Raskolnikov shuddered all over, so much so that Porfiry Petrovich clearly noticed it. “You’re lying!” he cried. “I don’t know your motives, but you’re lying through and through… Just now you spoke in a different sense—I can’t be mistaken… You’re lying!”
On the contrary, I should have first lulled your suspicions, given no hint that I already knew about this fact; diverted you toward the opposite direction, then suddenly, as you put it, “like a club over the head,” stunned you: “Well now, sir, what were you doing in the murdered woman’s apartment at ten o’clock in the evening—or perhaps even eleven? Why did you ring the bell? Why did you ask about blood? Why did you confuse the porters and summon them to the police station?” That’s how I should have acted if I harbored even a shred of suspicion against you. I should have formally taken your statement, conducted a search, and perhaps even arrested you… Therefore, since I acted differently, clearly I do not suspect you! But you’ve lost your clear judgment—you see nothing, I repeat!
Father! But it was from you yourself that I learned everything! You don’t even notice that, in your agitation, you blurt out everything ahead of time—to me and to others. From Mr. Razumikhin, Dmitry Prokofyich, I also learned many interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but I’ll say this: due to your excessive suspicion, despite all your cleverness, you’ve even lost your clear judgment. Take, for instance, the very same topic about the bells: I handed you such a precious piece of evidence—a whole fact, mind you—on a platter, as an investigator! And you see nothing in it? If I suspected you even slightly, would I have acted like this?
Yes, I wish you to—let me tell you finally—I’ll say it outright: watch your illness. Besides, your family has now arrived; think of them. You should comfort and cherish them, yet you only frighten them…
What’s it to you? How do you know this? Why are you so interested? So you’re watching me and want to show me that?
“You’re lying all of you!” he cried. “You know perfectly well that the best trick for a criminal is, whenever possible, not to hide what can’t be hidden. I don’t believe you!”
“Oh, you sly one!” chuckled Porfiry. “With you, my dear fellow, there’s no getting anywhere—some monomania has taken root in you. You say you don’t believe me? Well, I’ll tell you—you do believe me, at least a quarter arshin’s worth, and I’ll make sure you believe me a full arshin, because I truly love you and sincerely wish you well.”
Raskolnikov’s lips trembled.
Something sly rang in that question. Raskolnikov recoiled to the very back of the sofa, away from Porfiry leaning toward him, and silently, fixedly, in bewilderment, stared at him. — And about Mr. Razumikhin—whether he came yesterday on his own initiative or at your prompting? You ought to say he came on his own, and hide the fact that it was at your urging! Yet you don’t hide it at all! You insist precisely on the fact that he came at your prompting! Raskolnikov had never insisted on this. A chill ran down his spine. — You’re lying again, — he said slowly and weakly, his lips twisting into a painful smile. — You want to show me once more that you know my whole game, that you already know all my answers — he spoke, almost feeling himself no longer weighing his words properly — you want to frighten me... or perhaps you’re just laughing at me... He continued staring straight at him as he spoke, and suddenly boundless rage flashed in his eyes.
Yes, I understand and hear you! You said yesterday too that you weren’t delirious—you even insisted especially that you weren’t delirious! I understand everything you can say! Ah... But please listen, Rodion Romanovich, my benefactor—just consider this one circumstance. If you were truly guilty or somehow involved in this accursed affair, would you, goodness gracious, insist yourself that you did all this not in delirium but with full consciousness? And insist so stubbornly, so peculiarly? Could it possibly be so? Could it ever be so, pray tell? Why, quite the opposite, in my opinion. If you felt guilty of anything, you’d precisely insist: “I was definitely delirious!” Isn’t that right? Yes, isn’t it?
For a moment, everything spun around Raskolnikov. “Could it be—could it really be—that he’s lying now too? Impossible, impossible!” He pushed the thought away, already sensing how far it could drive him into rage and fury, aware that such madness might make him lose his mind entirely. “It wasn’t in delirium—it happened wide awake!” he cried, straining every ounce of his reason to penetrate Porfiry’s game. “Wide awake, wide awake! Do you hear?”
But then, my dear sir, if such impulses start irritating your nerves—walking at night to ring church bells and asking about blood—you might very well catch a fever! I’ve studied this psychology entirely through practical experience. Sometimes, you know, people feel an irresistible urge to leap from windows or bell towers—it’s strangely alluring. And those little bells too… It’s illness, Rodion Romanovich, illness! You’ve begun neglecting your own health far too much. Consult an experienced physician—what good is that bulky fellow you’ve got? Nonsense! All this is happening purely in delirium!
Yes, there was a case—almost identical, psychological in nature—in our judicial practice, a rather sick case, indeed, continued Porfiry in rapid-fire speech. A man falsely confessed to murder—he fabricated it so thoroughly: conjured up an entire hallucination, presented facts, recounted circumstances, confused everyone, threw all off track—but why? He himself, quite unintentionally and only partly, had been the cause of the murder; yet once he learned that he’d given the murderers their opportunity, he grew despondent, became mentally unbalanced, started imagining things, lost his grip entirely, and finally convinced himself he was the murderer! Fortunately, the Governing Senate eventually reviewed the case and acquitted the poor soul, placing him under care. Thank God for the Governing Senate! Ah-ah-ah!
Raskolnikov sat down; his trembling subsided, and heat spread through his entire body. In deep astonishment, he listened intently to the frightened yet kindly attentive Porfiry Petrovich. But he didn’t believe a single word of his, though he felt an odd inclination to trust him. Porfiry’s unexpected mention of the apartment completely stunned him. “How is it, then—he knows about the apartment?” it suddenly occurred to him. “And he himself tells me about it!”
But mind you, you won’t just confuse yourself—you’ll also unsettle Razumikhin here; he’s far too good-hearted for such turmoil, as you well know. You suffer from illness, while he suffers from virtue—and illness tends to cling to him too… When you calm down, dear sir, I’ll tell you everything… but please, sit down, for heaven’s sake! Rest a moment—you look utterly drained; do sit down.
Yes, indeed, dear sir, Rodion Romanovich—I know even more of your exploits; I’m fully aware of everything! I know how you went out late at night, when dusk fell, rang the bell insistently, and asked about blood, confusing the servants and caretakers. I understand your emotional state back then… but honestly, you’ll drive yourself mad this way, truly! You’ll become dizzy! Your indignation is boiling over—noble indignation, born from the injustices you’ve suffered, first from fate, then from the local police officers—and so you’re darting around frantically, as if trying to force everyone to speak up immediately and resolve everything at once, because these foolishnesses and suspicions have wearied you beyond endurance. Isn’t that right? Have I guessed your mood correctly?...
— No, not from me! But I knew he went to you and why he went, — Raskolnikov replied sharply. — Knew? — Knew. So what of it?
