О чем говорят каналы

Raskolnikov walked straight to the –sky Bridge, stopped in the middle, leaned both elbows on the railing, and began gazing into the distance. After parting with Razumikhin, he had grown so weak that he could barely make it here. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere, right on the street. Bending over the water, he mechanically watched the last pink glow of sunset, the row of houses darkening in the thickening twilight, a single distant window high up in an attic on the left bank, flashing brightly like fire as the final ray of sunlight struck it for an instant, and the darkening waters of the canal—seeming to peer into the water with intent attention. Finally, red circles began spinning in his eyes; the houses swayed, passers-by, embankments, carriages—everything whirled and danced around. Suddenly he shuddered, perhaps saved again from fainting by a wild and hideous vision.

"Damn it!" he muttered, almost aloud, "he speaks sense, yet somehow... But then, I'm a fool! Don't madmen speak sense too? And it seemed to me that Zosimov was actually afraid of that very thing!" He tapped his forehead with his finger. "What if... How can I leave him alone now? He might drown himself! Ah, I've messed up! No way!" And he rushed back, chasing after Raskolnikov, but the trail had already gone cold. He spat, then turned briskly and hurried back to the Crystal Palace to question Zametov as quickly as possible.

Raskolnikov reached Sadovaya and turned the corner. Razumikhin watched him go, deep in thought. Finally, he shrugged and went back into the house, but stopped halfway up the stairs.

– No. – You're lying! – Razumikhin cried impatiently. – How would you know? You can't even take care of yourself! You don't understand anything about this... I've quarrelled with people exactly like this a thousand times, and then run back to them again. You feel ashamed – and go back to the man! So remember, Pochinkov House, third floor... – You know, sir, at this rate you might actually let someone beat you, just for the pleasure of being kind, Mr. Razumikhin. – Who? Me? They'd twist my nose off for just one fantasy! Pochinkov House, number forty-seven, apartment of the official Babushkin... – I won't come, Razumikhin! – Raskolnikov turned and walked away. – I'll bet you will! – Razumikhin shouted after him. – Otherwise... otherwise I don't want to know you! Wait, hey! Is Zametov there? – He is. – Seen him? – Seen him. – Talked? – Talked. – About what? Well, never mind, devil take it, don't tell me. Pochinkov, forty-seven, Babushkin's place – remember!

He began calmly, already savouring the venom he was about to unleash, but ended in a frenzy, gasping for breath, just as he had earlier with Luzhin. Razumikhin stood still, pondered for a moment, and let go of his hand.

How, how—tell me, teach me—can I possibly beg you at last to stop pestering me and doing me favours? Let me be ungrateful, let me be base—but leave me, for God's sake, all of you, just leave me alone! Leave me! Leave me!

— Listen, Razumikhin — began Raskolnikov quietly and seemingly quite calmly — can't you see that I don't want your kindness? And why bother doing good to those who... spit on it? To those, finally, for whom it's genuinely painful to endure it? What need had you to track me down at the start of my illness? Maybe I would've been glad to die? Haven't I made it clear enough to you today that you're tormenting me, that you're... sickening me? Really, is it so amusing to torture people? I assure you, all this seriously hinders my recovery, because it constantly irritates me. Even Zosimov left earlier so as not to irritate me! So please, for God's sake, leave me alone too! And what right, finally, do you have to keep me here by force? Can't you see that I'm speaking now with a perfectly sound mind?

– So there you are! – he shouted at the top of his voice. – You've bolted from bed! I even looked for you under the sofa! We went up to the attic! Nearly killed Nastasya over you... And here you are! Rodya! What does this mean? Speak the truth! Confess at once! Do you hear? – It simply means I'm sick to death of all of you and I want to be alone, – answered Raskolnikov calmly. – Alone? When you can't even walk properly, when your face is as pale as a sheet and you're gasping for breath! Fool!... What were you doing at the Crystal Palace? Confess right now! – Let go! – said Raskolnikov, trying to pass by. That was too much for Razumikhin; he firmly grabbed him by the shoulder. – Let go? How dare you say 'let go'? Do you know what I'll do to you now? I'll scoop you up, tie you in a knot, and carry you home under my arm – straight to bed and lock you in!

Just as Raskolnikov opened the door to the street, he suddenly bumped into Razumikhin, who was coming in. Neither had seen the other even a step away, so they nearly collided head-on. For a moment, they stood frozen, staring at each other. Razumikhin was utterly astonished, but suddenly anger—real, fierce anger—flashed threateningly in his eyes.

He went out, trembling all over with a wild, hysterical sensation, which yet contained a tinge of unbearable pleasure—though he was gloomy and terribly exhausted. His face was distorted, as if after some kind of fit. His fatigue was rapidly increasing. His strength had surged up suddenly, triggered by the first shock, the first irritating sensation, and now faded just as quickly as the sensation itself diminished. Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, deep in thought. Raskolnikov had casually overturned all his views on a certain matter and finally settled his opinion. "Ilya Petrovich is a fool!" he concluded decisively.

– Here, take another twenty kopecks for vodka. Look at all this money! – he handed Zametov his trembling hand holding the banknotes – red ones, blue ones, twenty-five roubles. Where'd it come from? And where'd the new clothes come from? You know very well he didn't have a single kopeck! Surely you've questioned the landlady by now... Well, enough! Assez causé! Goodbye... most delightful...

– What if I were the one who killed the old woman and Lizaveta? – he suddenly blurted out – and then came to his senses. Zametov stared at him wildly and turned as pale as a sheet. His face twisted into a nervous smile. – Could that really be possible? – he whispered faintly. Raskolnikov glared at him bitterly. – Admit it, you believed me, didn't you? Yes? You did? – Not at all! Now, more than ever, I don't believe it! – Zametov said quickly. – Got you at last! Caught the little bird! So you did believe it before, since now you "don't believe it more than ever"? – Not at all! – cried Zametov, clearly flustered. – Were you frightening me on purpose just to trap me like this? – So you don't believe? Then why were you talking about it among yourselves when I left the office earlier? And why did Lieutenant Porokh question me after my fainting fit? Hey you," he shouted to the waiter, standing up and taking his cap, "how much do I owe?" – Just thirty kopecks, sir," the waiter replied, rushing over.

“You’re mad,” said Zametov, for some reason almost in a whisper, and suddenly moved away from Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov’s eyes flashed; he turned terribly pale; his upper lip twitched and quivered. He leaned as close to Zametov as possible and began moving his lips without uttering a sound—this went on for about half a minute. He knew what he was doing, but could not control himself. That dreadful word, like a bolt snapping open a door, trembled on his lips—any moment it might burst out; any moment he might let it go, speak it aloud!

