“Ah, Rodion Romanovich, don’t put too much trust in words; maybe it won’t be exactly as said. After all, it’s just theory, and my own at that — and what kind of authority am I to you? Perhaps I’m even hiding a few things from you now. I can’t just lay everything out for you, heh-heh! Another matter: what’s the benefit? Do you know what kind of setback you might face because of this? When will you actually come forward? Think about that! When someone else has already taken the blame and muddled the whole case? But I swear to you by God, I’ll forge and arrange things ‘over there’ so that your coming forward looks completely unexpected. We’ll destroy all that psychology, wipe out all suspicion against you, so your crime will seem like some kind of madness — and honestly, it is madness. I’m an honest man, Rodion Romanovich, and I’ll keep my word.”
Raskolnikov fell silent, his head bowed sadly; he thought for a long time, and finally smiled again, but this smile was gentle and sorrowful.
– I won’t say what, Rodion Romanovich. And anyway, now I have no right to delay any longer; I will go to prison. So you decide: it’s all the same to me, and therefore, I do it only for you. By God, it will be better, Rodion Romanovich! Raskolnikov sneered angrily. – It’s not just funny, it’s downright shameless. Even if I were guilty (which I’m not saying at all), why should I come to you confessing, when you yourself say I’ll end up there anyway?
– Well, yes, secondly? (Raskolnikov was still gasping for breath.)
– Because, as I already said the other day, I feel obliged to explain myself to you. I don’t want you to think of me as a monster, especially since I am genuinely inclined towards you, believe it or not. For this reason, thirdly, I came to you with an open and straightforward proposal – to confess. It will be infinitely more beneficial for you, and also for me – the burden will be off my shoulders. So, tell me honestly, am I being frank or not? Raskolnikov thought for a moment. – Listen, Porfiry Petrovich, you yourself say it’s all psychology, yet you’ve gone into mathematics. Well, what if you’re mistaken now? – No, Rodion Romanovich, I’m not mistaken. I have a certain mark. That mark I found even then; God sent it! – What mark?
And although I will still put you in jail and even came myself (which is not very humane) to tell you everything in advance, I’m telling you straight (also not very humane) that this will not be to my advantage. Well then, secondly, that’s why I came to you…"
"Hey, so what if I’m convinced? After all, all this is still just my dreams for now. And why would I put you there? You know well enough, since you came on your own. For example, I bring someone to accuse you of being a petty bourgeois, and you tell him, ‘Are you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I just took you for drunk, and you were drunk,’ — what can I say to that? Especially since your story sounds even more believable than his, because his statement is just psychology — his face is even shameful to look at — but you hit the mark exactly, because the scoundrel drinks hard liquor and is too well known for it. And I have honestly admitted to you several times already that this psychology has two sides and that the other side is stronger and much more believable, and that besides this, I have nothing against you yet.
“Hey, come on, what’s the use of games now! It would be different if there were witnesses around; but here we are, just the two of us whispering. You see for yourself, I didn’t come to you to chase or catch you like a hare. Whether you confess or not – at this moment, it’s all the same to me. I’m convinced on my own anyway. “Well then, why did you come?” Raskolnikov asked irritably. “I’m asking you the same question as before: if you consider me guilty, why don’t you put me in jail? “Well, that’s a question! I’ll answer you point by point: first of all, it’s not in my interest to arrest you outright. “How is it not in your interest? If you’re convinced, then you must…”
They both fell silent, and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov leaned on the table and silently ruffled his hair with his fingers. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly, waiting. Suddenly, Raskolnikov looked at Porfiry with contempt. "Back to your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich! How do you not get tired of it, honestly?"
"Who killed?..” he muttered, as if unable to believe his own ears, “it was you, Rodion Romanovich! You did kill...,” he added almost in a whisper, with a voice full of certainty. Raskolnikov jumped up from the sofa, stood still for a few seconds, and then sat down again without saying a word. Small convulsions suddenly passed over his face. “Your lip is trembling again, just like before,” Porfiry Petrovich murmured, almost with sympathy. “I think you misunderstood me, Rodion Romanovich,” he added after a short pause, “that’s why you were so surprised. I came exactly to say everything openly and bring this matter to light.”
“It wasn’t me who killed,” Raskolnikov whispered, like frightened little children caught red-handed. “No, it was you, Rodion Romanovich, only you,” Porfiry whispered firmly and with conviction.
These last words, after everything else said that sounded like a renunciation, were too unexpected. Raskolnikov trembled all over, as if struck through. “So… who… killed?..” he asked, unable to bear it, his voice choking. Porfiry Petrovich even recoiled against the back of his chair, as if he too was truly surprised by the question.
He answered some questions quite smoothly—obviously got the needed information, prepared cleverly; but on others he knows absolutely nothing, not a thing, and doesn’t even suspect his ignorance! No, father Rodion Romanovich, this is not Mikolka! This is a fantastic, dark, modern case, a case of our times, when the human heart is clouded; when they quote phrases like ‘blood refreshes’; when life is preached in comfort. Here are bookish dreams, a theoretically irritated heart; here you see determination for the first step, but a special kind of determination—it’s like deciding and then falling from a mountain or a bell tower, not even coming to the crime on one’s own feet. Forgot to close the door behind him, yet killed—killed two, according to theory. Killed but couldn’t take the money, and what he managed to grab he threw under a stone. It wasn’t enough for him that he endured torment while sitting behind the door, with people banging and the doorbell ringing—no, later, in a half-delirium, he comes to remember that bell and needed to feel the cold down his spine again… Well, that’s, let’s say, sickness, but here’s more: he killed, yet considers himself an honest man, despises people, walks like a pale angel—no, this is no Mikolka, dear Rodion Romanovich, this is not Mikolka!”
I know that an artist here took a liking to him, and Mikolka started visiting him—then this incident happened! Well, he got scared—thought of hanging himself! Running away! What to do with the reputation our legal system has among people? Some are terrified just by the word ‘convicted.’ Who’s to blame? Let’s see what the new courts say. Oh, God willing! Then, while in jail, he must have remembered the honest elder; the Bible appeared again too. Do you know, Rodion Romanovich, what ‘to suffer’ means for some of them? It’s not really for someone else, but just ‘to suffer’—to accept suffering, and especially from the authorities. I once had a very humble prisoner in jail for a whole year; at night he read the Bible on the stove and got so absorbed that one day, out of nowhere, he grabbed a brick and threw it at the chief—not out of anger or offense. And how he threw it! He aimed deliberately an inch wide to miss, to cause no harm! But you know what happens to a prisoner who attacks the authorities with a weapon: he ‘accepted the suffering.’ So now I suspect Mikolka wants to ‘accept the suffering’ or something like that. I probably know this from the facts. He just doesn’t know I know. What, you don’t believe that such fantastic people can come from such folk? They do! The elder began acting again, especially after the noose incident. But he’ll tell me everything himself when he comes. You think he’ll hold out? Wait, he’ll still resist! I’m waiting any moment for him to refuse his testimony. I’ve come to like Mikolka and I’m studying him thoroughly. And guess what!
