Raskolnikov looked at him gloomily. “Perhaps you’re not even a bear at all,” he said. “It seems to me you might actually belong to very decent society, or at least know how to be an honourable man when the occasion demands.”
“I don’t particularly care for anyone’s opinion,” Svidrigailov replied curtly, with a hint of haughtiness. “So why not play the rogue now and then, when such a role fits so comfortably in our climate—and especially when one has a natural inclination for it?” he added, laughing again. “Still, I’ve heard you have plenty of acquaintances here. You’re what’s called ‘well-connected.’ Then why do you need me, if not for some purpose?”
I’m not such a bear as you imagine.
– Because I wasn’t offended by the bluntness of your questions? Is that it? Well… why should I be offended? I answered exactly as you asked, – he added with an astonishingly innocent expression. – Honestly, I’m hardly interested in anything special, truly, – he went on thoughtfully. – Especially now, I’m not occupied with anything at all… Though, of course, you’re free to think I’m currying favour, especially since I’ve admitted I have business with your sister. But let me tell you frankly: I’m terribly bored! These past three days especially, so I was actually glad to see you… Don’t get angry, Rodion Romanovich, but somehow you strike me as awfully strange. Call it what you like, but there’s something about you—especially now, I mean not precisely this very moment, but generally speaking now… Oh, oh, I won’t, I won’t, don’t frown!
Having said this, Svidrigailov suddenly laughed again. It was clear to Raskolnikov that this was a man who had made up his mind about something and had his own hidden agenda. "You probably haven't spoken to anyone for several days running?" he asked. "Almost right. Are you surprised, then, that I'm such a talkative fellow?"
"No, I'm surprised you're far too talkative."
And around the same time that year, the "Disgraceful Act" occurred (you know, "Egyptian Nights", the public reading, remember? Those black eyes! Oh, where has the golden age of our youth gone!). Now, here’s my opinion: I have no deep sympathy for the gentleman who whipped the German woman, because really, what is there to sympathise with? But at the same time, I must point out that there are occasionally such provoking 'Germans' that, in my view, not a single progressive could honestly vouch for himself. This particular angle wasn’t considered at the time, and yet, this is precisely the truly humane standpoint, I assure you!
– Not very often, indeed, – Svidrigailov replied calmly. – And with Marfa Petrovna, we hardly ever quarrelled. We lived quite harmoniously, and she was always satisfied with me. I used the whip only twice during our entire seven years of marriage (if we don’t count a third rather ambiguous incident): once, two months after our wedding, shortly after arriving in the countryside, and now this latest incident. So you probably imagined me to be a brute, a reactionary, a feudal landowner? He-he... By the way, do you happen to recall, Rodion Romanovich, how several years ago, back in the days of benevolent openness, a certain nobleman was publicly and quite literarily disgraced – I’ve forgotten the surname! – the one who whipped a German woman in a railway carriage? You remember?
For a moment, Raskolnikov thought of getting up and leaving, thus ending the meeting. But a certain curiosity, and even a kind of calculation, made him stay on for an instant. 'Do you enjoy fighting?' he asked absently.
All people have such moments, when being offended is actually quite pleasant—have you noticed that? But women especially. One might even say that's how they mostly get by.
– What are you laughing at? Just think: I only struck twice with the whip, not even leaving a mark… Please don’t take me for a cynic; I perfectly well know how despicable it was of me, and all that. But I also know quite certainly that Marfa Petrovna was probably quite pleased with my little, shall we say, outburst. The whole business about your sister had worn thin right down to the last letter. For three days Marfa Petrovna had been stuck at home—had nothing to wear for going into town, and besides, everyone's fed up with her and that letter of hers (you've heard about the letter-reading, I suppose?). And suddenly, these two whip lashes fall from the sky! First thing—she orders the carriage to be prepared!... I don't even mention that women sometimes actually enjoy being offended, despite all their outward outrage.
– You also attended to Marfa Petrovna, they say? – Rascolnikov interrupted rudely. – So you've heard about that too? Well, how could you not hear… But regarding your question, I really don't know how to answer. Though I must say, my own conscience is perfectly at ease on this matter. I mean, don't think I'm afraid of anything suspicious – everything was done in perfect order and with full propriety. The medical examination confirmed apoplexy brought on by bathing immediately after a heavy meal, along with nearly a whole bottle of wine consumed. It couldn't have found anything else. No, what I've occasionally wondered, especially while travelling, sitting in the railway carriage, is – did I perhaps somehow contribute to this misfortune, maybe by morally agitating her or something of that sort? But I've concluded that even this could absolutely not have been the case. Rascolnikov laughed. – What a pointless thing to worry about!
