 Crime and Punishment Part 2, Chapter 4 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnett. Part 2, Chapter 4 Zazimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colorless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was 27. He had on a light gray, fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable, and spick and span. His linen was irreproachable. His watch chain was massive. In manner, he was slow, and as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy. He made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work. I've been to you twice today, brother. You see, he's come to himself, cried Razumihin. I see, I see. And how do we feel now, eh? said Zazimov to Reskalnikov, watching him carefully and sitting down at the foot of the sofa. He settled himself as comfortably as he could. He is still depressed, Razumihin went on. We've just changed his linen and he almost cried. That's very natural. You might have put it off if he did not wish it. His pulse's first rate. Is your head still aching? Eh? I am well. I'm perfectly well, Reskalnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back onto the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zazimov watched him intently. Very good. Going on all right, he said lazily. Has he eaten anything? They told him and asked what he might have. He may have anything, soup, tea. Mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him. He'd better not have meat either. But no need to tell you that, Razumihin and he looked at each other. No more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again tomorrow. Perhaps today even, but never mind. Tomorrow evening I shall take him for a walk, said Razumihin. We are going to the Yosefov Garden and then to the Palais de Cristal. I would not disturb him tomorrow at all, but I don't know. A little, maybe, but we'll see. Ah, what a nuisance. I've got a housewarming party tonight. It's only a step from here. Couldn't he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are coming, Razumihin said to Zazimov. Don't forget, you promised. All right, only rather later. What are you going to do? Oh, nothing. Tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie. Just our friends. And who? All neighbors here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle. And he is new too. He only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We met once in five years. What is he? He's been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster. Gets a little pension. He is 65 and not worth talking about. But I am fond of him. Porfary Petrovich, the head of the investigation department here. But you know him. Is he a relation of yours too? A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarreled once. Won't you come then? I don't care a damn for him. So much the better. Well, there will be some students. A teacher. A government clerk. A musician. An officer. And Zamatov. Do tell me please what you or he, Zazimov, not at Raskolnikov, can have in common with this Zamatov. Oh, you particular gentlemen. Principles. You are worked by principles as it were by springs. You won't venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that's the only principle I go upon. Zamatov is a delightful person. Though he does take bribes. Well, he does and what of it? I don't care if he does take bribes. Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. I don't praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way. But if one looks at men in all ways, are there many good ones left? Why, I'm sure I shouldn't be worth a baked onion myself. Perhaps with you thrown in. That's too little. I'd give two for you. And I wouldn't give more than one for you. No more of your jokes. Zamatov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him, not repel him. You'll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards. You don't understand. You harm yourselves running another man down. But if you want to know, we really have something in common. I should like to know what? Why, it's all about a house painter. We are getting him out of a mess, though indeed there's nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam. A painter? Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told you the beginning, then, about the murder of the old palm broker woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it. Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it. Partly, for one reason, I read about it in the papers. Two. Lizavita was murdered, too. Nostalgia blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door, listening. Lizavita murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly. Lizavita, who sold old clothes, didn't you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too. Raskolnikov turned to the wall, wearing the dirty yellow paper. He picked out one clumsy white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals, and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower. But what about the painter? Zazimov interrupted Nostalgia's chatter with Mark's displeasure. She sighed and was silent. Why, he was accused of the murder, Razumihin went on, hotly. Was there evidence against him, then? Evidence indeed. Evidence that was no evidence, and that's what we have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Kok and Pestriakov at first. Phew, how stupidly it's all done. It makes one sick. Though it's not one's business, Pestriakov may be coming tonight. By the way, Radia, you've heard about the business already. It happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it. Zazimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir. But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busy body you are, Zazimov observed. Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway, shot at Razumihin, bringing his fists down on the table. What's the most offensive is not their lying. One can always forgive lying. Lying is a delightful thing for it leads to truth. What is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying. I respect porphyry, but what threw them out at first? The door was locked and when they came back with a porter, it was open. So it followed that Kok and Pestriakov were the burners. That was their logic. But don't excite yourself. They simply detained them. They did not help that. And, by the way, I've met that Nankok. He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman, eh? Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession of it. But enough of him. Do you know what makes me angry? It's their sickening, rotten, petrified routine. And this case might be the means of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how to get on the track of the real man. We have facts, they say. But facts are not everything. At least half the business lies in how you interpret them. Can you interpret them, then? Anyway, one can't hold one's tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible feeling that one might be a help if only... Eh? Do you know the details of the case? I'm waiting to hear about the painter. Oh, yes. Well, here's the story. Early on the third day after the murder when they were still dandling Kok and Prestikov, though they accounted for every step they took, and it was plain as a pike staff. An unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram shop facing the house, brought to the police office, a jeweler's case containing some gold earrings, and told a long rigmarole. The day before yesterday, just after 8 o'clock, marked the day and the hour. A journeyman house-pater, Nikolay, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold earrings and stones, and asked me to give him two rubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more. I am telling a Dushkin's story. I gave him a note, a ruble, that is, for I thought if he did not pawn it with me, he would with another. He would all come to the same thing. He'd spend it on drinks, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it, the quicker you will find it. And if anything turns up, if I hear any rumors, I'll take it to the police. Of course, that's all taradiddle. He lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin. He is a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolai out of a 30 ruble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter. To return to Dushkin's story, I've known this peasant, Nikolai Dementia, from a child. He comes from the same province and district of Zeresk. We are both Ryzenmen. And though Nikolai is not a drunkard, Nikolai Dementia is a drunkard. And I knew he had a job in that house painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the ruble, he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day, I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Liza Veta Ivanovna, with an ax. I knew them, but I didn't see them in the rooms at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all, I asked, is Nikolai here? Dmitri told me that Nikolai had gone off on the spree. He had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house about 10 minutes and went out again. Dmitri didn't see him again and I was on the same staircase as the murder on the second floor. When I heard all that, I did not say a word to anyone. That's Dushkin's tale. But I found out what I could about the murder and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at 8 o'clock this morning, that was the third day you understand, I saw Nikolai coming in, not sober, though not so very drunk. He could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. Have you seen Dmitri, said I? No, I haven't, said he. And you've not been here either? Not since the day before yesterday, said he. And where did you sleep last night? In Keski with the Kolmansky men. And where did you get those earrings? I asked. I found them in the street. And the way he said it was a bit queer. He did not look at me. Did you hear what happened that very evening at that very hour on that same staircase, said I? No, said he. I had not heard. And all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. Wait a bit, Nikolai, said I. Won't you have a drink? And I signed to the boy to hold the door and I came out from behind the bar. But he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end. It was his doing as clear as could be. I should think so, said Zazimov. Wait, here the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolai. They detained Dushkin and searched his house. Dmitri too was arrested. The Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolai in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam. Stood on a block of wood and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest. People ran in. So that's what you're up to. Take me, he says, to such and such a police officer. I'll confess everything. Well they took him to that police station that is here with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that how old he is, 22 and so on. At the question, when you were working with Dmitri didn't you see anyone on the staircase at such and such a time? Answer. To be sure folks may have gone up and down but I did not notice them. And didn't you hear anything? Any noise and so on. We heard nothing special. And did you hear, Nikolai, that on the same day Widow so and so and her sister were murdered and robbed? I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from a fantasy Pavlovich the day before yesterday. And where did you find the earrings? I found them on the pavement. Why didn't you go to work with Dmitri the other day? Because I was drinking. And where were you drinking? Oh and such and such a place. Why did you run away from Dushkin's? Because I was awfully frightened. What were you frightened of? That I should be accused. How could you be frightened if you felt free from guilt? Now, Zazimov, you may not believe me that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact. It was repeated to me exactly. What do you say to that? Well anyway, there's the evidence. I am not talking of the evidence now. I am talking about that question of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed and he confessed. I did not find it in the street but in the flat where I was painting with Dmitri. And how was that? Why Dmitri and I were painting there all day and we were just getting ready to go and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him shouting my hardest and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the porter and some gentlemen. And how many gentlemen were there I don't remember. And the porter swore at me and the other porter swore too and the porter's wife came out and swore at us too. And a gentleman came into the entry with a lady and he swore at us too for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri's hair and knocked him down and began beating him. Dmitri too caught me by the hair and began beating me but we did it all not for temper but in a friendly way for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street and I ran after him. But I did not catch him and went back to the flat alone. I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together expecting Dmitri to come and there in the passage in the corner by the door I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper saw some little hooks undid them and in the box were the earrings. Behind the door lying behind the door, behind the door Raskolnikov cried suddenly staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin and he slowly sat up on the sofa leaning on his hand. Yes Why, what's the matter? What's wrong? He was in a seat. Nothing Raskolnikov answered faintly turning to the wall. All were silent for a while. He must have wait from a dream. Razumihin said at last looking inquiringly at Zazimov. The latter slightly shook his head. Well go on said Zazimov. What next? What next? As soon as he saw the earrings for getting Dmitri in