– Ugh, you’re saying such frightening things! – laughed Zamyotov. – But all this is just talk; in reality, I’m sure you’d trip up at the first step. Honestly, I’d say neither you nor I, nor even some hardened, reckless fellow, could ever be sure of himself. No need to go far – take the example right here: that old woman murdered in our district. Seems like a bold, desperate man, risking everything in broad daylight, saved only by a miracle – yet his hands still trembled in the end: couldn’t even rob properly, couldn’t hold his nerve; it’s clear from the investigation… Raskolnikov seemed offended. – Clear? Well, just you try catching him now! – he cried, provoking Zamyotov with malicious glee. – Well, they will catch him. – Who? You? You catch him? You’ll wear yourselves out trying! That’s your main clue, isn’t it: whether a man spends money or not? Had no money before, now suddenly starts spending – so it must be him, right? Any child could fool you with that, if he wanted to!

Once done, I’d pull out a five-rupee note each from the second and fifth stacks, hold them up to the light again, pretend to be unsure, say, “Could you please change these?” – I’d work the clerk up to the seventh sweat, till he wouldn’t know how to get rid of me! Finally, I’d finish, start to leave, open the door – but then, oh, excuse me, turn back again, ask some question, seek some clarification – that’s how I’d do it!

– I wouldn’t have done it that way – he began slowly. – Here’s how I’d go about it: I’d count the first thousand, say, four times over from every side, examining each note closely. Then I’d start on the second thousand, count up to the middle, pull out a fifty-rupee note, hold it up to the light, turn it over, check it again – just to make sure it’s not fake. Say, “You see, I’m a bit worried – a relative of mine lost twenty-five rupees recently in just this way,” and then tell some little story. And when I start on the third thousand – no, sorry – I’d suddenly think, “Wait, in that second thousand, I think I miscounted the seventh hundred,” get doubtful, drop the third thousand, go back to the second – and keep doing that with all five stacks.

– Why did your hands tremble then? – Zamyetov picked up. – No, I tell you, it's quite possible. Yes, I'm absolutely certain it can happen. Sometimes a man just can't bear it. – You mean, you'd do it? – Oh, you think you could bear it? No, I couldn't! Not even for a hundred-rupee reward would I go through such horror! To walk in with a forged note—where? To a banker's office, where they've seen it all a hundred times over—no, I'd be too ashamed. But wouldn't you be ashamed? Suddenly, Raskolnikov had an overwhelming urge to stick his tongue out. A shiver ran down his spine, now and then.

Of course, that raises suspicion. And the whole thing collapses because of one fool! Is something like that even possible?

– This? These are just kids, greenhorns, not fraudsters! A whole fifty people gathering for such a purpose! Is that even possible? Even three would be too many, and each would have to trust the others more than himself! One drunk man lets it slip, and everything goes up in smoke! Greenhorns! Hiring unreliable people to cash cheques at offices: can you really trust the first stranger off the street with something like this? Suppose it somehow works with these greenhorns, suppose each walks away with a million—then what? For the rest of their lives? Each one dependent on the other for life! Better to hang oneself! And they couldn’t even cash the cheques properly: one goes to the office, starts exchanging, gets five thousand, and his hands begin to tremble. He counts four bundles, but takes the fifth without counting, on trust, just wanting to stuff it in his pocket and run.

– There’s been so much fraud going around these days, – said Zametov. – Just recently I read in the Moscow Vedomosti that a whole gang of counterfeiters was caught in Moscow. It was an entire ring. They were forging banknotes. – Oh, that’s old news! I read about it a full month ago, – replied Raskolnikov calmly. – So, in your opinion, are these the real fraudsters? – he added with a smile. – What, if not fraudsters?

– Why aren't you drinking your tea? It'll get cold, – said Zametov. – Huh? What? Tea?... All right, perhaps... – Raskolnikov took a sip from his glass, put a piece of bread in his mouth, and suddenly, glancing at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and gave himself a little shake; his face at once resumed its former mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.

Raskolnikov’s still and serious face changed in an instant, and suddenly he burst into the same nervous laughter as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. In a flash, with extraordinary clarity, he recalled a recent moment—when he had stood behind the door, axe in hand, the bolt jumping, the people inside quarrelling and pounding, and suddenly he had felt an urge to shout at them, curse them, stick out his tongue, tease them, laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh! “You’re either mad,” said Zametov, “or—” and stopped abruptly, as if suddenly struck by a thought that flashed through his mind. “Or what? What ‘or’? Come on, speak!” “Nothing!” Zametov snapped irritably. “All nonsense!” Both fell silent. After the sudden, spasmodic burst of laughter, Raskolnikov suddenly became pensive and gloomy. He leaned on the table and propped his head in his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted quite a while.

– This is the very old woman, – Rascolnikov went on in the same whisper, not moving a muscle at Zametov's exclamation, – the one about whom, remember, when they started telling the story at the office, I fainted. Now do you understand? – What... what do you mean? "Understand"? – Zametov said, almost anxiously.

"I'm in the sixth form of gymnasium," replied Zametov with a touch of dignity. "Sixth form! Oh, you little sparrow! With a parting, wearing rings—quite a wealthy fellow! My, what a sweet little boy!" Here, Raskolnikov burst into a nervous laugh, right into Zametov's face. The latter recoiled—less offended than utterly astonished. "Goodness, how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I think you're still delirious." "Delirious? Lies, sparrow! So I'm strange, am I? But I'm interesting to you, aren't I? Tell me, am I interesting?"

– And we… had a drink… Had it poured again, did we? – Honorarium! You’re making full use of it! – Raskolnikov laughed. – Never mind, good lad, never mind! – he added, thumping Zametov on the shoulder. – I’m not saying it to offend, but "out of pure love, in jest," as your own worker put it when he was thrashing Mitya, that time with the old woman’s case. – And how would you know about that? – Well, perhaps I know even more than you do. – You’re acting so strangely… You’re still very ill, really. No point in being out. – Do I seem strange to you? – Yes. What’s this you’re reading—newspapers? – Newspapers. – They’re writing a lot about fires these days… – No, not fires. – Here he gave Zametov a mysterious look; a mocking smile once again twisted his lips. – No, not fires, – he went on, winking at Zametov. – Come on, admit it, dear fellow—don’t you desperately want to know what I was reading about? – Not at all. I just asked. Can’t a man ask a question? Why are you so— – Listen, you’re an educated fellow, a literary type, aren’t you?

– I know you were there – he replied – heard about it, sir. Looking for a sock, weren't you? And do you know, Razumikhin is absolutely crazy about you. Says you went with him to Madame Lepidovna, the one you were winking at that time for the officer, Porochnik Poroj, but he couldn't get it, could he? Remember? How could he not understand? The matter was so clear... eh? – What a rowdy fellow he is! – Poroj? – No, your friend Razumikhin... – You've got it good, Mr. Zametov; you get free entry into the most delightful places! Who treated you to champagne just now?

