О чем говорят каналы

"Well, come now, who among us Russians doesn't consider themselves Napoleon these days?" Porfiry suddenly remarked with shocking familiarity. Even in the tone of his voice there was something particularly pointed this time. "Could it be some future Napoleon who cracked Alyona Ivanovna's skull with an axe last week?" suddenly blurted out Zamyotov from the corner.

Razumikhin made a movement. "And if that's so, sir, would you yourself actually dare—say, due to some life misfortunes or hardships, or perhaps to advance the welfare of all humanity—to step over an obstacle?... For instance, to kill and rob?" He suddenly winked again with his left eye and laughed silently, just as he had done earlier. "If I had stepped over, I certainly wouldn't tell you," replied Raskolnikov with defiant, haughty contempt. "No, sir, I only ask out of interest, purely to understand your article, from a literary standpoint only, sir..." "How blatant and crude!" Raskolnikov thought with disgust. "Allow me to point out," he answered coldly, "that I do not consider myself Muhammad or Napoleon, nor anyone else of that sort, and therefore, not being them, I cannot give you a satisfactory answer about what I might have done."

– Very well, sir, do tell me your little idea – Rodion stood before him, pale and serious, waiting. – You see, sir… I really don’t know how best to put it… The idea is rather whimsical, so to speak… a psychological one… You see, sir, when you were writing your article, it couldn’t possibly be… ha-ha!… that you didn’t consider yourself, even just a little bit, as a man of “extraordinary” kind – that is, in your own sense of the word, sir… Could it, sir? – Very likely, indeed – Rodion replied with disdain.

– Whoever has it must suffer, if he realises his mistake. That itself is his punishment—over and above hard labour. – But what about truly genius ones? – Razumikhin asked frowning. – What about those who are given the right to cut down others? Should they not suffer at all, even for spilled blood? – Why use the word "allowed"? There's neither permission nor prohibition here. Let him suffer, if he feels pity for the victim... Suffering and pain are always inevitable for a broad mind and a deep heart. Truly great men, it seems to me, must experience profound sorrow in this world – he added suddenly, thoughtfully, almost out of tune with the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked thoughtfully at everyone, smiled, and picked up his cap. He was much calmer now than when he had entered earlier, and he felt it. Everyone stood up. – Well then, abuse me or not, take offence or not, but I can't help myself – Porfiry Petrovich concluded once again – let me just ask one more question (I'm troubling you so much already!), just to pass one little idea, only so as not to forget it...

– Well, it’s the same anyway, – Raskolnikov sneered. – I’m not to blame for that. Such is, and always will be. He (he nodded toward Razumikhin) was just saying now that I approve of bloodshed. So what? Society is well provided with prisons, jailers, investigating magistrates, penal colonies – why worry? Just catch the thief! – And if we do catch him? – Then off he goes. – You’re quite logical. But what about his conscience? – Why should you care about that? – Out of sheer humanity, you see.

– Well then, well then – Porfiry couldn’t sit still – it’s become almost clear to me now how you view the crime, sir, but... please excuse me for my persistence (I’m troubling you so much, I feel quite ashamed myself!) – you see, sir: you reassured me greatly earlier about those mistaken cases of confusion between the two categories, but... it's practical instances that keep bothering me again! Suppose, for example, some husband or young man imagines himself to be a Lycurgus or a Muhammad – a future one, of course – and starts removing all obstacles in his path... He believes a long journey lies ahead, and journeys require money... so he begins gathering funds for his journey... you understand? Suddenly, Zametov snorted from his corner. Raskolnikov didn’t even raise his eyes toward him. – I must agree – Raskolnikov replied calmly – that such cases really ought to occur. Particularly the foolish and the vain fall for this trap, especially the youth. – There you see, sir! Well then, what about it?

– No, you must have gotten carried away somehow! There's a mistake here. Let me read it... You've gotten carried away! You can't possibly think like that... Let me read. – None of this is in the article, only hints, – said Raskolnikov.

— Are you two joking or what? — Razumikhin finally cried out. — Are you pulling each other's leg or not? You're serious, Rodya? Raskolnikov silently raised his pale, almost mournful face towards him and said nothing. And to Razumikhin, the contrast between this quiet, sorrowful face and Porfiry's unmistakable, persistent, irritable, and sarcastic manner seemed strange. — Well, brother, if this is serious, then... Of course, you're right when you say it's nothing new, similar to all the things we've read and heard a thousand times; but what truly stands out here—and belongs uniquely to you, to my horror—is that you actually permit bloodshed, and, excuse me, with such fanaticism... So this permission to shed blood, then, is the core idea of your article. Because this permission, in my view, is more terrifying than any official, lawful sanction to spill blood. — Quite right — more terrifying, indeed, — responded Porfiry.

Someone with still greater independence, once in a hundred thousand. Geniuses, once in a million. And great geniuses, those who complete humanity's purpose – perhaps only one after millions upon millions of people have lived on Earth. In short, I haven't peered into the flask where all this happens. But there must be a definite law, and there should be one; chance cannot rule here.

– Oh, don't worry about that either – Raskolnikov continued in the same tone. – In general, people with new ideas, those even slightly capable of saying something truly extraordinary, are born very rarely, strangely so. One thing is clear: the process by which people are born, all these categories and subcategories, must be governed by some precise natural law. Of course, this law is not known now, but I believe it exists and may eventually become known. The vast majority of people, mere material, exist in the world for only one purpose: after some effort, through a certain mysterious process as yet unknown, perhaps through the crossing of bloodlines and races, to strain and finally give birth, say, to one truly independent person in a thousand. One with even greater independence might appear once in ten thousand (I speak roughly, for clarity).

Well, at least on this side, you’ve somewhat reassured me; but here’s another trouble: please tell me, how many such people are there who have the right to cut others down—these “extraordinary” ones? I’m certainly ready to bow before them, but admit it, isn’t it terrifying if there turn out to be too many of them?

You wouldn't even need an enforcer; they'd whip themselves, since they're so well-behaved. Some do it for each other, others take the task into their own hands... They publicly impose all sorts of penances upon themselves—looks quite elegant and edifying, in short, nothing for you to worry about... There's a law like that.

– Not worth worrying about, Sir; but do consider that error is possible only on the part of the first category—what I perhaps rather awkwardly called 'ordinary' people. In spite of their natural tendency to obedience, owing to a certain playfulness of nature, which even a cow isn't entirely deprived of, quite a few of them love to imagine themselves as progressive individuals, 'destroyers', and rush headlong into 'new ideas', quite sincerely, Sir. In reality, however, they often fail to notice, or even look down upon others as backward and disgracefully low-minded. But in my opinion, there's really no serious danger here, and you needn't be concerned, because they never go very far. Occasionally, of course, one may have to give them a good whipping to remind them of their place—but no more than that.

– Oh, this happens very often indeed! Your observation is even wittier than your earlier one. – Thank you very much.