— But you… you really can't be fooled! — he said, laughing most openly. — I thought I could be clever, but no, you've hit the nail right on the head! — You're still being crafty even now. — Well, so what? So what? — repeated Svidrigailov, laughing heartily. — It's fair game, as they say, the most permissible kind of cleverness! But you interrupted me; anyway, I repeat: there would have been no unpleasantness at all, if not for that incident in the garden. Marfa Petrovna...
– That I pursued a helpless young girl in my own house and "insulted her with my vile proposals" – is that it, sir? (I'm getting ahead of myself!) But just suppose, for a moment, that I too am a man, et nihil humanum... in short, that I too am capable of being infatuated and falling in love (which, of course, does not happen at our command); then everything is explained in the most natural way. The whole question is: am I a monster, or am I myself the victim? Well then, as a victim? When I proposed to my beloved that we flee together to America or Switzerland, perhaps I cherished the most respectful feelings, and even dreamt of bringing about mutual happiness!... After all, reason serves passion; perhaps I was ruining myself even more, good heavens!... – That's not the point at all, – interrupted Raskolnikov with disgust – you're simply repulsive, whether you're right or wrong; that's why no one wants to know you, they drive you away, so just go on your way!... Svidrigailov suddenly burst out laughing.
– They only arrived yesterday, may I ask? Raskolnikov did not answer. – Yesterday, I know. I myself arrived just three days ago. Well then, let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovich: I consider it unnecessary to justify myself, but allow me to say this: what, in all this, is truly so particularly criminal on my part—without prejudices, I mean, and judging sensibly? Raskolnikov continued silently studying him.
“I knew it—you weren’t really sleeping, just pretending,” replied the stranger in a calm, odd tone, quietly laughing. “Arkhady Ivanovich Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself…”
Part Four
I
“Is this still the dream continuing?” thought Raskolnikov once again. He eyed the unexpected visitor cautiously and with disbelief. “Svidrigailov? That’s nonsense! Impossible!” he finally said aloud, bewildered. The guest didn’t seem at all surprised by this exclamation. “I’ve come to see you for two reasons: first, I wished to meet you in person, as I’ve long heard about you from a most interesting and beneficial perspective; and second, I hope you won’t mind helping me with a matter directly concerning the interests of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. On my own, without an introduction, she might not even let me onto her premises now, owing to her prejudice—whereas, with your support, I confidently expect…”
“You’re calculating poorly,” Raskolnikov interrupted.
About ten minutes had passed. It was still light, but evening was drawing in. The room was utterly silent—not a sound came even from the staircase. Only a large fly buzzed and kept crashing against the glass. Finally, it became unbearable: Raskolnikov suddenly sat up on the sofa. “Well, speak up—what do you want?”
Suddenly, he thought the bedroom door had cracked open slightly—and there too, as if, laughter and whispering stirred. Rage seized him: with all his strength, he began hacking at the old woman’s head, but with every stroke of the axe, the laughter and whispers from the bedroom grew louder and clearer, while the old woman shook uncontrollably with mirth. He bolted to flee—but the entire hallway was already packed with people; the doors to the staircase stood wide open, and on the landing, the stairs, even down below—crowded with heads upon heads, everyone staring—but all held their breath, waiting, silent… His heart tightened, his legs refused to move, rooted to the spot… He wanted to scream—and woke up.
“It wasn’t here before…” He approached quietly, realizing someone seemed to be hiding behind the coat. Carefully, he pushed the coat aside with his hand and saw a chair standing there; seated on it, curled into a corner with her head bowed so low he couldn’t make out her face—it was her. He stood above her: “She’s afraid!” he thought, silently unsheathed the axe from its loop, and struck the old woman on the temple—once, twice. But strangely, she didn’t stir from the blows, as if made of wood. He grew frightened, leaned closer to examine her—but she only bent her head lower still. Then he crouched completely to the floor and peered up at her face—and froze: the old woman sat there, laughing—gently, silently, laughing with all her might, straining not to let him hear.