everything he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and as we know got a ruble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder. I know nothing of it. Never heard of it till the day before yesterday. And why didn't you come to the police till now? I was frightened and why did you try to hang yourself from anxiety? What anxiety? That I should be accused of it. Well that's the whole story and now what do you suppose they deduced from that? Why there's no supposing. There's a clue such as it is a fact. You wouldn't have your painter set free. Now they've simply taken him for the murder. They haven't a shadow of doubt. That's nonsense. You are excited. How about the earrings? You must admit that if on the very same day and hour earrings from the old woman's box have come into Nikolai's hands they must have come there somehow. That's a good deal in such a case. How did they get there? How did they get there? How can you, a doctor whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else to study human nature? How can you fail to see the character of the man and the whole story? Don't you see at once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us. He stepped on the box and picked it up. The holy truth. But didn't he own himself that he told a lie at first? Listen to me. Listen attentively. The porter and cock and Pastryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter's lodge and the man, Kriakov who had just got out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm. That is eight or ten witnesses agree that Nikolai had Dimitri on the ground was lying on him beating him while Dimitri hung on to his hair beating him too. They lay right across the way blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they, like children the very words of the witnesses were falling over one another squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces and chasing one another like children they ran into the street. Now take careful note the bodies upstairs were warm you understand they found them. If they, or Nikolai alone had murdered them and broken open the boxes or simply taken part in the robbery allow me to ask you one question do their state of mind their squeals and giggles and childish scuffing at the gate fitting with axes, bloodshed fiendish cunning robbery they just killed them not five or ten minutes before the bodies were still warm and at once leaving the flat open knowing that people would go there at once flinging away their booty they rolled about like children laughing and attracting general attention and there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that. Of course it is strange it's impossible indeed but no brother no butts and if the earrings being found in Nikolai's hands at the very day an hour of the murder constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against him although the explanation given by him accounts for it and therefore it does not tell seriously against him one must take into consideration the facts which prove him innocent especially as they are facts that cannot be denied and do you suppose from the character of our legal system that they will accept or that they are in a position to accept this fact resting simply in a psychological impossibility as irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution no they won't accept it they certainly won't because they found the jewel case and the man tried to hang himself which he could not have done if he hadn't felt guilty that's the point that's what excites me you must understand I see you are excited wait a bit I forgot to ask you what proof is there that the box came from the old woman that's been proved said brazumium with apparent reluctance frowning cock recognized the jewel box and gave the name of the owner who proved conclusively that it was his that's bad now another point did anyone see Nikolai at the time that cock and pastreikov were upstairs at first and is there no evidence about that nobody did see him brazumium answered with vexation that's the worst of it even cock and pastreikov did not notice them on their way upstairs though indeed their evidence could not have been worth much they said they saw the flat was open and that there must be work going on in it but they took no special notice I remember whether there actually were men at work in it hmm so the only evidence for the defense is that they were beating one another laughing that constitutes a strong presumption but how do you explain the fact yourself how do I explain them what is there to explain it's clear at any rate the direction in which explanation is to be the spot is clear and the jewel case points to it the real murderer dropped those earrings the murderer was upstairs locked in when cock and pastreikov knocked at the door cock like an ass did not stay at the door so the murderer popped out and ran down too for he had no other way to escape he hid from cock, pastreikov and the porter in the flat he stopped there while the porter and others were going upstairs waited till they were out of hearing and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dimitri and Nikolai ran out into the street and there was no one in the entry possibly he was seen but not noticed there are lots of people going in and out he must have dropped the earrings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door and did not notice he dropped them because he had other things to think of the jewel case is a conclusive proof that he did stand there that's how I explain it too clever no my boy you're too clever that beats everything but why why why because everything fits too well it's too melodramatic ugh Razumian was exclaiming but at that moment the door opened and a personage came in who was a stranger to all present end of chapter 4 crime and punishment part 2 chapter 4 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Book 2 Chapter 5 Substitution Pasonic baby baby baby baby baby the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. BOOK II CHAPTER V. OF CRIME AND PUNISHMENT by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. TRANSLATION BY CONSTANCE GARNETT. This was a gentleman no longer young of a stiff and portly appearance in a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affigtation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov's low and narrow cabin. With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumukhin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and that 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, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zasimov. Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, a student or formerly a student? Zasimov made a slight movement and would have answered had not resumely anticipated him. Here he is, lying on the sofa. What do you want? This familiar, what do you want, seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumukhin, but checked himself in time and turned his Zasimov again. This is Raskolnikov, mumbled Zasimov 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 around Hunter's case, opened it, looked at it, and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back. Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation, or just been taken from the rack. But the newcomer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion, and even alarm. Zasimov 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 Lugin, 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? asked Piotr Petrovich, somewhat disconcerted, in reply Raskolnikov sank, languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A lick of dismay came into Lugin's face. Zasimov and Razumovkin 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? Razumovkin interrupted suddenly, if it was something to say, sit down. Nastasia and you are so crowded, Nastasia, 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, licking suspiciously at Razumovkin. No need to be nervous, the latter blurted out. Roger has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he's recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor who has just had a look at him. I'm a comrade of Roger's, like him, formerly a student, and now I'm 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 in conversation? Piotr Petrovich asked of Razumovkin. No, mumble Razumovkin, you may amuse him. He yawned again. He has been conscious a long time since the morning when on Razumovkin. His 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, presuming he cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly. That's all right, go on. Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. Your mama had commenced a letter to you while I was so journeying 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, Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. So you are the fiancée. I know, and that's enough. There is 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 Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet. Or as though something new had struck him, he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Piotr Petrovich's whole appearance. Something would seem 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. Even 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 this 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 ovent, told the same tale, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and youthful 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-chopped 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 hairdresser's, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Lugin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov's smiled malignity sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before. But Mr. Lugin heartened 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 mamma 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 weekly. Very near here, in Bakolayev's house. That's in Voskresensky, put in Raskolnikov. There are two stories of rooms led up by a merchant called Yushin. I've been there. Yes, rooms. A disgusting place, filthy, stinking, and what's more a 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 a room in a lodging with my friend, Andrei Semyonovich Libyzyatnikov in the flat of Madame the Pevichel. It was he who told me of Bakolayev's house, too. Libyzyatnikov? asked Raskolnikov slowly, as if we're calling something. Yes, Andrei Semyonovich Libyzyatnikov, clerk in the ministry. Do you know him? Yes, no, Raskolnikov answered. Excuse me, I fancy 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. Libyzyatnikov looked round, hopefully at them all. How do you mean, Astrosymykhin? 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, saw some off-let drop. Nonsense, there is no practicality, resume he flew at him. Practicality is a difficult thing to find. It does not drop down from heaven, and for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting, he said to Piotr Petrovich, and desire for good exists, though it's in a childish form. In 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 reform. Many injurious prejudice have been rooted up and turned into ridicule. In a word we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing. He's learned it by heart to show off, was Golnikov pronounced suddenly. What? As Piotr Petrovich, not catching his words, but he received no reply. That's all true, Zossimov hastened to interpose. Isn't it so, Piotr Petrovich went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. You must admit, he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness. He almost added, young man. That there is an advance, or as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth. A commonplace. No, not a commonplace. Heather too, 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 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 have very little wit myself, resume, he cut in sharply, and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I have 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 interest everything they touch that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That's enough. Excuse me, sir, so Luzine, affronted in 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, resume, he concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zosimov to continue their previous conversation. Beodor 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, he said, addressing with Skolnikov, 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." Skolnikov did not even turn his head. Beodor Petrovich began getting up from his chair. One of her customers must have killed her, Zosimov declared positively. Not a doubt of it, replied resume Keen. Poor for he doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there. Skolnikov asked aloud, Yes, what then? Nothing. How does he get hold of them? And Zosimov said. Cook 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 resume Keen. That's what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not practice, 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 were 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've 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. One place one hears of students robbing the mail on the high road, and 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 main leaders 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, put in Zossimov. How are we to explain it? Rizimov caught him up. 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. Lupern used to having everything ready-made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck, and every man showed himself in his true colors. But morality, and so-to-speak principles? Why you worry about it, Ms. Golnikov interposed suddenly. It's in accordance with your theory. In accordance with my theory? Why carry out logically the theory you are advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed upon my word, cried Lugin. Oh, that's not so, put in this awesome off. Ms. Golnikov lay with a white face, twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. There is a measure in all things, Lugin went on super seriously. Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose. And is it true, Ms. Golnikov interposed, once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him? Is it true that you told your fiancée, within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most was that she was a beggar, because it was better to raise away from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor? From my word, Lugin 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, cried Ms. Golnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, I tell you what? What? Lugin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds. Why, ever again, you dare to mention a single word about my mother, I shall send you flying downstairs. What's the matter with you? cried his presuming. So that's how it is? Lugin 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 Ms. Golnikov. So much the worse. Go to hell. But Lugin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair. Resuming he got up this time to let him pass, without glancing at anyone and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone. He went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders, to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received. How could you? How could you? Resuming he said, shaking his head in perplexity. Let me alone, let me alone, all of you, Ms. Golnikov, cried in a frenzy. Will you ever leave off tormenting me? Or I'm not afraid of you. I am not afraid of anyone now. Get away from me. I want to be alone. Alone, alone, alone. Come along, said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin. But we can't leave him like this. Come along, Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him. It might be worse not to obey him, said Zossimov on the stairs. He mustn't be irritated. What's the matter with him? 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, Piotr Petrovich. From his conversation I gather he's going to marry his sister and that he'd 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's 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. And half an hour I'll go see him again. There'll be no inflammation, though. Thanks, and I'll wait with Pashenka meantime, and we'll keep a watch on him through Nastasia. Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasia, but she still lingered. I want you to have some tea now, she asked. Later, I'm sleepy. Leave me alone. He turned abruptly to the wall. Nastasia went out. End of Chapter 5, Book 2 of Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Translation by Konstantz Skarnet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Book 2, Chapter 6 of Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Translation by Konstantz Skarnet. 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 addressed an entirely new close, 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 close. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs, and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nostazia was standing with her back to him, blowing up the landlady Samovar. 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. But all this must be ended today, once for all immediately, that he would not return home without it, because he would not go on living like that. How with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it. He did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought. Thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed, one way or another. He repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination. From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Haymarket. 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 coarsen 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 sharply to the organ-brother, Come on! and both moved on to the next shop. Do you like street music? said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle- age man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering. I love to hear singing to his street organ, said Raskolnikov. And his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject. I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings. They must be damp. When all the passers-by have pale, green, sickly faces, or better still, when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind. You know what I mean? And the street lamps shine through it. I don't know. Excuse me! muttered the stranger, frightened by the question of Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street. Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the hay market, where the huckster in his life had talked with the Saveta. 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 chandler's shop. Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner? All sorts of people keep booths here, and answer the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov. What's his name? What he was christened. Aren't you a Zareisky man, too? Which province? The young man looked at Raskolnikov again. It's not a province, Your Excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, Your Excellency. Is that a tavern at the top there? Yes, it's an eating-house, and there is a billiard room, and you'll find princesses there, too. La-la! Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter 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 B. He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle leading from the marketplace to Sandovi Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed that he might feel more so. Now he walked along thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings entirely let out in dramshops 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. The crowd of women were thronging around the door. Some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing, talking. A drunken soldier smoking a cigarette was walking near them in the road, swearing. He seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarreling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and 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 on 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 false set of voice singing in jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance, and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement. Oh, my handsome soldier, don't beat me for nothing! Trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that. Shall I go in? He thought. They're laughing. From drink? Shall I get drunk? When 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 general's daughters, it seems, but they all have snub noses, and opposed 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. Raskolnikov moved on. I say, sir, the girl shouted after him. What is it? She hesitated. I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you kind gentlemen, but now I feel shy. Give me six cupcakes for a drink. There's a nice young man. Raskolnikov gave her what came first, 15 cupcakes. Oh, 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 believed I should drop with shame. Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pockmarked wench of thirty, covered with bruises with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. Where is it, thought Raskolnikov? Where is it? I 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 in 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 hell true. Men is a vile creature. And vile is he who calls him vile for that. He added a moment later. He went into another street. The Palais de Cristal. Resuming he was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers, he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant consisting of several rooms which were, however, rather empty? Two or three people were drinking tea and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zomitov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. What if it is, he thought. Well, 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 today's. No vodka. The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them. Oh, damn. These are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire and pesky, a fire in the Petersburg quarter, another fire in the Petersburg quarter, and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. 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 hand shook with nervous and patience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up. It was the head clerk Zomitov licking just the same with the rings on his fingers and the watch chain with a curly black hair, parted and pomaded with a smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and dealt full in in. He was in a good humor, at least he was smiling very gaily and good humorly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk. What, you hear? He began in surprise, speaking as though he had known him all his life. Why, resume, he told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange. And do you know I've been to see you? Miss Golikov knew he would come up to see him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zomitov. There was a smile on his lips and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile. I know you have, he answered. I've heard it. You looked for my sock. And you know, resume, he has lost his heart to you. He says you've been with him to the weas of Anunas. You know the woman you tried to be friend for whom you winked to the explosive lieutenant and he would not understand. Do you remember? Oh, could he fail to understand? It was quite clear, wasn't it? What a hothead he is. The explosive one? No, your friend, resume. You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zomitov, 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, risk on the cuff left. It's all right, my dear boy, he added, slapping Zomitov on the shoulder. I'm not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dimitri 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'm sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out. Oh, do I seem strange to you? Yes. What are you doing reading the papers? Yes. There's a lot about the fires. No, I'm not reading about the fires. Here, he looked mysteriously at Zomitov. His lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. No, I'm not reading about the fires. He went on winking at Zomitov. But confess now, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about. I'm not in the least. May 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 the gymnasium since Zomitov was some dignity. Sixth class on my cocksperro. With your parting in your rings, you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! What a charming boy. Here, Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zomitov's face. The latter drew back more amazed and offended. Foo! How strange you are! Zomitov repeated very seriously. I can't help thinking you are still delirious. I'm delirious? You are fibbing my cocksperro. So I'm strange. You find me curious, do you? Yes, curious. Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh? Well, what is it? You prick up your ears? How do you mean prick up my ears? I'll explain that afterwards, but now my boy, I declare to you. No, I 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 the 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 Zomitov. Zomitov looked at him steadily without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zomitov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for exactly a minute. And that they gazed at one another all the while. What if you have been reading about it? He cried at last, perplexed and impatient. There's no business of mine, what of it? The same old woman with Skolnikov-Lenton in the same whisper, not heeding Zomitov's explanation about you and you were talking in the police office. You remember when I fainted. Well, do you understand now? What do you mean? Understand what? Zomitov brought an almost alarmed. Vaskolnikov set and earned his 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 were either mad or began Zomitov and broke off as a stun-bed, the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind. Or, or what, come tell me. Nothing said Zomitov getting angry. It's all nonsense. Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Vaskolnikov 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 Zomitov, and silence lasted for some time. Well, why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold, said Zomitov. What, tea? Oh yes, Vaskolnikov sick the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth. Suddenly licking his Zomitov 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, since Zomitov. Only the other day I read in the Moscow news that a whole gang of false-coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets. Oh, but it was a long time ago. I read about it a month ago. Vaskolnikov answered calmly. So you consider them criminals, he added, smiling. Of course they're criminals. They? They're 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. Simbletons! They engage 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 a crash through one fool. Is it possible that his hands tremble? Observes on the top? Yes, it's quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can't stand things. Can't stand what? 