– Thank you, sir. But tell me this: how exactly do we distinguish these extraordinary ones from the ordinary? Are there perhaps signs at birth? I mean, there ought to be greater precision, so to speak, something more outwardly definite—excuse my natural anxiety as a practical and well-meaning person—but couldn’t we, for instance, introduce special clothing, some sort of mark or even a brand? Because, you see, if there’s confusion and someone from the ordinary class imagines himself to belong to the extraordinary, and starts ‘removing all obstacles,’ as you so aptly put it, well then, you know…

— So you do believe in the New Jerusalem? — I do, — replied Raskolnikov firmly. As he said this, throughout his entire long speech, he kept his eyes fixed on a particular spot on the carpet. — And do you believe in God too? Forgive me for being so curious. — I do, — repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry. — And in the resurrection of Lazarus? — I do believe. Why are you asking all this? — Do you believe it literally? — Literally. — I see… just out of curiosity. Excuse me. But may I ask—going back to what we were discussing earlier—aren’t such people always punished? Some, on the contrary… — Do they triumph in life? Of course, some even achieve triumph during their lifetime, and then… — They begin punishing others themselves? — If necessary, yes, and, you know, more often than not. Your observation is quite sharp.

The first category always rules the present; the second, the future. The former preserve the world and multiply it numerically; the latter move the world forward and lead it toward its goal. Both have an equal right to exist. In short, in my view, all have equal rights—and vive la guerre éternelle, until the New Jerusalem, of course!

The crimes of these people, of course, are relative and varied; for the most part, they demand, in various forms, the destruction of the present for the sake of a better future. But if he must, for the sake of his idea, step even over a corpse, over blood, then, inwardly, in his conscience, he may, in my view, grant himself permission to step over blood—depending, of course, on the idea and its scale—note that. In this sense only do I speak, in my article, of their right to crime. (Recall, after all, we began with a legal question.) That said, there’s little cause for alarm: the masses almost never recognize this right in them, punish them, and hang them (more or less), thus, quite justly, fulfilling their conservative purpose—yet with the added fact that in later generations, the same masses place the executed on a pedestal and worship them (more or less).

It is this: that mankind, according to the law of nature, is divided into two categories: the lower (ordinary), that is, so to speak, material, serving solely for the propagation of its own kind, and actual people—those gifted or talented enough to utter a new word in their society. The subdivisions here, of course, are infinite, but the distinguishing features of the two categories are fairly sharp. The first category, the material—people generally conservative by nature, orderly, living in obedience and loving to obey. In my view, they are even obliged to obey, since that is their purpose, and there is absolutely nothing humiliating in this for them. The second category—all of them break laws, are destroyers or inclined to destruction, depending on their abilities.

In short, I conclude that not only great men, but even those who step slightly out of line—those who are even slightly capable of saying something new—must, by their very nature, necessarily be criminals, more or less, of course. Otherwise, it would be difficult for them to step out of line, and, by their very nature, they certainly cannot agree to remain within it. According to me, in fact, they are even obliged not to agree. In short, you see, thus far there’s nothing particularly new here. This has been printed and read a thousand times. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I agree it’s somewhat arbitrary, but I don’t insist on precise figures. I only believe in my main idea.

Furthermore, I recall developing in my article the idea that all… well, let us say, lawgivers and founders of humanity—beginning from ancient times, continuing with Lycurguses, Solons, Muhammads, Napoleons, and so on—were all, without exception, criminals, simply by virtue of introducing a new law, thus violating the ancient one, revered by society and handed down from their fathers, and certainly did not shrink from shedding blood, whenever it could benefit them, even if that blood was entirely innocent and heroically spilled in defence of the old law. It is striking indeed how most of these benefactors and founders of humanity were especially terrible shedders of blood.

Perhaps I’m not mistaken in assuming that you’d actually like that; please, allow me. In my view, if Kepler’s and Newton’s discoveries, due to some circumstances, could in no way become known to mankind except by sacrificing the lives of one, ten, a hundred or more individuals who stood in the way or obstructed the discovery, then Newton would have had the right—and indeed, the duty—to eliminate those ten or a hundred people in order to share his discoveries with all humanity. That said, it by no means follows that Newton would have the right to kill anyone he pleased, strangers or passers-by, or to steal daily at the marketplace.

– It isn’t quite like that with me, – he began simply and modestly. – Still, I must admit, you’ve stated her position almost correctly, even, if you like, entirely correctly… (He found it genuinely pleasant to agree that it was entirely correct). The only difference is that I do not insist, as you say, that extraordinary people must necessarily and always commit all sorts of excesses. In fact, I think such an article wouldn’t even be allowed into print. I merely hinted that an “extraordinary” man has the right… that is, not an official right, but one he grants himself—the right to permit his conscience to step over… certain obstacles, but only in the single case where carrying out his idea (perhaps one that might even save all humanity) demands it. You say my article is unclear; I’m ready to explain it to you, as far as possible.

– No, no, not quite that, – replied Porfiry. – The point is, in their article, people are somehow divided into ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary’. Ordinary people must live in obedience and have no right to transgress the law, because, you see, they’re ordinary. But extraordinary people have the right to commit any crime and break the law in all sorts of ways, precisely because they are extraordinary. That’s your idea, isn’t it, if I’m not mistaken? – How can that be? It’s impossible! – muttered Razumikhin in bewilderment. Raskolnikov smiled again. He immediately understood what was going on and what they were trying to lead him to; he remembered his article. He decided to accept the challenge.

Raskolnikov sneered at the deliberate and exaggerated distortion of his idea. – What? What do you mean? A right to commit a crime? But not because 'the environment pushed one to it'? – Razumikhin inquired, almost with a hint of fear.

– Bravo, Rodya! And I didn’t know either! – exclaimed Razumikhin. – I’ll dash to the reading room today and check the issue number! Two months ago? What date exactly? I’ll track it down anyway! Now that’s something! And he wouldn’t even tell! – But how did you find out it was my article? It’s signed with a letter. – Purely by chance, just the other day, through the editor; I know him… I was very intrigued. – I was examining, if I recall, the psychological state of a criminal throughout the commission of the crime. – Yes indeed, and you insist that the act of committing a crime is always accompanied by a kind of illness. Very, very original. But… what actually interested me wasn’t so much that part of your article, but rather a certain idea, slipped in at the end, which you unfortunately only hinted at, rather vaguely… In short, if you remember, there’s a hint that there exist, as it were, certain individuals who can… not merely can, but who have the full right to commit all sorts of outrages and crimes, and for whom, apparently, the law is simply not meant.

– It’s true; but when ‘Weekly Speech’ ceased to exist, it merged with ‘Periodical Speech’, and so your article, published two months ago, appeared in ‘Periodical Speech’. Didn’t you know? Raskolnikov truly knew nothing about it. – Good heavens, you could even claim payment for that article! But what a character you have! You live so secluded that you’re unaware of matters directly concerning you. This is a fact, after all.

– You're lying! I stitched the dress earlier. It was because of the new dress that I thought of fooling you all. – So you're really such a pretender? – asked Raskolnikov carelessly. – What, didn't expect it? Just wait, I'll trick you too – ha ha ha! No, you see, sir, I'll tell you the whole truth. All these questions, crimes, society, girls – they reminded me just now (though actually, they've always interested me) of one of your articles: 'On Crime'... or whatever it was called, I forget the title. I had the pleasure of reading it two months ago in the 'Periodical Speech'. – My article? In the 'Periodical Speech'? – Raskolnikov asked in surprise. – I did write an article about six months ago, when I left university, on a book – but I sent it to the 'Weekly Speech', not the 'Periodical'. – But it ended up in the 'Periodical Speech'. – But the 'Weekly Speech' ceased publication; that's exactly why they didn't print it...