“Mr. Razumikhin!” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, as if relieved by the question from the usually silent Raskolnikov. “He-he-he! That gentleman Razumikhin should definitely have been taken away—two can handle it, but the third only causes trouble. Mr. Razumikhin isn’t quite right, and he’s an outsider, came running to me all pale… But well, never mind him interfering here! Now, about Mikolka—would you like to know what kind of story this is, as I understand it? First of all, he’s still a minor, not exactly a coward, but more like some kind of artist. Honestly, don’t laugh at how I explain it. He’s innocent and sensitive. He has a heart; a dreamer. He sings, dances, and they say he tells stories so well that people come from other places just to listen. He goes to school, laughs till he falls just because someone shows a finger, and drinks till he loses sensibility—not out of vice, but just childishly, when he’s given alcohol in streaks. And that’s when he stole, though he doesn’t even know it himself; so they say, ‘If he picked it up from the ground, what did he steal?’ Do you know he’s from a sect called the Raskolniks—not exactly Raskolniks, but sectarians? His family had fugitives, and until recently he spent two whole years in a village, under the spiritual guidance of some elder. I learned all this from Mikolka and his friends from Zaraisk. And more than that! He just wanted to run away into the wilderness! He was zealous, prayed to God at night, read old ‘true’ books and got obsessed. St. Petersburg affected him badly, especially women, and wine too. He’s impressionable, and forgot both the elder and everything else.
"Razumikhin was just telling me that you still accuse Nikolai and even Razumikhin himself of that..."
He was breathless and stopped short. He listened in indescribable agitation as the man who had seen through him completely was disowning himself. He was afraid to believe it and yet did not believe. In the ambiguous words, he eagerly searched and grasped for something more definite and final.
‘No,’ I thought, ‘I’d better have a dash!’ But when I heard about those little bells, I froze, I even shivered. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘there’s the dash! That’s it!’ I didn’t reason then, I simply didn’t want to. I would have given a thousand roubles right then, my own money, just to see you: how you walked a hundred steps with that petty citizen beside you, after he called you a ‘murderer’ to your face, and you didn’t dare ask him anything for a whole hundred steps! And that coldness in your spine? Those bells ringing in sickness, in half-delirium? So, Rodion Romanovich, is it any wonder I joked with you like that then? And why did you come yourself at that very moment? It seemed as if someone pushed you, I swear, and if Mikolka hadn’t stirred us up, then… and do you remember Mikolka then? Well remembered? It was thunder! Thunder crashing from a cloud, a thunderbolt! And how did I meet him? I didn’t trust the thunderbolt at all — you saw it yourself! No way! Afterwards, after you, when he answered some points quite smoothly, I was surprised myself, but I didn’t trust him for a penny! That’s what it means to become adamant. No, I thought, morgen frei! What Mikolka, indeed!”
Do you remember how Mr. Razumikhin started to tell you things? We arranged that to unsettle you, so we deliberately let the rumour spread so he would speak to you, and Mr. Razumikhin is such a person that he couldn’t stand indignation. What struck Mr. Zametov most was your anger and your boldness looking him straight in the eyes: how could you suddenly blurt out in the tavern: ‘I killed!’ Too bold, too daring, and if, I thought, he is guilty, then he is a fierce fighter! That’s what I thought then. I’m waiting! I’m waiting with all my strength, and you simply crushed Zametov then and… that’s the trick with this cursed psychology cutting both ways! Well, I waited, I watched, and God gave you — you came! That’s when my heart started pounding. Ah! Why did you have to come then? Your laughter, your laughter when you came in — I swear, I guessed everything through the glass at that moment, and if I hadn’t waited for you in that special way, I wouldn’t have noticed anything in your laughter. That’s what it means to be in the right mood. And Mr. Razumikhin then — ah! The stone, the stone, remember, the stone under which the things were hidden? I can still see it somewhere in the garden — you told Zametov it was in the garden, and then to me the second time? Then when we started going over your article, and you began to explain — every word of yours I took twice as seriously, as if something else was hidden beneath! So, Rodion Romanovich, that’s how I got to the last posts and bumped my head, and came to my senses. No, I said, it can’t be me! Because if you want, all this can be explained in another way, even more naturally. Torment!
I’m familiar with all those feelings, and I read your article as something familiar. It was conceived in sleepless nights and frenzy, with a pounding heart and suppressed enthusiasm. And suppressed, proud enthusiasm in youth is dangerous! I mocked it then, but now I tell you: I truly love, as a kind of admirer, that first, youthful, fiery attempt at writing. Smoke, fog, a string vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there shines a sincere spirit in it, youthful and incorruptible pride, the boldness of despair; it’s a dark article, yes, but that’s good. I read your article, set it aside, and thought: ‘No, this person won’t get away with it!’ So, tell me, how could I not get carried away later, after all that? Oh Lord! Am I saying something now? Am I claiming anything? I only noticed back then. What’s here, I thought? Nothing, exactly nothing, and maybe absolutely nothing. And for me to get carried away like that, as an investigator, is quite improper: I have Mikolka in my hands, with facts — facts you can’t deny! And there’s also psychology to consider; we must deal with that — this is a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining all this to you now? So that you know, and with your mind and heart, you won’t accuse me of being cruel in my behaviour back then. Not cruel, I say sincerely, heh-heh! Do you think I didn’t come to search your place then? I did, I did, heh-heh, I did, when you were lying sick in that bed here. Not officially, and not in my own name, but I was there. Every last hair in your apartment was examined, by the earliest traces — but all for nothing! I thought: now this man will come himself, very soon; if he’s guilty, he will definitely come. No one else will, but he will.
“To tell everything in order, how it suddenly began back then, is hardly necessary,” Porfiry Petrovich continued. “I think it might even be superfluous. And I doubt I could explain it properly anyway. How to explain it thoroughly? At first, rumours started. What those rumours were, who spread them, when, and why they even reached you — that, too, I think, is unnecessary. For me personally, it began by chance, a completely accidental chance that could very well have happened or not — what kind? Hmm, I think there’s no need to say. All these rumours and accidents came together in my mind as one thought. To be honest, since we’re confessing, I was the first to attack you back then. Those marks on the old woman’s belongings and so on — all nonsense. You could find hundreds of such things. I also had a chance, quite by accident, to learn details about the scene at the district office — not just casually, but from a special, reliable source who, unknowingly himself, managed to describe the scene remarkably well. All of it matched perfectly, one to one, one to one, Rodion Romanovich, my dear fellow! How could I not turn in the right direction? A hundred rabbits will never make a horse, a hundred suspicions never make proof, as one English proverb says — and that’s just common sense. But try to handle passions — that’s why an investigator is a human being. I even remembered your article in that little magazine, you remember, from your first visit, we talked about it in detail then. I mocked it at the time, but that was to invite you for further talk. I repeat, you are very impatient and troubled, Rodion Romanovich. I already knew you were bold, arrogant, serious and… you felt much, far too much.
Porfiry Petrovich stopped with dignity. Raskolnikov felt a sudden wave of a new kind of fear. The thought that Porfiry might consider him innocent began to frighten him.
– Why do I speak like this? Well, I have come to explain myself, as it were, considering it a sacred duty. I want to tell you everything in full, how it all happened, the whole story of that time, so to say, the dark period. I have made you suffer much, Rodion Romanovich. I am not a villain. I understand well how hard it is for a man burdened with sorrow, yet proud, powerful, and impatient—especially impatient! At least, I consider you a most noble person, even with a touch of generosity, though I do not agree with all your beliefs, which I think it my duty to say openly and with complete sincerity, because first of all, I do not wish to deceive. Knowing you, I felt a certain attachment to you. Perhaps you will laugh at my words? You have every right. I know you did not like me at first sight, and, in truth, there was little reason to. But think as you will; now, from my side, I wish by all means to make amends for the impression I have made and to prove that I too am a man with heart and conscience. I speak sincerely.
“You… why now do you say all this?” Raskolnikov finally muttered, without fully understanding the question. “What is he talking about?” he wondered to himself, “Could he really think I am innocent?”
