskonokov by the shoulder, he flunked him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovering his footing, looked at the spectators in silence, and walked away. Strange man. observed the workman. There are strange folks about nowadays. Said the woman. You should have taken him to the police station, or the same. Said the man in the long coat. Better have nothing to do with him. Decided the big porter. A regular rogue, just what he wants. You may be sure, but once take him up, you won't get rid of him. We're not a sort. Shall I go there or not? Thought Raskonokov, standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at the crossroads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came. All was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked. Dead to him. To him alone. All at once, at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk, he saw a crowd, and heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage, a light gleamed in the middle of the street. What is it? Raskonokov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything, and smiled coldly when he recognized it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station, and knew that it would all soon be over. End of Part 2 Chapter 6 Section 14 of Crime and Punishment This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Part 2 Chapter 7 An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited gray horses. There was no one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by. The horses were being held by the bridle. A mass of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern, by which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming. The coachman seemed at a loss, and kept repeating, Raskonokov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion in interest. On the ground, a man who had been run over, lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood. He was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face. His face was crushed, mutilated, and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured. Mercyful heaven! Wailed the coachman. What more could I do? If I'd been driving fast, or had not shared to do him, but I was going quietly, not a hurry. Everyone could see I was going along, just not everybody else. A drunkard man can't walk straight. We all know. I saw him crossing the street, staggering, and almost falling. I shot at it again, and a second, and a third time. Then I held the horses in. But he fell straight under their feet. Either he did it on purpose, or he was very tipsy. The horses are young and ready to take for it. They started. He screamed. That made them worse. That's how it happened. That's just how it was. A voice in the crowd confirmed. He shouted. That's true. He shouted three times. Another voice declared. Three times it was. We all heard it. Shouted a third. But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere. The police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name. Meanwhile, Reskonekov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man's face. He recognized him. I know him. I know him. He shouted, pushing to the front. It's a government clerk retired from the service. Marmelodov. He lives close by in Kozel's house. Make haste for a doctor. I will pay, see. He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in a violent agitation. The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Reskonekov gave his own name and address, and as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious Marmelodov to his lodging at once. Just here, three houses away. He said eagerly. The house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him. He is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children. He has one daughter. It will take time to take him to the hospital. And there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay. At least he will be looked after at home. They will help him at once. But he'll die before you get him to the hospital. He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman's hand, but the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case, help was closer here. They raised the injured man, people volunteered to help. Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Reskonekov walked behind, carefully holding Marmelodov's head and showing the way. This way, this way, we must take him upstairs, head foremost. Turn round, I'll pay, I'll make it worth your while. He muttered. Kateryna Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room, from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was very much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with big, clever eyes, and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him, heels together, and toes turned out. He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still, with pouting lips and wide open eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door onto the stairs was open to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms, and brought on long, terrible fits of coughing in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner during that week, and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever. You wouldn't believe. You can't imagine, Polenka. She said, walking about the room. What a happy, luxurious life we had in my papa's house, and how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all to ruin. Papa was a civil colonel, and only a step from being a governor, so that everyone who came to see him said, we look upon you, Ivan Mikhailovich, as our governor. When I—when— She coughed violently. Oh, cursed life! She cried, clearing her throat, and pressing her hands to her breast. When I—when at the let's-ball, at the marshals, Princess Bazemelny saw me, who gave me the blessing when your father and I were married, Polenka. She asked at once, isn't that the pretty girl who danced the shawl dance at the breaking-up? You must mend that tear. You must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or tomorrow— he will make the hole bigger. She articulated with effort. Prince Shagolskoy, a camera junker, had just come from Petersburg then. He danced the Mazurka with me, and wanted to make me an offer next day. But I thanked him in flattering expressions, and told him that my heart had long been in others. That other was your father, Polya. Papa was fearfully angry. Is the water ready? Give me the shirt and the stockings. Lida— Said she to the youngest one. You must manage without your chemise tonight, and lay your stockings out with it. I'll wash them together. How is it that drunken vagabond doesn't come in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dishclout. He has torn it to rags. I'll do it all together, so as not to have to work two nights running. Oh, dear. Again? What's this? She cried, noticing a crowd in the passage in the men who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us! Where are we to put him? Asked the policeman, looking round when Marmiladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in. On the sofa. Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way. Raskolnikov showed him. Run over in the road. Drunk! Someone shouted in the passage. Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka, and clutched at her, trembling all over. Having laid Marmiladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna. For God's sake, be calm. Don't be frightened. He said, speaking quickly. He was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage. Don't be frightened. He will come too. I told them, bring him here. I've been here already, you remember? He will come too. I'll pay. He's done it this time. Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly, and she rushed to her husband. Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man's head a pillow, which no one had thought of, and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips, and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her. Raskolnikov, meanwhile, induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one. I've sent for a doctor. He kept reassuring Katerina Ivanovna. Don't be uneasy. I'll pay. Haven't you, Water? And give me a napkin or towel, anything, as quick as you can. He is injured but not killed, believe me. We shall see what the doctor says. Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window. There, on a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, and readiness for washing her children's and husband's linen that night. This washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night, at least twice a week, if not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness, and, rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on the line and dry by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov's request, but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it, and began washing the blood off Marmiladov's face. Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully, and pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began to realize that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation. Polenka cried Katerina Ivanovna. Run to Sonia. Make haste. If you don't find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and that she is to come here at once when she comes in. Run, Polenka. There. Put on the shawl. Run, you fastest! cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity with round eyes, his heels thrust forward, and his toes spread out. Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn't have dropped a pin. The policeman left, all except one, who remained for a time trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lepiveg's lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the flat. At first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a fury. You might let him die at peace, at least. She shouted at the crowd. Is it a spectacle for you to gape at, with cigarettes? You might as well keep your hats on. And there is one in his hat. Get away. You should respect the dead, at least. Her cough choked her, but her reproaches were not without result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincere sympathy and compassion. Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital, and saying that they had no business to make a disturbance here. No business to die! cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face with Madame de Vexel, who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German. Ah, my God! she cried, clasping her hands. Your husband's drunken horses have trampled to the hospital with him. I am the landlady. Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying. Katerina Ivanovna began hotly. She always took a hotty tone with the landlady, that she might remember her place, and even now could not deny herself this satisfaction. Amalia Ludwigovna, I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare. I am Amalia Ivanovna. You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers, like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's laughing behind the door at this moment. A laugh and a cry of, they are at it again, was in fact audible at the door. So I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovich. He is dying. I beg you to close that door at once, and to admit no one. Let him at least die in peace. Or I warn you, the Governor-General himself shall be informed of your contact tomorrow. The Prince knew me as a girl. He remembers Semyon Zaharovich well, and has often been a benefactor to him. Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovich had many friends and protectors, who he abandoned himself from an honourable pride, knowing his unhappy weakness. But now— She pointed to Raskonikov. A generous young man has come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections, and whom Semyon Zaharovich has known from a child. He may rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna— All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan. She ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes, and without recognition or understanding, Gayset Raskonikov, who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths. Blood oozed at the corners of his mouth, and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognizing Raskonikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes. My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding! She said in despair, We must take off his clothes. Turn a little Semyon Zaharovich, if you can. She cried to him. Marmiladov recognized her. Please! He articulated huskily. Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame, and exclaimed in despair. Oh, cursed life! A priest! The dying man said again after a moment's silence. They've gone for him! Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him. He obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her. She returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier, but not for long. Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favorite, who was shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes. He signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something. What now? cried Katerina Ivanovna. He muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet. Be silent! Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably. You know why she is barefooted! Thank God! The doctor! exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved. The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him mistrustfully. He went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head, and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man's chest. It was gashed, crushed, and fractured. Several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking, yellowish-black bruise, a cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel, and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road. It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness. The doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov. What do you think of him? He asked. He will die immediately. Is there really no hope? Not the faintest. He is at the last gasp. His head is badly injured, too. I could bleed him if you like, but it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes. Better bleed him, then. If you like, but I warn you, it will be perfectly useless. At that moment other steps were heard. The crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little gray old man, appeared in the doorway, bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained. All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little. He could only utter indistinct, broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the stove, and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling, but the boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision, and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him a special satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips, and held back her tears. She prayed, too, now and then, pulling straight to the boy's shirt, and managed to cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile, the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage, the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircases grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene. At that moment, Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her, and said, She's coming! I met her in the street! Her mother made her kneel beside her. Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death, and despair. She, too, was in rags. Her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway, and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline, that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-colored shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-colored feather. Under this rakishly tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face, with lips parted, and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small, thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest. She, too, was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door. The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back, and turned to say a few words of admonition and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving. What am I to do with these? She interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones. God is merciful. Look to the most high for sacro. The priest began. He is merciful, but not to us. That's Azim. Azim, madam. Observe the priest, shaking his head. And isn't that a sin? cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man. Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his errands. You don't understand, cried Katerina Ivanovna, angrily waving her hand. And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses. What earnings? He brought us nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard. He robbed us to get drink. He wasted their lives and mine for drink. And thank God he's dying. One less to keep. You must forgive in the hour of death. That's a sin, madam. Such feelings are a great sin. Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man. She was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him almost in a frenzy. Ah, Father, that's words, only words. Forgive. If he had not been run over, he'd have come home today drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags. And he'd have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been sourcing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children's, and then drying them by the window, and as soon as it was daylight I should have been darning them. That's how I spend my nights. What's the use of talking of forgiveness? I have forgiven as it is. A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips, and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing. Marmiladov was in the last agony. He did not take his eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say something to her. He began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called preemptorily to him. Be silent. No need. I know what you want to say. And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway, and he saw Sonia. Till then he had not noticed her. She was standing in the shadow in a corner. Who's that? Who's that? He said suddenly in a thick, gasping voice, in agitation turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing and trying to sit up. Lie down. Lie down! cried Katerina Ivanovna. With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly infixedly for some time on his daughter, as though not recognizing her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognized her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering. Sonia! God, forgive— He cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her, but losing his balance he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him up. They put him on the sofa, but he was dying. Sonia, with a faint cry, ran up, embraced him, and remained so without moving. He died in her arms. He's got what he wanted. Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband's dead body. Well, what's to be done now? How am I to bury him? What can I give them tomorrow to eat? Raskonikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna. Katerina Ivanovna. He began. Last week your husband told me all his life and circumstances. Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening, when I learned how devoted he was to you all, and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness from the evening we became friends. Allow me now to do something. To repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty rubles, I think, and if that can be of any assistance to you, then I. In short, I will come again. I will be sure to come again. I shall perhaps come again to-morrow. Goodbye. And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim Femech, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Femech knew him instantly. Ah, is that you? He asked him. He's dead. Answered Visconekov. The doctor and the priest have been, all is as it should have been. Don't worry the poor woman too much. She is in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible. You are a kind-hearted man, I know. He added with a smile, looking straight in his face. But you are spattered with blood. Observed Nikodim Femech, noticing in the lamp-light some fresh stains on Raskonekov's waistcoat. Yes, I am covered with blood. Raskonekov said with a peculiar air. Then he smiled, nodded, and went downstairs. He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death, who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase, he was overtaken by the priest on his way home. Raskonekov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was just ascending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Someone overtook him. It was Polenka. She was running after him, calling— Wait! Wait! He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase, and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskonekov could distinguish the child's thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright, childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give. Tell me, what is your name, and where do you live? She said hurriedly, in a breathless voice. He laid both hands on her shoulders, and looked at her with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her. He could not have said why. Who sent you? Sister Sonya sent me. Answered the girl, smiling still more brightly. I knew it was Sister Sonya sent you. Mama sent me, too. When Sister Sonya was sending me, Mama came up, too, and said, Run fast, Polenka. Do you love Sister Sonya? I love her more than anyone. Polenka answered with peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver. And will you love me? By way of answer he saw the little girl's face approaching him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder, and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him. I am sorry for Father. She said a moment later, raising her tear-stained face, and brushing away the tears with her hands. It's nothing but misfortunes now. She added suddenly, with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people. Did your father love you? He loved Lida most. She went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like grown-up people. He loved her because she is little, and because she is ill, too, and he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read, and me grammar and scripture, too. She added with dignity. And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it, and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French for its time my education began. And do you know your prayers? Of course we do. We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself, as I am a big girl now, but Kulia and Lida say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the Ave Maria, and then another prayer. Lord, forgive and bless Sister Sonia, and then another. Lord, forgive and bless our second father. For our elder father is dead, and this is another one, but we do pray for the other as well. Polinka, my name is Radeon. Pray sometimes for me, too. And I serve at Radeon. Nothing more. I'll pray for you all the rest of my life. The little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again, she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more. Raskonikov told her his name and address, and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away and chanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in. Enough! He pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. I've done with fancies, imaginary terrors, and phantoms. Life is real. Haven't I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman. The kingdom of heaven to her. And now enough, madam. Leave me in peace. Now for the reign of reason and light, and of will and of strength. And now we will see. We will try our strength. He added defiantly, as though challenging some power of darkness. And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space. I am very weak at this moment, but I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Pachinkov's house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumikin, even if it were not close by. Let him win his bet. Let us give him some satisfaction, too. No matter. Strength. Strength is what one wants. You can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength. That's what they don't know. He added proudly and self-confidently, and walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually stronger in him. He was becoming a different man every moment. What was it had happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know himself. Like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old woman. Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of that. But I did ask her to remember thy servant Radeon in her prayers. The idea struck him. Well, that was in case of emergency. He added and laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits. He easily found Razumikin. The new lodger was already known of Pachinkovs, and the porter at once showed him the way. Halfway upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs. He could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumikin's room was fairly large. The company consisted of fifteen people. Razkonokov stopped in the entry, where two of the landlady's servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates, and dishes of pie and savories, brought up from the landlady's kitchen. Razkonokov sent in for Razumikin. He ran out, delighted. At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink, and, though no amount of liquor made Razumikin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it. Listen. Razkonokov hastened to say, I've only just come to tell you you've won your bet, and that no one really knows what may not happen to him. I can't come in. I am so weak that I shall fall down directly, and so good evening and goodbye. Come and see me tomorrow. Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak yourself, you must- And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out? He? Goodness only knows. Some friend of Uncle's, I expect. Or perhaps he has come without being invited. I'll leave Uncle at them. He is an invaluable person. Pity I can't introduce you to him now. But confound them all now. They won't notice me, and I need a little fresh air. For you've come just in the nick of time. In other two minutes, and I should have come to blows. They are talking such a lot of wild stuff. You simply can't imagine what men will say. Though, why shouldn't you imagine? Don't we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them. That's the way to learn not to. Wait a minute, I'll fetch Zosimov. Zosimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily. He showed a special interest in him. Soon his face brightened. You must go to bed at once. He pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could. And take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago. A powder. Two, if you like. Answered with Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once. It is a good thing you are taking him home. Observes Zosimov to razumihin. We shall see how he is tomorrow. Today he's not at all amiss. A considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn. Do you know what Zosimov whispered to me when we were coming out? Razumihin blurted out as soon as they were in the street. I won't tell you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zosimov told me to talk freely to you on the way, and get you to talk freely to me. And afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he's got a notion in his head that you are mad or close on it. Only fancy. In the first place, you three times the brains he has. In the second, if you are not mad, you needn't care a hang that he has got such a wild idea. And thirdly, that piece of beef who's special to his surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what's brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation today with Zamietov. Zamietov told you about it? Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means, and so does Zamietov. Well, the fact is, Rudya, the point is, I am a little drunk now, but that's no matter. The point is that this idea, you understand, was just being hatched in their brains. You understand? That is, no inventor to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd, and especially since the arrest of that painter. That bubble's burst and gone forever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zamietov a bit of a thrashing at the time. That's between ourselves, brother. Please don't let out a hint that you know of it. I've noticed he is a ticklish subject. It was at Louisa Ivanovna's, but today, today it's all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovich is at the bottom of it. He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now. I know that. Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too freely. I fainted then because it was so close, and the smell of paint. No need to explain that. And it wasn't the paint only. The fever had been coming on for a month. It was awesome of testifies to that. But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't believe. I am not worth his little finger, he says. Yours he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him today at the Palais de Cristal, that was too good for anything. You frightened him at first, you know. He nearly went into convulsions. You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly put out your tongue at him. There now, what do you make of it? It was perfect. He is crushed, annihilated now. It was masterly by Jove. It's what they deserve. Ah, that I wasn't there. He was hoping to see you awfully. Poetry, too, wants to make your acquaintance. Ah, he too. But why did they put me down as mad? Oh, not mad, I must have said too much, brother. What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you. Now it's clear why it did interest you, knowing all the circumstances, and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness. I am a little drunk, brother. Only confound him, he has some idea of his own. I tell you, he's mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him. For half a minute, both were silent. Listen, Razumikin. Began, Raskolnikov. I want to tell you plainly. I've just been at a deathbed. A clerk who died. I gave them all my money. And besides, I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same. In fact, I saw someone else there, with a flame-covered feather. But I am talking nonsense. I am very weak. Support me. We shall be at the stairs directly. What's the matter? What's the matter with you? Razumikin asked anxiously. I am a little giddy. But that's not the point. I am so sad, so sad, like a woman. Look, what's that? Look, look. What is it? Don't you see? A light in my room. You see? Through the crack. They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the landlady's door. And they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov's garret. Ha! Queer! Nastasia, perhaps? Observed, Razumikin. She is never in my room at this time, and she must be in bed long ago, but... I don't care. Goodbye. What do you mean? I am coming with you. We'll come in together. I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say goodbye to you here. So give me your hand. Goodbye. What's the matter with you, Rodya? Nothing. Come along. You should be witness. They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumikin that perhaps Zosimov might be right after all. Ah! I've upset him with my chatter. He muttered to himself. When they reached the door, they heard voices in the room. What is it? Cried Razumikin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door. He flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfounded. His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa, and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them, though the news that they had started were on their way and would arrive immediately had been repeated to him only that day. They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasia with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his running away today, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious. Good heavens! What had become of him? Both had been weeping. Both had been in anguish for that hour and a half. A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov's entrance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead. A sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them. He could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered, and fell to the ground, fainting. Anxiety, cries of horror, moans. Razumikin, who was standing in the doorway, flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms, and in a moment had him on the sofa. Oh, it's nothing! Nothing! He cried to the mother and sister. It's only a faint. I'm in a trifle. Only just now the doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well. Water. See? He is coming to himself. He is all right again. And seizing Dunya by the arms so that he almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that. He is all right again. The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and gratitude as their providence. They had heard already from Nastasia that all had been done for their rodea during his illness by this very competent young man, as Pulheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikova called him that evening in conversation with Dunya. End of Part Two, Chapter Seven