– He's just pretending, damn it! – cried Razumikhin, jumping up and waving his hand. – What's the use of arguing with you! He's doing it on purpose—you don't know him yet, Rodya! Yesterday he took their side just to fool everyone. And what did he say yesterday, good Lord! And they were so delighted with him!... He can keep up this act for two whole weeks. Last year, for some reason, he convinced us he was becoming a monk—he insisted on it for two months! Recently, he started claiming he was getting married, said everything was ready for the wedding—had even stitched a new suit. We began congratulating him. But no bride, nothing—pure illusion!

– Just look at him, he's burst out, banging away! Need to hold him by the hands, – Porfiry laughed. – Imagine, – he turned to Raskolnikov, – just like this yesterday evening, in one room, six people shouting at once, and I'd plied him with punch beforehand – can you picture it? No, brother, you're lying: 'environment' means a great deal in crime; I'll confirm that for you. – And I myself know it means a lot, but tell me this: does a forty-year-old man raping a ten-year-old girl – is it the 'environment' that drives him to it? – Well, strictly speaking, it might just be the environment, – observed Porfiry with surprising solemnity, – a crime against a little girl can indeed be very well explained by 'environment'. Razumikhin nearly flew into a rage. – Oh yeah? Want me to demonstrate right now, – he roared, – that your white eyelashes exist solely because Ivan the Great is thirty-five sazhens tall – and I'll prove it clearly, precisely, progressively, and even with a liberal touch? I'll do it! Come on, want to bet? – I'm in! Let's hear how he proves it, by all means!

And the result is that everything is reduced to laying bricks and arranging corridors and rooms in a phalanstère! The phalanstère may be ready, but your human nature isn't ready for the phalanstère yet—it still wants life, it hasn't completed the living process, it's too early for the graveyard! You can't leap over human nature with logic alone! Logic anticipates three cases, but there are a million! Chop off the million and reduce everything to a single question of comfort! The easiest solution to the problem! Temptingly clear, and no need to think! The main thing—no need to think! The whole mystery of life fits into two printed pages!

With them, it's not humanity, having developed through historical processes to their full extent, naturally transforming itself into a normal society; on the contrary, a social system, born straight out of some mathematical brain, will instantly arrange all of humanity and, in a single moment, make it virtuous and sinless—before any living process, without any historical or organic path! That's precisely why they instinctively dislike history: 'nothing but ugliness and nonsense in it'—and everything is explained away as mere stupidity! That's why they so dislike the living process of life: no need for it! The living soul of life demands its due; the living soul won't obey machinery; the living soul is suspect, the living soul is reactionary! But if here it stinks a bit of death, it can at least be made of rubber—so much the better! Not alive, without will, servile, won't rebel!

– Nothing is allowed! – Razumikhin interrupted heatedly. – I'm not joking! I'll show you their books: everything with them happens just because 'circumstances crushed them', and nothing more! That's their favourite phrase! From this it follows directly that if society is properly arranged, all crimes will vanish at once, since there'll be nothing left to protest against, and everyone will instantly become righteous. Human nature isn't taken into account, human nature is excluded, human nature isn't permitted!

"You're lying again!" exclaimed Porfiry Petrovich. He was clearly getting animated, laughing every moment as he looked at Razumikhin, which only further inflamed him.

– Not quite, that’s true – Razumikhin immediately agreed, eager and heated as usual. Listen, Rodya, hear me out and give me your opinion. I really want to. I was arguing late into the night with them yesterday, waiting for you; I even spoke to them about you, saying you’d come… It started with the socialists’ view. You know the idea: crime is merely a protest against the abnormal structure of society – nothing more, absolutely nothing else, no other causes allowed at all… nothing!..

All this flashed through his mind like lightning. Porfiry Petrovich instantly turned back. He suddenly seemed cheerful. "My dear fellow, my head’s been spinning since yesterday — and I feel quite loose at the joints altogether!" he said, laughing, to Razumikhin, in an entirely different tone. "But tell me, was it interesting? I left you at the most interesting point yesterday. Who won?" "Well, naturally, nobody. We drifted onto eternal questions, just floating in mid-air." "Just imagine, Rodya — yesterday we started debating whether crime actually exists! Said we argued ourselves silly!" "Nothing surprising there — just an ordinary social question," replied Raskolnikov absently. "The question wasn't framed quite like that," remarked Porfiry.

But perhaps it’s good—playing a sick man’s part… He’s probing me. Trying to throw me off. Why did I come?

They certainly talked about me before I came!... Do they know about the flat? I wish they’d just get on with it!... When I said I ran off yesterday to rent a flat, he let it pass, didn’t pick up on it… But clever of me to mention the flat—might come in handy later!... Just raving, I was delirious, that’s all!... Ha-ha-ha! He knows about the whole of yesterday evening! But he didn’t know about my mother’s arrival!... And that witch wrote down the number in pencil!... Lies! I won’t give in! This isn’t evidence yet—it’s all just mirage! No, bring me facts! And the flat isn’t a fact, only delirium; I know what to say to them… But do they know about the flat? I won’t leave without finding out! Why did I even come? The fact that I’m angry now—well, maybe that’s evidence too! Ugh, how irritable I am!

Their words may be ordinary, but there’s something in them… You can always say these things, but still, there’s something. Why did he say directly "at her place"? Why did Zametov add that I had mentioned it? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes… that tone… Razumikhin was sitting right there—why didn’t he sense anything? That innocent fool never suspects anything! Again, fever coming on… Did Porfiry wink at me earlier or not? No, nonsense—why would he wink? Are they trying to irritate my nerves, or just taunting me? Or is it all just a mirage—or even Zametov being insolent… Is Zametov insolent? Zametov changed his mind overnight. I knew he would! He’s acting like he’s at home, though it’s his first time here. Porfiry doesn’t treat him like a guest, sits with his back to him. They’ve conspired! They must have conspired!

The main thing is, they don’t even hide it anymore, they don’t bother with formalities! And why did you talk about me with Nikodim Fomich, if you don’t even know me at all? So they don’t even want to hide that they’re watching me like a pack of dogs! They just spit right in my face! – he trembled with rage. – Well then, strike straight, instead of playing cat and mouse! That’s simply rude, Porfiry Petrovich—maybe I won’t even allow it! I’ll stand up and slap the whole truth right in your faces, and then you’ll see how I despise you! – He gasped for breath. – But what if it’s only in my mind? What if it’s all a mirage, and I’m mistaken about everything, getting angry out of inexperience, unable to bear my lowly role? Maybe it’s all unintentional?

– Just give me some tea at least! My throat’s completely dry! – cried Razumikhin. – Excellent idea! Perhaps everyone will join in. Wouldn’t you like something stronger, just before tea? – Get out! Porfiry Petrovich left to order the tea. Raskolnikov’s thoughts swirled like a whirlwind in his head. He was terribly irritated.