So, I thought, if the man is guilty, then surely you can expect at least something substantial from him; you can even hope for the most unexpected result. I was counting on your character then, Rodion Romanovich — mostly on your character! I was really hoping in you then.”
“I figured it would be better for us to be straightforward now,” Porfiry Petrovich continued, leaning his head back slightly and lowering his eyes, as if not wanting to embarrass his former victim with his gaze, and seeming to disregard his usual tricks and tactics. “Yes, such suspicions and scenes can’t go on for too long. Back then, Mikolka let us off, otherwise, who knows what might have happened between us. That cursed petty bourgeois sat behind the partition with me — can you imagine that? Of course, you know this already; and I myself know he came to see you afterward. But what you guessed back then, that wasn’t the case: I didn’t send anyone after anyone, nor did I give any other orders at the time. You might ask why I didn’t give any orders? How can I explain — it was like something struck me then. I barely managed to send the sweepers. (You probably noticed the sweepers passing by.) The thought flashed through my mind just once, quickly, like lightning; I was very sure then, Rodion Romanovich. I thought, well, even if I miss one thing for now, at least I’ll catch another by the tail — I won’t miss my own, at least. You are very irritable by nature, Rodion Romanovich; even too much, considering all the other main qualities of your character and heart, which I flatter myself I partly understand. Surely, I could reason even then that it doesn’t always happen that a person just stands up and spills all their secrets to you. It does happen, especially when you push someone to their last limit, but it’s rare. That, too, I could reason. No, I thought, I’d like at least a little sign! Just a tiny little sign, only one, but one that you could really hold in your hands, something real, not just this psychology stuff.
"What does he take me for?" Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and staring wide-eyed at Porfiry.
“I’ve come to explain myself, dear Rodion Romanovich, to explain myself indeed!” he continued with a smile, even lightly tapping Raskolnikov’s knee. But almost at the same moment, his face suddenly took on a serious, troubled expression; as if a shadow of sadness crossed it, much to Raskolnikov’s surprise. He had never before seen or suspected such a look on his face. “A strange scene happened between us last time, Rodion Romanovich. And perhaps there was also a strange scene at our very first meeting; but then… well, now it’s exactly the same! Here’s the thing: maybe I am very much at fault before you; I feel it so. Remember how we parted last time? Your nerves were all on edge and your knees trembling, and mine too, all shaken. And you know, somehow it was even improper between us then, not very gentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, or at least gentlemen above all else; that must be understood. Remember how far it went… it became quite improper indeed.”
– But I actually came by your place the evening three days ago; didn’t you know? – Porfiry Petrovich continued, looking around the room. – I entered this very room. Just like today, I was passing by and thought, let me drop a little visit card. I came in, and the room was wide open; I looked around, waited a bit, and didn’t even tell your servant – then I left. You don’t lock up? Raskolnikov’s face grew darker and darker. Porfiry had clearly guessed his thoughts.
“Well, speak up, speak up,” it seemed as if it wanted to leap out of Raskolnikov’s heart. “So, what is it, why don’t you say anything?”
II
“Those cigarettes, you see!” Porfiry Petrovich finally began, having finished smoking and catching his breath. “Pure harm, nothing but harm, yet I can’t quit! I’ve been coughing, my throat’s sore, and I’m short of breath. You know, I’m a coward—I went to Mr. B the other day; he examines every patient for at least half an hour. He even laughed looking at me: he tapped, he listened, and told me, ‘By the way, tobacco isn’t good for you; your lungs are enlarged.’ But how can I give it up? What else can I use? I don’t drink, and that’s the whole trouble, ha-ha-ha, not drinking is the real problem! Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovich, everything is relative!”
“What’s this? Is he going back to his old official ways?” Raskolnikov thought with disgust. The whole recent scene of their last meeting suddenly came back to him, and that feeling swept over his heart like a wave.
"Please, have a seat, Porfiry Petrovich, please," Raskolnikov invited his guest, with such a seemingly satisfied and friendly expression that, honestly, he would have been surprised at himself if he could have looked. The consequences, scoundrels were clawing their way out! Sometimes a person can endure half an hour of mortal fear with a robber, but when they finally press a knife to his throat, even fear disappears. He sat down right in front of Porfiry and stared at him without blinking. Porfiry squinted and began to light a cigarette.
But just as he opened the door to the hallway, he suddenly came face to face with Porfiry himself. Porfiry was coming in. Raskolnikov was stunned for a moment. Strange, he was not very surprised by Porfiry and hardly frightened at all. He only shuddered but quickly, instantly got ready. "Could this be the climax! But how did he come so quietly, like a cat, and I didn’t hear a thing? Was he eavesdropping?"
“Not expecting a guest, Rodion Romanovich,” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, laughing. “I’ve been meaning to drop by for a while, passing by and thought – why not come in for five minutes to visit? Are you going somewhere? I won’t keep you long. Just one cigarette, if you don’t mind.”
"I must finish with Svidrigailov," he thought, "and whatever it takes, as soon as possible: it seems this one is also waiting for me to come to him." And at that moment, such hatred suddenly rose from his weary heart that perhaps he could kill one of these two: Svidrigailov or Porfiry. At least, he felt that if not now, then later he would be capable of it. "We shall see, we shall see," he repeated to himself.
And what a thing! Even Razumikhin had started to suspect! The scene in the corridor, by the lamp, was not in vain. There he rushed to Porfiry... But why on earth was this man treating him so arrogantly? What was his purpose in diverting Razumikhin’s attention from Mikolka? He surely had some plan; there was intention, but what exactly? True, a lot of time had passed since that morning—too much time—and there was no sign or word of Porfiry. Well, that was certainly worse... Raskolnikov took his cap and, deep in thought, left the room. For the first time during all this, he felt, at least, in a sane state of mind.
So, Porfiry himself was explaining to Razumikhin—he was explaining! Again, he started with his cursed psychology! Porfiry? For Porfiry to believe even for a minute that Mikolka was guilty, after what had passed between them then, after that scene, just the two of them, a scene about Mikolka that could not be properly interpreted except one way... (During those days, fragments of that whole scene with Porfiry kept flashing through Raskolnikov’s mind; overall, he could hardly bear the memory). At that time, such words were spoken between them, such movements and gestures happened, they exchanged such looks, something was said in such a tone, reaching such limits, that after all that, neither Mikolka (whom Porfiry had known by heart from the very first word and gesture) nor Mikolka could shake the very foundation of Porfiry’s beliefs.
Yes, so there is a way out! Everything had become so stuck and blocked up, it was painfully pressing, some kind of numbness was taking over. Starting from the scene with Mikolka at Porfiry’s place, he began to suffocate, feeling trapped and cramped. After Mikolka, on the very same day, there was the scene with Sonya; he carried it through and finished it completely, completely unlike how he might have imagined it before… he weakened, suddenly and completely! All at once! And he even agreed with Sonya then, agreed himself, agreed with his heart, that he could not live alone with such a burden on his soul! And what about Svidrigailov? Svidrigailov is a mystery… Svidrigailov troubles him, true, but not from that side. Maybe there is still a struggle ahead with Svidrigailov as well. Svidrigailov might also be a whole new kind of way out; but Porfiry’s case is something different.
He remembered and realized everything about Dunya, and his heart stopped. He sprang up and ran. As soon as Razumikhin left, Raskolnikov stood up, turned to the window, pressed himself into one corner, then another, as if forgetting the crampedness of his little room, and... sat back down on the sofa. He seemed renewed; the struggle was on again – which meant a way out had been found!