Quietly, on tiptoe, he slipped into the living room: the whole room was bathed in bright moonlight; everything remained as before—chairs, mirror, yellow sofa, framed pictures. A huge, round, copper-red moon stared straight into the windows. “It’s the moon causing this silence,” thought Raskolnikov. “He’s probably posing a riddle now.” He stood there, waiting—long, long. The quieter the moon grew, the more violently his heart pounded, even hurting. Still, silence. Suddenly, a sharp, dry crack rang out—as if a splinter had snapped—and all grew still again. A drowsy fly suddenly buzzed against the glass and whined plaintively. At that very moment, in the corner between the small cabinet and the window, he made out something hanging on the wall—a coat. “Why is there a coat here?” he thought.
Raskolnikov rushed after him. Sure enough, two flights higher, measured, unhurried footsteps still echoed. Strangely, the staircase somehow felt familiar! There’s the window on the ground floor; the moonlight filtered sadly and mysteriously through the glass. Here’s the second floor. Wait! This is the very apartment where workers were painting... How hadn’t he recognized it earlier? The footsteps ahead fell silent: “So he’s stopped—or hidden somewhere.” Here’s the third floor; should he go further? And such silence—almost eerie… But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps frightened and unsettled him. God, how dark it is! The petty bourgeois must be hiding somewhere in a corner. Ah! The apartment door stands wide open onto the stairwell; he hesitated, then stepped inside. The entryway was pitch-black and empty, utterly deserted—as if everything had been removed.
“Did he really call me?” thought Raskolnikov, yet he began hurrying after him. Not ten steps away, he suddenly recognized him—and was terrified; it was the same petty bourgeois from before, wearing the same robe, hunched over just as before. Raskolnikov followed from afar; his heart pounded. They turned into an alley—the man still didn’t turn around. “Does he know I’m following him?” Raskolnikov wondered. The petty bourgeois entered the gate of a large building. Raskolnikov hurried to the gate and watched—would he glance back? Would he call him? Indeed, having walked through the entire archway and nearly entering the courtyard, the man suddenly turned and once again waved vaguely at him. Raskolnikov immediately passed through the archway, but the petty bourgeois had vanished from the courtyard. So he must have entered the first staircase right here.
He lost track of himself; it seemed strange to him that he couldn’t recall how he had ended up on the street. It was already late evening. Twilight thickened, and the full moon glowed brighter and brighter—but the air felt unusually stifling. Crowds of people thronged the streets: artisans and workers were heading home, others strolled about; the smell of lime, dust, and stagnant water hung in the air. Raskolnikov walked, sad and preoccupied—he clearly remembered leaving home with some purpose, that something urgent needed to be done, but what precisely, he’d forgotten. Suddenly, he stopped and noticed a man standing across the street on the pavement, waving his hand at him. He crossed over, but just then the man turned away and walked off as if nothing had happened, head lowered, not looking back or showing any sign he had called him.
His hair was damp with sweat, his twitching lips were parched, and his fixed gaze stared up at the ceiling. "Mother, sister—how I used to love them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, hate them—hate them physically, can't bear to have them near me... Just now I went up and kissed mother—I remember... To embrace her, and all the while think—if only she knew... Could I have told her then? It would be just like me to do it... Hm! She must be just like me," he added, thinking with effort, as though struggling against the delirium creeping over him. "Oh, how I hate that old hag now! I'd surely kill her again if she had come to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she have to come along then?... Strange, though—why do I hardly think of her, as if I hadn't even killed her?... Lizaveta! Sonya! Poor, gentle souls, with gentle eyes... Dear ones!... Why don't they cry? Why don't they moan?... They give everything... look so meek and quiet... Sonya, Sonya! Gentle Sonya!..."
Obey, trembling creature, and — therefore — it’s none of your business!... Oh, never, never will I forgive the old hag!"