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'd count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note, and then I'd send to the second thousand. I count that halfway through, and then hold some fifty rubble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again to see whether it was a good one. I'm afraid, I would say, a relation of mine lost twenty five rubles the other day through a false note, and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, no, excuse me, I would say, I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I'm 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 to the light and ask again, change them please, and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back. No, excuse me, and ask for some explanation. That's how I do it. Foo! What terrible things you say, so Zomitov laughing. But all that is only talk. I daresay when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I believe that even a practiced, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home, that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow. He risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle. But his hands shook too. He did not succeed in robbing the place. He couldn't stand it. That was clear from the... Raskolnikov seemed defended. Clear? Why don't you catch him then? He cried maliciously, jiving at Zomitov. 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 Zomitov. A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his life, and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They're caught spending money. They're not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course. Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zomitov. You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave in that case too, he asked with displeasure. I should like to, Zomitov 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 Zomitov'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 gone straight to some deserted place with fences around it, and scarcely anyone to be seen. Some kitchen garden or a 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 would 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 mad man, said Zomitov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper and moved away from a skolnikov 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 Zomitov 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 and another moment it will break out and 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. Zomitov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile. But is it possible you brought out faintly? The skolnikov looked wrathfully at him. Oh, not that you believed it. Yes you did. Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now. Zomitov cried hastily. I've caught my cocksperos so you did believe it before if now you believe less than ever. Not at all, cried Zomitov, obviously embarrassed. Have you been frightening me so as to lead me up to this? You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey there, he shouted to the waiter getting up and taking his cap. How much? Thirty cop-ex, the latter replied running up. And here is twenty cop-ex for vodka. See, what a lot of money! He held out his shaking hand to Zomitov with notes in it. Red notes in blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I hadn't had a cop-ex. You cross-examine my landlady, I'll be bound. Well, that's enough. I'll see Kosei till we meet again. He went out trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation in which there is 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. Zomitov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Vyskonnikov 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. Vyskonnikov 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 be looking for you under the sofa. We went after the garret, almost beating Nastasia on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya, what is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth. Confess. Do you hear? It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone. Vyskonnikov answered calmly. Alone, when you were not able to walk, when your face was as white as a sheet and you were gasping for breath, idiot, what have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once. Let me go, said Vyskonnikov, and tried to pass him. This is too much for Razumihin. He grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do with you directly? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up. Vyskonnikov began quietly, apparently calm. Can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to share our 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. Wouldn't I tell you plainly enough today that you were torturing me, that I was sick of you? You seem to want to torture people. I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery because it's continually irritating me. You sounds awesome, I've 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. Begin 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 Luzhin. Resuming he had 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 have any little trouble, you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are a plagiarist, even in that. There isn't a sign of independent life in you. You are made of spermacite ointment and you limp in your veins instead of blood. I don't believe in any one of you. In any circumstance is 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 have arrived by now, but I left my uncle there. I just ran in to receive my 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, Roger, I recognize you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool. And if you weren't a fool, you'd come around 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'll give you a snug easy chair. My landlady has one. Cup of tea, company. Or you could lie on the sofa. Anyway, you'd be with us. It's awesome off we'll be there too. Will you come? No. Ravish, resume he shouted out of patience. How do you know? You can't answer for yourself. You don't know anything about it. Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards. One feels a shame and goes back to a man. So remember, Pachinkov's house on the third story. Why, Mr. Presumihin, I do believe you let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence. Beat whom? Me? I twist his nose off at the mere idea. Pachinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. I shall not come, resume he. Mr. Presumihin turned and walked away. I bet you will. Mr. Presumihin shouted after him. I refuse to know you if you don't. Stay. Hey. Is Amitav in there? Yes. Did you see him? Yes. Talked to him? Yes. What about? Confound you. Don't tell me then. Pachinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. Remember. Mr. Presumihin walked on and turned the corner into Sandovi Street. Presumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then, with a wave of his hand, he went into the house, but stopped shorter 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 it was awesome of seemed afraid of. He struck his finger on his forehead. What if? How could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself. Ah, what a blunder. I can't. They ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse, he returned the rapid steps to the palae de cristal to question Zomotov. Raskolnikov walked straight to the X bridge, stood in the middle, and, leaning