He finally found what he was looking for and began to read; the lines danced before his eyes, yet he managed to finish the entire "announcement" and eagerly started searching through the following issues for any later updates. His hands trembled as he flipped through the pages, gripped by restless impatience. Suddenly, someone sat down beside him, at his very table. He glanced over—it was Zamyotov, the very same Zamyotov, dressed just as before, with rings on his fingers, a chain across his vest, his dark, curly, oiled hair neatly parted, wearing a stylish waistcoat and a slightly worn coat, along with somewhat soiled linen. He was in high spirits, at least appearing very cheerful and good-natured, with a broad smile. His swarthy face was slightly flushed from the champagne he had drunk. "What! You here?" Zamyotov exclaimed in surprise, speaking as if they were old acquaintances. "Just yesterday Razumikhin told me you were still delirious. How strange! Though I did visit you..." Raskolnikov had known he would come. He set aside the newspapers and turned to face Zamyotov. A faint sneer played on his lips, and in that sneer there flickered a new, irritable impatience.

Old newspapers and tea arrived. Raskolnikov sat down and began searching: 'Isler – Isler – Aztecs – Aztecs – Isler – Bartola – Massimo – Aztecs – Isler… Ugh, damn it! Ah, here are the notes: fell down the stairs – a townsman burned to death while drunk – fire in the Peski district – fire in Petersburg Side – another fire in Petersburg Side – yet another fire in Petersburg Side – Isler – Isler – Isler – Isler – Massimo… Ah, here it is…'

He stepped into another street. "Ah! The Crystal Palace! Razumikhin was talking about the Crystal Palace the other day. But what was it I wanted? Ah yes—to read! Zosimov said he read it in the papers..." “Do you have newspapers?” he asked, entering a fairly spacious and even tidy tavern with several rooms, though rather empty. Two or three customers were drinking tea, and in a back room a group of about four men were seated, sipping champagne. Raskolnikov thought he recognised Zametov among them, but from that distance it was hard to tell clearly. “Never mind!” he thought. “Would you like vodka, sir?” asked the waiter. “Bring me tea. And get me some old newspapers—about five days’ worth. I’ll give you money for vodka.” “Yes, sir. Here are today’s papers. Would you like vodka too, sir?”

"Where is it," thought Raskolnikov as he walked on, "where did I read about a man condemned to death who said—or thought—that if he had to live on a cliff, on a tiny ledge where only his two feet could fit, with bottomless abysses, ocean, eternal darkness, eternal solitude, and endless storms all around, and remain standing on just a yard of space for his whole life—thousand years, eternity—it would still be better to live like that than to die now! Just to live, live, live! No matter how—just to live!... What truth! Lord, what truth! Man is despicable! And despicable is he who calls him so," he added a minute later.

Raskolnikov took out whatever came to hand: three five-kopeck coins. – Oh, what a kind sahib! – What's your name? – Just ask Duklida. – No, really now, – suddenly remarked one of the women, shaking her head at Duklida. – I don't even know how to beg like that! I think I'd simply sink into the ground out of shame... Raskolnikov looked at her with curiosity. She was a pockmarked girl, about thirty, covered in bruises, with a swollen upper lip. She spoke calmly and seriously, with quiet disapproval.

– Looks like even the general’s daughters have snub noses! – suddenly interrupted a man who had approached, tipsy, wearing his coat open and a sly, mischievous grin on his face. – See, that's entertainment! – Move on, if you've come this far! – I will! Sweetness! And he tumbled head over heels down the stairs. Raskolnikov moved on. – Hey, sahib! – a girl called after him. – What is it? She grew flustered. – Dear sahib, I’d always be happy to keep you company anytime, but now somehow I can’t muster the nerve in front of you. Kind sir, please give me six kopecks for a drink!

For some reason, he was intrigued by the singing and all the noise and clatter down there. From below came laughter, shrieks, and the sound of someone frantically dancing to the high-pitched squeal of an accordion and the strum of a guitar, rhythmically tapping out beats with his heels. He listened intently, gloomily, thoughtfully, leaning at the entrance and peering curiously from the pavement into the vestibule. You’re my dashing, stylish fellow, Don’t you beat me without reason! — sang the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt an intense urge to hear the words clearly, as though everything depended on it. “Should I go in?” he thought. “They’re laughing! Drunk. Well then, why shouldn’t I get drunk too?” “Won’t you come in, dear sir?” asked one of the women in a fairly clear, not-yet-entirely-rough voice. She was young and even not unattractive—unlike the others in the group. “Look at you, pretty thing!” he replied, straightening up and looking at her. She smiled—she liked the compliment very much. “You’re quite handsome yourself,” she said. “Look how thin they are!” remarked another in a deep voice. “Just stepped out of hospital, have you?”

A large group of women crowded at the entrance—some sat on the steps, others on the pavement, while the rest stood talking. Nearby, on the cobblestones, a drunken soldier swaggered about, shouting obscenities with a cigarette dangling from his lips; he seemed to be trying to go somewhere but had apparently forgotten where. One ragged man was quarrelling with another ragged man, and a dead-drunk fellow lay sprawled across the road. Raskolnikov stopped near a big group of women. They were talking in hoarse voices, all dressed in cotton frocks, wearing cheap shoes, and bareheaded. Some were about forty, others just seventeen, almost all with black eyes.

He had often passed before through this short lane, which bent at an angle and led from the square into Sadovaya Street. Lately, he had even felt drawn to wander around these places whenever he felt sick inside—“just to feel even sicker.” Now, he walked in without thinking. There stood a large building, entirely taken up by liquor shops and other eating and drinking joints. Women kept rushing out from them, dressed as people do when “popping over to the neighbour’s”—bareheaded, in just their dresses. At two or three spots, they gathered in groups on the pavement, especially around the steps leading down to the ground-floor entrances, where one could go down two steps into various highly entertaining places. At one such spot, just now, noise and racket poured into the street; a guitar jingled, songs were sung, and everyone seemed merry.

Raskolnikov crossed the square. At the corner, a thick crowd had gathered, all men. He pushed his way right into the middle, peering at their faces. For some reason, he felt drawn to talk to everyone. But the men took no notice of him, chattering away in small groups. He stood a while, thought, then turned right, walking along the pavement towards V—. After crossing the square, he entered a narrow lane…

– That’s a shopkeeper trading on the corner there, with his wife, isn’t he? – All sorts trade here, – the young man replied, sizing up Raskolnikov with a haughty glance. – What’s his name? – Whatever he was christened with, that’s what he’s called. – And you—aren’t you from Zaрайsk? Which province? The lad looked at Raskolnikov again. – With us, your honour, it’s not a province, it’s a district. My brother travelled, but I stayed home—so I don’t know, sir… Forgive me, your honour, kindly. – Is that an eating-house upstairs, then? – It’s a tavern, with billiards—and princesses too... Lilis!