Third, because I claimed to observe justice in execution — weight, measure, arithmetic — choosing from all the lice the absolutely most useless one, and after killing her, resolved to take from her exactly as much as I needed for my first step, no more and no less (and the rest, naturally, would go to the monastery, as per her will — ha-ha!)... Therefore, yes, I am finally a louse," he added, grinding his teeth, "because even I myself may be far more vile and loathsome than that louse I killed — and I already knew it before I struck! Can anything compare to such horror? Oh, how petty! Oh, how base!... Ah, I understand the 'prophet' now, with sword in hand, riding on horseback. Allah commands, and the 'trembling' creature obeys! The prophet is right when he sets up a fine battery right across the street and blasts the guilty and the innocent alike, not even deigning to explain!
'I’m carrying my brick,' say I, 'for universal happiness, and thus my heart feels at peace.' Ha-ha! Then why did you let me through? I live but once, I too want to… Ah, I’m just an aesthetic louse, nothing more," he suddenly added, laughing like a madman. "Yes, I truly am a louse," he went on, maliciously clinging to the thought, digging into it, toying and mocking himself with it, "and precisely for this reason: first, because I’m now reasoning about being a louse; second, because for a whole month I’ve been bothering Providence, calling it as a witness, claiming I’m not acting for my own flesh and desire, but for some noble and delightful purpose — ha-ha!
"The old hag was nothing! — he thought passionately and impulsively — the old woman was perhaps a mistake, but that’s not the point! The old woman was merely an illness… I wanted to step across quickly… I didn’t kill a human being, I killed a principle! I killed the principle, but didn’t manage to step across — I remained on this side… All I could do was kill. And even that I couldn’t pull off properly… Principle? Why was that fool Razumikhin scolding the socialists earlier? A hardworking, trading people, busy with 'common happiness'... No, life is given to me only once, and never again — I don’t want to wait for 'universal happiness'. I want to live myself, otherwise I’d rather not live at all. What then? I simply refused to walk past a hungry mother, clutching my single rupee in my pocket, waiting for 'universal happiness'.
No, such people are made of different stuff; a true man to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, orders massacres in Paris, sacrifices an army in Egypt, wipes out half a million in the march to Moscow, and gets off with a pun in Vilna; and after death, idols are raised to him—so clearly, everything is permitted. No, such men are clearly not flesh and blood, but bronze! Suddenly, an odd, intrusive thought almost made him laugh:
Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo—and then a skinny, nasty little clerk, an old crone, a moneylender, with a red rag hidden under her bed… how on earth could even Porfiry Petrovich digest that? How could they possibly swallow it? Aesthetics would get in the way—how could Napoleon possibly crawl under a bed to an "old crone"? Bah, rubbish! At times, he felt as though he were delirious: he slipped into a feverish, ecstatic state.
And suddenly he felt with disgust how weak he had become—physically weak. "I should have known this," he thought with a bitter smile, "and how dared I, knowing myself, knowing who I am, take an axe and go spilling blood! I ought to have foreseen it... Eh! But I did foresee it!" he whispered in despair. Sometimes he would suddenly stop, frozen before some thought:
He heard Razumikhin’s hurried footsteps and his voice, closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumikhin opened the door and stood for a while at the threshold, as if hesitating. Then he stepped quietly into the room and cautiously approached the sofa. Nastasya’s whisper was heard:
“Don’t wake him; let him sleep. He’ll eat later.”
“True enough,” answered Razumikhin. Both quietly left and closed the door. Half an hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and once again flung himself on his back, clasping his hands behind his head…
“Who is he? Who is this man who emerged from beneath the earth? Where was he and what did he see? He saw everything—that’s certain. Where was he standing, and from where was he watching? Why is he only now emerging from under the floor? And how could he possibly have seen—was that even possible?… Hm…,” continued Raskolnikov, shivering and growing cold, “and the case that Nikolai found behind the door—was that possible too? Clues? You miss a hundred-thousandth little detail—that becomes evidence building up like the Egyptian pyramid! A fly was buzzing, it saw everything! Could it really be possible?”
He wasn't thinking about anything in particular. There were just thoughts, or fragments of thoughts, vague images—faces of people he had seen in childhood or met only once, and never would have remembered otherwise; the bell tower of V Church; a billiard hall in a tavern and some officer standing by the table; the smell of cigars in a basement tobacco shop; a spirits shop; a dark, narrow staircase, completely filthy, drenched in waste and littered with broken eggshells—and somewhere, Sunday church bells ringing. Images followed one another, swirling like a whirlwind. Some even pleased him, and he tried to hold on to them, but they faded away. Something weighed on him inside, but not too heavily. Sometimes it even felt quite pleasant... A slight shiver lingered, and that too felt almost good.