Yes, indeed, we had a little episode! You’ll bring back your old illness again, my dear fellow, clucked Porfiry Petrovich with friendly concern, though still looking somewhat flustered. Good heavens! How can you not take care of yourself? Dmitry Prokofyich came to see me yesterday—yes, yes, I admit, I have a sharp, unpleasant character, and they’ve drawn such conclusions from it! Good Lord! He came yesterday, after you; we had lunch, he kept talking and talking, and I just spread my hands wide; well, I thought… oh dear Lord! Did he come because of you? Please sit down, my good man, for heaven’s sake, take a seat!
– Let some fresh air in! And you, my dear fellow, ought to drink some water—it’s an attack, you see! – He rushed toward the door to order water, but just then, conveniently, he spotted a jug of water in the corner. – Sir, please drink this, – he whispered, hurrying over with the jug. – It might help… – Porfiry Petrovich’s fear and genuine concern were so natural that Raskolnikov fell silent and stared at him with wild curiosity. Still, he didn’t take the water. – Rodion Romanovich! My good man! You’ll drive yourself mad like this, I assure you—oh dear! Oh! Just drink it! Even a little sip! He finally managed to make him take the glass of water into his hands. Mechanically, he raised it to his lips, but then, coming to his senses, he set it down on the table with disgust.
— Father, please, lower your voice! They’ll hear us, they’ll come! What will we say to them then? Think about it! — whispered Porfiry Petrovich in terror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov’s. — I won’t allow it, I won’t allow it! — Raskolnikov mechanically repeated, but suddenly also in a whisper. Porfiry quickly turned away and rushed to open the window.
– Porfiry Petrovich! – he said loudly and clearly, though barely standing on his trembling legs, – I finally see clearly that you positively suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. On my part, I declare to you that I’ve long been tired of all this. If you believe you have the right to legally pursue me, then pursue me; if you wish to arrest me, then arrest me. But I will not allow you to mock me to my face or torment me. Suddenly, his lips trembled, his eyes blazed with fury, and his hitherto restrained voice rang out. – I won’t allow it! – he suddenly shouted, slamming his fist hard on the table, – Do you hear me, Porfiry Petrovich? I won’t allow it! – Oh dear God, what’s happening again! – cried Porfiry Petrovich, apparently in utter fright, – My boy! Rodion Romanovich! My dear! Father! What’s wrong with you? – I won’t allow it! – Raskolnikov was about to shout again.
“Oh, please don’t worry,” cried Raskolnikov, suddenly bursting into laughter. “Please, don’t worry!”
Porfiry stopped in front of him, waited, and then suddenly laughed too, following his lead. Raskolnikov rose from the sofa, abruptly cutting off his fit of laughter, which had been entirely hysterical.
Worse yet: he’ll start rushing ahead, thrusting himself into places no one asked him to go, talking nonstop about precisely what he should remain silent on, throwing in various allegories, heh-heh! He’ll come himself and ask: “Why haven’t you arrested me yet?” heh-heh-heh! And this can happen even to the wittiest man, a psychologist and writer! Nature is a mirror—a crystal-clear mirror! Look into it and admire yourself, that’s all! But why have you turned so pale, Rodion Romanovich? Is it stuffy? Shall I open the window?
Listen to an old man—he’s speaking seriously now, Rodion Romanovich (as he said this, Porfiry Petrovich, barely thirty-five, suddenly seemed to age before one’s eyes: even his voice changed, and his whole frame hunched over). — Besides, I’m an open man… Am I open or not? What do you think? Seems obvious—I’m sharing such things with you freely, without demanding any reward, heh-heh! Well then, continuing: wit, in my opinion, is splendid—it’s nature’s adornment and life’s comfort, and what tricks it can play! You’d think, sometimes, it’s impossible for some poor investigator—who himself gets carried away by imagination, as always happens, because he’s human too—to guess anything. But nature comes to the rescue of that poor investigator—that’s the trouble! And this never occurs to witty youths lost in their cleverness, “striding over all obstacles” (as you so cleverly and cunningly put it). He may lie superbly—in fact, the man, the incognito fellow, lies perfectly, in the most ingenious manner; here, it seems, triumph should be his, enjoying the fruits of his wit—but then—clap!—he faints dead away right at the most critical, scandalous moment. Granted, illness, stuffy rooms sometimes contribute—but still! Still, it gives a thought! He lied flawlessly, yet failed to account for human nature. There’s where the treachery lies! Another time, carried away by the playfulness of his wit, he starts teasing the person suspecting him, deliberately pales—as if in jest—but pales so convincingly, it gives another thought! Even if he fools them once, overnight the other fellow will think it through—if he’s not a fool himself. And this happens at every step!
— No, I see you don’t believe me—you think I’m just teasing you with harmless jokes, — Porfiry chimed in, growing livelier and livelier, chuckling incessantly with delight, once again pacing around the room. — Of course, you’re right; my very appearance, as God designed it, naturally provokes only comic thoughts in others—I’m a buffoon, plain and simple. But let me tell you this—and I’ll repeat it: you, dear Rodion Romanovich, please forgive an old man like me, but you’re still young, so to speak, in your first youth, and therefore you value human intellect above all else, following the example of all young people. The playful sharpness of wit and abstract reasoning arguments seduce you. And this is exactly like that former Austrian War Council, if I may judge military matters: on paper, they defeated Napoleon and captured him outright, calculating everything brilliantly in their offices—but look, General Mack surrenders with his entire army, heh-heh-heh! I see, I see, dear Rodion Romanovich, you’re laughing at me for being such a civil servant who keeps dragging in examples from military history. What can I do? It’s a weakness—I love military affairs, and I adore reading all those military dispatches… Honestly, I’ve neglected my own career. I should’ve served in the army, truly. I might not have become Napoleon, but I’d certainly have made major, heh-heh-heh! Now then, dear fellow, I’ll tell you the full, honest truth about this—namely, that reality and nature, sir, are mighty things, and oh how often they trip up even the most astute calculations!
He braced himself with all his might, preparing for a terrible and unknown catastrophe. At times, he felt an urge to rush forward and strangle Porfiry right there on the spot. He had feared this very rage even before entering the room. He could feel his lips parched, his heart pounding, foam crusted at the corners of his mouth. Yet, he resolved to remain silent, not uttering a word until the right moment. He understood that this was the best strategy in his position—not only would he avoid slipping up, but his silence might also provoke his enemy, perhaps even causing the other to reveal something himself. At least, he hoped so.
Raskolnikov did not reply. He sat pale and motionless, still intently studying Porfiry’s face. “Good lesson!” he thought, chilling inside. “This isn’t even cat-and-mouse like yesterday. And he’s not showing off his strength pointlessly either—he’s far too clever for that! There’s another goal here—what could it be? Bah, nonsense, brother—you’re trying to scare me, playing tricks! You have no proof, and that man from yesterday doesn’t even exist! You just want to confuse me, rattle me prematurely, and then pounce when I’m off-balance—but you’ll fail, you’ll choke on your own lies! But why, why are you hinting so heavily?... Are you banking on my frayed nerves?... No, brother, you’ll fail—you’ll choke—even if you’ve cooked something up… Well then, let’s see what exactly you’ve prepared.”