— Or perhaps I found some treasure somewhere, and you don’t know about it? That’s why I was so generous yesterday... Mr. Zametov knows I found a treasure!... Please forgive me, sir — he turned to Porfiry with trembling lips — for bothering you with such trivial nonsense for half an hour. We’ve gotten on your nerves, haven’t we? — Not at all, quite the contrary! If only you knew how fascinating you are to me! It’s truly interesting to watch and listen... and I must admit, I’m so delighted that you’ve finally condescended to visit...

– They really got on my nerves yesterday, – suddenly said Raskolnikov to Porfiry, with a bold, defiant smirk, – so I ran off to rent a room so they couldn't find me, and took a heap of money with me. That gentleman there, Zametov, saw the money myself. Well then, Mr. Zametov, tell me, was I clever yesterday or out of my mind? Settle the argument for us? He seemed ready to strangle Zametov at that very moment. He disliked his look and silence far too much. – In my opinion, you spoke very sensibly, sir, even cunningly, only you were excessively irritable, – Zametov replied curtly. – Just now Nikodim Fomich was telling me, – put in Porfiry Petrovich, – that he met you last night, quite late, in the flat of some official who'd been trampled to death by horses... – Ah, take that official, for instance! – Razumikhin jumped in. – Weren't you out of your mind at the official's place? You gave the widow the very last money you had for the funeral! If you wanted to help, give fifteen, give twenty roubles—but keep at least three for yourself! Yet you handed over all twenty-five, every single kopeck!

– But how could you have gone out if you weren't delirious? – Razumikhin suddenly flared up. – Why did you go out at all? What for?.. And why sneak out like that? Could you even think straight at that time? Now that the danger's over, I'm telling you straight!

And as if nothing had happened, he carefully held out the ashtray to Razumikhin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash all over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry Petrovich seemed not to notice, still apparently preoccupied with Razumikhin's cigarette. "What? Was waiting? Did you know he had pawned things too?" cried Razumikhin. Porfiry Petrovich turned directly to Raskolnikov: "Both your items—your ring and your watch—were wrapped together in a piece of paper, and on that paper your name was clearly written in pencil, along with the date of the month when she received them from you..." "How observant of you..." Raskolnikov gave an awkward smile, making a special effort to look him straight in the eye. But he couldn't help adding suddenly, "I only noticed this now because, probably, there were so many people pawning things... it would be hard for you to remember them all. Yet you, on the contrary, remember them so clearly, and... and..." "Foolish! Weak! Why did I add that!"

Is it alright? Does it sound natural? Did I exaggerate? — Raskolnikov trembled inwardly. — Why did I say "women"? — Your mother has arrived, hasn't she? — inquired Porfiry Petrovich, for some reason. — Yes. — When exactly was that? — Yesterday evening. Porfiry paused, as though pondering. — Under no circumstances could your belongings have gone missing — he continued calmly and coolly. — I've been expecting you here for quite some time.

This was unbearable. Raskolnikov could not endure it and glared at him with his black eyes blazing with anger—then immediately came to his senses. “Brother, you seem to be making fun of me?” he addressed him, feigning irritation with practiced skill. “I admit I may be overly concerned about such trifles in your eyes; but you can’t call me selfish or greedy for that. And in my eyes, these two insignificant items are far from being trifles. I just told you, these silver watches—with practically no value—are the only thing left after my father. You may laugh at me, but my mother has come here,” he suddenly turned to Porfiry, “and if she were to find out”—he quickly turned back to Razumikhin, deliberately trying to make his voice tremble—“that these watches had gone missing, I swear she’d be heartbroken! Women!” “No, no, not at all! I didn’t mean it that way! Quite the opposite!” cried the distressed Razumikhin.

– Sorry to have troubled you with such small matters – he continued, a little flustered – my things are worth only five rupees, but they're especially precious to me as a memory of those from whom I received them, and, I admit, when I found out, I became terribly frightened… – No wonder you jumped so suddenly yesterday when I let it slip in front of Zosimov that Porfiry is questioning the pawnbrokers! – interjected Razumikhin, quite deliberately.

– The thing is, right now... I've tried my best to be embarrassed, Raskolnikov said, visibly flustered—I'm not exactly in funds at the moment... and I can't even produce petty cash... I merely wished to state that these items belong to me, and when I come into money... – That makes no difference at all, sir, replied Porfiry Petrovich, coldly accepting the financial explanation. – However, if you wish, you may simply write to me directly, stating that upon learning of such and such, and declaring ownership of certain articles, you kindly request... – It can be on plain paper? Raskolnikov quickly interrupted, once again concerned about the financial aspect. – Oh, the simplest paper possible, sir! And suddenly, Porfiry Petrovich gave him a strangely mocking look, narrowing his eyes as if winking at him. Well, perhaps it only seemed that way to Raskolnikov—it lasted just a split second. At any rate, something of the sort happened. Raskolnikov could have sworn the man winked—goodness knows why. "He knows!" flashed through him like lightning.

"You should file a report with the police," replied Porfiry in a thoroughly businesslike manner, "stating that, having learned of a certain incident—namely, this murder—you kindly request the investigating officer in charge of the case to be informed that certain items belong to you, and that you wish to redeem them... or something along those lines. Anyway, they'll write to you."

As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that the visitor had "some business" with him, he immediately asked him to sit on the sofa and himself sat at the other end, fixing his eyes on the guest with such intense and overly serious attention that it became almost oppressive and awkward, especially at first meeting, particularly when what one has to say seems, in one's own opinion, hardly worthy of such extraordinary gravity. But Raskolnikov explained his matter in brief, coherent terms, clearly and precisely, and was satisfied with himself, even managing to observe Porfiry quite well. Porfiry Petrovich, for his part, did not take his eyes off him for a moment throughout. Razumikhin, seated opposite them at the same table, followed the conversation eagerly and impatiently, constantly shifting his gaze from one to the other and back again—something that was already a bit too much. "Fool!" Raskolnikov thought to himself.

Porfiry Petrovich was at home, wearing a robe, clean underclothes, and worn-out slippers. He was about thirty-five years old, slightly below average height, stout, even with a little belly, clean-shaven, without moustache or sideburns, his hair closely cropped on a large round head, oddly prominent at the back. His plump, round face, with a slightly snub nose, had a sickly dark-yellow complexion, yet looked fairly lively and even mocking. It would have seemed quite pleasant, were it not for his eyes, with their watery, slippery gleam, hidden beneath almost white, fluttering eyelashes that kept blinking, as if covertly winking at someone. That gaze strangely clashed with his overall appearance, which had something almost effeminate, yet lent him an air far more serious than one might have expected at first glance.

– Oh, you! The investigating officer! Well, damn all of you! – snapped Razumihin, but suddenly bursting into laughter, he approached Porfiry Petrovich with a cheerful face, as if nothing had happened. – Enough nonsense! We’re all fools; let’s get down to business. Here’s my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. First, he’s heard a lot about you and wanted to meet, and second, he has a small matter to discuss with you. Hey! Zamyotov! What are you doing here? Do you two already know each other? How long have you been acquainted? "This is strange!" Raskolnikov thought uneasily. Zamyotov seemed slightly embarrassed, but not much. – We met yesterday at your place, – he replied casually. – So God saved me from loss! Last week he was begging me to somehow get introduced to you, Porfiry, and you’ve already hooked up without me… Where’s your tobacco?