– Murderer – the man pronounced, even more distinctly and solemnly, as if with the hateful triumph of a smile, and again looked straight into Razumikhin’s pale face and his lifeless eyes. They had reached a crossroads. The civilian turned left into a street and walked away without looking back. Razumikhin remained standing where he was, watching him for a long time. He saw that after walking about fifty paces, the man turned and glanced back at him still standing motionless in the same spot. It was impossible to see clearly, but Razumikhin felt that he had smiled once more with that cold, hateful, triumphant smile. With quiet, feeble steps, his knees trembling, and as though terribly chilled, Razumikhin returned home and climbed up to his small room. He took off his cap and placed it on the table, then stood motionless beside it for about ten minutes. Then, overcome by weakness, he lay down on the couch and stretched out painfully, letting out a faint groan; his eyes remained closed. So he lay for half an hour.
Raskolnikov walked beside him. His legs suddenly grew terribly weak, a chill ran down his back, and his heart seemed to stop for a moment—then it pounded wildly, as if released from a hook. They walked about a hundred paces side by side, again in complete silence. The townsman did not look at him. “What... what... who’s the murderer?” Raskolnikov muttered barely audibly.
Raskolnikov hurried after the man and immediately saw him walking on the other side of the street, moving at the same steady, unhurried pace, eyes fixed on the ground, seemingly deep in thought. He quickly caught up, but for some time walked behind him. Finally, he drew level and glanced sideways at the man’s face. The man instantly noticed him, gave him a quick look over, but immediately lowered his eyes again. They walked side by side for about a minute, neither saying a word. “You… you asked about me… at the porter’s lodge?” Raskolnikov finally said, though very softly. The man gave no answer and didn’t even glance at him. Again, silence followed. “But why… why come asking and then stay silent… what is this?” Raskolnikov’s voice faltered, and the words seemed unable to come out clearly. This time, the man raised his eyes and fixed Raskolnikov with a dark, ominous stare. “Murderer,” he suddenly said, in a quiet but distinct and clear voice.
– Someone was asking if a student lives here, mentioned your name and where you're staying. You just came down, I pointed, and he went off. See? The watchman was somewhat puzzled, but not particularly so; after a moment's thought, he turned and climbed back into his little cubicle.
He stood as if deep in thought, a strange, meek, half-senseless smile playing on his lips. Finally, he picked up his cap and quietly left the room. His thoughts were jumbled. Absent-mindedly, he walked down the steps into the courtyard. – Well, here he is himself! – a loud voice shouted. He looked up. The watchman stood by the door of his lodge, pointing straight at him and addressing a short man who looked like a townsman, dressed in something like a long coat, wearing a waistcoat, and from a distance resembling a woman. The man’s head, covered with a greasy cap, hung low, and his whole figure seemed hunched. His flabby, wrinkled face looked over fifty; his small, sunken eyes stared gloomily, sternly, and with displeasure. – What is it? – asked Raskolnikov, approaching the watchman. The townsman glanced at him sideways, scrutinising him closely and attentively, without hurry; then, without uttering a word, slowly turned and walked out of the gate onto the street. – What is it? – cried Raskolnikov.
When Raskolnikov reached his house, his temples were damp with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He quickly climbed the stairs, entered his unlocked room, and immediately bolted the door with the hook. Then, fearfully and frantically, he rushed to the corner, to that very hole in the wallpaper where the things had been hidden, thrust his hand into it, and spent several minutes carefully feeling around every nook and crevice of the paper lining. Finding nothing, he stood up and took a deep breath. Earlier, just as he was approaching Bakaleev's porch, it had suddenly occurred to him that some item—a chain, a cufflink, or even a scrap of paper with the old woman’s handwriting—might somehow have slipped through and got lost in some crack, only to emerge later as sudden, undeniable evidence against him.
– So you want to torture me too! – he cried out bitterly, with such despair in his eyes that Razumikhin's hands dropped helplessly. For a while he stood on the porch, gloomily watching him hurry off towards his lane. Finally, clenching his teeth and fists, swearing to himself that he'd squeeze Porfiry dry like a lemon that very day, he went upstairs to calm down Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who had already grown anxious over their long absence.