Seen a moth fluttering near a candle? Well, he’ll keep circling me, like a moth around a flame; freedom won’t appeal anymore, he’ll brood, get tangled, entangle himself completely, like in nets, frighten himself to death!... More than that: he’ll prepare for me some mathematical trick, like “two times two,”—just give him a longer intermission... And he’ll keep circling me, tightening the radius ever more—until—snap! Straight into my mouth he’ll fly, and I’ll swallow him—how very pleasant, eh-heh-heh! You don’t believe it?
I’ll tell you, this is a kind of mine, under the right circumstances! What concern is it to me that he walks free through the city? Let him stroll for now, let him; I already know he’s my little lamb and won’t escape me! Where could he run? Abroad? A Pole might flee abroad, but certainly not he—especially since I’m watching and have taken precautions. Run deep into the homeland? But there live real, rustic, Russian peasants; a modern, developed man would prefer a prison over living with such foreigners as our peasants, eh-heh! But all this is nonsense, superficial. What does “he’ll run away” mean? That’s formalistic; the main point isn’t that. He won’t run from me not merely because there’s nowhere to go—he won’t run from me, eh-heh! What a phrase! By the law of nature, he won’t run from me, even if there were somewhere to flee.
Extraordinary cases do occur in this vein. Suppose I leave some gentleman entirely alone—not arresting him, not disturbing him—but ensuring he knows, or at least suspects, every hour, every minute, that I know everything, every detail, and watch him day and night, guard him without sleep, keeping him under perpetual suspicion and fear—then, by God, he’ll grow dizzy, truly, come to me himself, perhaps even commit something that will look exactly like “two times two,” shall we say, mathematically precise—how delightful! This can even happen with a simple peasant, let alone our modern, intelligent fellow, developed in a certain direction! Because, my dear, it’s crucial to understand which way a person is developed. And nerves—nerves! You’ve forgotten them entirely! Everything today is sickly, fragile, irritable... And how much bile they all carry!
They say, in Sevastopol right after Alma, clever folk were terrified the enemy would attack openly and seize the city immediately; but when they saw the enemy chose a proper siege, opening the first parallel, those same clever folk rejoiced and calmed down: at least the matter was drawn out for two months, since a proper siege takes time! Again you laugh, again you disbelieve? Well, of course, you’re right. Right, right! These are all special cases—I agree with you; the case I presented is indeed exceptional! But here’s what must be observed, dear Rodion Romanovich: there’s no such thing as a “general case”—the very kind upon which all legal forms and rules are based and recorded in books—because every case, every single one, say, a crime, once it occurs in reality, instantly becomes a thoroughly particular case; sometimes utterly unlike anything before!
(Raskolnikov wasn’t laughing at all—he sat with lips tightly pressed, his feverish gaze fixed unblinkingly on Porfiry Petrovich’s eyes.) Yet it’s true, especially with certain types—people are so varied, and there’s no single rule for all. You’re saying “evidence” now—but evidence, my dear sir, often has two ends, mostly—and I, as an investigator, confess I’m weak: I’d like the investigation to be mathematically clear, I’d like to find such conclusive proof that it equals “two times two is four!” Something direct, indisputable! But if I arrest him untimely—even if I’m certain he’s the one—I might deprive myself of means to further expose him. Why? Because I’d assign him a definite position, psychologically define him, calm him down—he’d retreat into his shell, realize he’s a prisoner.
Well, here’s a little example for future reference—though don’t think I’m presuming to teach you; after all, you’re the one publishing articles on crime! No, no—I’m just offering this as a fact, a small illustration: suppose I consider someone—the second, the third—as guilty. Why, I ask you, would I bother him prematurely, even if I had evidence against him? Some I’m obliged to arrest promptly, but others aren’t of that temperament, truly; so why not let him stroll around town, eh-heh? No, I see you don’t quite grasp it—let me explain more clearly: if I lock him up too soon, I might actually give him moral support, so to speak, eh-heh! You’re laughing?
Yes, I was preparing...
— And you are absolutely right, indeed — Porfiry chimed in again, looking at Raskolnikov with cheerful, extraordinary simplicity (which made the latter startle and instantly brace himself) — absolutely right to have so wittily laughed at our legal formalities, he-he! These (certain, of course) deeply psychological methods of ours are extremely amusing, and perhaps even useless, if one is overly constrained by formality. Yes… again, I speak of form: suppose I were to admit—or rather, suspect—someone else, a third party, say, as the culprit in a case entrusted to me… You’re training to be a lawyer, Rodion Romanovich, aren’t you?
Porfiry Petrovich took a brief breath. He kept spouting nonstop—now meaningless, empty phrases, then suddenly dropping cryptic little words, only to immediately lapse back into nonsense. He was practically running around the room now, his fat legs moving faster and faster, eyes fixed on the floor, right hand tucked behind his back, left hand constantly waving and making various gestures that oddly never matched his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as Porfiry dashed about the room, he twice seemed to pause briefly near the doors, as if listening intently… “Is he perhaps waiting for something?”
You can’t tie an investigator down with formality at every step. An investigator’s work, after all, is, so to speak, a free art, of its own kind—or something like that… heh-heh-heh!
As for our legal methods—as you so cleverly put it—I fully agree with you. Who among all defendants, even the humblest peasant, doesn’t know that first you’ll be lulled with irrelevant questions (as you aptly put it), and then suddenly whacked right between the eyes—with an axe-head, heh-heh-heh! right between the eyes, as you so aptly compared, heh-heh! So you really thought I wanted to trap you with the flat? Heh-heh! You’re such an ironic fellow. Well, never mind! Ah yes, by the way, one word invites another, one thought calls forth another—you also mentioned form earlier, regarding, you know, that little interrogation… But what about form? Form, you see, in many cases, is nonsense. Sometimes just chatting friendly-style works better. Form will never disappear—I beg you to rest assured on that point; but what is form, really, I ask you?
I sit all day, and I’m so glad just to stroll about for five minutes… haemorrhoids, you see… I plan to treat it with gymnastics; they say even civil servants, actual state councillors, and even privy councillors happily jump rope nowadays—such is science in our age… So then… Regarding these local duties, interrogations, and all that formal nonsense… you yourself just now mentioned interrogations, sir… and truly, sir Rodion Romanovich, these interrogations sometimes confuse the interrogator more than the one being questioned… You’ve pointed this out, sir, with perfect justice and wit. (Raskolnikov had noticed nothing of the sort.) One gets tangled up! Honestly, tangled up! And it’s always the same thing, always the same thing—it drums on like a drum! Reform is underway, and we’ll at least get renamed, heh-heh-heh!
I won’t offer you coffee—this isn’t the place—but why not sit for five minutes with a friend, just to pass the time?—Porfiry kept chattering without pause.—And you know, all these official duties… but please, sir, don’t take offence that I keep pacing back and forth; forgive me, sir, I’m terribly afraid of offending you, yet this little walk is absolutely essential for me.