both elbows on the rail, stared into the distance. Aparting with Presumihin, 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 bright side of him. He looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, the long yellow-waisted 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 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 with Skolnikov, pressing up behind him. Mercy on it! It's our Afrosinia! A woman cried tearfully close by. Mercy! Save her kind people! Pull her out! A boat! A boat! was shouted in the crowd. There was no need of a boat. A policeman ran down the step to the canal, threw off his great coat, and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her. She floated within a couple of yards from the steps. He caught hold of her clothes with his right hand, and with his left seized a pole on which... seized a pole which a comrade held out to him. The drowning woman was pulled out at once. They later 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, 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 remain round the woman. Someone mentioned the police station. His golden calf 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 Sametov 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. While it's a way out of it, he thought walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. Anyway, I'll make an end for I want to. But is it a way out? What does it matter? It'll be the square yard of space. Ha! But what an end. Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah damn, how tired I am. If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon, what I am most ashamed of is it's being so stupid. But I don't care about that either. What idiotic ideas come into one's head. To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and after a minute's thought turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way. Possibly, without any object or 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 with 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 round him with curiosity. On the first landing, their framework of the window had been taken out. That wasn't so then, he thought. Here was the plot on the second story where Nikolai and Dimitri had been working. It shut up and the door newly painted was closed to let. 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, is being done up. There were workmen in it. They seemed to amaze him. He somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it. Even perhaps the corpse is in the same places on the floor. And now bare walls, no furniture. 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. Miskonikov, for some reason, felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike as though he felt sorry to have it also changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper They took no notice of Miskonikov's coming in. They were talking. Miskonikov folded his arms and listened. She comes to me in the morning, said the elder to the younger, very early, all dressed up. Why are you printing and prinking, says I. I am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Veselich. That's the way of 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. A fashion book has a lot of pictures, colored, and they come to the tailors here every Saturday by post from abroad to show folks how to dress. The male sex as well as the female. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies, fuffles, 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 then, there's everything to be found, my boy. The elder declared sententiously. Vaskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strongbox, 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 on 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 and scanced. What do you want? He asked suddenly. Instead of answering, Vaskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same crack note. He rang it a second and a third time. He listened and remembered. The hideous and agonizingly fearful sensation he felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction. Well, what do you want? Who are you? The workman shouted, going out to him. Vaskolnikov went inside again. I want to take a flat, he said. I'm looking round. 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? Vaskolnikov went on. Is there no blood? But 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. We're late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up, said the Vaskolnikov and differently. 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. Vaskolnikov went straight up to them. What do you want? As one of the porters. Have you been to the police office? I've just been there. What do you want? Is it open? Vaskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them, lost in thought. He's been to look at the flat, said the elder workman, coming forward. Which flat? Where we are at work. Why have you washed away the blood, says he. There has been a murder here, says he. And I've come to take it. And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. Come to the police station, says he. I'll tell you everything there. He wouldn't leave us. Who are you? he shouted as impressively as he could. I am Rodion Romanovich Vaskolnikov, formerly a student. I live in Shields House, not far from here, flat number 14. Ask the porter, he knows me. Vaskolnikov 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. What is there to look at it? Take him straight to the chapel. Vaskolnikov 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, but God knows what's the matter with him, mother 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, said Vaskolnikov jeeringly. How funk it! Why are you hanging about? He's a rogue, shouted the peasant woman. Why was Tom 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 no mistake. Get along. Vaskolnikov was seizing Vaskolnikov by the shoulder. He flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked away. Strange man, observed strange folks about nowadays, said the woman. You should have taken him to the police station all the same, said the man on the long coat. Better have nothing to do with him, decided the big porter. A regular rogue. Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up you won't get rid of him. We know the sort. Shall I go there or not? thought Vaskolnikov standing in the middle of the thoroughfaire of the crossroads, and he looked about him as though expecting from someone a decisive word. 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, and the middle of the crowd stood a carriage, a light gleamed in the middle of the street. What is it? Vaskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smile coldly when he recognized it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and all soon be over. That was Book 2, Chapter 6 of Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translation by Constance Garnet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.