– Do you enjoy street music? – suddenly asked Raskolnikov of a passer-by standing beside him near the barrel organ, a man already middle-aged and looking like a loafer. The man stared wildly, utterly surprised. – I like it, – continued Raskolnikov, though he looked as if he were not talking about street music at all – I like it when people sing under a barrel organ on a cold, dark, damp autumn evening, especially a damp one, when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces; or even better, when wet snow falls straight down, without wind, you know? and through it the gas lamps are shining... – I don't know, sir… Excuse me… – muttered the man, frightened by both the question and Raskolnikov's odd appearance, and he quickly crossed to the other side of the street. Raskolnikov walked straight ahead and came to that corner of Sennaya where the tradesman and woman had been standing, talking with Lizaveta; but they weren't there now. Having recognised the spot, he stopped, looked around, and turned to a young lad in a red shirt who was idling at the entrance of a flour warehouse.

Suddenly she broke off her singing at the most emotional and highest note, as if cut short, sharply called out to the organ grinder, "That's enough!" and both of them moved on towards the next shop.

Out of old habit, taking the usual route of his former walks, he headed straight towards Sennaya. Before reaching Sennaya, on the pavement near a small shop, a young dark-haired organ grinder was playing a rather sentimental romance on his barrel organ. He was accompanying a girl of about fifteen, standing in front of him on the footpath. She was dressed like a young lady—crinoline, mantilla, gloves, and a straw hat with a bright red feather—all old and worn out. In a street-singer's voice, a bit shrill but fairly strong and pleasant, she sang the romance while waiting for a two-penny coin from the shop. Raskolnikov stopped beside two or three other listeners, listened for a moment, took out a five-kopeck coin, and dropped it into the girl's hand.

It was eight o'clock; the sun was setting. The same stifling heat lingered in the air. He breathed in greedily the foul, dusty, city-poisoned air. His head began to spin slightly; a wild energy suddenly flashed in his feverish eyes and in his gaunt, pale-yellow face. He did not know, nor did he think, where he was going; he knew only one thing: that everything must end today, once and for all, right now; that he would not return home otherwise. How to end it? With what? He had no idea, nor did he care to think. He drove the thought away—it tormented him. He only felt and knew that everything must change, one way or another, “by any means necessary,” he repeated with desperate, unshakable confidence and resolve.

He also took the small copper coins, the change from the ten roubles Razumikhin had spent on the clothes. Then quietly unhooking the door, he stepped out of the room, went down the stairs, and peeped into the kitchen, its door wide open. Nastasya stood with her back to him, bent over, blowing at the landlady’s samovar. She heard nothing. And who could have imagined he would leave? Within minutes, he was out on the street.

But as soon as she had left, he got up, bolted the door with the hook, undid the bundle of clothes brought earlier by Razumikhin and tied up again by him, and began to dress. A strange thing happened—he suddenly felt completely calm. There was no trace of the wild delirium he had felt before, nor the panic that had haunted him all this time. This was the first moment of a strange, sudden tranquillity. His movements were precise and deliberate, revealing a firm resolve. "Today, today!" he whispered to himself. He realised he was still weak, but an intense inner focus, now settled into calm, into a single fixed idea, gave him strength and confidence. Besides, he hoped he wouldn’t collapse on the street. Once fully dressed in all new clothes, he glanced at the money lying on the table, paused, and put it into his pocket—twenty-five roubles in all.

– You tell me all about it in detail this evening, and then I’ll share something with you. He interests me, indeed! I’ll drop by in half an hour… No inflammation, anyway… – Thank you! Meanwhile, I’ll wait at Pashenka’s and keep an eye through Nastasya… Left alone, Raskolnikov looked impatiently and anxiously at Nastasya; but she still lingered. – Will you have tea now? – she asked. – Later! I want to sleep! Leave me alone… He turned abruptly, face to the wall; Nastasya went out. VI

– Yes; the devil only knows why he turned up now; he might have spoiled the whole thing. Did you notice how indifferent he is to everything, how silent about all matters except one point—where he loses his composure completely? That's the murder... – Yes, yes! – Razumikhin chimed in – I noticed that very clearly! He shows interest, shows fear. He was frightened just on the day he fell ill, in the superintendent's office; fainted dead away.

– Can this be, can it be allowed? – said a baffled Razumikhin, shaking his head. – Leave me, leave me all of you alone! – Raskolnikov screamed in frenzy. – Will you never stop tormenting me, you torturers! I fear no one, I fear no one at all now! Get out! I want to be alone, alone, alone! – Let's go! – said Zosimov, nodding at Razumikhin. – Good heavens, can we really leave him like this? – Let's go! – Zosimov repeated firmly and stepped out. Razumikhin thought for a moment and hurried after him. – It could've been worse if we hadn't listened to him, – said Zosimov, already on the staircase. – We mustn't provoke him... – What's wrong with him? – If only he could get some positive encouragement now, that's what he needs! Earlier, he was quite composed... You see, he's got something on his mind! Something fixed, oppressive... That's what I'm really afraid of; absolutely! – Perhaps that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovich? From what was said, it seems he's marrying Rodya's sister, and Rodya received a letter about it just before falling ill...

But Luzhin was already leaving on his own, cutting his speech short, squeezing once again between the table and the chair; this time Razumikhin stood up to let him pass. Without looking at anyone, not even nodding to Zosimov, who had long been signalling him to leave the patient in peace, Luzhin walked out, carefully lifting his hat near his shoulder as he ducked through the doorway. Even the curve of his back seemed to convey at that moment that he was carrying away with him a terrible insult.

— You know what? — cried Raskolnikov, propping himself up on the pillow and fixing him with a sharp, flashing gaze. — Do you know what? — And what might that be? — Luzhin stopped and waited, looking offended and defiant. Several seconds of silence followed. — This — if you ever dare utter a single word… about my mother… I’ll throw you down the stairs head over heels! — What’s wrong with you! — shouted Razumikhin. — Ah, so that’s how it is! — Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. — Listen, sir, I — he began deliberately, restraining himself with all his might, yet still gasping for breath — I sensed your hostility from the very beginning, the moment I arrived, but stayed on purpose to learn more. Much I might have forgiven in a sick man and a relative, but now… to you… never! — I’m not ill! — Raskolnikov shouted. — All the more so, then… — Get out! Go to hell!