Raskolnikov placed his cap down, continuing to remain silent and serious, frowning as he listened to Porfiry’s empty and rambling chatter. “What on earth is he trying to do—distract my attention with his silly talk?”
Everyone else has topics: ladies, for instance… or fashionable folk of high society always have something to chat about — c’est de rigueur — but people like us, ordinary sorts… we’re all shy and tongue-tied… I mean, thoughtful folks. Why is this, dear sir? Is it lack of public interest? Or are we perhaps too honest, unwilling to deceive one another? I don’t know. What do you think? And please, put aside that cap — looks like you’re ready to leave right away; truly, it’s uncomfortable to watch… On the contrary, I’m delighted…
– Let me tell you something about myself, dear Rodion Romanovich, so to speak, as an explanation of my character – continued Porfiry Petrovich, bustling about the room and still seemingly avoiding eye contact with his guest. – You see, I’m a bachelor, rather unsophisticated and unknown, and moreover, a finished man, a stiff-necked fellow, past his prime… and… and… have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that here in Russia — especially in our Petersburg circles — when two intelligent men, not yet very well acquainted but mutually respectful, like ourselves now, meet up, they simply cannot find a topic for conversation for half an hour straight — they freeze before each other, sit there awkwardly embarrassed.
Raskolnikov remained silent, listening and observing, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but kept his cap firmly in his hand.
Oh dear! What on earth are you saying? What’s there to ask you about?—suddenly clucked Porfiry Petrovich, instantly changing his tone and expression, ceasing to laugh.—Please don’t worry, please!—he bustled about, now darting in all directions, then suddenly trying to seat Raskolnikov.—Time can wait, time can wait indeed, and all this is mere trifles! On the contrary, I’m so pleased you’ve finally come to us... I’m receiving you as a guest. And forgive me, my dear Rodion Romanovich, for that damned laugh. Rodion Romanovich? That’s right, isn’t it, your patronymic?... A nervous fellow—I was greatly amused by the sharpness of your remark; sometimes, truly, I shake like rubber, for half an hour straight... Easily amused. Given my constitution, I even fear paralysis. But do sit down, what’s keeping you?... Please, my dear, or I’ll think you’re angry...
– Porfiry Petrovich, – he began resolutely, though with considerable irritation, – you yesterday expressed a wish that I come for some questioning. (He especially emphasized the word: “I have come. If you need anything, ask away; otherwise, allow me to leave. I’m pressed for time—I have business… I must attend the funeral of that very clerk trampled by horses, about whom you… also know…” – he added, immediately annoyed at this addition, and thus grew even more agitated – “All this has wearied me thoroughly, do you hear? And for quite some time now… partly because of this, I was even ill…” – nearly cried out, sensing that mentioning illness was even more inappropriate – “In short: either question me, or let me go—right now. And if you question me, then only in proper form! Otherwise, I won’t permit it. So for now, goodbye—we’ve nothing left to discuss alone.”
He immediately got straight to the point, stood up, and picked up his cap.
– Well, well… so you think that it was I who arranged the official flat for you, hey? – said Porfyr, winking and giving a sly look. Something merry and cunning passed over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out, his eyes narrowed, his features stretched, and suddenly he burst into a nervous, prolonged laugh, shaking all over and staring straight into Raskolnikov's eyes. Raskolnikov himself began to laugh too, though a little forced. But when Porfyr, seeing that he was laughing as well, began to laugh even more, almost turning purple, Raskolnikov's disgust suddenly overpowered all caution: he stopped laughing, frowned, and glared at Porfyr for a long time with hatred, not taking his eyes off him throughout his lengthy and seemingly deliberate laughter. The imprudence, though, was obvious on both sides: it seemed that Porfyr, as if, was laughing in the face of his guest, who received the laughter with hatred, and was hardly embarrassed at all by the situation. The last detail was very telling for Raskolnikov: he understood clearly that Porfyr, for sure, had not been embarrassed even before, but rather he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there was definitely something here, something he was unaware of, some goal; that everything was already prepared and would reveal and collapse upon him right now, at this very moment…
– You know what? – he suddenly asked, almost brazenly staring at him, as if relishing the boldness of his own words – there’s this legal rule, isn’t there? A sort of legal tactic used by all investigators: first start from afar, with trivialities—or even something serious but entirely unrelated—to, so to speak, cheer up or, better put, distract the person being questioned, lull their caution, and then suddenly, in the most unexpected way, hit them right on the head with the most fatal and dangerous question. Isn’t that right? I believe this is still devoutly mentioned in all manuals and guidelines?
“A fine thing, a fine thing…” repeated Porfiry Petrovich, as if suddenly lost in thought about something entirely different. “Yes! A fine thing!” he almost cried out at the end, suddenly raising his eyes to Raskolnikov and stopping two paces away from him. This repetitive, foolish insistence that the official apartment was “a fine thing” clashed too sharply, by its sheer banality, with the serious, thoughtful, and enigmatic gaze he now fixed upon his guest. But this only further inflamed Raskolnikov’s bitterness, and he could no longer restrain himself from a mocking, rather reckless challenge.
– We’ll make it, we’ll make it… Do you smoke? Got any? Here, have a cigarette… – he went on, offering his guest a cigarette. – You see, I’m receiving you here, but my flat’s right behind this partition… government-issued, you know, but now I’m on leave for a while. Needed to fix up a few things here. Almost done now… Government housing, you know, is a fine thing, isn’t it? What do you think? – Yes, a fine thing indeed, – Raskolnikov replied, looking at him almost mockingly.
And suddenly he felt that his suspiciousness, from just one contact with Porfiry, from merely two words, two glances, had ballooned in an instant into monstrous proportions… and that this was terribly dangerous: nerves were frayed, agitation mounting. “Trouble! Trouble!... I’ll blurt it out again.”
“Yes-yes-yes! Don’t worry! Time’s on our side, time’s on our side,” muttered Porfiry Petrovich, pacing back and forth near the table—yet without any clear purpose, as if darting now to the window, now to the desk, now back to the table, now avoiding Raskolnikov’s suspicious gaze, then abruptly halting in place and staring straight into his eyes. Strangely, his small, plump, round figure seemed like a little ball bouncing unpredictably in every direction, instantly rebounding off every wall and corner.
You seemed to say yesterday that you wished to ask me… formally… about my acquaintance with that… murdered woman? began Raskolnikov again—“Why on earth did I insert that?” flashed through him like lightning. “Why am I so anxious about having inserted it?” another thought flashed through him at once, like lightning.
In our parts, apologies for familiarity, the French phrase “tout court,” and so on—these were all characteristic signs. “Yet he did stretch out both hands to me, but gave me neither; snatched them back just in time,” a suspicious thought flashed through him. Both watched each other closely, but the moment their eyes met, each instantly, like lightning, averted his gaze from the other. —I’ve brought you this note… about the watch… here it is. Is it written correctly, or must I rewrite it again? —What? The note? Yes, yes… don’t trouble yourself, quite correct, sir—said Porfiry Petrovich, as if hurrying somewhere, and having said this, took the paper and glanced over it. —Yes, exactly right. Nothing more needed,—he confirmed in the same rapid-fire tone and placed the note on the table. Then, a minute later, while speaking of something else, he picked it up again from the table and moved it to his own desk.
