 Section 19 of Crime and Punishment. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Part III. CHAPTER V. Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him, Rasmihin strode in gawky and awkward, shame-faced and red as a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment, and amply justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Perferi Petrovich, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally at Rasmihin, and could no longer control himself. His stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Rasmihin received this spontaneous mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and naturalness. Rasmihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose. FOOL! YOU FANED! He roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little round table with an empty teaglass on it. Everything was sent flying and crashing. But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the crown! Perferi Petrovich quoted Galey. Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand and Perferi Petrovich's, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural into it. Rasmihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, seized gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the company, with a fiercely scowling countenance seeing nothing. Perferi Petrovich laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations. Zamyetov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the visitor's entrance and was standing in expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zamyetov's unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly. I've got to think of that. He thought. Excuse me, please. He began, affecting extreme embarrassment. Raskolnikov. Not at all. Very pleasant to see you, and how pleasantly you've come in. Why won't he even say good morning? Perferi Petrovich nodded at Rasmihin. Upon my honour, I don't know why he isn't such a rage with me. I only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo, and proved it. And that was all, I think. Pig! ejaculated Rasmihin without turning round. There must have been very grave grounds for it if he is so furious at the word. Perferi laughed. Oh, you sharp lawyer, damn you all! snapped Rasmihin and suddenly burst out laughing himself. He went up to Perferi with a more cheerful face as though nothing had happened. That'll do, we are all fools. To come to business. This is my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. In the first place, he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zamiatov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long? What does this mean? Thought Raskolnikov uneasily. Zamiatov seemed taken aback, but not very much so. Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday. He said easily. Oh, then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Bortfery and you have sniffed each other out without me. Where's your tobacco? Perferi Petrovich was wearing a dressing gown, very clean linen, and trodden down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short, and had a large round head, particularly prominent to the back. His soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish color, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured, except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, mockish light, under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight. As soon as Perferi Petrovich heard that his visitor had a little matter of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa, and sat down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially of what you are discussing is, in your opinion, of far too little importance for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Araskonokov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself, that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Perferi. Perferi Petrovich did not once take his eyes off him, Razumihin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest. Fools! Araskonokov swore to himself. You have to give information to the police, Perferi replied, with a most businesslike air, that having learned of this incident that is of the murder, you begged to inform the lawyer in charge of the case, that such and such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them, or, but they will write to you. That's just the point. That at the present moment. Araskonokov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment. I am not quite in funds, and even this trifling sum is beyond me. I only wanted, you see, for the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have the money, that is no matter, answered Perferi Petrovich, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly. But you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say that having been informed of the matter and claiming such and such as your property, you begged on an ordinary sheet of paper. Araskonokov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the question. Oh, the most ordinary. And suddenly Perferi Petrovich looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at him. But perhaps it was Araskonokov's fancy, for it lasted but a moment. There was certainly something of that sort. Araskonokov could have sworn he winked at him. Goodness knows why. He knows! Flashed through his mind like lightning. Are you my troubling you about such trifles? He went on, a little disconcerted. The things are only worth five rubles, but I prized them particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I was alarmed when I heard. That's why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zosimo that Porferi was inquiring for everyone who had pledges. Razumihin put in with obvious intention. This was really unbearable. Araskonokov could not help glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately recollected himself. You seem to be jeering at me, brother. He said to him with a well-famed irritability. I daresay I do seem to you absurdly anxious about such trash, but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping for that. And these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver watch, though it's not worth a cent, is the only thing left us of my father's. You may laugh at me, but my mother is here. He turned suddenly to Porferi. And if she knew— He turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble. That the watch was lost. She would be in despair. You know what women are. Not a bit of it. I didn't mean that at all. Quite the contrary. Shouted Razumihin, distressed. Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it? Araskonokov asked himself in a tremor. Why did I say that about women? Oh, your mother is with you. Porferi Petrovich inquired. Yes. When did she come? Last night. Porferi paused as though reflecting. Your things would not in any case be lost. He went on calmly and coldly. I have been expecting you here for some time. And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ashtray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Araskonokov shuddered, but Porferi did not seem to be looking at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin's cigarette. What? Expecting him? Why? Did you know that he had pledges there? cried Razumihin. Porferi Petrovich addressed himself to Araskonokov. Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the paper your name was allegedly written in pencil together with the date on which you left them with her. How observant you are! Araskonokov smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly added. Araskonokov I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges. That it must be difficult to remember them all, but you remember them all so clearly, and—and—stupid, feeble! He thought. Araskonokov Why did I add that? But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn't come forward. Porferi answered with hardly perceptible irony. Araskonokov I haven't been quite well. Araskonokov I heard that, too. I heard indeed that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still. Araskonokov I am not pale at all. No, I am quite well. Araskonokov Snapped out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting. He could not repress it. Araskonokov And in my anger I shall betray myself. Araskonokov Flashed through his mind again. Porferi Why are they torturing me? Araskonokov Not quite well. Araskonokov Razumihin caught him up. Porferi What next? He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porferi? As soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time. Would you believe it? Araskonokov Extraordinary. Porferi Really delirious? You don't say so. Araskonokov Porferi shook his head in a womanish way. Araskonokov Nonsense, don't you believe it. But you don't believe it anyway. Porferi Araskonokov Let slip in his anger, but Porferi Petrovich did not seem to catch those strange words. Araskonokov But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious? Porferi Razumihin got hot suddenly. Araskonokov What did you go out for? What was the object of it? And why on the sly were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all danger is over I can speak plainly. Araskonokov I was awfully sick of them yesterday. Araskonokov addressed Porferi suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance. Araskonokov I ran away from there to take lodgings