– Kind sir! – exclaimed Luzhin, angrily and irritably, turning red and flustered, – kind sir, to distort my meaning like this! Excuse me, but I must tell you that the reports that have reached you – or rather, been conveyed to you – have not the slightest foundation in truth, and I… I suspect who… in short… this arrow… in short, your mother. She already seemed to me, despite all her excellent qualities, to have a somewhat overenthusiastic and romantic cast of mind. But I was still a thousand miles away from imagining that she could so distort the matter in her fancy and present it in such a warped manner… And finally… finally…

– Is it true – Rascolnikov suddenly interrupted again, his voice trembling with anger, yet tinged with a bitter sort of satisfaction – is it really true that you told your fiancée… at the very moment she accepted you… that you were most pleased precisely because she was poor… that it's more advantageous to take a wife from poverty, so you can dominate her later… and keep reminding her how much you've done for her?..

– There is a limit to everything, – said Luzhin haughtily. – Economic ideas are not an invitation to murder, and even if one were to suppose…

– There are many economic changes… – responded Zosimov. – What explains it? – Razumikhin pounced. – It can be explained precisely by deep-rooted inefficiency and idleness. – What do you mean exactly? – Why, take your lecturer in Moscow, who, when asked why he forged tickets, replied: 'Everyone gets rich in their own way, so I wanted to get rich quickly too.' I don't remember the exact words, but the meaning was: get rich quick, without effort, for free! They're used to living off ready-made things, walking in others' footprints, eating chewed food. But when the great hour strikes, everyone reveals what they truly are. – Still, what about morality? And, so to speak, principles? – Why are you so concerned? – Raskolnikov suddenly intervened. – It follows perfectly from your own theory! – How from my theory? – Push your argument to its logical conclusion, the one you were preaching earlier, and it leads to the idea that people can be killed… – Good heavens! – exclaimed Luzhin. – No, that's not right! – Zosimov responded. Raskolnikov lay pale, his upper lip twitching, breathing with difficulty.

And now, if this old moneylender woman was killed by one of her pawnbrokers, then clearly the perpetrator was someone from a higher social circle—for peasants don't pawn gold items. So then, how do we explain this moral decay among the so-called civilised sections of our society?

– I can't say for sure; but what interests me is another aspect, so to speak, an entire question. I'm not even referring to the increase in crimes among the lower classes over the past five years, or to the widespread and constant robberies and arson cases. What strikes me as most strange is that crimes among the upper classes are also increasing in a similar, one might say parallel, manner. We hear of a former student robbing the postal service on a highway; we hear of prominent members of society forging banknotes; in Moscow, an entire gang involved in counterfeiting bonds from the latest lottery loan has been caught—with a lecturer in world history among the main conspirators; abroad, our secretary was murdered for mysterious financial reasons...

"This is about the recent murder of the elderly government official woman," interjected Pyotr Petrovich, turning to Zosimov. He was already standing with his hat in hand and gloves on, yet before leaving, he wanted to utter a few more clever remarks. Clearly, he was anxious to make a good impression, and vanity had overcome prudence. "Yes, did you hear about it?" "Why yes, it happened nearby..." "Do you know the details?"

And he got away not by planning, but by sheer chance!

– That's just the point – there wasn't! – interrupted Razumikhin. – It's precisely this that's misleading all of you. I'm telling you, he was awkward, inexperienced, and probably it was his first attempt! Assume calculation and a clever villain, and it becomes unbelievable. Assume an inexperienced man instead, and it turns out that only luck saved him from disaster – and what can't luck do? Come on, perhaps he didn't even anticipate obstacles! And how did he act? – stuffing ten- to twenty-rupee trinkets into his pockets, rummaging through an old woman's chest, through her rags – while in the drawer of the chest, in the top compartment, in a casket, they found over a thousand and a half in clean money, apart from bonds! He didn't know how to rob – all he could do was kill! I tell you, it was the first step, the very first step; he panicked!

– A pawnbroker for sure! – agreed Razumikhin. – Porfiry doesn't reveal his thoughts, but he's certainly questioning the pawnbrokers... – Questioning pawnbrokers? – asked Raskolnikov loudly. – Yes, what about it? – Nothing. – How did he even get their names? – asked Zosimov. – Koch pointed out some; others had their names written on the wrappers of the items; and some came forward themselves, as soon as they heard... – Well, must be a clever and experienced rogue! What nerve! What boldness!

Pyotr Petrovich was clever enough to believe the explanation at once. However, he decided to leave within two minutes. "I do hope that our acquaintance, begun today," he said, turning to Raskolnikov, "will strengthen further once you've recovered, especially in view of the circumstances known to you... I sincerely wish you good health..." Raskolnikov didn't even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovich began to rise from his chair. "The pawnbroker was definitely murdered?" Zosimov said, confirming.

– I’m not witty either, so let’s drop it, – Razumikhin interrupted sharply. – I only spoke with a purpose. Honestly, I’ve grown so sick of this chatter, this self-display, all these endless clichés, the same old things repeated over and over for the past three years, that I actually blush when others say them in my presence, let alone myself. Of course, you were eager to show off your knowledge – quite forgivable, and I don’t blame you. But now I just want to know who you are, because, you see, so many self-serving opportunists have latched onto public issues lately, distorting everything they touch for their own gain, that they’ve completely ruined the whole matter. Well then, enough! – Sir, – began Mr. Luzhin, bristling with extreme dignity, – do you mean to suggest, so impertinently, that I too… – Oh, please, please… How could I possibly?... Well then, enough! – Razumikhin cut him short, abruptly turning back to Zosimov to continue their earlier conversation.

Therefore, by acquiring solely and exclusively for myself, I, precisely thereby, seem to acquire for everyone, leading to a situation where my neighbour receives a coat less torn – not through isolated, individual acts of generosity, but as a consequence of general prosperity. A simple idea, but, unfortunately, one that has taken too long to arrive, obscured by enthusiasm and daydreaming, though it would seem to require very little wit to grasp...

– No, not a mere cliché at all! If, for instance, till now they have been telling me: 'love thy neighbour', and I have loved, what has come of it? – continued Pyotr Petrovich, perhaps with undue haste – what has come of it is that I tore my coat in half, shared with my neighbour, and both of us were left half-naked, as the Russian proverb goes: 'If you chase after many hares at once, you won't catch even one.' But science says: love first and foremost yourself, for everything in this world is based on self-interest. If you love yourself, you will manage your affairs properly, and your coat will remain intact. And economic truth adds that the more orderly private affairs there are in society – so to speak, the more intact coats – the firmer the foundations of that society, and the better its collective affairs will be arranged.

– Hardened! It's recommended – suddenly said Raskolnikov. – What was that? – asked Pyotr Petrovich, not catching it, but received no reply. – That’s quite true – Zosimov quickly interjected. – Don’t you agree? – continued Pyotr Petrovich, looking pleasantly at Zosimov. – Just consider yourself – he went on, addressing Razumikhin, now with a hint of triumph and superiority, almost adding "young man" – that progress, or as they say nowadays, advancement, even in the name of science and economic truth... – A cliché!