There must be something in it too. Who is this letter from? I suspect… Hmm. No, I will find out everything.”
“This is, this is a political conspirator, it surely is, surely!” Razumikhin finally decided to himself, slowly going down the stairs. “And he involved his sister; that very well could be, knowing Avdotya Romanovna’s character. They started meeting… And she also hinted at it to me. From many of her words… and little phrases… and hints, it all comes out exactly like that! And how else to explain all this confusion? Hmm! And I had thought… Oh God, what was I thinking. Yes, it was a lapse, and I’m to blame for it! It was he by the lamp, in the corridor, who cast that eclipse on me. Ugh! What a vile, crude, mean thought from my side! Well done, Mikolka, for confessing… And now everything from before makes sense! His illness back then, all his strange actions, even earlier, back at university, how gloomy and sullen he always was… But what does this letter mean now?
"Please tell me, where did you find this out, and why are you so interested?" Raskolnikov asked, visibly agitated. "Ah, why wouldn’t I be interested! You ask!.. I heard it from Porfiry, among others. In fact, I learned almost everything from him."
"From Porfiry?"
"From Porfiry."
"And what... what did he say?" Raskolnikov asked nervously. "He explained it to me very clearly. Psychologically, in his own way."
"He explained? He himself explained it to you?"
"Yes, yes; that’s right! I’ll tell you some more later, but I have business now. There was a time when I thought… Well, never mind; later!.. Why should I get drunk now? You’ve made me drunk without wine. I’m drunk, Rodion! Drunk without wine now, but goodbye; I’ll come by soon."
He left.
It sounds more believable… But me—I was the one who got caught! I was defending them to the end!
— By the way! Remember that murder case, you know, Porfiry—the old lady? Well, the killer has been found, he confessed himself and provided all the evidence. It’s one of those workers, the dyers, can you believe it? Remember, I was defending them here? Believe it or not, that whole scene with the fight and laughter on the stairs, with his friend, when they were climbing up—the sweeper and two witnesses—he arranged it all deliberately, just to mislead. What a cunning trick, what presence of mind in such a young fellow! Hard to believe, right? But he explained everything himself, confessed fully! And how badly I was fooled! Well, to me, that’s just genius in pretending and quick thinking, a genius in legal misdirection—so there’s nothing really surprising! Can’t such people exist? And since he couldn’t keep his nerve and confessed, I actually trust him even more.
– She received a letter today, and it troubled her deeply. Very much. Even too much. I mentioned you – she asked me to keep quiet. Then… then she said that perhaps we would part very soon, then she thanked me warmly for something; after that, she went to her room and locked the door. – She received a letter? – Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully. – Yes, a letter; didn’t you know? Hmm. They both fell silent. – Farewell, Rodion. Brother… there was a time… but anyway, farewell, you see, there was a time… Well, farewell! It’s time for me too. I won’t drink. No need now… you’re lying! He was in a hurry; but just as he was leaving and almost closing the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again and said, looking off to one side:
"So Avdotya Romanovna comes to you," he said, pronouncing the words carefully, "and you yourself want to meet with a person who says that the air needs more air, and... and, so, this letter... it’s also something of the same kind," he concluded to himself. "What letter?"
– Rodka… You see… Well… Ah, damn it! But where do you want to go? Look: if all this is a secret, then let it be! But I… I will find out the secret… And I’m sure it’s some nonsense and terrible trifles, and that you started it all alone. But still, you are an excellent person! An excellent person!.. – And I was just going to add to that, but you interrupted me—you said you judged very well recently that these secrets and mysteries should not be known. Leave it for the time being, don’t worry. You will learn everything in its time, exactly when it should be. Yesterday, someone told me that a person needs air, fresh air! I want to go to him now and find out what he means by that. Razumikhin stood there, thoughtful and agitated, trying to figure something out. “This is a political conspirator! Surely! And he is on the eve of some decisive step—that’s certain! It can’t be otherwise, and… and Dunya knows…” he suddenly thought to himself.
– Well now! Wherever I go, whatever happens to me, you would remain their guardian. I am, so to speak, entrusting them to you, Razumikhin. I say this because I absolutely know how much you love her, and I am convinced of the purity of your heart. I also know that she might love you too, and perhaps even already does. Now you decide for yourself, as you know best – whether you should drink to that or not.
– So, what do you want to do now? – What’s it to you what I want to do now? – Look, you’re going to start drinking again! – Why… how did you find out? – Oh, come on! Razumikhin was silent for a minute. – You have always been a very sensible man, and never, never were you crazy, – he suddenly said with passion. – It’s true: I will start drinking! Goodbye! – And he began to walk away. – I was talking about you the other day, I think, with my sister, Razumikhin. – About me! Yes… where could you have seen her the other day? – Razumikhin suddenly stopped, even turned a little pale. You could guess his heart was slowly beating hard in his chest. – She came here, alone, sat here, and spoke with me. – She! – Yes, her. – What did you say… I mean, about me? – I told her that you are a very good, honest, and hardworking man. That you love her, I didn’t say, because she already knows that herself. – She knows herself?
I just came to scold you — to clear my mind — and now I know what I must do!
She said, “I see he has time for her.” She believes that it’s Sofya Semyonovna, your fiancée or lover, I don’t know. I was about to go to Sofya Semyonovna right away, brother, because I wanted to find out everything — but when I arrived, I saw a coffin standing there, children crying. Sofya Semyonovna was fitting them with mourning clothes. You weren’t there. I looked, apologized, and left, and told Avdotya Romanovna. So all this is nonsense, and there’s no such person — most likely it’s madness. But here you sit eating boiled beef as if you haven’t eaten for three days. Well, madmen eat too, but even though you didn’t say a word to me, you… you’re not mad! I swear on that. First of all, you’re not mad. So, to hell with all of you, because there’s some kind of secret, some mystery; but I’m not going to rack my brains over your secrets.
— Right now. And you haven’t seen him since then? Where have you been wandering around? Please tell me, I’ve come to see you three times already. Mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She wanted to come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. She said, “If he is sick, if his mind is troubled, who else will help him but his mother?” We all came here together, because we can’t just leave her alone. We begged her to calm down right outside your door. We came in, but you weren’t here; she just sat there. She sat for ten minutes, and we stood silently around her. Then she got up and said, “If he goes out into the yard, that means he’s well and has forgotten his mother. It’s improper and shameful for a mother to stand at the doorstep asking for affection like charity.” She went back home and fell ill; now she has a fever.
– Have you seen them recently?
I admit, I was also inclined to believe it, firstly because of your foolish and partly shameful actions, which can’t be explained, and secondly, because of your recent behaviour with your mother and sister. Only a scoundrel or a villain, if not mad, could act like you did towards them; so, it follows, you are mad…”
“Ah! So, you are not ill, then!” Razumikhin said, took a chair, and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov. He was worried and did not try to hide it. He spoke with visible annoyance, but without rushing or raising his voice much. One might think he had some particular and even exceptional intention. “Listen,” he began firmly, “I don’t care about all that devilry with you and everyone else, but from what I see now, it’s clear I can’t understand anything; please don’t think I came here to interrogate you. I don’t care! I don’t want to! Now, you can open up and tell all your secrets, but maybe I won’t even listen—I might just spit and walk away. I came only to find out personally and finally: first, is it true that you are mad? There’s a belief about you (somewhere, you see) that you might be crazy or close to it.
He remembered that Kateryna Ivanovna's funeral was scheduled for that day, and he felt relieved that he had not attended it. Nastasya brought him some food; he ate and drank with great appetite, almost greedily. His mind was clearer, and he himself was calmer than he had been in the past three days. He even briefly wondered at the earlier waves of his panic. The door opened, and Razumikhin entered.