– Oh, please, very pleased indeed—and it’s nice how you came in… What, doesn’t he even want to greet me? – Porfiry Petrovich nodded toward Razumikhin. – Honestly, I don’t know why he got so upset with me. I just told him on the way here that he looks like Romeo, and… and proved it—nothing more, as far as I recall. – Pig! – Razumikhin responded without turning around. – So, he must have very serious reasons to get so angry over just one little word, – Porfiry chuckled.

The scene unfolded like this: Raskolnikov was still laughing, inadvertently leaving his hand in the host's grip, yet knowing full well the measure of the situation, he waited for the right moment to end it as quickly and naturally as possible. Razumikhin, thoroughly embarrassed by the overturned table and the broken glass, glared gloomily at the shards, spat, and abruptly turned toward the window, where he stood with his back to the room, his face terribly frowning as he stared out without seeing anything. Porfiry Petrovich kept laughing and wanted to keep laughing, but it was clear he needed an explanation. In the corner, on a chair, sat Zamiotov, who had risen when the guests entered and now stood waiting, his mouth stretched wide in a grin, yet looking at the entire scene with bewilderment, even a kind of disbelief—and at Raskolnikov himself with something like confusion. Raskolnikov was unpleasantly struck by Zamiotov’s unexpected presence. “I’ve got to think this through!” he thought. “Excuse me, please,” he began, visibly flustered, “Raskolnikov…”

– Uff, blast it! – he roared, waving his hand and striking it against the small round table, on which stood a half-finished glass of tea. Everything went flying and clattered. – But why break chairs, gentlemen? The government will have to bear the loss! – Porfiry Petrovich shouted cheerfully.

He was already entering the rooms. He came in with an air as if he were straining every muscle to keep from bursting into laughter. Behind him, with a face completely upturned and ferociously grim, flushed like a peony, tall and awkward, entered the embarrassed Razumikhin. His face and entire figure at that moment were indeed comical and justified Raskolnikov’s laughter. Raskolnikov, still not introduced, bowed to the host standing in the middle of the room and looking at them inquisitively, shook his hand—all while visibly struggling to suppress his mirth and manage at least two or three words to introduce himself. No sooner had he managed to assume a serious expression and mumble something than—almost involuntarily—he glanced again at Razumikhin and simply could not hold back: the suppressed laughter broke out all the more uncontrollably the harder he had restrained it until then. The extraordinary ferocity with which this “dear friend” took the laughter lent the whole scene an air of utmost sincerity and, above all, naturalness. Razumikhin, as if on purpose, only added to the effect.

Raskolnikov laughed so hard that he seemed unable to contain himself, and they entered Porfiry Petrovich’s apartment still laughing. That was exactly what Raskolnikov wanted: from the rooms, one could hear that they had come in laughing and were still chuckling in the hallway. “Not a word here, or I’ll… smash you!” Razumikhin hissed furiously, grabbing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

– No, brother, really, it’s obvious. The other day you sat on the chair in a way you never do—perched right on the edge, and your whole body kept twitching. You’d jump up for no reason at all. One moment angry, the next your face turns all sweet, like some sugary candy, for no reason. You even blushed—especially when they invited you for lunch, you turned bright red. – I didn’t, you’re lying!... What are you even talking about? – Come on, you’re squirming like a schoolboy! Ugh, damn it, he’s blushing again! – What a bloody pig you are! – Why are you getting so flustered? Romeo! Wait, I’ll tell someone about this today, ha-ha-ha! I’ll have Mother in stitches… and a few others too… – Listen, listen, listen—this is serious, this is… What in the world happens now, damn it! – Razumikhin finally stammered, freezing in horror. – What will you tell them? I swear, brother… Bloody hell, what a pig you are! – Just a spring rose, that’s all! And how well it suits you, if you only knew! Romeo, ten inches tall! And look how you’ve washed up today—actually cleaned your nails! When did that ever happen? Honestly, you’ve even pomaded your hair! Come closer! – He bent down. – Pig!!!

Most important — does Porfiry know or doesn’t he that I was in the old hag’s flat yesterday and asked about the blood? I must find it out in a flash, the moment I step in, read it from his face; otherwise… I’m done, but I will find out! – Hey, you know what? – he suddenly turned to Razumikhin with a sly smile – I noticed today, brother, you’ve been in some kind of unusual excitement since morning? Am I right? – What excitement? I’m not excited at all, – Razumikhin twitched.

– What's this? Do they take me for a madman? Well, perhaps I really am. He grimaced tensely. – Yes… yes… no, I mean, damn it, no! Well, never mind – all I said (and everything else just now) was nonsense, blabber from a hangover. – Why are you apologizing? How utterly sick I am of all this! – cried Raskolnikov with exaggerated irritation. Though partly, he was pretending. – I know, I know, I understand. Rest assured, I do understand. It's even embarrassing to talk about it… – Well, if it's embarrassing, then don't talk! They both fell silent. Razumikhin was more than delighted, and Raskolnikov felt it with disgust. What also troubled him was that Razumikhin was now speaking about Porfiry. "This one too must sing Lazarus," he thought, growing pale, his heart pounding. "And sing it naturally. Most natural would be not to sing at all. Forcefully not singing anything! No, that would seem unnatural again… Well, we'll see how it turns out… we'll see… is it good or bad that I'm going? The moth flies straight into the flame. It's bad that my heart's pounding like this…" – In that grey house – said Razumikhin.

– But why particularly? – Well, not exactly... you see, recently, especially when you fell ill, I mentioned you quite often. He was listening... and when he found out you're studying law but can't finish the course due to circumstances, he said, "What a pity!" That's how I came to conclude... I mean, it's everything taken together, not just that one thing; yesterday, Zamyetov... You see, Rodya, I was babbling something to you yesterday while we were walking home, when I was drunk... and I'm afraid, brother, that you might be making too much of it, you know...

– Oh yes, yes, yes – hurriedly chiming in without knowing quite why, Razumikhin exclaimed – that's why you were partly shocked back then... You know, even in your delirium you kept muttering about rings and chains!... Well, yes, yes... Now it's all clear, everything is so clear now. 'Just look at how widely this idea has spread among them! This man here would go to the cross for me, yet he's so pleased to think I was babbling about rings in my fever! How deeply rooted it is in all of them!' – But will we find him in? – he asked aloud. – We will, we will – Razumikhin hastened to say. – He's a good fellow, you'll see! A bit awkward, I mean, he's a man of society, but I'm saying he's awkward in another sense. Bright lad, intelligent, really quite sharp, only his way of thinking is rather peculiar... Suspicious, sceptical, cynical... Likes to fool around, I mean not deceive exactly, but just tease... Well, and that old materialist approach... But he knows his job, knows it well... He once solved a murder case last year where almost all the clues had been lost! He's extremely, extremely eager to meet you!

– When? – Raskolnikov paused, trying to recall. – I was with her, I think, about three days before her death. But anyway, I’m not here to redeem my things now, – he added with sudden haste and peculiar emphasis on the items, – I’ve only got a single silver rouble on me... all because of that cursed delirium yesterday! He pronounced the word 'delirium' with particular solemnity.