"I cannot agree with you," objected Pyotr Petrovich, visibly relishing the argument. "Certainly, there are excesses and missteps, but one must also be accommodating. Excesses indicate enthusiasm and reflect the flawed external conditions under which work is being carried out. And if little has been achieved, well, there has been very little time. Not to mention resources. In my personal view, if you wish, something meaningful has already been accomplished: new and beneficial ideas have been spread, certain useful writings have been circulated, replacing the earlier dreamy and romantic notions; literature has taken on a more mature tone; many harmful prejudices have been uprooted and ridiculed... In short, we have irreversibly severed ties with the past—and in my opinion, that’s an achievement in itself."

– Your question is broad. I may be mistaken, but it seems to me I've gained a clearer outlook, more, so to speak, critical sense; more practicality... – That's true, – muttered Zosimov. – You're lying, there's no practicality, – snapped Razumikhin. – Practicality is hard-earned; it doesn't fall from the sky for free. For nearly two hundred years we've been trained away from any real work. Ideas may be floating around, – he turned to Pyotr Petrovitch, – and there's a desire for good, though it's childish; even honesty can be found, despite the swarm of scoundrels we see all around us—but still, no practicality! Practicality walks in boots.

– In the most serious sense, so to speak, the very essence of the matter – picked up Pyotr Petrovich, seemingly delighted by the question. – You see, I haven't visited Petersburg in ten years. All these news, reforms, ideas—they've reached even us in the provinces; but to see clearly, to grasp everything properly, one must be in Petersburg. Well then, my own thought is this: you notice and learn the most by observing our younger generation. And I must admit: I was heartened… – Heartened by what exactly?

– Of course, I couldn’t gather so much information, as I’m quite new here myself, – Petrov Petrovich replied delicately, – but still, two very neat and clean rooms, and since it’s for such a short period… I’ve already arranged a proper, that is, our future apartment, – he turned to Raskolnikov – and it’s now being furnished; meanwhile, I’m myself staying in rented rooms just two steps away, at Mrs. Lippewechsel’s, in the flat of a young friend of mine, Andrey Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov; it was he who recommended Mr. Bakaleev’s house to me... – Lebezyatnikov? – Raskolnikov said slowly, as if trying to recall something. – Yes, Andrey Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov, a government clerk at the Ministry. Do you happen to know him? – Yes… no… – Raskolnikov replied. – Forgive me, I thought so from your question. I was once his guardian… a very pleasant young man… and quite progressive… I’m always glad to meet young people: one learns what’s new from them. – Petrov Petrovich looked hopefully around at everyone present. – In what way exactly? – Razumikhin asked.

– Terrible place, really awful: dirty, smelly, and quite suspicious too; some shady incidents have happened here... and you never know who’s living here!... I myself once came by because of a scandalous matter. But the rent is cheap, though.

But Mr. Luzhin braced himself and seemed determined, for the time being, to ignore all these oddities. 'I am very, indeed very sorry to find you in such a condition,' he began again, making an effort to break the silence. 'Had I known of your illness, I would have come earlier. But, you see, so many preoccupations! I have very important business connected with my legal practice at the senate. Not to mention the other anxieties you can well imagine. I'm expecting your mother and sister any hour now...' Raskolnikov stirred and appeared to want to say something; his face showed some agitation. Pyotr Petrovich paused, waited—but when nothing followed, he continued: '...Any hour now. I've managed to secure temporary lodgings for them...' 'Where?' Raskolnikov managed weakly. 'Very close by, the Bakaleyev building...' 'That's on Voznesensky,' Razumikhin interrupted, 'two storeys with numbered apartments; run by the merchant Yushin—I've been there.' 'Yes, apartments, sir...'

If there was indeed something genuinely unpleasant and repulsive in this otherwise fairly handsome and dignified countenance, it arose from altogether different reasons. Having inspected Mr. Luzhin without ceremony, Raskolnikov gave a sarcastic smile, sank back onto the pillow, and resumed staring at the ceiling as before.

He wore a smart summer jacket of light brown, pale trousers, a waistcoat to match, newly purchased fine undergarments, a delicate cambric cravat with pink stripes—and, best of all, the entire ensemble suited Pyotr Petrovich remarkably well. His face, already fresh and even handsome, looked considerably younger than his forty-five years. Dark sideburns, neatly trimmed like two cutlets, framed his cheeks and converged handsomely near his freshly shaven, gleaming chin. Even his hair, only slightly touched with grey, combed and curled at the barber’s, did not strike one as ridiculous or in poor taste—something that often happens with curled hair, as it typically gives the face an inevitable Germanic look, as though heading straight to the altar.

Even a certain self-satisfaction, perhaps bordering on smugness, about his improved appearance could be forgiven on such an occasion, given that he was, after all, in the position of a fiancé. All his clothes were freshly tailored, everything in order except perhaps for being too conspicuously new and clearly indicative of a certain purpose. Even the stylish, brand-new round hat bore witness to this: Pyotr Petrovich handled it with excessive respect and held it too carefully in his hands. Even the exquisite pair of lavender kid gloves spoke the same tale, if only by the fact that they were not being worn but merely carried in hand for show. Pyotr Petrovich’s attire was dominated by light, youthful colours.

Meanwhile, as Raskolnikov turned slightly towards him in reply, he suddenly began to scrutinise him closely once more, with a peculiar curiosity, as though he had not fully taken him in earlier or as though something new in him had struck his attention—indeed, he even deliberately raised himself a little from the pillow for a better look. Certainly, there was something strikingly distinctive in Pyotr Petrovich’s overall appearance—an air that somehow justified the term “bridegroom,” so casually applied to him just now. First of all, it was evident—indeed, overly apparent—that Pyotr Petrovich had hurriedly taken advantage of his few days in the capital to dress up and smarten himself in anticipation of his bride, which, of course, was quite innocent and permissible.

– Your mother, while I was still with them, started writing to you. When I arrived here, I purposely waited several days and didn't come to see you, so as to be perfectly certain that you'd already been informed about everything; but now, to my surprise... – I know, I know! – suddenly muttered Raskolnikov, with an expression of the utmost impatience and annoyance. – So it's you? The fiancé? Well, I know!... and that's enough! Pyotr Petrovich was deeply offended, but he held his peace. He was urgently trying to make sense of what all this could possibly mean. For a minute, silence continued.

He pulled his chair away from the table, creating a small gap between the table and his knees, and waited tensely for the visitor to squeeze through. The moment was timed so precisely that it was impossible to refuse, and the guest scrambled through the narrow opening, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down and glanced uneasily at Razumikhin. "Please, don't stand on ceremony," said the latter bluntly. "Rodya's been ill for five days now, and delirious for three. But today he's come to and even ate with an appetite. This here is his doctor, just finished examining him, and I'm Rodya's mate—used to be a student too—and now I'm helping nurse him. So don't mind us, don't feel awkward, just carry on with what you've come for." "Thank you," said Pyotr Petrovich, turning to Zosimov. "But might my presence and conversation trouble the patient?" "N-no," mumbled Zosimov, "you might even cheer him up," and yawned again.