where they couldn't find me and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zamiatov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zamiatov, was I sensible or delirious yesterday? Settle our dispute. Porferi He could have strangled Zamiatov at that moment so hateful were his expression and his silence to him. In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were extremely irritable. Zamiatov pronounced dryly. And Nicodim Fomich was telling me today that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been run over. And there, said Razumihin, weren't you mad then? You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep three rubles for yourself at least. But he flung away all the twenty-five at once. Porferi Maybe I found a treasure somewhere, and you know nothing of it. So that's why I was liberal yesterday. Mr. Zamiatov knows I've found a treasure. Zamiatov Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such trivialities. Porferi He said, turning to Porferi Petrovich with trembling lips. Zamiatov We are boring you, aren't we? Porferi Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary. If only you knew how you interest me. It's interesting to look on and listen, and I'm really glad you have come forward at last. Zamiatov But you might give us some tea, my throat's dry. Porferi Cried, with Razumihin. Porferi Capital idea, perhaps we will all keep you company. Zamiatov Wouldn't you like something more essential before tea? Zamiatov Get along with you. Porferi Petrovich went out to order tea. Raskonikov's thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation. Zamiatov The worst of it is they don't disguise it. They don't care to stand on ceremony. Zamiatov And how, if you didn't know me at all, did you come to talk to Nicodem for a meach about me? So they don't care to hide that they are tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face. Porferi He was shaking with rage. Zamiatov Come, strike me openly. Don't play with me like a cat with a mouse. It's hardly civil, Porferi Petrovich, but perhaps I won't allow it. I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll see how I despise you. Porferi He could hardly breathe. Zamiatov And what if it's only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry and don't keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it's all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there is something about them. It all might be said, but there is something. What did he say bluntly? With her. Porferi Why did Zamiatov add that I spoke artfully? Zamiatov Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the tone. Porferi Razumikin is sitting there. Why does he see nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything. Zamiatov Feverish again. Porferi Did Porferi wink at me just now? Zamiatov Of course it's nonsense. What could he wink for? Porferi Are they trying to upset my nerves, or are they teasing me? Zamiatov Either it's ill-fancy, or they know. Even Zamiatov is rude. Porferi Is Zamiatov rude? Zamiatov has changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind. He is at home here, while it's my first visit. Porferi Fede does not consider him a visitor. Sits with his back to him. There are thickest thieves, no doubt, over me. Not a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they'd make haste. When I said that I ran away to take a flat, he let it pass. I put that in cleverly about a flat. It may be of use afterwards. Delirious indeed. He knows all about last night. He didn't know of my mother's arrival. The hag had written the date on in pencil. You are wrong. You won't catch me. There are no facts. It's all supposition. You produce facts. The flat even isn't a fact, but delirium. I know what to say to them. Do they know about the flat? I won't go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now may be his effect. Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that's right, to play the invalid. He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come? All this flashed like lightning through his mind. Porferi Petrovich returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial. Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather, and I am out of sorts altogether. He began in quite a different tone, laughing to razumihin. Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at their most interesting point. Who got the best of it? Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space. Very fancy, Rodia, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime, I told you that we talked our heads off. What is there strange? It's an everyday social question. Raskolnikov answered casually. The question wasn't put quite like that. Observed Porferi. Not quite, that's true. Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and hurried as usual. Listen, Rodian, and tell us your opinion. I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told them you were coming. It began with a socialist doctrine. You know their doctrine. Crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social organization and nothing more, and nothing more. No other cause is admitted. You are wrong there. Cried Porferi Petrovich. He was noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever. Nothing is admitted. Razumihin interrupted with heat. I am not wrong. I will show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is the influence of environment and nothing else, their favorite phrase. From which it follows that if society is normally organized, all crime will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into account. It is excluded. It's not supposed to exist. We don't recognize that humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going to organize all humanity at once and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process. That's why they instinctively dislike history. Nothing but ugliness and stupidity in it, and they explain it all as stupidity. That's why they so dislike the living process of life. They don't want a living soul. The living soul demands life. The soul won't obey the rules of mechanics. The soul is an object of suspicion. The soul is retrograde. But what they want, though it smells of death and can't be made of India rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won't revolt. And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a philanstery. The philanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the philanstery. It wants life. It hasn't completed its vital process, it's too soon for the graveyard. You can't skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions. Cut away a million and reduce it all to the question of comfort. That's the easiest solution of the problem. It's seductively clear and you mustn't think about it. That's the great thing you mustn't think. The whole secret of life in two pages of print. Now he is off beating the drum, catch hold of him, do. Laughed perfery. Can you imagine? He turned to Raskolnikov. Six people holding forth like that last night in one room with punches over a laminary. No, brother, you are wrong. Environment accounts for a great deal in crime. I can assure you of that. Oh, I know it does, but just tell me. A man of forty violates a child of ten. Was it environment drove him to it? Well, strictly speaking it did. Perfery observed with noteworthy gravity. A crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of environment. Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. Oh, if you like. He roared. I'll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the Church of Yvon the greats being two hundred and fifty feet high and I will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively and even with a liberal tendency. I undertake to. Will you bet on it? Done. Let's hear, please, how he will prove it. He is always humbugging. Confound him. Razumihin jumping up and gesticulating. What's the use of talking to you? He does all that on purpose. You don't know him, Rodion. He took their side yesterday simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday and they were delighted. He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monastery. He stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, but he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy. Ah, you are wrong. I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes, in fact, that made me think of taking you in. Are you such a good dissimilar? But I was going to Kavask carelessly. You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit. I shall take you in, too. Ha ha ha. No, I'll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time. On crime or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the periodical review. My article. In the periodical review. That's going to Kavask in astonishment. I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the weekly review. But it came out in the periodical. And the weekly review ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't printed at the time. That's true, but when it ceased to exist, the weekly review was amalgamated with the periodical, and so your article appeared two months ago in the latter. Raskolnikov had not known. Why, you might get some money out of them for the article. What a strange person you are. You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern you directly. It's a fact, I assure you. Bravo, Rudya! I knew nothing about it, either. cried Raskolnikov. I'll run to date to the reading room and ask for the number. Two months ago, what was the date? It is a matter, though, I will find it. Think of not telling us. How did you find out that the article was mine? It's only signed with an initial. I only learned it by chance the other day, through the editor, I know him. I was very much interested. I analyzed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after the crime. Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very original, but it was not that part of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the article, which I regret to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain persons who can, that does not precisely are able to, but have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them. Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his idea. What? What do you mean, a right to crime? But not because of the influence of environment. Razumihin inquired, with some alarm even. No, not exactly because of it. Answered Perferi. In his article, all men are divided into ordinary and extraordinary. Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime, and to transgress the law in any way just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken. What do you mean, that can't be right? Razumihin muttered in bewilderment, but Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge. That wasn't quite my contention. He began simply and modestly. Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly. Perhaps if you like, perfectly so. It almost gave him pleasure to admit this. The only difference is that I don't contend that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an extraordinary man has the right. That is not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfillment of his idea, sometimes perhaps a benefit to the whole of humanity. You may say that my article is indefinite, I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to. Very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound, to eliminate the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then I remember I maintain in my article that all, well, legislators and leaders of men such as Lysurgis, Ceylon, Muhammad, Napoleon, and so on were all without exception criminals. From the very fact that making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed, often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defense of ancient law, were of use to their cause. It's remarkable in fact that the majority indeed of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men, or even men a little out of the common, it is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals. More or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut, and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again. And to my mind they ought not indeed to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are, in general, divided by a law of nature into two categories—inferior, ordinary, that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new word. There are, of course, innumerable subdivisions. But the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well-marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding. They live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgresses the law. They are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are, of course, relative and varied. For the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood. That depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article. You remember it began with a legal question. There's no need for such anxiety, however. The masses will scarcely ever admit this right. They punish them or hang them, more or less, and in doing so fulfill quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them, more or less. The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it. The second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact all have equal rights with me. And viva la guerre et in l. Till the new Jerusalem, of course. Then you believe in the new Jerusalem, do you? I do. Raskonokov answered firmly. As he said these words, and during the whole proceeding tirade, he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet. And do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity. I do. Repeated Raskonokov, raising his eyes to Perferi. And do you believe in Lazarus rising from the dead? I do. Why do you ask all this? You believe it literally? Literally. You don't say so. I asked from curiosity, excuse me, but let us go back to the question. They are not always executed. Some on the contrary. Triumph in their lifetime. Oh yes, some attain their ends in this life and then? They begin executing other people? If it's necessary indeed for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty. Thank you. But tell me this. How do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety over practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform? For instance, couldn't they wear something, be branded in some way? Do you know if confusion arises and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to eliminate obstacles, as you so happily expressed it then? Oh, that very often happens. That remark is wittier than the other. Thank you. No reason to, but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category. That is among the ordinary people, as I perhaps unfortunately called them. In spite of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, destroyers, and to push themselves into the new movement, and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile, the really new people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of groveling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy, for they never go very far. Of course they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them, and to teach them their place. But no more, in fact, even this isn't necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious, some perform this service for one another, and others chastise themselves with their own hands. They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves, with a beautiful and edifying effect. In fact, you've nothing to be uneasy about. It's a law of nature. Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score, but there's another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I'm ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it's alarming if there are a great many of them, eh? Oh, you needn't worry about that, either. But it's going to come went on in the same tone. People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something new are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so, in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and subdivisions of men must follow with unfailing regularities some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present. But I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps, I speak roughly, approximately, is born with some independence. And with still greater independence, one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact, I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is, and must be, a definite law. It cannot be a matter of chance. Oh, why, are you both joking? Razumihin cried at last. There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rudya? Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face, and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and discourteous sarcasm of Perferi seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face. Well, brother, if you are really serious, you are right, of course, in saying that it's not new, that it's like what we've read and heard a thousand times already. But what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed in the name of conscience. And excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism. That I take it is the point of your article. But that sanction of bloodshed by conscience is, to my mind, more terrible than the official legal sanction of bloodshed. You are quite right. It is more terrible. Perferi agreed. Yes, you must have exaggerated. There is some mistake. I shall read it. You can't think that. I shall read it. All that is not in the article. There's only a hint of it. Said Raskolnikov? Yes, yes. Perferi couldn't sit still. Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but excuse me for my impertinence. I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this. You see, you've removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed. But there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy. What if some man or youth imagines that he is early Kurgus or Mahomet, a future one of course, and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles? He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it and tries to get it. Do you see? Zamietov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him. I must admit— He went on calmly. That such cases certainly must arise. The vein and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare. Young people especially. Yes, you see, well then? What then? Raskolnikov smiled and replied, That's not my fault. So it is, and so it always will be. He said just now— He nodded at Razumihin. That I sanctioned bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief. And what if we do catch him? Then he gets what he deserves. You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience? Why do you care about that? Simply from humanity. If he has a conscience, he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment, as well as the prison. But the real geniuses asked Razumihin frowning. Those who have the right to murder, oughtn't they to suffer at all, even for the blood they've shed? Why the word ought? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth. He added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at the mall, smiled and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up. Well, you may have used me. Be angry with me, if you like. Perfiry Petrovitch began again. But I can't resist. Tell me one little question. I know I am troubling you. There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it. Very good. Tell me your little notion. But it's going to have stood waiting, pale and grave, before him. Well, you see, I really don't know how to express it properly. It's a playful, psychological idea. When you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have helped fancying yourself just a little, an extraordinary man, uttering a new word in your sense. That's so, isn't it? Quite possibly. Raskolnik have answered contemptuously. Razumihin made a movement. And if so, could you bring yourself, in case of worldly difficulties and hardship, or for some service to humanity, to overstep obstacles, for instance, to rob and murder? And again, he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly, just as before. If I did, I certainly should not tell you. Raskolnik have answered with defiant and haughty contempt. No, I was only interested in account of your article, from a literary point of view. Foo! How obvious and insolent that is! Raskolnik have thought with repulsion. Allow me to observe. He answered dryly. That I don't consider myself a Mohammed or a Napoleon, nor any percentage of that kind. And not being one of them, I cannot tell you how I should act. Oh, calm. Don't we all think ourselves napoleons now in Russia? Perferi Petrovich said with alarming familiarity. Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice. Perhaps it was one of these future Nicolians who did for Eleonna Ivanovna last week? Zamiat have blurted out from the corner. Raskolnik have did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Perferi. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnik have turned to go. Are you going already? Perferi said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasiness. Right just as I told you, or better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two. Tomorrow, indeed, I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange it all. We'll have a talk. As one of the last to be there, you might perhaps be able to tell us something. He added, with a most good-natured expression. You want to cross-examine me officially and do form. Raskolnik have asked sharply. Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and I've talked with all who had pledges. I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last, yes, by the way. He cried, seemingly suddenly delighted. I just remember what was I thinking of. He turned to Razumihin. You are talking my ears off about that Nikolai. Of course I know, I know very well. He turned to Raskolnikov. That the fellow is innocent. But what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitry, too. This is the point, this is all. When you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn't it? Yes. Answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke, that he need not have said it. Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see in a flat that stood open on a second story, do you remember? Two workmen, or at least one of them. They were painting there, didn't you notice them? It's very, very important for them. Painters? No, I didn't see them. Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking his memory. While at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay, and not to overlook anything. No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like that open. But on the fourth story— He had mastered the trap now, and was triumphant. I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Aleonia Ivanovna's. I remember. I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa, and they squeezed me against the wall, but painters—no, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I don't think that there was a flat open anywhere. No, there wasn't. What do you mean? Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realized. Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before. What are you asking? I have modelled it. Perferi slapped himself on the forehead. Deuce, take it, this business is turning my brain. He addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something. I quite modelled it. Then you should be more careful. Razumihin observed grimly. The last words were uttered in the passage. Perferi Petrovich saw them to the door with excessive politeness. They went out into the street, gloomy and solemn, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath. Section 20 of Crime and Punishment This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Konstantz Garnet. Part 3, Chapter 6. I don't believe it. I can't believe it. Repeted Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments. They were by now approaching Bakolayev's lodgings, where Pulcheya Aleksandrovna and Dunya had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were, for the first time, speaking openly about it. Don't believe it, then, answered Raskolnikov with a cold, careless smile. You were noticing nothing as usual. But I was weighing every word. You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words. Hmm. Certainly, I agree. Porfiry's tone was rather strange and still more that wretched zamietov. You are right, there was something about him. But why? Why? He has changed his mind since last night. Quite the contrary. If they had that brainless idea, they would do their utmost to hide it and conceal their cards so as to catch you afterwards. But it was all imputed and careless. If they had had facts, I mean real facts, or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game in the hope of getting more. They would have made a search long ago, besides. But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage, all ambiguous, simply a floating idea. So they tried to throw me out by impudence. And perhaps he was irritated at having no facts and blurted it out in his vexation. Or perhaps he has some plan. He seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But is loathsome explaining it all. Stop. And it's insulting, insulting, I understand you. But since we have spoken openly now, and it is an excellent thing that we have at last, I am glad, I will own now, frankly, that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of course, the merest hint only, an insinuation. But why an insinuation, even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only. Simply because a poor student unhinged by poverty in Hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness, note that, suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul speak to for six months in rags and in boots without souls, has to face some wretched policeman and put up with their insolence, and the unexpected death thrust under his nose, the IOU presented by Chibarov, the new paint, 30 degrees roomier and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people that talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach. He might well have a fainting fit. And that, that is what they found it all on. Damn them. I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodja, I would laugh at them, or better still spit in their ugly faces and spit a dozen times in all directions. I'd hit out in all directions neatly too, and so I'd put an end to it. Damn them. Don't be downhearted, it's a shame. He really has put it well, though. That's got a nick of thought. Damn them. But the cross-examination again tomorrow. He said with bitterness. Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed as it is that I condescended to speak to Zamiatov yesterday in the restaurant. Damn it. I will go myself to Porfiti. I will squeeze it out of him as one of a family. He must let me know the ins and outs of it all. And as for Zamiatov. At least he sees through them. Saltraskolnikov. Crytrasomihin seizing him by the shoulder again. Stay! You were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong. How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workman was a trap. But if you had done that, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat? And the workman? On the contrary. You would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own against himself? If I had done that thing, I should certainly have said that I had seen the workman and the flat. Raskolnikov answered with reluctance and obvious disgust. But why speak against yourself? Because only peasants are the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can't be avoided. But we'll seek other explanations of them. We'll introduce some special, unexpected turn. That will give them another significance and put them in another light. Porofiti might well reckon that I should be sure to answer so and say I have seen them to give an air of truth and then make some explanation. But he would have told you at once that the workman could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o'clock, and so he would have caught you over a detail. Yes, that is what he was reckoning on. That I should not have time to reflect and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget the workman could not have been there two days before. But how could you forget it? Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porofiti is not such a fool as you think. He's an A-Vin if that is so. Raskolnikov could not help laughing, but at the very moment he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive from necessity. I am getting a relish for certain aspects. He thought to himself, but almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bacaliad's. Going alone, said Raskolnikov suddenly, I will be back directly. Where are you going? Why, we are just here. I can't help it. I will come in half an hour. Tell them. What do you like? I will come with you. You too want to torture me? He screamed with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin's hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov's striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porphyry like a lemon that very day and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence. When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then, in senseless terror, he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things, put his hand in and for some minutes but carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakalaev's, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman's handwriting on it might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack and then might suddenly turned up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him. He stood as though lost in thought and a strange, humiliated, half-senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cup at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway. Here he is himself! shouted a loud voice. He raised his head. The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan wearing a long coat and a waistcoat and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped and his head in a greasy cup hung forward. From his wrinkled, flabby face he looked over fifty. His little eyes were lost in thought and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly. What is it? Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter. The man stole a look at him from under his browse and he looked at him attentively, deliberately. Then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word. What is it? cried Raskolnikov. Why? He there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he went away. It's funny. The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so after wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room. Raskolnikov ran after the stranger and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again. And so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word. You were inquiring for me, of the porter. Raskolnikov said at once, but in a curiously quiet voice. The man made no answer. He didn't even look at him. Again they were both silent. Why do you come and ask for me and say nothing? What's the meaning of it? Raskolnikov's voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly. The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov. Murderer! He said suddenly in a quiet, but clear and distinct voice. Raskolnikov went on, walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak. A cold shiver ran down his spine and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment. Then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces side by side in silence. The man did not look at him. What do you mean? What is... Who is a murderer? Mattered Raskolnikov hardly audibly. You are a murderer! The man answered still more articulately and emphatically with a smile of triumphant hatred and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and stricken eyes. They had just reached the crossroads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph. With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour. He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind. Faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V, the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase, quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with eggshells and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere. The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant. The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation. He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating. Then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastya's whisper. Don't disturb him, let him sleep. He can have his dinner later. Quite so, answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head. Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he? What did he see? He has seen it all that's clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hmm... continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering. And the jewel case Nikolai found behind the door, was that possible? A clue? You missed an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence. A fly flew by and saw it. Is it possible? He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. I ought to have known it. I thought with a bitter smile. And how dare I? Knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood. I ought to have known beforehand. Ah, but I did know. He whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought. No, those men are not made so. The real master to whom all is permitted storms too long, makes a massacre in Paris. Forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition, and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so all is permitted. No such people it seems are not of flesh but of bronze. One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the Pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed. It's a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovich to digest. How can they digest it? It's too inartistic. A Napoleon creep under an old woman's bed. Ah, how loathsome! At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. The old woman is of no consequence. He thought, hotly and incoherently. The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters. The old woman was only an illness. I was in a hurry to overstep. I didn't kill a human being but a principal. I killed the principal, but I didn't overstep. I stopped on this side. I was only capable of killing, and it seems I wasn't even capable of that. Principal. Why was that fool Razumikin abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people. The happiness of all is their case. No, life is only given to me once, and I shall never have it again. I don't want to wait for the happiness of all. I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn't pass by my mother starving, keeping my rubble in my pocket while I waited for the happiness of all. I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all, and so my heart is at peace. Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want. Heck, I am an aesthetic louse and nothing more. He added suddenly, laughing like a madman. Yes, I am certainly a louse. He went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it, and playing with it with vindictive pleasure. In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent providence, calling it to witness, that not for my own fleshy lust did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object. Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring, and calculating of all the lice I picked out, the most useless one, and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step. No more, nor less. So the rest would have gone to a monastery according to her will. And what shows that I am utterly a louse? He added, grinding his teeth. Is that I am perhaps vile and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and I felt beforehand that I should tell myself so after killing her? Can anything be compared with the horror of that, the vulgarity, the abjectness? I understand the prophet with his sabre on his steed. Alla commands and trembling creation must obey. The prophet is right. He is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty, without daining to explain. It is for you to obey. Trembling creation. And not to have desires, for that's not for you. I shall never, never forgive the old woman. His hair was soaked with sweat. His quiver and lips were parched. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Mother, sister, how I loved them. Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them. I feel a physical hatred for them. I can't bear them near me. I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember, to embrace her and think if she only knew. Shall I tell her, then? That's just what I might do. She must be the same as I am. He added, straining himself to think, as if he were struggling with delirium. How I hate the old woman now. I feel I should kill her again if she came to life. Poor Liza Vietta. Why did she come in? It strains, though. Why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn't killed her? Liza Vietta. Sonja. Poor gentle things with gentle eyes. Dear women, why don't they weep? Why don't they moan? They give up everything. Their eyes are soft and gentle. Sonja, Sonja. Gentle Sonja. He lost consciousness. It seemed strange to him that he didn't remember what he got into the street. It was late evening, the twilight had fallen, and the full moon was shining more and more brightly, but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the street. Workmen and business people were making their way home. Other people had come out for a walk. There was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious. He was distinctly aware of having come out on the purpose of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging as though he had made no sign to him. Stay! Did he really beckon? Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognized him and was frightened. It was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance. His heart was beating. They went down a turning. The man still did not look around. Does he know I am following him? thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the courtyard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow, measured steps to flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor. The moon shone through the paints with a melancholy and mysterious light. Then he reached the second floor. Bah! This is the flat where the painters were at work. But how was it he did not recognize it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere. He reached the third story. Should he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful, but he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was. The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! The flat was standing wide open. He hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed. He crept on tiptoe into the parlor, which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before. The chairs, the looking glass, the yellow sofa, and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. It's the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery. Raskolnikov. He stood and waited. He waited a long while, and the more silenced the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat till it was painful, and still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like a snapping of a splinter, and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. Why is that cloak here? He thought. It wasn't there before. He went up to it quietly and felt that there was something hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn't see her face. But it was she. He stood over her. She is afraid. He thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stare as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her, but she too bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below. He peeped and turned cold with horror. The old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force. But at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the passage was full of people. The doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people rows of heads all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart. His legs were rooted to the spot. They would not move. He tried to scream and woke up. He drew a deep breath, but his dream seemed strangely to persist. His door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently. Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without staring. Is it still a dream? He wandered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly. The stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him. He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused the moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa. He put his head on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard. Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa. Come, tell me what you want. I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending. The stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself. Introduce myself. Can this still be a dream? Raskolnikov thought once more. He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor. Svidrigailov? What nonsense! It can't be! He said at last, aloud, in bewilderment. His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation. I have come to you for two reasons. In the first place I wanted to make your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering. Secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister, Avdoitya Romanovna. For without your support she might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me, but with your assistance I reckon on. You reckon wrongly. Interrupted Raskolnikov. They only arrived yesterday. May I ask you? Raskolnikov made no reply. It was yesterday. I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let me tell you this. Avdoitya Romanovich, I don't consider it necessary to justify myself, but kindly tell me what was the particularly criminal on my part in all this business speaking without prejudice with common sense. Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence. That in my own house I persecuted a defenseless girl and insulted her with my infamous proposals. Is that it? I am anticipating you. But you have only to assume that I, too, am a man, in a word that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love, which does not depend on our will. Then everything can be explained in the most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster or am I myself a victim? I am a victim. In proposing that the object of my passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness. Reason is the slave of passion. You know why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone. Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. It's simply not whether you are right or wrong. We dislike you. We don't want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Get out! Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh. But you are. But there is no getting around you. He said, laughing in the frankest way. I hoped to get around you, but you took up the right line at once. But you are trying to get round me still. What of it? What of it? Svidrigailov laughing openly. But this is what the French call bongeur and the most innocent form of deception. But still you have interrupted me one way or another. I repeat again. There would never have been any unpleasantness except for what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna. You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say. Raskolnikov interrupted rudely. Oh, you have heard that, too, then. You would be sure to, though. But as for your question, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don't suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order. The medical inquiry diagnosed apoplexy, due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing else. But I'll tell you what I've been thinking to myself of late on my way here in the train, especially. Didn't I contribute to all that? Calamity. Morally. By irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the question. Raskolnikov laughed. I wonder you trouble yourself about it. But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with a switch. There were no marks, even. Don't regard me as a cynic, I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me, and all that. But I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to the last drop. For the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to sit at home. She had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so with that letter you heard about her reading the letter, and all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven. Her first act was to order the carriage to be got out. Not to speak of the fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of resignation. There are instances of it with everyone, human beings in general indeed greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed that? But it's particularly so with women. One might even say it's their only amusement. At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so finishing the interview, but some curiosity and even sort of prudence made him linger for a moment. You were fond of fighting? He asked carelessly. No, not very. Svidrigalov answered calmly. And Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years, expecting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character. The first time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave-driver? Ha ha! By the way, do you remember Rodion Romanovich? How a few years ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I've forgotten his name, was put to shame everywhere in all the papers for having trashed a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in those days that very year, I believe, the disgraceful action of the age took place, you know, the Egyptian nights, that public reading, you remember, the dark eyes, you know. Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are they? Well, as for the gentleman who trashed the German, I feel no sympathy with him, because after all what need is there for sympathy. But I must say there are sometimes such provoking Germans that I don't believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that's the truly humane point of view. I assure you. After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again, Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose of mind and able to keep it to himself. I expect you've not talked to anyone for some days. He asked, Scarcely anyone, I suppose you're wondering at my being such an adaptable man. No, I'm only wondering at your being too adaptable a man. Because I'm not offended at the rudeness of your questions. Is that it? But why take offence? As you asked, he replied with a surprising expression of simplicity. You know, there's hardly anything I take interest in. He went on as it were dreamily. Especially now, I have nothing to do. You are quite at liberty to imagine, though, that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I'll confess frankly, I am very much bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich, but you seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what you like. There is something wrong with you and now too. Not this very minute, I mean, but now generally. Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't scowl. I'm not such a bear, you know, as you think. Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him. You are not a bear, perhaps at all. He said, I fancy indeed that you are a man of very good breeding. Or at least know how on occasion to behave like one. I am not particularly interested in anyone's opinion. Svidrigailov answered dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness. And therefore why not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate. And especially if one has a natural propensity that way. He added laughing again. But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, not without connections. That's true that I have friends here. Svidrigailov admitted not replying to the chief point. I have met some already. I've been lounging about for the last three days and I have seen them or they have seen me. That's a matter, of course. I am well-dressed and reckoned not a poor man. The emancipation of the serfs hasn't affected me. My husband hasn't affected me. My property consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. Their revenue has not fallen off, but I'm not going to see them. I was sick of them long ago. I have been here three days and have called on no one. What a town it is. How has it come into existence among us? Tell me that. A town of officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there's a great deal I didn't notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels. My only hope now is in Anatomy by Jove it is. Anatomy? But as for these clubs, the souls, parades, or progress, indeed maybe. Well, all that can go on without me. He went on again without noticing the question. Besides, who wants to be a card sharper? Why, have you been a card sharper then? How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best society eight years ago. We had a fine time and all men of breeding you know, poets, men of property, and indeed, as a rule in our Russian society, the best manners are found among those who have been thrashed. Have you noticed that? I have deteriorated in the country, but I did get into prison for debt through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna turned up. She bargained with him and bought me off for decent silver pieces. I owed 70,000. We were united in lawful wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never left the country and take note that all my life she held a document over me that I owe you for 30,000 rubles. So if I were to elect to be restive about anything, I should be trapped at once and she would have done it. Women find nothing incompatible in that. If it hadn't meant for that would you have given her the slip? I don't know what to say. It was scarcely that document restrained me. I didn't want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad seeing I was bored but I have been abroad before and always felt sick there. For no reason but the sunrise, the Bay of Naples, the sea. You look at them and it makes you sad. What's most revolting is that one is really sad. No, it's better at home. Here at least one blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole because je le vois mauvais and hate drinking and there's nothing left but wine. I have tried it but I say I've been told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov garden and will take a passengers at a fee. Is it true? Why would you go up? I... no... oh... no... mattered, Svidrigailov, really seeming to be deep in thoughts. What does he mean? Is he an artist? Raskolnikov wandered. No, the document didn't restrain me. Svidrigailov went on, meditatively. It was my own doing not leaving the country a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my main day and made me a present of a considerable sum of money too. She had a fortune, you know. You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich. And that was actually her expression. You don't believe she used it? But do you know I managed the estate quite decently? They know me in the neighborhood. I ordered books too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid of my over-studying. You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much. Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe in ghosts? What ghosts? Why, ordinary ghosts. Do you believe in them? Perhaps not, poofoo player. I wouldn't say no exactly. Do you see them, then? Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly. Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me. He said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile. What do you mean she is pleased to visit you? She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The second was the day before yesterday at daybreak. On the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera. And the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone. Were you awake? Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute, and goes out at the door. Always at the door. I can almost hear her. What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you? Raskolnikov said suddenly. At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much excited. What? Did you think so? Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. Did you really? Didn't I say that there was something in common between us, eh? You never said so. Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat. Didn't I? Raskolnikov. I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut pretending, I said to myself at once. Here's the man. What do you mean by the man? What are you talking about? Raskolnikov. What do I mean? I really don't know. Svidrigailov mattered ingeniously as though he too were puzzled. For a minute they were silent. They were in their places. That's all nonsense. Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. What did she say when she comes to you? She. Would you believe it? She talks of the silliest trifles and... Man is a strange creature. It makes me angry. The first time she came in I was tired, you know. The funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. I lighted a cigar and began to think. She came in at the door. You have been so busy today, Arkady Ivanovich. You have forgotten to wind the dining room clock, she said. All those seven years I wound that clock every week and if I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way here. I got out at the station at daybreak. I'd been asleep, tired out with my eyes half open I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her hands. Shall I tell you fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovich? She was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright and besides the bell rang. I was sitting today after a miserable dinner from a cook's shop. I was sitting smoking all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. Good day, Arkady Ivanovich. How do you like my dress? Anishka can't make like this. Anishka was a dressmaker in the country one of our former surf girls who had been trained in Moscow a pretty wench. She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress and then I looked carefully very carefully at her face. I wonder you trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna. Good gracious, you won't let one disturb you about anything. To tease her, I said I want to get married, Marfa Petrovna. That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovich. It does you very little credit to come looking for a bride when you have hardly buried your wife. You could make a good choice, at least, but I know it won't be for your happiness or hers. You will only be a laughingstock to all good people. Then she went out and her train seems to rustle. Isn't it nonsense, eh? But perhaps you were telling lies. Raskolnikov put in I rarely lie. Answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully apparently not noticing the rudeness of the question. And in the past have you ever seen ghosts before? Yes, I've seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a surf, Filka, just after his burial I called out for getting Filka my pipe. He came in and went the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought he's doing it out of revenge because we had a violent quarrel just before his death. How dare you come in with a hole in your elbow, I said. Go away you scab. He turned and went out and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed. You should go to a doctor. I know I'm not well without you all telling me, though I don't know what's wrong. I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn't ask you whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that they exist. No, I won't believe it. Raskolnikov cried with positive anger. What do people generally say? Matardsfidrigalov, as though speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. They say you are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy. But that's not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to be sick, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except they're sick, not that they don't exist. Nothing of the sort. Raskolnikov insisted irritably. No, you don't think so. Svidrigalov went on looking at him deliberately. But what do you say to this argument? Help me with it. Ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man in health has of course no reason to see them, because he's above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one begins to realize the possibility of another world and the more seriously ill one is, the closer becomes one's contact with that other world, so that as soon as the man dies, he steps straight in that world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could believe in that too. I don't believe in a future life. Svidrigalov said lost in thought. And what if there are only spiders there or something of that sort? He said suddenly He is a mad man. Svidrigalov said Svidrigalov said just Raskolnikov cried with a feeling of anguish just and how can we tell perhaps that is just and do you know it's what I would certainly have made it answered Svidrigalov with a vague smile this horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov Svidrigalov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing only think he cried Although we had never seen each other, we regarded each other as enemies. There is a matter unsettled between us. We have thrown it aside, and our way we have gone into the abstract. Wasn't I right in saying that we were birds of a feather? Kindly allow me, Raskolnikov went on irritably, to ask you to explain why you have honored me with your visit. And, and I am in a hurry, I have no time to waste. I want to go out. By all means, by all means, your sister, Avdatiya Romanovna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Piotr Petrovich. Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her name? I can't understand how you dare utter her name in my presence if you really are Sfidry Gailov. Why, but I've come here to speak about her. How can I avoid mentioning her? Very good, speak and make haste. I'm sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdatiya Romanovna. I believe Avdatiya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the sake of, for the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the match could be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you personally, I'm convinced of it. All this is very naive. Excuse me, I should have said impudent on your part. Cedraskolnikov. You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends? Wouldn't be uneasy, Rodion Romanovich, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly. I'm not quite a fool, I will confess something psychologically curious about that. Just now, defending my love for Avdatiya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well let me tell you that I have no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel something. Through idleness and depravity. Cedraskolnikov put in, I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them. But that's all nonsense, as I see myself now. Have you seen that long? I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdatiya Romanovna's hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin. Excuse me for interrupting you. Kindly be brief and come to the object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out. With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here, and determining on a certain journey, I should like to make some necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with an aunt they are well provided for, and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too. I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That's enough for me. Excuse me, I'm just coming to the point. Before the journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It's not that I detest him so much, but it was through him I quarreled with Marfa Petrovna, when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want now to see Avdatiya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you like in your presence, to explain to her that in the first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then begging her pardon for all past unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand rubles, and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I believe she's herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it. You are certainly mad. Krydraskolnikov not so much angered as astonished. How dare you talk like that! I knew you would scream at me, but in the first place, though I'm not rich, this ten thousand rubles is perfectly free. I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdatiya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in some more foolish way. That's the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is perfectly easy. I make the offer with no ulterior motive. You may not believe it, but in the end Avdatiya Romanovna and you will know. The point is that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and unpleasantness, and so sincerely regretting it, I want not to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do something to her advantage to show that I'm not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of self-interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly, and I should not have offered her ten thousand only when five weeks ago I offered her more. Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdatiya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just the same only from another man. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich, think it over coolly and quietly. Svidrigailov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying this. I beg you to say no more, Cedraskolnikov. In any case, this is unpardonable impertinence. Not in the least, then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbor in this world, and is prevented from doing that tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities. That's absurd. If I died, for instance, and left that sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn't refuse it. Very likely she would. Oh, no indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten thousand rubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case, I beg you to repeat what I have said to Avdatiya Romanovna. No, I won't. In that case, Rodion Romanovich, I shall be obliged to try and see her myself and worry her by doing so. And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her? I don't know really what to say. I should like very much to see her once more. Don't hope for it. I'm sorry, but you don't know me. Perhaps we may become better friends. You think we may become friends? And why not? Svidrigailov said, smiling, he stood up and took his hat. I didn't quite intend to disturb you, and I came here without reckoning on it, though I was very much struck by your face this morning. Where did you see me this morning? That's Kolnikov asked uneasily. I saw you by chance. I kept fancying there is something about you like me. But don't be uneasy. I'm not intrusive. I used to get on all right with car sharpers, and I never bought Prince Svirbe, a great personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael's Madonna in Madame Prilukov's album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna's site for seven years, and I used to stay the night at Vyazemsky's house in the hay market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps. Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask? What travels? Why, on that journey, you spoke of it yourself. A journey? Oh, yes, I did speak of a journey. Well, that's a wide subject. If only you knew what you are asking. He added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. Perhaps I'll get married instead of the journey. They're making a match for me. Here? Yes. I don't have time for that. But I'm very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it. Well good-bye for the present. Oh, yes, I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Oryan Romanovich, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will, and left her three thousand rubles. That's absolutely certain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or three weeks. Are you telling the truth? Yes, tell her. Well, your servant, I'm staying very near you. As he went out, Svidrigailov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway. End of Part 4, Chapter 1.