Ah, most respected sir! So here you are… in our neck of the woods… began Porfiry, extending both hands to him. Well, do sit down, dear father! Or perhaps you don’t care for being called “most respected” and… “dear father”—just like that, tout court? Please don’t take it as familiarity… Right here, on this little sofa. Raskolnikov sat down, not taking his eyes off him.
It turned out that at that moment Porfiry Petrovich was alone in his office. His office was a room neither large nor small; it contained: a large writing desk facing a sofa upholstered in oilcloth, a bureau, a cupboard in the corner, and several chairs—all government-issue furniture made of polished yellow wood. In the corner of the back wall—or rather, in the partition—there was a locked door: beyond that partition, presumably, lay other rooms. As Raskolnikov entered, Porfiry Petrovich immediately closed the door through which he had come in, leaving them alone together. He greeted his visitor with what appeared to be the most cheerful and cordial manner, though only a few minutes later Raskolnikov, noticing certain signs, sensed in him something like embarrassment—as if he had been suddenly thrown off balance or caught in the midst of something intensely private and secretive.
This notion, even yesterday during his most intense anxieties and despair, had begun to take root in him. Now, having reviewed all this and steeling himself for a fresh confrontation, he suddenly felt trembling—and even indignation flared within him at the thought that he trembled out of fear before the detestable Porfiry Petrovich. Meeting this man again was the most horrifying prospect for him: he hated him beyond measure, infinitely, and even feared that his hatred might betray him somehow. So fierce was his indignation that it instantly quelled his trembling; he prepared to enter with a cold, defiant demeanor and vowed to remain as silent as possible, observing closely, listening intently, and—this time at least, no matter what—overcoming his pathologically agitated nature. Just then, he was summoned to Porfiry Petrovich.
But nothing of the sort existed—he saw only routine bureaucratic faces, preoccupied with petty matters, and then other random individuals, none of whom cared about him: he could walk off in any direction right now if he pleased. The conviction grew ever firmer within him: if that mysterious man of yesterday, that phantom risen from beneath the earth, truly knew and had witnessed everything—would they really let him, Raskolnikov, stand here calmly, waiting? Would they have waited until eleven o’clock for him to deign to show up? It followed either that the man had not yet reported anything—or perhaps… perhaps he himself knew nothing and had seen nothing with his own eyes (how could he possibly have seen?)—and therefore, all of yesterday’s incident involving him, Raskolnikov, was again merely a ghostly illusion, magnified by his irritated and sick imagination.
The next morning, precisely at eleven o’clock, when Raskolnikov entered the building of the 3rd Precinct, the Investigative Department, and requested to be announced to Porfiry Petrovich, he was even surprised by how long they kept him waiting—no less than ten minutes passed before he was summoned. By his calculations, they should have pounced on him immediately. Meanwhile, he stood in the waiting room as people walked past him, seemingly indifferent to his presence. In the adjoining room, resembling a clerk’s office, several clerks sat writing; clearly, none of them had the faintest idea who or what Raskolnikov was. With anxious, suspicious eyes, he scanned his surroundings, searching for any sign of an escort, any covert glance assigned to watch him so he wouldn’t slip away.
Wrapped in burial cloths around his hands and feet; and his face was bound with a cloth. Jesus said to them: "Unbind him; let him go."
Then many of the Jews who had come to Mary, and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.
Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” So they removed the stone from the tomb where the dead man lay. Jesus looked up to heaven and said, “Father, I thank You for hearing Me. I knew You always hear Me; but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, so that they may believe that You sent Me.” Having said this, He called out loudly, “Lazarus, come out!”
Many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to comfort them in their grief over their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet Him; but Mary remained seated at home. Then Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever You ask of God, God will give You.”
Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha replied, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live; and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” She said to Him,
“Yes, Lord! I believe that You are the Christ, the Son of God, who has come into the world.”
Now Jesus, deeply moved again, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone lay against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the deceased, said to Him, “Lord, by now there is a stench, for he has been dead four days.”
The conversation struck him as intriguing and significant—and so thoroughly delighted him that he even brought the chair over, planning to sit comfortably next time—perhaps even tomorrow—to avoid the unpleasantness of standing for an hour again, and to fully enjoy himself in every respect.
To the right, behind the very door that separated Sonya’s apartment from Mrs. Resslich’s, was an intermediate room—long vacant, belonging to Mrs. Resslich’s flat, and periodically rented out by her, as indicated by signs posted on the gate and small notices stuck onto the windows facing the canal. Sonya had long grown accustomed to considering this room uninhabited. Yet all this while, Mr. Svidrigailov had been standing right by the door of the empty room, holding his breath and eavesdropping. When Raskolnikov left, he paused, thought for a moment, tiptoed into his own room adjoining the vacant one, fetched a chair, and silently carried it right up to the doorway leading into Sonya’s room.
In fever and delirium, Sonya spent the entire night. She would sometimes jump up, weep, wring her hands, then lapse again into a feverish sleep, dreaming of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna, Lizaveta, the reading of the Gospel—and him… him, with his pale face, burning eyes… He kisses her feet, weeps… Oh Lord!
He left. Sonya looked at him as if he were mad; but she herself was also beside herself and felt it. Her head was spinning. “Lord! How does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It’s terrifying!” Yet at the same time, it didn’t occur to her. No! Not at all!... “Oh, he must be terribly unhappy!... He has abandoned his mother and sister. Why? What happened? And what does he intend? What was he telling her? He kissed her foot and said… said (yes, he clearly said it) that he cannot live without her… Oh, Lord!”
“What, what am I to do?” Sonya sobbed hysterically, wringing her hands. “What to do? Break what must be broken, once and for all—and take the suffering upon yourself! What? Don’t understand? You’ll understand later… Freedom and power—above all, power! Over every trembling creature and over the entire anthill!... That is the goal! Remember this! This is my parting advice to you! Perhaps I’m speaking to you for the last time. If I don’t come tomorrow, you’ll hear everything on your own—and then recall these very words. And someday, later, after years, with life’s experience, you may even understand what they meant. But if I come tomorrow, I’ll tell you who killed Lizaveta. Goodbye!”
Sonya shuddered in terror. “But do you really know who killed her?” she asked, freezing with horror, staring wildly at him. “I know—and I’ll tell you… Only you! I’ve chosen you. I haven’t come to beg forgiveness from you; I’ve simply come to tell you. I chose you long ago—to say this to you—even back then, when Father spoke of you, while Lizaveta was still alive, I thought of it. Goodbye. Don’t give me your hand. Tomorrow!”