– Listen, why are you just standing at the door? – Razumikhin suddenly interrupted. – If you've something to say, then sit down. It's too cramped for both of you there with Nastasya. Nastasyushka, move aside and let him through! Come on in, here's a chair—right here! Do come in!

“Yes! I’m Raskolnikov! What do you want?” The visitor looked at him intently and said with dignity: “Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. I have every hope that my name is not entirely unknown to you.” But Raskolnikov, who had been expecting something altogether different, stared at him blankly and thoughtfully, without uttering a word, as though he were hearing Pyotr Petrovich’s name for the very first time. “What? Could it be that you’ve still received no information whatsoever?” asked Pyotr Petrovich, visibly annoyed. In reply, Raskolnikov slowly sank onto the pillow, placed his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. A look of gloom appeared on Luzhin’s face. Zosimov and Razumikhin began to examine him with even greater curiosity, and he clearly began to feel embarrassed. “I had assumed—and indeed counted on it—that my letter, dispatched over ten days ago, almost two weeks now…”

Raskolnikov had been lying the whole time silently on his back, staring fixedly and without thought at the man who entered. His face, now turned away from the curious flower pattern on the wallpaper, was extremely pale and showed signs of intense suffering, as though he had just undergone a painful operation or had been released from torture. But the gentleman who came in gradually began to attract more and more of his attention, then surprise, then suspicion, and even something like fear. When Zosimov, pointing to him, said, "Here is Raskolnikov," he suddenly sat up quickly, almost springing up on the bed, and in a voice that was almost defiant, though broken and weak, he spoke:

“Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, sir—student, or former student?” Zosimov shifted slowly, and might perhaps have answered, had not Razumikhin, to whom the question wasn’t even addressed, promptly cut in: “He’s lying on the sofa right there. What do you want with him?” This blunt, familiar “What do you want with him?” visibly stung the stiff, formal gentleman. He nearly whirled around towards Razumikhin, but managed just in time to restrain himself and quickly turned back to Zosimov instead. “Here’s Raskolnikov,” mumbled Zosimov, nodding toward the sick man, then yawned—opening his mouth unusually wide and holding it that way unusually long. Then, slowly, he reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out an enormous, thick, old-fashioned gold watch with a silent face, flipped it open, glanced at the time, and just as slowly and lazily began putting it away again.

The tense silence lasted about a minute, and then, as might have been expected, a slight change in the scene took place. Perhaps realising, from certain rather obvious signs, that maintaining an overly rigid bearing would get him nowhere in this "cabin," the visitor softened slightly and, speaking politely though still with a touch of sternness, addressed Zosimov, articulating each syllable of his question with precision:

He was a gentleman of advanced years, stiff and dignified in manner, with a cautious and irritable expression, who began by stopping at the doorway, looking around with an offence-laden, undisguised astonishment, as though silently asking with his eyes: "Where on earth have I ended up?" With distrust, and even with an air of exaggerated alarm—perhaps even affront—he surveyed Raskolnikov's cramped, low-ceilinged "cabin." Then, with the same amazement, he turned his gaze upon Raskolnikov himself—undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, lying on his wretched, filthy sofa, staring back at him without moving. Next, slowly, he shifted his eyes to the tousled, unshaven, unkempt figure of Razumikhin, who in turn stared boldly and inquisitively straight back at him, not budging an inch.

– Clever! No, brother, that’s clever. That’s the cleverest part of all! – But why, why? – Because everything fits together too perfectly… and ties up too neatly… just like a play. – Oh! – Razumikhin was about to exclaim, but just then the door opened, and in came a new face, unknown to any of those present.

People might even have seen him, but didn’t pay attention—there are so many people passing by! But he dropped the box from his pocket while standing behind that door and didn’t notice losing it, because he was too tense at the time. And yet the box clearly proves he must have stood right there. That’s the whole point!

— What’s my explanation? Well, what’s there to explain? The facts are clear! At least the direction in which the investigation must proceed is now evident and proven—thanks precisely to the box. The real murderer dropped these earrings. He was upstairs when Koch and Pestryakov knocked, hiding behind the bolt. Koch panicked and went downstairs; that’s when the murderer jumped out and ran down too, since there was no other way out for him. On the staircase, he hid from Koch, Pestryakov, and the caretaker in an empty flat—exactly at the moment when Dmitry and Nikolay ran out of it. He stayed behind the door while the caretaker and the others went upstairs, waited till the footsteps died down, and then calmly walked downstairs—just at the very moment when Dmitry and Nikolay had rushed out into the street, everyone had dispersed, and no one was left under the gateway.

– The very point is, no one saw anything, – answered Razumikhin irritably – and that’s the problem; even Koch and Pestryakov didn’t notice them when they went upstairs, although their testimony wouldn’t be of much value now anyway. 'We saw,' they say, 'that the door was open, so probably some workmen were inside, but we didn’t pay attention as we passed, and can’t clearly remember whether the workers were actually there at that moment or not.' – Hmm. So the only defence they have is that they were beating each other and laughing. Granted, that’s strong evidence, but… Let me ask you now: how do you yourself explain the whole incident? How do you account for the discovery of the earrings, if indeed he found them exactly as he claims?

– It's proven, – replied Razumikhin, frowning and seemingly reluctant. – Koch identified the item and named the pawnbroker, and the pawnbroker clearly confirmed that the item was indeed his. – Not good. Now, one more thing: did anyone happen to see Nikolai during the time when Koch and Pestryakov went upstairs, and can that be proven in any way?

– Of course, it's strange! Of course, impossible, but… – No, brother, not 'but'—if the earrings, found in Nikolay's hands at the same hour and on the same day, indeed constitute a serious factual evidence against him—yet clearly explained by his own statement, and therefore still doubtful—then one must also consider the exonerating facts, especially since they are factual. Now, what do you think—according to the nature of our legal system, will they accept, or are they even capable of accepting, such a fact—one based solely on a psychological impossibility, on nothing more than a state of mind—as an undeniable fact that shatters all incriminating and material evidence, no matter how strong? No, they won't accept it, they simply won't, for they'll say the box was found and the man tried to hang himself—'which couldn't have happened if he hadn't felt guilty!' That, brother, is the crucial point, that's what makes me so agitated! Understand! – Yes, I can see you're worked up. Wait, I forgot to ask: what proves that the box with the earrings was actually taken from the old woman’s chest?