But almost at that moment, he suddenly grew uneasy, as if an unexpected and troubling thought had struck him. His anxiety kept increasing. They had already reached the entrance of Bakaleev's lodgings. "Go in alone," said Raskolnikov abruptly. "I'll come back right away."
"Where to? We've just arrived!"
"I must, I have to; a matter of importance… I'll be back in half an hour… Tell them inside."
"Suit yourself, I'll follow you!"
– He would have immediately told you that no workers could possibly have been there two days earlier, which means you were definitely there on the day of the murder, at eight o'clock. He’d have caught you off guard! – That's exactly what he was counting on—that I wouldn’t have time to think, and in my hurry to sound convincing, I’d blurt out something plausible and forget that no workers could have been there two days prior. – But how could one possibly forget that? – It's the easiest thing in the world! It's precisely on such trivial points that clever people are most easily tripped up. The cleverer a man is, the less he suspects he’ll be caught out on something simple. That’s why you should trap the cleverest man with the simplest thing. Porfiry isn’t nearly as foolish as you think... – Then he’s a scoundrel after all! Raskolnikov couldn’t help but laugh. But at the very same moment, he found it strange how animated and eager he had become while explaining this, whereas until now, throughout the entire conversation, he’d spoken with gloomy reluctance, clearly driven only by necessity and some ulterior motive. "I’m actually getting a taste for certain things!" he thought to himself.
– Because only raw peasants or the most inexperienced novices flatly deny everything outright during questioning. A man who’s even slightly educated and experienced will, by contrast, always try—and as far as possible—to admit to all external, undeniable facts. But he’ll attach different motives to them, introducing some personal, unique, unexpected twist that completely changes their meaning and puts them in a different light. Porfiry could well have expected that I’d answer exactly like this—that I’d certainly admit to having seen, just to appear credible, and then slip in some explanation…
"He did present it rather well," thought Raskolnikov. "Spit on it? But tomorrow another interrogation! Am I really to get into explanations with them? I already regret having lowered myself before Zamyotov in that tavern..."
"Damn it! I'll go to Porfiry myself! And I'll corner him; I'll make him reveal everything down to the last detail! And as for Zamyotov..."
"At last, I've figured it out!" thought Raskolnikov. "Stop!" cried Razumikhin, suddenly grabbing him by the shoulder. "Stop! You're lying! I've just realised—it's a lie! What kind of trap is that? You say the question about the workmen was a trap? Think: if you had done it, could you possibly have let slip that you saw the apartment being painted... and the workmen? On the contrary, you'd say you saw nothing—even if you had! Who would incriminate himself?"
"If I had done it, I would certainly have said I saw both the workmen and the apartment," answered Raskolnikov reluctantly and with obvious disgust. "But why on earth would you incriminate yourself?"
I see it’s annoying, but in your place, Rodya, I’d simply roar with laughter in their faces, or better still – spit right into their mugs, thick and heavy, flick two dozen well-aimed spits in all directions, as one always should, and that’d be the end of it. Spit and be done! Cheer up! It’s shameful!
I mean, really – just because a poor student, broken by poverty and hypochondria, on the brink of a severe feverish illness, perhaps already beginning (mark that!), sensitive, proud, aware of his own worth, who hasn’t seen a soul in six months, dressed in rags, with soles flapping off his shoes – stands before some petty clerks and endures their mockery; and suddenly, right in his face, appears an unexpected debt, a dishonoured bill with Collegiate Assessor Chebarov, foul-smelling paint, thirty degrees Réaumur, stifling air, a crowd of people, a story about a murder of someone he’d visited the day before – and all this on an empty stomach! How could a faint not occur? And to build everything on this! Good Lord!
– And it’s offensive, terribly offensive! I understand you! But… since we’ve finally started speaking plainly (and it’s excellent that we have, I’m glad!) – well then, I’ll confess straight away that I’ve long noticed this idea lurking in them, all this while, of course, only in a faint, creeping form, but still, why even in a creeping form! How dare they? Where, where do these roots lie hidden in them? If only you knew how furious I’ve been!