Why? Because you can’t just go on like this—that’s why! You must finally think clearly and honestly, not cry and scream like a child that God won’t allow it! What if, tomorrow, you’re taken to the hospital? She’s half-mad and consumptive—she’ll die soon. And the children? Won’t Polya be ruined? Haven’t you seen children here, huddled in corners, sent out by their mothers to beg for alms? I’ve checked where these mothers live and what kind of conditions they’re in. Children there can’t remain children. A seven-year-old there is already corrupt and a thief. Yet children are the image of Christ: “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.” He commanded us to honour and love them—they are humanity’s future…
– Why should I know? I only know that we’re on the same path, probably—I’m sure of it. One goal! She looked at him, not understanding anything. She only understood that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy. – None of them will understand you if you speak to them, – he went on. – But I do. I need you—that’s why I came to you. – I don’t understand… – whispered Sonya. – You’ll understand later. Didn’t you do the same thing? You too crossed the line… you were able to cross it. You’ve laid hands on yourself, ruined your life… (it’s all the same!). You could have lived by spirit and reason, but you’ll end up on Sennaya… But you can’t bear it—you’ll go mad, just like me, if you stay. You’re already half-mad now; so we must walk together, on the same path! Let’s go! – Why? Why are you saying this? – Sonya murmured, strangely and rebelliously stirred by his words.
"Why?" Sonya asked, dazed. Her earlier meeting with his mother and sister had left an unusual impression on her, though even she couldn’t quite understand it. She listened to the news of the break-up almost in horror. "Now I have only you," he added. "Let’s go together… I’ve come to you. We’re both cursed—let’s walk together!"
His eyes blazed. “He’s mad!” Sonya thought to herself. "Where are we going?" she asked fearfully, instinctively stepping back.
She struck the word with vigor:
(reading aloud and enthusiastically, trembling and growing cold, as if she herself were witnessing it):
She could not go on reading, shut the book abruptly, and rose quickly from her chair. “All about Lazarus’s resurrection,” she whispered sharply and sternly, then stood motionless, turning away, too timid—and almost ashamed—to raise her eyes to him. Her feverish trembling still continued. The candle stub had long since guttered out in the crooked candlestick, dimly illuminating in this wretched room the murderer and the fallen woman, strangely brought together over the reading of an eternal book. Five minutes or more passed. “I’ve come to speak about business,” Raskolnikov suddenly said loudly, frowning, stood up, and approached Sonya. She silently lifted her eyes to him. His gaze was especially stern, and some wild resolve shone in it. “I’ve abandoned my family today,” he said, “my mother and sister. I won’t go to them now. I’ve severed all ties there.”
Right now, at this very moment,” — she dreamed, trembling with joyful anticipation.
Raskolnikov turned to her and looked at her with agitation: yes, it was true! She was already trembling all over in the grip of a real, genuine fever. He had expected this. She was approaching the words about the greatest and most unheard-of miracle, and a feeling of great triumph seized her. Her voice became clear as metal; triumph and joy rang in it, strengthening her. The lines blurred before her eyes because darkness clouded her vision, but she knew by heart what she was reading. At the final verse — “Could not this one, who opened the eyes of the blind…” — she lowered her voice and passionately conveyed the doubt, reproach, and scorn of the unbelieving, blind Jews, who would now, in a moment, be struck like thunder, fall down, weep, and believe… “And he too, blinded and unbelieving — he will hear it now, he too will believe, yes, yes!
Here she paused again, shyly sensing that her voice would tremble and break once more…
(And as if drawing a pained breath, Sonya read aloud, distinctly and with force, as though confessing before all present):
She had stopped, swiftly lifting her eyes, but quickly overcame herself and continued reading. Raskolnikov sat still, listening without turning, leaning on the table and gazing sideways. They reached verse 32. “Now Mary, when she came to where Jesus was and saw him, fell at his feet and said to him: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. And he said: Where have you laid him? They said to him: Lord, come and see. Jesus wept. Then the Jews said: See how he loved him! But some of them said: Could not this man, who opened the eyes of the blind, have kept this man from dying?”
He read this in her eyes, sensed it from her excited agitation… She overcame herself, suppressed the throat spasm that had initially choked her voice at the start of the verse, and continued reading Chapter 11 of the Gospel of John. Thus, she read until verse 19:
Raskolnikov partly understood why Sonya hesitated to read to him, and the more he grasped it, the ruder and more irritable he became in insisting she read. He fully realized how painful it was for her now to expose and reveal everything. He recognized that these feelings indeed formed a genuine, long-standing part of her—perhaps dating back to her childhood, within her family, beside her wretched father and her grief-maddened stepmother, amid starving children, ugly screams, and reproaches. Yet at the same time, he now knew—and knew for certain—that though she grieved and feared something terrible as she began to read, she also desperately wanted to read aloud, despite all sorrow and apprehension, precisely so he would hear it, no matter what ensued afterward!...
The bookish words sounded strange to him, and again—news: mysterious gatherings with Lizaveta, and both of them—fools for Christ’s sake. “Here, one might well turn into a holy fool oneself! Contagious!” he thought. “Read it!” he suddenly cried insistently and irritably. Sonya hesitated. Her heart pounded. She didn’t dare read to him. He gazed almost painfully at the “poor mad girl.”
“Why do you want this? You don’t believe anyway…” she whispered softly, breathless. “I want it! Read!” he insisted. “You read it to Lizaveta!”
Sonya opened the book and found the passage. Her hands trembled; her voice lacked strength. Twice she began, but couldn’t utter the first syllable. “There was a certain man named Lazarus, of Bethany…” she finally managed, straining—but suddenly, from the third word, her voice rang out sharply and snapped like an over-tightened string. A chill swept through her, and her chest tightened.
– Haven’t you heard at church? – I… didn’t go. Do you go often? – N-no, – whispered Sonya. Raskolnikov smirked. – I see… So you won’t go to bury your father tomorrow either? – I will. I was there last week too… they held a memorial service. – For whom? – For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe. His nerves were growing more and more irritated. His head began to spin. – Were you close to Lizaveta? – Yes… She was righteous… she used to come… rarely… it wasn’t allowed. We read together and… talked. She’ll see God.
“Lizaveta! Strange!” he thought. Everything about Sonya was growing stranger and more wondrous to him with each passing minute. He carried the book to the candle and began flipping through its pages. “Where’s the part about Lazarus?” he suddenly asked. Sonya stared resolutely at the floor, silent. She stood slightly sideways to the table. “Where’s the resurrection of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonya.”
She glanced sideways at him. “You’re looking in the wrong place… It’s in the Fourth Gospel…” she whispered harshly, not moving toward him. “Find it and read it to me,” he said, sitting down, leaning on the table, propping his head with one hand, and glowering off to the side, preparing to listen. “Three weeks from now, seventh verst—do come by if you can. I might be there myself, unless things get worse,” he muttered under his breath. Sonya hesitantly stepped toward the table, unsure how to take Raskolnikov’s strange request. Still, she picked up the book. “Haven’t you read it before?” she asked, glancing at him across the table, her voice growing stern and sterner. “A long time ago… When I was studying. Read it!”