"You're staying at Kaper-naumov's!" he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. "He altered my waistcoat yesterday. I'm staying just next door, with Madame Resslich, Gertruda Karlovna. What a coincidence!" Sonia looked at him closely. "Neighbours," he went on, unusually cheerful. "I've only been in town three days. Well then, see you later." Sonia didn't answer. The door opened, and she slipped into her room. For some reason, she felt ashamed, as if something had frightened her... On the way to Porfiry, Razumikhin was in an unusually excited state. "Brother, this is excellent," he repeated several times. "I'm glad! So glad!" "What exactly are you so glad about?" Raskolnikov wondered to himself. "I had no idea you were also pawning things with the old woman. And... and... when was it? I mean, how long ago did you see her?" "What a simpleton!" Raskolnikov thought.

When Sonia stepped out onto the canal embankment, they found themselves alone on the pavement. Watching her, he noticed her deep thoughtfulness and distraction. Upon reaching her house, Sonia turned in through the gate—he followed, somewhat surprised. Once inside the courtyard, she went to the right, towards the corner where the staircase led up to her apartment. "Well, well!" muttered the stranger, beginning to climb the steps behind her. Only then did Sonia notice him. She went up to the third floor, turned into the gallery, and rang the bell at number nine, where chalk letters on the door read: 'Kapernaumov, Tailor'. "Well, well!" repeated the stranger again, astonished at the strange coincidence, and rang next door at number eight. The two doors were barely six paces apart.

He was a man of about fifty, taller than average, stout, with broad and high shoulders, which gave him a slightly stooping appearance. He was smartly and comfortably dressed, and looked every inch a distinguished gentleman. In his hand he carried a handsome cane, which he tapped lightly on the pavement with each step, and his hands were covered with fresh gloves. His broad, high-cheekboned face was quite pleasant, with a fresh complexion—unlike the usual Petersburg pallor. His hair, still thick, was a light fair colour, just touched with grey, while his broad, heavy beard, spreading out like a spade, was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue, cold, penetrating, and thoughtful; his lips were rosy. Overall, he was a remarkably well-preserved man who appeared much younger than his years.

Reaching the turning, he crossed to the opposite side of the street, turned around and saw that Sonia was already following him along the same path, unaware of her surroundings. When she reached the corner, she too turned into the same street. He followed, keeping his eyes on her from the opposite pavement; after walking about fifty paces, he crossed again to Sonia's side, caught up with her and walked behind, keeping a distance of about five steps.

And of course, she couldn't have noticed at that moment an unfamiliar gentleman who was carefully watching her and following closely behind. He had been tailing her since she left the gate. Just as the three of them—Razumikhin, Raskolnikov, and she—had paused for a brief exchange on the pavement, this passerby, while moving around them, suddenly seemed to start, accidentally catching Sonya's words: "and she asked: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?" He quickly but attentively scanned all three, especially Raskolnikov, to whom Sonya had spoken. Then he looked at the building and took note of it. All this happened in an instant, as he walked past, and without even appearing to do so, the man moved ahead, slowing his pace as if waiting. He was waiting for Sonya; he had seen they were saying goodbye and that she would soon head off somewhere to her place. "So, where to? I've definitely seen that face somewhere," he thought, trying to recall Sonya's features. "Must find out."

– Please, not today, not today! – she muttered, her heart sinking, as if pleading with someone, like a frightened child. – Lord! Coming to me… into this room… he'll see… oh Lord!

– Poly? Oh, yes... Polechka! She's... little... she's your sister? Did I give her the address? – How could you forget? – No... I remember... – I'd heard about you back then from the late one himself... Only I didn't know your surname then, and he himself didn't know it either... Now I've come... and when I found out your surname yesterday... I asked today: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?... I didn't know you were living with the tenants too... Good day, sir... I'm going to Katerina Ivanovna... She was terribly relieved to finally leave; she walked with downcast eyes, hurrying to get out of their sight as quickly as possible, to cover the twenty paces to the right turn onto the street and at last be alone—so she could walk fast, without looking at anyone, noticing nothing, thinking, remembering, piecing together every word spoken, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this before. An entirely new, unknown and hazy world had entered her soul. Suddenly she remembered that Raskolnikov himself had intended to visit her today—perhaps this morning, perhaps right now!

– Never!... Though come to think of it, I've been meaning to buy a lock for two years now, – he added carelessly. – Lucky people, aren't they, who've got nothing to lock up? – he said, laughing, turning to Sonia. They had stopped at the gate. – You go right, Sofya Semyonovna? By the way, how did you manage to find me? – he asked, as if wanting to say something quite different. He kept wanting to look into her quiet, clear eyes, but somehow it didn't quite work out... – Why, you gave the address to Polenka yesterday.

– Not just anyone, straight to Porfiry! – cried Razumikhin with extraordinary excitement. – How glad I am! Come on, let’s go now, it’s just two steps, we’ll surely catch him! – All right… let’s go… – He’ll be very, very, very, very pleased to meet you! I’ve spoken to him a lot about you, at different times… Even yesterday. Come on!… So you knew the old woman? That’s it!… Splendid, how wonderfully everything has turned out!… Oh yes… Sofya Ivanovna… – Sofya Semyonovna, – corrected Raskolnikov. – Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumikhin, a good man… – If you need to go now… – began Sonya, not even looking at Razumikhin, and becoming all the more flustered because of it. – Let’s go then! – decided Raskolnikov. – I’ll come see you today, Sofya Semyonovna. Just tell me where you live? He wasn’t exactly stammering, but as though hurrying and avoiding her gaze. Sonya gave her address, blushing. All of them went out together. – Don’t you lock up? – asked Razumikhin, following them down the stairs.

– He asked about the pawned items, and I’ve got some things pledged there too—just junk, really, but my sister’s little ring, which she gave me as a keepsake when I left for here, and my father’s silver watch. They’re worth maybe five or six rupees, but they’re precious to me—sentimental value. So what should I do now? I don’t want the things lost, especially the watch. I was quite anxious earlier when Mother asked to see it, after we began talking about Dunya’s watch. It’s the only thing left from Father. She’ll fall ill if it goes missing! Women, you know! So what should I do—advise me! I know I ought to report it to the station. But wouldn’t it be better to go straight to Porfiry? What do you think? The matter needs settling quickly. You’ll see, Mother will ask again before lunch!

– Never mind what’s written! They’ve talked and written about us too—have we forgotten? I’m sure she’s… a wonderful person, and all this is nonsense! – God grant it! – And Pyotr Petrovich is a despicable gossip, – Dunyasha suddenly snapped. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken aback. The conversation broke off. – Look here, this is what I wanted to discuss with you… – said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumikhin aside to the window… – Then I shall tell Katerina Ivanovna that you’ll come… – Sonya quickly began taking her leave. – Just a moment, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets here, you’re not in the way at all… I’d like to say a couple more words… Listen, – he suddenly turned, breaking off mid-sentence, directly to Razumikhin – you know that man… what’s his name? Porfiry Petrovich? – Of course! He’s a relative. What about him? – Razumikhin added with sudden curiosity. – Isn’t he handling this case… you know, the murder… the one you were talking about yesterday? – Yes… well? – Razumikhin’s eyes suddenly widened.