However, he immediately realized that it wasn’t just this that troubled him; there was something demanding urgent resolution, something neither clear to his mind nor expressible in words. Everything felt tangled up in a knot. “No, it would be better to have some struggle! Better Porfiry again… or Svidrigailov… Let there be some challenge soon, someone’s attack… Yes! Yes!” he thought. He left the eatery and almost ran away. The thought of Dunya and his mother suddenly brought on a kind of panic fear. That very night, before dawn, he woke up trembling with fever in the bushes on Krestovsky Island; he went home and arrived early in the morning. After a few hours of sleep, the fever passed, but he woke up late—around two in the afternoon.
Sometimes he went out of town, walked on a big road, once even entered a grove; but the more secluded the place, the stronger he felt some close and anxious presence—not exactly frightening, but deeply disturbing—so he quickly returned to the city, mingled with crowds, entered taverns and pubs, went to the bustling market and Sennaya Square. It felt easier there, even more solitary in a strange way. In one eatery, before evening, songs were being sung; he sat for a whole hour listening and remembered that he even felt very pleased. But by the end, he suddenly became restless again; as if pangs of conscience began to torment him: “Here I sit listening to songs—is that what I should be doing?” he seemed to think.
Suddenly, she took both his hands and rested her head on his shoulder. This brief gesture even startled Raskolnikov with its unexpectedness; strange that there was no hint of disgust, no slightest shudder in her hand! It was some kind of endless self-humiliation, at least that’s how he understood it. Sonya said nothing. Raskolnikov shook her hand and left. He felt unbearably heavy inside. If only he could leave somewhere at that moment and be completely alone, even for a lifetime, he would have felt happy. But the thing was, lately, although he was almost always alone, he could never feel truly alone.
He stood in the doorway. The service was beginning—quiet, solemn, and sorrowful. Since childhood, the awareness of death and the feeling of its presence had always weighed heavily and mystically upon him; besides, he hadn’t heard a requiem for a long time. Yet there was something else here, something too dreadful and unsettling. He looked at the children: all of them knelt by the coffin, Polechka was crying. Behind them, quietly and almost timidly weeping, Sonya prayed. “And she hasn’t looked at me once these days, nor said a word to me,” Raskolnikov suddenly thought. The sun brightly lit the room; incense smoke rose in thick curls; the priest was reading “Rest in peace, Lord.” Raskolnikov stayed through the entire service. As the priest blessed and said goodbye, he glanced around somewhat oddly. After the service, Raskolnikov approached Sonya.
He suddenly stepped aside to let a priest and a church assistant coming up the stairs pass by. They were going to perform a memorial service. By Svidrigailov’s orders, the memorial prayers were held twice a day, with care. Svidrigailov went on his way. Raskolnikov stood for a moment, thought, and then followed the priest into Sonia’s apartment.
– Oh no, Rodion Romanovich, why do you seem so unlike yourself? Truly! You listen and watch, but it feels as if you don’t understand. Cheer up. Let’s have a talk: it’s just a pity there’s so much work, both others’ and your own… Ah, Rodion Romanovich, – he added suddenly, – every person needs air, air, air… above all!
At their last meeting, Svidrigailov told Raskolnikov that he had somehow taken care of Katerina Ivanovna’s children, and successfully so; that, thanks to some connections, he had found people who could place the three orphans immediately in quite respectable institutions; that the money set aside for them also helped a lot, since it is much easier to place orphans with capital than poor orphans. He said something about Sonia too, promising to visit Raskolnikov himself one of these days, and mentioned that “he wished to consult; that it was very necessary to talk, that there were some matters…”
This conversation took place in the hallway, near the stairs. Svidrigailov looked intently into Raskolnikov’s eyes and suddenly, after a pause and lowering his voice, asked:
What troubled him most was Svidrigailov; one might even say that he was fixated on Svidrigailov. Since those too threatening and too clearly expressed words of Svidrigailov, in Sonia’s apartment, at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna’s death, the usual flow of his thoughts seemed to have been disturbed. Yet, despite how much this new fact worried him, Raskolnikov did not rush to clarify the matter. Sometimes, suddenly finding himself in some remote and quiet part of the city, in a shabby roadside inn, sitting alone at a table, deep in thought and barely remembering how he got there, he would suddenly recall Svidrigailov: it became too clear and disturbing to him that he should come to some understanding with this man as soon as possible and, perhaps, settle things once and for all. Once, having gone somewhere beyond the checkpoint, he even imagined that Svidrigailov was waiting there and that they had arranged to meet. Another time, he woke up before dawn on the ground among bushes, hardly understanding how he had wandered there. However, in those two or three days following Katerina Ivanovna’s death, he had already met Svidrigailov twice, almost always at Sonia’s apartment, where he would come without any clear purpose but stay only briefly. They exchanged only brief words and never spoke about the main point, as if it was implicitly agreed between them to remain silent on the matter for the time being. Katerina Ivanovna’s body still lay in the coffin. Svidrigailov was arranging the funeral and taking care of things. Sonia was very busy as well.
But he also remembered moments, hours, and perhaps even days filled with apathy, which took hold of him almost in opposition to his previous fear – an apathy resembling the painfully indifferent state of some dying people. Overall, in those last days, he seemed to try to escape from a clear and full understanding of his situation; some urgent facts requiring immediate explanation especially weighed on him. Yet how gladly he would have freed himself and fled from other worries, the forgetting of which, however, threatened complete and inevitable ruin in his position.
For Raskolnikov, a strange time had come: it was as if a fog suddenly fell before him, enclosing him in a hopeless and heavy solitude. Remembering that time later, long after, he guessed that his consciousness sometimes seemed to dim, and that this continued, with some intervals, until the final catastrophe. He was firmly convinced that he had been mistaken in many ways then, for example, about the timing and dates of certain events. At least, when recalling and trying to make sense of what he remembered, he learned a lot about himself, guided by information received from others. He confused one event with another, for example; he considered another as a consequence of an incident that existed only in his imagination. Sometimes, he was overcome by a painfully tormenting anxiety that even turned into panic.
“I,” Svidrigailov continued, shaking with laughter, “can honestly assure you, dear Rodion Romanovich, that you have truly piqued my interest. I told you we would meet again, I predicted it—and here we are. And you will see what a well-put-together man I am. You’ll see that one can still live with me…”
Malborough s’en va-t-en guerre,
Ne sait quand reviendra… —
Cinq sous, cinq sous,
Pour monter notre ménage…
Cinq sous, cinq sous…
Part Six
I
He said this with a kind of cheerful slyness, without taking his eyes off Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov turned pale and felt a chill as he heard his own words spoken to Sonia. He quickly stepped back and stared wildly at Svidrigailov. “Ho-how… do you know?” he whispered, barely catching his breath. “Well, I’m here, just through the wall, standing by Madam Resslich’s place. Here is Kapernau, and there is Madam Resslich, an old and very loyal friend. Neighbours, you see.”
“You?”
– I’ll take care of all this fuss, the funeral and everything. You know, if only there was money—I did tell you I have some extra. I’ll place these two little ones and little Polya in some better orphanages and set aside fifteen hundred rupees each until they come of age, so that Sofia Semenovna can rest easy. And I’ll pull her out of the mire too; she’s a good girl, isn’t she? Well then, please tell Avdotya Romanovna that I’ve used her ten thousand rupees just like that. – What made you so generous? – asked Raskolnikov. – Eh! Such a distrustful man! – Svidrigailov laughed. – I told you, this money is extra for me. But you just can’t accept it on simple human grounds, can you? She wasn’t some scoundrel (he pointed to the corner where the deceased lay), not some old moneylender woman. Come on, admit it—should Luzhin really be allowed to live and do his nasty deeds, or should she die? And if I hadn’t helped, well, Polya would’ve ended up the same way… walking the same path.