A book lay on the dresser. Every time he paced back and forth, he noticed it; now he picked it up and looked. It was the New Testament in Russian translation—a worn, old book bound in leather. “Where did this come from?” he called out to her across the room. She stood in the same spot, three paces from the table. “Someone brought it,” she replied, as if reluctantly, without looking at him. “Who brought it?”
“Liza brought it—I asked her to.”
Sonya remained silent for a long time, as if unable to answer. Her frail chest heaved with emotion. “Hush! Don’t ask! You’re not worthy!” she suddenly cried out, staring at him sternly and angrily. “That’s it! That’s exactly it!” he repeated insistently to himself. “She does everything!” she whispered quickly, lowering her gaze again. “There’s the outcome! There’s the explanation!” he decided inwardly, studying her with ravenous curiosity. He gazed at this pale, thin, angular face, at these gentle blue eyes that could flash with such fire, such fierce and energetic passion, at this small body still trembling with indignation and anger—with a new, strange, almost painful feeling. Everything seemed more and more peculiar, almost impossible to him. “A holy fool! A holy fool!” he muttered to himself.
He stubbornly fixated on this thought. This outcome appealed to him more than any other. He began to scrutinize it more closely. “Do you pray to God very much, Sonya?” he asked her. Sonya remained silent. He stood beside her, waiting for an answer. “What would I be without God?” she whispered quickly and fervently, briefly glancing up at him with suddenly sparkling eyes, and tightly gripped his hand. “There it is!” he thought. “And what does God do for you in return?” he pressed further.
But is this really true?—he exclaimed to himself—can this creature, still preserving the purity of her soul, consciously sink at last into this foul, stinking pit? Has this sinking already begun, and is it only because vice no longer seems so repulsive to her that she has endured thus far? No, no, it cannot be!—he cried, just as Sonya had earlier—no, until now it was the thought of sin that held her back from the gutter. And if she has not yet gone mad… But who said she hasn’t already gone mad? Is she in her right mind? Can anyone speak the way she does? Can anyone reason the way she does while sane? Can anyone sit idly over ruin, right above the stinking pit that is already sucking her in, waving her hands and plugging her ears when warned of danger? Is she perhaps waiting for a miracle? Surely she is. Are all these not signs of insanity?
She has three paths, he thought: to throw herself into a gutter, end up in an asylum, or... or finally, plunge into debauchery—numbing the mind and hardening the heart. The last thought repelled him most; but he was already a skeptic, young, detached, and thus cruel, so he could not help believing that the final option—debauchery—was the likeliest.
Yet, he clearly understood that Sonya, with her character and the development she had attained, could not possibly remain in such a state indefinitely. Still, it puzzled him: why had she been able to endure this condition for so long without going mad, if she lacked the strength to throw herself into the water? He knew, of course, that Sonya’s situation was an accidental phenomenon in society—though, unfortunately, far from unique or exceptional. Yet precisely this randomness, combined with her certain level of refinement and her entire past life, seemed as though they should have crushed her instantly at the very first step onto this repulsive path. What, then, sustained her? Not debauchery? Surely, this shame had touched her only mechanically; true depravity had not yet seeped even a drop into her heart—he saw that clearly; she stood before him, alive and real…
He read everything in her one glance. So, she herself had already entertained this thought. Perhaps many times and seriously, in despair, she had pondered how to end it all at once—and so seriously that now she was hardly surprised by his suggestion. She even failed to notice the cruelty of his words (of course, she also didn’t perceive the meaning behind his reproaches or his particular look at her disgrace—this was evident to him). But he fully understood how terribly the thought of her dishonorable and shameful position had tortured her—for a long time now. What, then, what could possibly have held back her resolve to end it all? Only now did he fully grasp what these poor, little orphaned children and the pitiful, half-mad Katerina Ivanovna—with her consumption and her head banging against the wall—meant to her.
— I didn’t say it because of your dishonour or sin, but because of your great suffering. And yes, you are a great sinner—that’s true, — he added almost ecstatically, — but above all, you’re a sinner because you’ve murdered and betrayed yourself. Isn’t that terrible? Isn’t it horrifying that you live in this filth you despise, yet know full well (if only you’d open your eyes) that you’re helping no one and saving nobody from anything! For goodness’ sake, tell me finally — he said, nearly beside himself — how can such shame and degradation coexist within you alongside those other opposite, holy feelings? It would be far more just, a thousand times more just and sensible, to simply plunge your head into water and end it all at once! — But what about them? — Sonya asked weakly, gazing at him with anguish, yet somehow not even surprised by his suggestion. Raskolnikov looked at her strangely.
Oh, why did you say that to them! And in her presence? — Sonya cried out in alarm. To sit with me! Honor? But I… I’m dishonorable… I’m a great, a terrible sinner! Oh, why did you say that!
Five minutes passed. He kept pacing back and forth, silent, not even glancing at her. Finally, he approached her; his eyes were blazing. He took her by both shoulders with his hands and looked straight into her tear-streaked face. His gaze was dry, feverish, piercing; his lips trembled violently... Suddenly, he swiftly bent down and, kneeling on the floor, kissed her foot. Sonya recoiled from him in horror, as if from a madman. Indeed, he looked utterly deranged. “What are you doing? Before me?” she murmured, paling, and her heart suddenly clenched painfully. He stood up immediately. “I didn’t bow to you—I bowed to all human suffering,” he muttered strangely, then turned away to the window. “Listen,” he added after a moment, turning back to her, “earlier I told an offender that he isn’t worth even one of your little fingers… and that today I honoured my sister by seating her beside you.”
Sonya’s face suddenly changed horribly: convulsions ran across it. She looked at him with indescribable reproach, wanted to say something, but could not utter a word and suddenly broke into bitter, bitter sobs, covering her face with her hands. “You say Katerina Ivanovna is losing her mind; it’s you yourself who are losing your mind,” he said after a pause.
Raskolnikov stood up and began pacing the room. A minute passed. Sonya stood with her hands and head lowered, in terrible anguish. — Can’t you save up? Put something aside for a rainy day? — he asked, suddenly stopping in front of her. — No, — Sonya whispered. — Of course not! But have you tried? — he added, almost mockingly. — I tried. — And it fell apart! Well, naturally! Why even ask! He resumed pacing the room. Another minute elapsed. — You don’t get paid every day, do you? Sonya grew even more flustered, and her face flushed again. — No, — she whispered with painful effort. — Polya will probably end up the same way, — he suddenly said. — No! No! It can’t be! No! — Sonya cried out loudly, like someone stabbed by a knife. — God, God wouldn’t allow such horror!.. — He allows other horrors, though. — No, no! God will protect her, God! — she repeated, beside herself. — Maybe there isn’t any God at all, — Raskolnikov replied with a certain malicious glee, laughed, and stared at her.