– She doesn't suit at all! – Dunya exclaimed irritably. – And what are we to make of your presentiments, Mama! He's only known her since yesterday, and now, when she walked in, he didn't even recognise her. – Well, just wait and see!... She makes me uneasy, I'm telling you, you'll see, you'll see! I was so frightened: she kept staring at me, staring, with such eyes—I could hardly sit still on the chair, remember how he started introducing her? And it struck me as odd: Pyotr Petrovich writes about her in such glowing terms, yet here he is recommending her to us, especially to you! Clearly, she means something to him!

— Dunyasha! Just think, what a position we’re in now! What if Pyotr Petrovich refuses? — poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out thoughtlessly. — Then what’s he worth after that! — Dunyasha retorted sharply and contemptuously. — We did well to leave just now, — Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interjected, cutting her off. — He was rushing off somewhere on business; let him walk around, breathe some fresh air… it’s suffocating in there… but where’s the fresh air to be had here? On the streets too, it’s like rooms without windows. Oh Lord, what a city this is!... Wait, step aside, they’ll crush us—they’re carrying something! That was a piano, truly… how they shove… I’m terribly afraid of that girl too… — Which girl, Mama? — Why, that one, Sofya Semyonovna, who was here just now… — And why? — I have a feeling, Dunya. Whether you believe me or not, the moment she walked in, I thought right then—that’s exactly where the crux of the matter lies…

– You weren't considerate at all! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted passionately and anxiously. – You know, Dunya, watching the two of you, you're his exact image—not so much in looks, but in spirit: both of you melancholic, both moody and quick-tempered, both proud, yet both noble-hearted. Dunyechka, how could he possibly be selfish? Could he? – And when I think of what's going to happen tonight, my heart just sinks! – Don't worry, Mother, whatever must happen, will happen.

Sonya gazed in surprise at the sudden brightness that lit up his face; for several moments he stared silently and intently at her—the whole account of her dead father's tale about her suddenly flashed through his memory... "Good Lord, Dunya!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna exclaimed the moment they stepped out into the street. "Now I actually feel glad we left—it feels somehow easier. Who would've thought yesterday on the train that I'd be happy even about that!" "I keep telling you, Mother," Dounia said at once, "he's still very ill. Can't you see? Perhaps his suffering over us has only worsened his condition. We must be patient and forgiving—so much, so very much can be forgiven."

– Why, didn’t I already give? You forgot? – Dounia replied, turning to him with a gentle yet uneasy smile. – Well then, give again! And he tightly squeezed her slender fingers. Dounya smiled at him, blushed, quickly pulled her hand away, and ran off after her mother, looking strangely happy too. – Well, that’s good! – he said to Sonia, returning to his place and gazing at her clearly, – May God grant rest to the departed, but the living must go on living! Isn’t that right? Isn’t it? Tell me, isn’t that so?

– Yes, yes, I’ll come, of course, certainly… But you stay a moment. He’s not needed by you just now, is he, dear mother? Or am I perhaps taking him away? – Oh no, no! And you, Dmitri Prokofyich, will you join us for lunch? You’d be so kind? – Please do come, – Dunya pleaded. Razumikhin bowed and beamed all over. For a moment, everyone seemed strangely flustered. – Goodbye, Rodya — that is, till we meet again; I don’t like saying “goodbye.” Goodbye, Nastasya… Oh, I said “goodbye” again! Pulcheria Alexandrovna had meant to bow to Sonya too, but somehow couldn’t manage it, and hurried out of the room. But Avdotya Romanovna, as if waiting for her turn, passed by Sonya on her way out behind her mother and gave her a careful, polite, and deep bow. Sonya was flustered, returned the bow hastily and nervously, and a painful expression appeared on her face—as though Avdotya Romanovna’s politeness and attention were burdensome and agonizing to her. – Dunya, goodbye then! – Raskolnikov called out already in the entryway, – Give me your hand!

– Rodya, we’ll be having lunch together, of course, – she said, getting up. – Dunya, come along… But you, Rodya, go out for a little walk, then rest and lie down a bit, and afterwards come over quickly… I’m afraid we’ve worn you out already… – Yes, yes, I’ll come, – he replied, rising hurriedly… – Though I do have something to attend to… – What, you’re not seriously thinking of having lunch separately? – cried Razumikhin, looking at Raskolnikov in astonishment. – What’s going on with you?

– But how can Katerina Ivanovna manage with such little means, if she even plans to have a meal afterwards? – asked Raskolnikov, persistently continuing the conversation. – The coffin will be a simple one, sir… and everything will be simple, so it won't cost much… just this morning Katerina Ivanovna and I calculated everything, so there'll still be something left for the memorial feast… and Katerina Ivanovna is very keen on it. Well, one can't help it, sir… it's her comfort… she's like that, as you know… – I understand, I understand… of course… Why are you looking around my room like that? Even my mother said it resembles a coffin. – You gave us everything yesterday! – suddenly whispered Sonya in a strong, quick tone, immediately lowering her eyes again. Her lips and chin began trembling once more. She had long been struck by the poverty of Raskolnikov's room, and now the words had burst out involuntarily. Silence followed. Dunechka's eyes suddenly brightened, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna even gave Sonya a kindly look.

During the conversation, Raskolnikov studied her closely. She was a tiny, painfully thin girl with a pale, rather irregular, pointed little face—small sharp nose, pointed chin. One could not even call her pretty, yet her blue eyes were so clear, and when they came alive, her face took on such kindness and innocence that one couldn't help being drawn to her. Moreover, both in her face and her whole figure there was one special, distinctive trait: despite being eighteen, she looked almost like a little girl, much younger than her age—almost a child—and this sometimes showed in a rather amusing way in certain of her movements.

“I wanted to ask you,” Raskolnikov quickly turned to her, “how things went today? Were you disturbed… say, by the police?” “No, everything passed smoothly. It was too obvious what caused the death; they didn’t bother us. Only the tenants are upset.” “Why?” “Because the body’s been lying here too long… it’s hot now, the smell… so they’ll move it to the cemetery this evening, till tomorrow, into the chapel. Katerina Ivanovna didn’t want to at first, but now she herself sees it can’t be helped…” “So today?” “She requests your presence at the funeral service in church tomorrow, and then please come to her for the memorial meal.” “She’s arranging a memorial meal?” “Yes, some refreshments. She asked me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday… without you, we’d have had nothing to bury him with.” Her lips and chin suddenly trembled, but she pulled herself together, held back, and swiftly lowered her eyes to the ground.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonya and narrowed her eyes slightly. Despite her own confusion in the face of Rodya's persistent and defiant gaze, she could not resist the temptation to do so. Dunya looked seriously and intently straight into the poor girl's face, studying her with surprise. Sonya, hearing the introduction, had briefly raised her eyes again, but became even more flustered than before.

“I’ll try, certainly… certainly,” replied Raskolnikov, rising as well, stammering and trailing off. “Please, do sit down,” he suddenly said. “I need to speak with you. Please… you may be in a hurry, but kindly spare me just two minutes…” He pulled a chair toward her. Sonya sat down again, glanced nervously and anxiously first at both ladies, then quickly lowered her eyes. Raskolnikov’s pale face flushed; his whole body seemed to tremble, his eyes blazed. “Mother,” he said firmly and insistently, “this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova, the daughter of that unfortunate gentleman, Mr. Marmeladov, who was crushed by a horse right before my eyes yesterday, and of whom I’ve already told you…”

– I… I… just came in for a minute, sorry to have disturbed you – she stammered. – I'm from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one else to send… Katerina Ivanovna sent me to kindly request your presence tomorrow at the funeral service, in the morning, after Mass, at Mitrofaniyevskoye, and then at our place… at hers… to partake of a meal… to do her honour… She asked me to convey this. Sonya faltered and fell silent.