He stepped over to the window. Lebezyatnikov rushed up to him. "She’s dead!" said Lebezyatnikov. "Rodion Romanovich, I have two important words to say to you," Svidrigailov approached. Lebezyatnikov immediately gave way and quietly withdrew. Svidrigailov led the surprised Raskolnikov further away into a corner.
“Enough!.. It’s time!.. Goodbye, poor soul!.. The old nag is gone!.. She’s worn out!” she cried out desperately and with hatred, then collapsed face-first onto the pillow. She lost consciousness again, but this last lapse didn’t last long. Her pale-yellow, withered face tilted backward, her mouth opened, and her legs stretched out spasmodically. She took a deep, deep breath—and died. Sonya fell onto her lifeless body, embraced her with her arms, and froze like that, resting her head on the deceased’s shriveled chest. Polechka knelt at her mother’s feet, kissing them and weeping bitterly. Kolya and Lenya, not yet understanding what had happened but sensing something terrible, grabbed each other’s shoulders tightly, stared into each other’s eyes, then suddenly opened their mouths and began to scream together. Both were still in their costumes: one wearing a turban, the other in a fur hat with an ostrich feather. And how did this “commendation certificate” suddenly end up on the bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay right there, by the pillow; Raskolnikov had seen it.
Your Excellency! — she suddenly screamed with a piercing cry, bursting into tears, — protect the orphans! Knowing the bread and salt of the late Semen Zakharych!.. One could even say aristocratic!.. Gah! — she shuddered suddenly, coming to her senses and looking around with some horror, but immediately recognized Sonya. — Sonya, Sonya! — she spoke gently and kindly, as if surprised to see her there, — Sonya, dear, are you here too? They lifted her up again.
“I say to him: ‘Your Excellency!..’” she shouted, catching her breath after each word, “this is Amalia Ludwigovna… ah! Lenya, Kolya! Hands on hips, faster, faster, glissade-glissade, pas de basque! Tap your feet… Be a graceful child. Du hast Diamanten und Perlen…
What comes next? If only I could sing…
Du hast die schönsten Augen,
Mädchen, was willst du mehr? Yes, of course! Was willst du mehr – what a silly thing to say!.. Oh yes, here’s more:
In the midday heat, in the valley of Dagestan…
Oh, how I loved… I adored this romance, Polechka!.. you know, your father… he used to sing it when he was a fiancé… Oh, those days!.. If only, if only we could sing it! But how, how… I forgot… please remind me, how does it go? – She was extremely excited and was trying to sit up straighter. At last, with a terrible, hoarse, breaking voice, gasping at every word, she began, with an expression of growing fear:
In the midday heat!.. in the valley!.. of Dagestan!.. With lead in the chest!..
– What? A priest?.. No need… Where do you have an extra ruble?.. I have no sins on me!.. God must forgive anyway… He knows how much I have suffered!.. And if He doesn’t forgive, then so be it!.. Restless delirium was taking hold of her more and more. Sometimes she would shudder, look around with wide eyes, recognize everyone for a moment; but immediately her consciousness would slip back into delirium. She breathed hoarsely and with difficulty, as if something was bubbling in her throat.
They talked about the doctor and the priest. Although the official whispered to Raskolnikov that maybe the doctor was no longer necessary, he still ordered for one to be sent. Kapernaumov himself ran off. Meanwhile, Katerina Ivanovna had caught her breath, and for a moment the blood receded. She looked with a painful, yet keen and penetrating gaze at pale, trembling Sonya, who was wiping the drops of sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief; finally, she asked to be helped to sit up. They seated her on the bed, supporting her on both sides. “Where are the children?” she asked in a weak voice. “Did you bring them, Polya? Oh, you foolish ones! Why did you rush like that… Oh!”
Blood still stained her dry lips. She glanced around, looking about:
“So this is how you live, Sonya! I have never been to see you… until now…”
She looked at her with suffering:
“We have drained you, Sonya… Polya, Lenya, Kolya, come here… Here they are, Sonya, all of them, take them… from hand to hand… as for me, enough! The game is over! Ha!.. Put me down, let me at least die in peace…”
They laid her back on the pillow again.
Raskolnikov looked at him in surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not recalling seeing him in the crowd.
Thanks to the efforts of the clerk, the matter was settled; even the constable helped carry Katerina Ivanovna. They brought her into Sonya’s room almost lifeless and laid her on the bed. The bleeding was still ongoing, but she seemed to be starting to regain consciousness. Everyone entered the room at once, except Sonya: Raskolnikov and Lebezyatnikov, the clerk, and the constable, who had first dispersed the crowd, some of whom had accompanied them right to the door. Polenka led in Kolya and Lenya, holding their hands; they were trembling and crying. Also came the Kapernaum family: the man himself, lame and crooked, a strange-looking person with bristly, upright hair and sideburns; his wife, who always looked somewhat frightened; and several of their children, with faces stiffened by constant surprise and mouths open. Suddenly, among all these people appeared Svidrigailov.
“Good Lord, save us!” said a woman, crossing herself. “Did they catch the little girl and the boy? Look, they’re bringing her, the elder one has taken hold… See, the poor thing!”
But when they looked closely at Katerina Ivanovna, they saw that she hadn’t hit a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood staining the pavement was pouring from her throat. “I know this, I’ve seen it,” muttered a clerk to Raskolnikov and Lebezyatnikov, “it’s consumption; the blood just gushes like that and chokes you. I was with a relative recently who was like this, and suddenly it was like a glass and a half… What can you do, she’ll die soon, I’m afraid.”
“Here, here, to me!” Sonia begged, “I live right here! This house, the second one from here… Come to me, quickly, quickly!” she ran to everyone. “Send for a doctor… Oh Lord!”
Everyone gathered, crowding closely around. Raskolnikov and Lebezyatnikov were the first to run up; the clerk hurried as well, followed by the policeman, who grumbled, "Eh-ma!" and waved his hand, sensing this would turn into a troublesome matter. "Move back! Move back!" he shouted to the pressing crowd. "He's dying!" someone cried out. "She's gone mad!" another said.
“Kind sir, kind sir, you know nothing!” shouted Katerina Ivanovna. “We will go to Nevsky—Sonya, Sonya! Where is she? She’s crying too! What’s wrong with all of you? Kolya, Lenya, where are you going?” she suddenly cried out in fear. “Oh, foolish children! Kolya, Lenya, where are they going?”
It happened that Kolya and Lenya, terrified to the utmost by the street crowd and their disturbed mother’s outbursts, when they finally saw a soldier who wanted to take them somewhere, suddenly, as if by agreement, grabbed each other’s hands and ran away. Poor Katerina Ivanovna rushed after them, screaming and crying. It was painful and heartbreaking to see her running, crying, struggling to catch her breath. Sonya and Polechka ran after her. “Stop them, Sonya! Oh, foolish, ungrateful children! Polya, catch them… It’s for your sake I am doing this…”
She stumbled while running and fell. “She’s bleeding! Oh God!” Sonya cried, bending over her.