Now pay close attention: the bodies upstairs were still warm, do you hear, still warm, when they were discovered! If they, or only Nikolai, had committed the murder, broken open the trunks and robbed the place, or even taken part in the robbery in any way, let me ask you just one question: does such a state of mind—squealing, laughing, a childish scuffle right under the gateway—match up with axes, blood, villainous cunning, caution, robbery? They must have killed just moments ago, only five or ten minutes earlier—because only then would the bodies still be warm—and yet, instantly abandoning the bodies, leaving the flat wide open, knowing people had already passed by, and leaving behind the loot, they roll about in the street like little children, laughing, drawing everyone’s attention to themselves—and there are ten unanimous witnesses to this!

Listen to me, listen carefully: the watchman, Koch, Pestryakov, another watchman, the first watchman’s wife, the towns-woman who was sitting in the lodge at that very time, and Privy Councillor Kryukov, who at that very moment stepped down from a cab and entered the gateway arm-in-arm with a lady—everyone, that is eight or ten witnesses, unanimously state that Nikolai had Dmitri pinned to the ground, was lying on top of him and beating him, while Dmitri had grabbed him by the hair and was beating him back. They were lying across the road, blocking the passage; people were shouting at them from all sides, yet they, "like little children" (the exact words of the witnesses), lay on top of each other, squealing, fighting and laughing—both laughing wildly, making the funniest faces, chasing each other just like children who’ve rushed out to play in the street. Did you hear that?

– What’s there to think about? There’s a clue, however slight. A fact. Are you going to let your dyer go free? – But they’ve already marked him down as the murderer! They haven’t a shadow of doubt left... – You’re lying; you’re getting heated. Well then, what about the earrings? Admit it yourself—if on the very same day and hour, those earrings from the old woman’s chest ended up in Nikolai’s hands—admit it yourself, they must have got there somehow. That’s no small thing, considering the investigation. – How did they get there? How? – cried Razumikhin. – And can it be, doctor, you, who above all should study human nature, and who have more opportunity than anyone else to understand it—can it be that you don’t see, from all these facts, what sort of person this Nikolai is? Can’t you see at once that everything he stated during questioning is absolutely true? That the earrings came into his hands exactly as he described—stepped on the box and picked it up? – Absolutely true! Yet he himself admitted he lied the first time?

– What happened next? The moment he saw the earrings, he immediately forgot about the apartment and about Mityka, grabbed his hat and ran to Dushkin's, where, as you know, he got a rouble by lying that he'd found them on the pavement, and straight away went on a drinking spree. About the murder, he confirms what he said before: 'Don't know, never heard of it, only heard about it on the third day.' – 'Then why didn't you come forward till now?' – 'Out of fear.' – 'And why did you want to hang yourself?' – 'Because of thoughts.' – 'What thoughts?' – 'That I'd be punished.' Well, that's the whole story. Now, what do you think they made of it?

– Behind the doors? Lying behind the doors? Behind the doors? – suddenly cried Raskolnikov, staring at Razumikhin with a dull, frightened gaze, slowly pushing himself up on the sofa with one hand. – Yes… What is it? What's wrong with you? Why are you like this? – Razumikhin also got to his feet at once. – Nothing!... – Raskolnikov whispered faintly, sinking back onto the pillow and turning away again towards the wall. They all fell silent for a while. – Must've dozed off—just woken up confused, perhaps – said Razumikhin finally, glancing at Zosimov, who gave a slight shake of his head in disagreement. – Well then, go on – Zosimov said – what happened next?

I started gathering things and waited for Mitreya, hoping he’d come. Then near the door in the entranceway, behind the wall, in the corner, I stepped on a box. I look—there it was, wrapped in paper. I removed the paper, saw some tiny hooks, took the hooks off—lo and behold, inside the box were earrings…"

And I’m running after him, shouting at the top of my voice, and as I’m coming down the stairs into the gateway, I crash straight into the sweeper and some gentlemen—I don’t remember how many gentlemen were with him—so the sweeper abused me, another sweeper abused me too, then the sweeper’s wife came out and abused us both, and one gentleman entering the gateway with a lady also scolded us because Mitka and I were lying right across the passage: I had grabbed Mitka by the hair, thrown him down, and started beating him, while Mitka, from underneath, grabbed me by the hair too and started beating me—though we did it not out of malice, but purely in affection, just playing. Then Mitka broke free and ran out onto the street, and I ran after him but couldn’t catch up, so I came back alone to the fatera because we still had to clean up.

– No, I’m not talking about evidence now; I’m talking about the question itself, how they understand their own nature! Well, damn it! So they kept pressing him, pressing him, pushing, pushing, and finally he confessed: "Not on the panel, I found it in the fatera where Mitreya and I were painting." – "What exactly do you mean?" – "Just this: Mitreya and I had been painting the whole day till eight o'clock, and were about to leave, when Mitreya took a brush and smeared paint right across my face – slapped paint on my face and ran off, so I chased after him.

– Well, no, still, there is evidence.

Heard about it for the first time from Afanasy Pavlych, on the third day, at a drinking booth.” – “Where did you get the earrings?” – “Found them on the street.” – “Why didn’t you show up for work with Mithry the next day?” – “Because I went on a drinking spree.” – “Where exactly did you go on this spree?” – “At such and such places.” – “Why did you run away from Dushkin’s?” – “Because we were terribly frightened then.” – “What were you so afraid of?” – “That we’d be sentenced.” – “How could you be afraid like that if you felt you were innocent of anything?” Well, believe it or not, Zosimov, this question was actually asked, and in exactly these words—I know for certain, it was reported to me accurately! What do you say? What do you think?

“Take me,” he told them, “to such-and-such precinct; I’ll confess to everything.” Well, they brought him, with due formalities, to that precinct—here, in fact. So and so, who, how, how old—“twenty-two”—and so on, and so forth. Question: “When you were working with Mithry, did you see anyone going up or down the stairs around such and such a time?” Answer: “Well, people might have passed by, but we didn’t pay attention.” – “Did you hear any noise, any commotion or anything?” – “Didn’t hear anything particularly unusual.” – “Did you, Mikolay, know on that very day that such-and-such a widow was murdered and robbed at such-and-such a time along with her sister?” – “Don’t know, can’t say.

– Stop! Just hear the end! Of course, they ran off in all directions to find Mikolay: Dushkin was arrested and searched, Mithry too; they even ransacked the Kolomenskoye lot—only, suddenly, the day before yesterday, they bring in Mikolay himself: they’d caught him near the Skaya checkpoint, at a roadside inn. He arrived there, took off his silver cross, and asked to exchange it for a glass of vodka. They gave it to him. A little while later, a woman went into the cowshed and saw through a crack that he had tied his belt to a beam in the shed, made a noose, stepped onto a log, and was about to put the noose around his neck. The woman screamed at the top of her voice; people came running. “So this is how it is!” they said.

– Of course! – said Zosimov.