“I wasn’t expecting you at all,” he said hurriedly, stopping her with his gaze. “Please, do sit down. You must be from Katerina Ivanovna. Forgive me—don’t sit there, here, right here…” As Sonia entered, Razumikhin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov’s three chairs near the door, stood up to let her pass. At first, Raskolnikov had pointed to a spot in the corner of the sofa where Zossimov was seated, but suddenly remembering that the sofa was his own bed and rather messy, quickly gestured instead to Razumikhin’s chair. “You sit here,” he told Razumikhin, motioning him to the corner where Zossimov had been sitting. Sonia sat down, trembling almost with fear, and glanced timidly at the two gentlemen. It was clear she hardly understood how she, of all people, had come to sit beside them. Realising this, she became so frightened that she suddenly stood up again, utterly flustered, and turned helplessly to Raskolnikov.

It immediately occurred to him that his mother and sister had already heard vaguely, from Luzhin's letter, about a certain girl of "notorious" behaviour. Just now, he had protested against Luzhin’s slander and mentioned that he had seen the girl for the first time, and suddenly, here she was entering in person. He also recalled that he had not protested at all against the phrase "notorious behaviour." All this passed unclearly and swiftly through his mind. But, when he looked more closely, he suddenly saw that this humiliated creature was so utterly crushed that he felt a pang of pity for her. And when she made a sudden movement to flee in fear, something within him seemed to turn over completely.

At that moment the door quietly opened, and a young girl entered the room, timidly looking around. Everyone turned to her in surprise and curiosity. Raskolnikov did not recognize her at first glance. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova. He had seen her only the day before, and then, at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such attire, that the image imprinted in his memory was of an entirely different sort of person. Now she was a modestly, even poorly dressed girl, still very young, almost childlike, with a demure and proper manner, her face clear but somehow a little frightened. She wore a simple house dress, an old-fashioned hat of earlier style on her head, and carried only the same umbrella she had had the day before. Seeing unexpectedly a room full of people, she did not merely feel embarrassed—she was utterly flustered, frightened like a little child, and even began to turn back as if to retreat. – Oh… it's you? – said Raskolnikov, greatly surprised, and suddenly grew embarrassed himself.

– Very well, Dunya. Whatever you have decided, Mamma, let it be so, added Pulcheria Alexandrovna. It’s easier for me too; I don’t like pretending or lying. Let’s just speak the truth from now on… Be angry or not, Pyotr Petrovich, it makes no difference now!

Dunya did not answer; her decision had long been made—she was only waiting for the evening. “So, how do you decide, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, even more disturbed by his sudden, unusual tone of voice. “What do you mean—‘decide’?” “Well, Pyotr Petrovich writes that you mustn’t be at our meeting this evening, and he’ll leave if you come. So how will you… behave?” “That, of course, isn’t for me to decide. First, it’s up to you—if such a demand from Pyotr Petrovich doesn’t offend you. Second, it’s up to Dunya, if she isn’t offended either. I’ll do as suits you best,” he added coldly. “Dunyashka has already decided, and I fully agree with her,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna was quick to add. “I’ve decided to ask you, Rodya—earnestly request you—to be present at this meeting. Will you come?” “I will come.” “I also invite you to be with us at eight o’clock,” she said, turning to Razumikhin. “Mother, I’m inviting him too.”

He’s an intelligent man, but intelligence alone isn’t enough to act wisely. All this reveals the man’s character—and I hardly think he holds you in high regard. I’m telling you this solely by way of caution, because I sincerely wish you well.

– It’s expressed in a judicial manner, and when you write judicially, you can’t help sounding harsher than perhaps intended. However, I must disappoint you somewhat: in this letter there’s yet another statement—actually, a slander against me—and rather petty at that. I gave the money yesterday to the widow, the consumptive and utterly broken woman, not “under the pretext of a funeral,” but precisely for the funeral expenses, and not into the hands of the daughter—the girl, as he writes, of “notoriously loose conduct” (whom I saw for the very first time in my life yesterday)—but directly to the widow herself. In all this, I see a hasty desire to blacken my name and create a rift between us. And again, it’s expressed in that judicial style—meaning, the intent is too openly displayed and the haste is quite naïve.

– No, no – replied Dunya, becoming animated – I quite understood that it was expressed too naively, and that he may simply not be good at writing… You judged well, brother. I didn't even expect that…

“Well, if she’s boasting, at least she has something to boast about,” I don’t object. You, sister, seem offended that I’ve picked out such a frivolous remark from the whole letter, and probably think I’ve deliberately brought up these trifles just to irritate you. On the contrary, it occurred to me, in view of the style, a remark that’s quite relevant in the present case. There’s an expression there: ‘Blame yourselves,’ placed very pointedly and clearly. Besides, there’s a threat that he’ll leave at once if I come. This threat to leave is the same as threatening to abandon both of you if you don’t obey, and to do so now, when he’s already summoned you to Petersburg. Now, what do you think—can one be equally offended by such words from Luzhin as one would be if, say, he (pointing to Razumikhin) or Zosimov, or any one of us, had written them?”

Everyone stirred; this was not at all what they had expected. —"Well, that's just how they all write," snapped Razumikhin. —"Have you read it?" —"Yes." —"We showed it to you, Rodya, we... we even consulted you about it recently," began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, flustered. —"It's really a judicial style," Razumikhin interrupted, "judicial documents are still written like that." —"Judicial? Yes, precisely judicial—official, businesslike... Not exactly illiterate, but not exactly literary either—just bureaucratic!" —"Pyotr Petrovich doesn't hide that he studied on borrowed money, and even boasts of having made his own way," observed Avdotya Romanovna, slightly offended by her brother's new tone.

He finally unfolded the letter, still wearing a look of strange bewilderment; then slowly and carefully began to read, going over it twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was particularly anxious; indeed, everyone was expecting something extraordinary. – This surprises me, – he said after a pause, handing the letter to his mother without addressing anyone in particular. – He's a man of business, a lawyer, speaks so formally, even has a certain air about him – and yet writes so poorly.

– Oh, Lord! You've driven me to fainting! – cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – No, no... nonsense... nothing at all! Just a little dizzy spell. Not fainting by any means... Why do you keep harping on fainting? Hm! Yes... what was I going to say? Ah, yes: how will you be convinced today itself that you can respect him, and that he... values you, as you put it? You said today, didn't you? Or did I misunderstand? – Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovich's letter, – said Dunya. With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna handed over the letter. He took it eagerly, with great curiosity. But before unfolding it, he suddenly looked at Dunya in a strange, bewildered manner. – How odd, – he said slowly, as if struck by a sudden thought, – why am I making such a fuss? What's all this commotion about? Marry whomever you please! He seemed to be speaking to himself, yet said it aloud, and stood gazing at his sister for some moments, puzzled.