– To have a barrel organ, you need permission, and you’re disturbing the people just like that. Where do you intend to stay? – What permission! – shouted Katerina Ivanovna. – I just buried my husband today, what permission is there! – Madam, madam, please calm down, – the official began, – come, I will see you off… It’s improper here in the crowd… you are unwell…
“Thank you, kind sir,” she began haughtily, “the reasons that brought us here… take the money, Polechka. You see, there are noble and generous people, always ready to help a poor noblewoman in distress. You see, kind sir, noble orphans, one might even say with the most aristocratic connections… And that little general sat there eating hazel grouse… stamping his feet because I disturbed him… ‘Your Excellency,’ I said, ‘protect the orphans, I know well the late Semen Zakharich, and since his own daughter was slandered on the day of his death by the vilest of scoundrels…’ And again that soldier! Protect us!” she shouted at the official, “why is that soldier bothering me? We fled from one place to this from Meshchanskaya… what business is it of yours, fool!”
“That’s why it’s forbidden on the streets. Please don’t cause a disturbance.”
“You’re the one causing trouble! I roam around like a street performer anyway, what business is it of yours?”
Indeed, the policeman was making his way through the crowd. At the same time, a gentleman in a waistcoat and overcoat, a respectable official of about fifty years old, with a medal around his neck (this pleased Katerina Ivanovna very much and influenced the policeman), approached and silently handed Katerina Ivanovna a three-ruble green credit note. His face showed sincere compassion. Katerina Ivanovna accepted it and bowed to him politely, even ceremoniously.
Khi-khi-khi! (And she burst into a fit of coughing.) “Fix your dress, Polya, your shoulders have slipped down,” she said between coughs, catching her breath. “Now more than ever, you must carry yourself properly and gracefully so everyone can see you are children of noble birth. I told you back then that the bodice should be cut longer, and with two layers of fabric. But you, Sonya, with your advice: ‘Shorter and shorter,’ and see what happened—you’ve completely spoiled the child’s appearance... Oh, you’re all crying again! What’s wrong with you, silly girls! Well, Kolya, start quickly, quickly, quickly—oh, what an unbearable child!”
Soldier again! What do you want now?
At first, she started to sing... – But no, better "Cinq sous"! Well, Kolya, hands on hips, quickly now, and you, Lenya, spin the other way, while Polechka and I will sing along and clap!
We must sing something much nobler… Well, what have you thought of, Polya? At least help your mother! I have no memory, I would remember otherwise! Not ‘The Hussar Leaning on His Saber,’ really! Oh, let’s sing in French ‘Cinq sous’! I taught you, I did. And mainly, since it’s in French, they will see at once you are noble children, and it will be much more touching… We could even sing ‘Malborough s’en va-t-en guerre,’ since it’s a simple children’s song and used in all aristocratic homes to lull children to sleep.”
“A boarding house, ha-ha-ha! Fine drums beyond the hills!” exclaimed Katerina Ivanovna, bursting into laughter and then coughing hard. “No, Rodion Romanovich, that dream is over! Everyone has abandoned us!.. And that little general… You know, Rodion Romanovich, I threw an inkpot at him,” she said, pointing to the butler’s room where the inkpot still stood on the table beside the paper they had signed—and I signed too—I threw it and ran away. Oh, the scoundrels, the scoundrels. But I don’t care now; I’ll feed them myself, and bow to no one! We’ve tormented her enough!” (She pointed at Sonya.) “Polya, how much have we collected? Show me? What? Only two kopecks? Oh, nasty people! They give nothing, only chase us around sticking out their tongues! Why is that fool laughing?” (She pointed at someone in the crowd.) “It’s because that Kolya is so slow-witted, it’s a bother with him! What do you want, Polya? Speak to me in French, parlez-moi français. I taught you, didn’t I? You know a few phrases! Otherwise, how else will they know you come from a noble family, well-bred children, and are not like all those street performers; we don’t imagine some ‘Petrushka’ on the streets, but will sing a noble romance… Ah yes! But what should we sing? You keep interrupting me, and we… you see, we stopped here, Rodion Romanovich, to choose what to sing—something Kolya can even dance to… so all this is without preparation; we need to agree and rehearse perfectly before going to Nevsky, where there are many more high society people who will notice us immediately: Lenya knows ‘The Little Farmstead’… But it’s always ‘The Little Farmstead’ and everyone sings it!
And she, almost crying herself (which did not stop her continuous and relentless fast talking), pointed to the whimpering children. Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to turn back and even said, hoping to appeal to her pride, that it was improper for her to walk the streets like an organ grinder, because she was preparing herself to be the headmistress of a respectable girls' boarding school…
“Stop it, Sonya, stop!” she shouted quickly, hurrying, gasping, and coughing. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for, just like a child! I already told you, I won’t go back to that drunk German woman. Let everyone see, all of Petersburg, how the children of a noble father, who served faithfully all his life and, you could say, died in service, beg for alms.” (Katerina Ivanovna had already made up this story for herself and believed it blindly.) “Let that worthless little general see it. And you’re foolish, Sonya: what’s there to eat now, tell me? We’ve tormented you enough, I don’t want to anymore! Ah, Rodion Romanovich, it’s you!” she cried out, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing to him. “Please explain to this silly girl that there’s nothing smarter to do! Even street musicians manage to earn something, but everyone will immediately recognize us, know that we are a poor noble family of orphans brought to poverty. And that little general will lose his position, you’ll see! We will go to his window every day, and when the master passes by, I will kneel down, put them all in front, and point at them: ‘Protect us, father!’ He is the father of orphans, he is merciful, he will protect us, you’ll see. But that little general… Lena! Stand up straight! You, Kolya, you will dance again now. Why are you whining? Whining again! What, what are you afraid of, silly boy! Oh Lord! What am I to do with them, Rodion Romanovich! If only you knew how senseless they are! What can you do with such people!..”
Polechka wore her usual little dress. She looked at her mother timidly and lost, not leaving her side, hiding her tears, sensing her mother’s madness, and nervously looking around. The street and the crowd had terrified her terribly. Sonya followed Katerina Ivanovna closely, crying and begging her every minute to come back home. But Katerina Ivanovna was relentless.
But instead of banging a pan, Katerina Ivanovna began clapping her dry palms in rhythm when she made Polechka sing and Lenya and Kolya dance; she even joined in singing herself, but each time she broke off on the second note with a painful cough, which threw her into despair again, cursing her cough, and even crying. What upset her most was the crying and fear of Kolya and Lenya. Indeed, there had been an attempt to dress the children in costumes like street singers and performers do. The boy wore something red with a white turban to look like a Turk. There were not enough costumes for Lenya; he only wore a red knitted cap made from tarpaulin (or rather a small bonnet) that had belonged to the late Semen Zakharych, with a broken piece of a white ostrich feather stuck in it — a family heirloom kept in Katerina Ivanovna’s chest since her grandmother’s time.
She would rush at the children, shout at them, persuade them, teach them right there in front of the crowd how to dance and what to sing, begin explaining to them why it was necessary, fall into despair over their dullness, and sometimes even strike them… Then, without finishing, she would turn to the crowd; if she noticed a well-dressed person stopping to look, she immediately started explaining to him how the children of this “noble, one might even say aristocratic family” had come to such a state. If she heard laughter or some teasing words from the crowd, she would jump on the bold ones and start scolding them. Some really did laugh, others shook their heads; everyone was curious to see the madwoman with the frightened children. The frying pan that Lebezyatnikov talked about was not there; at least Raskolnikov did not see it.