– How can it not be? – continued Raskolnikov with a harsh sneer. – Aren’t you insured? Then what will become of them? They’ll all go out onto the street together—she’ll cough and beg, bang her head against a wall somewhere, just like today, while the children cry… And then she’ll collapse, they’ll take her to the police station, to hospital, she’ll die—and the children…
– Oh no!... God wouldn’t allow it! – finally burst from Sonya’s constricted chest. She had been listening, gazing at him pleadingly, hands clasped in silent supplication—as though everything depended on him.
– Did you know that trader, Lizaveta? – Yes… But did you know her? – Sonia asked, somewhat surprised. – Katerina Ivanovna is consumptive, in a bad way; she’ll die soon, – Raskolnikov said after a pause, not answering her question. – Oh no, no, no! – And Sonia unconsciously grasped his hands with both of hers, as if pleading for it not to be so. – Well, it’s better if she dies. – No, it’s not better, not better at all! – She repeated fearfully and instinctively. – And what about the children? Where will you take them then, if not to you? – Oh, I don’t know! – cried Sonia, almost in despair, clutching her head. Clearly, this thought had haunted her many, many times before—and he had just stirred it up again. – What if you fall ill now, even while Katerina Ivanovna is still alive, and they cart you off to hospital—what then? – he pressed mercilessly. – Oh, how can you say such a thing! That simply cannot happen! – Sonia’s face twisted in terrible fright.
And she never asks anyone for anything; she’s proud, would rather give away her last thing herself—but here she asked—because she liked them so much! And I hesitated to give them up: ‘What use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?’ I actually said that—‘what use.’ That’s what I shouldn’t have said! She looked at me so sadly—it hurt her terribly that I refused, and it was heartbreaking to watch… It wasn’t about the collars, but that I refused—I could see it. Oh, if only I could turn back time now, redo everything, change all those old words… Oh, me… but what does it matter? You wouldn’t care anyway!”
Yes, me, me! I came then,” she continued, weeping, “and the deceased said to me: ‘Read to me, Sonya, my head aches somehow—read to me… here’s a book.’ He’d got some book from Andrey Semyonich, who lives with Lebezyatnikov—he always brought such funny books. But I said, ‘I must go now,’ and didn’t want to read it. I’d only gone in to show Katerina Ivanovna the collars; Lizaveta, the trader, had brought me cheap collars and cuffs—pretty, new ones with patterns. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much—she put them on, looked at herself in the mirror, and was so delighted: ‘Please, Sonya, give them to me,’ she begged, and she really wanted them. But where would she wear them? Just remembering her old, happy days! She admired herself in the mirror, but she has no dresses, no belongings—not for years now!
Sonya even wrung her hands as she spoke, pained by the memory. – You, cruel?
– It’s only natural, after how you… live, said Raskolnikov with a bitter smile. – But aren’t you sorry? Don’t you feel pity? – Sonya flared up again. – I know you—you gave away your last penny yourself, even before seeing anything. What if you’d seen it all, oh Lord! And how many, how many times I’ve made her weep! Just last week! Oh, me! A whole week before his death. I behaved cruelly! And how often, how often I did this. Ah, remembering it now the whole day is so painful!
Oh no, don’t say that! We’re one and the same, we live together—Sonia suddenly grew agitated and even irritated, just like a canary or some other little bird might get angry. And what’s she to do? How, how is she to manage? she asked, growing heated and distressed. How much, how much she cried today! Her mind’s going, haven’t you noticed? It’s slipping—now she frets like a child over making sure everything’s proper tomorrow, that there’ll be snacks and all… then she wrings her hands, coughs blood, cries, suddenly starts banging her head against the wall in despair. Then again she calms down, pins all her hopes on you: says you’re now her helper, that she’ll borrow a bit of money somewhere and go back to her town with me, start a boarding school for gentle ladies, take me on as matron, and we’ll begin an entirely new, wonderful life—and she kisses me, hugs me, comforts me, and believes it so wholeheartedly! Believes in these fantasies! How can you contradict her? And yet today she spent the whole day scrubbing, cleaning, mending—dragged a tub into the room herself, with her feeble strength, gasping for breath till she collapsed onto the bed. This morning we even went shopping together, bought shoes for Polya and Lena, because theirs were falling apart—but we fell far short of the money needed, very far, though she picked out such lovely little shoes, because she has taste, you don’t know… Right there in the shop she burst into tears before the merchants, because we didn’t have enough… Oh, it was so pitiful to watch.
“I don’t know,” Sonya said sadly. “Will they stay there?”
“I don’t know—they’re supposed to be in that flat, but I heard the landlady say today she wants to turn them out. Yet Katerina Ivanovna says she won’t stay even a minute longer herself.”
“What makes her so bold? Is she counting on you?”
Sonya said this as if in utter despair, agitated and distressed, wringing her hands. Her pale cheeks flushed again, and her eyes showed anguish. It was clear that something had deeply moved her, that she desperately wanted to express something, to speak up, to defend. Some sort of compassion, one might say, suddenly showed in every feature of her face. "She beat her! Good Lord, she beat her! But even if she did, so what? What of it? You know nothing, absolutely nothing… She's such an unfortunate woman, oh, how unfortunate! And ill… She's seeking justice… She's pure. She so strongly believes that there must be fairness in everything, and she demands it… You can torture her, but she won't do anything unjust. She doesn't even realise how impossible it is for people to always be fair, and that's why she gets upset… Like a child, just like a child! She's just, she's fair!"
"And what will happen to you?"
Sonya looked at him inquiringly. "They're all left on you now. True, even before, everything rested on you—on his hangover days, the deceased himself used to come to you asking. But now, what will become of you?"
– Her? How on earth could you! – cried Sonia, plaintively wringing her hands in anguish. – Oh, if only you knew! She's just like a child... Her mind has been unhinged by suffering. And yet, how clever she once was, how noble, how kind-hearted! You know nothing, absolutely nothing... oh!
– Yes... He stammers and limps too. And his wife as well... Not exactly that she stammers, but as if she doesn't quite pronounce properly. She's kind, very kind. And he was formerly a serf. They have seven children... Only the eldest one stammers, the others are just unwell... not stammering... But how do you know about them? – she added with some surprise. – Your father told me everything that time. He told me all about you... How you went out at six o'clock and came back at nine, and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt by your bedside. Sonia was embarrassed. – I saw him today for certain, – she whispered hesitantly. – Whom? – My father. I was walking down the street, nearby, at the corner, around ten o'clock, and he seemed to be walking ahead. It looked exactly like him. I was just about to go see Katerina Ivanovna... – You were out walking? – Yes, – Sonia whispered again, abruptly, embarrassed once more, looking down. – Didn't Katerina Ivanovna beat you, when your father was alive? – Oh no, how can you say that, how could you? No! – Sonia looked at him with actual fright. – So you love her?
– Are they there, behind the door? – Yes… They have a room just like this. – All of them in one room? – In the same one, sir. – I would be afraid staying in your room at night, – he remarked gloomily. – The landlords are very nice, very kind-hearted, – replied Sonya, still as if bewildered and not quite understanding, – and all the furniture, everything… it all belongs to them. And they are so good, and the children come to see me often too…
– Those dumb ones?