By the roadside ditch, not far from the bridge and about two houses away from the place where Sonya lived, a small crowd had gathered. Especially boys and girls rushed over. The hoarse, strained voice of Katerina Ivanovna could be heard even from the bridge. Indeed, it was a strange sight that caught the attention of the street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna, in her old dress, a worn-out shawl, and a broken straw hat, hanging in a messy lump to one side, was truly in a state of frenzy. She was tired and gasping for breath. Her worn, consumptive face looked more anguished than ever before (besides, out in the sun, a person with consumption always seems more ill and disfigured than at home); yet her agitation did not cease, and with every passing minute, she grew even more irritable.
— Just in a frenzy. I mean, not Sofya Semyonovna who is in a frenzy, but Katerina Ivanovna; though, in fact, Sofya Semyonovna is also in a frenzy. But Katerina Ivanovna is completely out of her mind. I tell you, she has gone mad for good. They will take them to the police. Can you imagine how that will affect things… Now they are by the ditch near the – sky Bridge, very close to Sofya Semyonovna. Very close.
He was called out. He turned around; Lebezyatnikov rushed up to him. “Imagine, I came to your place, looking for you. Imagine, she carried out her plan and took the children away! Sofia Semyonovna and I barely found them. She herself is banging the pan, forcing the children to sing and dance. The children are crying. They stop at crossroads and near shops. Foolish people are running after them. Let’s go.”
“And Sonya?..” Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after Lebezyatnikov.
He certainly could not, nor did he want to, take care of his sickly condition. But all this unending anxiety and all this mental horror could not pass without consequences. And if he was not yet lying in a real fever, maybe it was precisely because this inner, constant anxiety still kept him on his feet and conscious, though somehow artificially, for a time. He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A peculiar melancholy had begun to affect him lately. It was not something sharply bitter or burning; rather, it carried a sense of something constant, eternal, a foreboding of hopeless years filled with this cold, deadening sorrow, a feeling of some kind of eternity stretched across the vast expanse. In the evening hour, this feeling usually began to torment him even more. “Just because of some foolish, purely physical weakness, dependent on some sunset, and you hold back from doing something stupid! Not that you’d go to Sonya, but to Dunya!” he muttered bitterly.
"Will he hold on or not?" he added to himself after a few minutes. "No, he won’t hold on; he can’t! People like that never do..."
And he thought of Sonia. A breeze of fresh air came through the window. Outside, the light was no longer so bright. Suddenly, he took his cap and stepped outside.
She turned sharply and walked toward the door. “Dunya!” Raskolnikov stopped her, stood up, and approached her. “This Razumikhin, Dmitry Prokofich, is a very good man.”
Dunya blushed slightly. “Well?” she asked after waiting for a moment. “He is a practical man, hardworking, honest, and capable of deep love… Goodbye, Dunya.”
Dunya flushed all over, then suddenly grew worried. “What is this, brother? Are we really parting forever that you’re… giving me such farewells?”
“Still… goodbye.”
He turned away and walked to the window. She stood for a moment, looked at him anxiously, and left, troubled. No, he was not cold to her. There was one moment (the very last) when he terribly wanted to hold her tightly and be with her, even… but he didn’t even dare to reach out his hand to her:
“Later, perhaps, she will shudder when she remembers that I held her, and say I stole her kiss!”
Now I have come only to say” — Dunya began to rise from her seat — “that if, by chance, you need me or anything from my whole life, or something else... just call me, and I will come. Goodbye!”
“Brother, now I know everything. Dmitry Prokofievich has explained and told me all. They are persecuting and tormenting you because of a foolish and vile suspicion... Dmitry Prokofievich said there is no danger, and that you are taking it with such horror for no reason. I do not think so, and I see how upset you are, and how this anger might leave marks forever. That is what I fear. I do not judge you for leaving us, nor do I dare to judge you; forgive me for reproaching you before. I feel in myself that if I had such great sorrow, I would also have left everyone. I will tell mother nothing, but I will speak about you constantly and say on your behalf that you will come very soon. Do not torment yourself about her; I will calm her; but do not torment her either — come at least once; remember that she is your mother!
He couldn’t remember how long he had been sitting alone, his head crowded with vague thoughts. Suddenly the door opened, and Avdotya Romanovna entered. She paused at the doorway and looked at him just as he had looked at Sonya earlier; then she came in and sat opposite him on the chair, in her usual spot from yesterday. He looked at her silently, almost without thought. “Don’t be angry, brother, I’m only staying for a minute,” said Dunya. Her face was thoughtful but not harsh. Her eyes were clear and calm. He could see that she had come to him with love as well.
Yes, he felt once again that perhaps he would truly hate Sonya, especially now, when he had made her unhappier. "Why did he go to her, asking for her tears? Why was it so necessary for him to poison her life? Oh, the wickedness!"
"I will stay alone!" he said suddenly, with determination, "and she will not have to go to jail!"
About five minutes later, he lifted his head and smiled strangely. It was a strange thought: "Maybe, in prison, it is actually better," he suddenly thought.
Raskolnikov had long stopped listening. When he reached his house, he nodded to Lebezyatnikov and turned into the alley. Lebezyatnikov came back to his senses, looked around, and ran on. Raskolnikov entered his tiny room and stood in the middle of it. "Why did he come back here?" He looked around at the yellowish, shabby wallpaper, the dust, his couch... From the yard came a sharp, continuous knocking; something was being hammered in somewhere, like a nail... He went to the window, stood on his toes, and for a long time, with great attention, scanned the yard. But the yard was empty, and no one was heard knocking. To the left, in the wing of the building, a few windows were open here and there; on the windowsills were pots with thin geranium plants. Laundry was hanging outside the windows... He knew all this by heart. He turned away and sat on the sofa. Never, never before had he felt so terribly alone!
– Please, please; of course, it is quite difficult for Katerina Ivanovna to understand; but do you know that in Paris there have already been serious experiments regarding the possibility of curing the insane by using only logical persuasion? There was a professor there, recently deceased, a serious scholar, who imagined that it could be done this way. His main idea was that there is no special disorder in the body of the insane, and that madness is, so to speak, a logical mistake, an error in judgment, a wrong view of things. He gradually disproved the patient’s beliefs and, imagine, they say he achieved results! But since he also used the soul in this process, the results of this treatment are, of course, subject to doubt… At least, that is how it seems…
Lebezyatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who was listening to him barely catching her breath, suddenly grabbed her shawl and hat and ran out of the room, dressing as she went. Raskolnikov followed her, with Lebezyatnikov behind. “She’s definitely lost her mind!” he said to Raskolnikov as they stepped outside. “I just didn’t want to scare Sofya Semyonovna, so I said ‘seems like’, but there’s no doubt. They say these are small lumps that appear on the brain in tuberculosis; it’s a pity I don’t know medicine. I did try to convince her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“You told her about the lumps?”
“Well, not exactly about the lumps. Besides, she wouldn’t understand. What I mean is, if you can logically convince a person that, basically, there’s nothing to cry about, then they’ll stop crying. That’s clear. And you think she won’t stop?”
“It would be too easy to live then,” Raskolnikov replied.
Now she’s telling everyone, even Amalia Ivanovna, but it’s hard to understand because she’s yelling and fighting… Oh yes: she says and shouts that since everyone has abandoned her now, she will take the children and go out on the street to play the hurdy-gurdy, and the children will sing and dance, and she will too, collecting money, and every day she will go under the general’s window… “Let them see,” she says, “how the noble children of a government official’s father walk the streets as beggars!” She beats all the children, they cry. She’s teaching Lenya to sing “The Little Farm,” the boy to dance, and Polina Mikhailovna too, tearing all their dresses; making them some kind of hats like actors; she wants to carry a basin herself to beat like drums… She listens to nothing… Imagine, how can this be? It’s simply unacceptable!