– But quite the opposite, quite the opposite! If they actually had this foolish idea, they would try by every means to hide it and keep their cards close, so as to catch me later. But now—this is bold and careless! – If they had facts, real facts, or even solid grounds for suspicion, then yes, they’d certainly try to conceal their game, hoping to gain more later (though then, mind you, they’d have searched me long ago!). But they have no facts—none at all. It’s all mirage, all guesswork, just a fleeting idea—so they’re trying to overwhelm me with audacity. Or perhaps he himself got angry at having no evidence, lost his temper and blurted it out. Or maybe he has some plan… He seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to scare me by showing he knows something… There’s psychology at play here, brother… Though honestly, it’s vile to explain all this. Leave it!
– Don't believe it! – replied Raskolnikov with a cold, careless smile. – As usual, you noticed nothing, whereas I weighed every word. – You're suspicious, that's why you weighed them... Hmm... Indeed, I agree, Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and especially that scoundrel Zametov!... You're right, there was something in him... But why? What was it? – I've thought it over through the night.
– Ugh! I’ve mixed things up! – Porfiry slapped his forehead. – Good heavens, this case has got me so worked up my mind’s going round in circles! – he said, almost apologetically to Raskolnikov – it was so important for us to find out whether anyone saw them in the flat at around eight o’clock, and now it suddenly occurs to me that you might have something to say too… I’ve completely muddled things up! – Well, you should pay more attention, then – muttered Razumikhin gloomily. These last words were spoken in the hallway. Porfiry Petrovich saw them right to the door with great courtesy. Both stepped out onto the street looking grim and silent, walking a few paces without saying a word. Raskolnikov took a deep breath…
VI
– I don’t believe it! I simply can’t believe it! – repeated the bewildered Razumikhin, struggling with all his might to refute Raskolnikov’s arguments. They were nearing Bakaleyev’s lodging house, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dunya had long been waiting for them. On the way, Razumikhin kept halting every few steps in the heat of the argument, disturbed and agitated by the very fact that they had finally spoken so openly about it.
— What are you talking about! — suddenly cried Razumikhin, as if coming to his senses and realising something. — The painters were there on the very day of the murder, weren't they? And he'd been there three days before that? Why are you even asking?
– At eight o'clock, sir, – replied Raskolnikov, immediately feeling unpleasant that he had said it. – So, passing by at eight o'clock, on the staircase, didn't you happen to see, on the second floor, in an open flat – do you remember? – two workmen, or even one of them? They were painting there; did you notice them? It's very, very important for them! – Painters? No, I didn't see them... – Raskolnikov answered slowly, as if searching his memory, at that very instant straining every fibre of his being, his heart pounding, desperately trying to grasp the trap and not miss a thing. – No, I didn't see them, and I don't recall noticing any flat open... But on the fourth floor (he had now fully grasped the trap and felt triumphant) – I do remember a clerk moving out, opposite Alyona Ivanovna's flat... Yes, clearly remember... soldiers were carrying out a sofa and had pushed me against the wall. But painters – no, I don't recall any painters... And as far as I remember, there wasn't any open flat anywhere. No, there wasn't.
– Why, there's no need for that at all just yet, sir! You've misunderstood. You see, I don't miss an opportunity—and I've already spoken with all the pawnbrokers... taken statements from some... and you, being the last... Ah, by the way!—he cried out, suddenly delighted by something—speaking of the matter!—he turned to Razumikhin—wasn't it you who kept harping on that Nikashka fellow? Well, I know, I know myself the boy's innocent!—he turned to Raskolnikov—but what could I do? Even Mitka had to be questioned... that's the whole point, sir, the essence of it: when you were going down the stairs that time... if I may ask: you were there at around eight o'clock, weren't you, sir?
Raskolnikov remained silent, staring intently and firmly at Porfiry. Razumikhin frowned darkly. Something had already seemed odd to him earlier. He glanced angrily around the room. A gloomy silence lasted for a minute. Raskolnikov turned to leave. “Oh, leaving already?” Porfiry said warmly, extending his hand with great cordiality. “Delighted, absolutely delighted to have met you! And as for your request—don’t worry about it at all. Just write it down as I suggested, or better still, come visit me in person—any day, really—why not even tomorrow? I’ll definitely be there around eleven. We’ll sort everything out… have a proper chat. Since you were one of the last people to visit, you might just have something useful to tell us,” he added in the most good-natured manner. “Do you intend to officially question me, with all due formalities?” Raskolnikov asked sharply.
"Well, come now, who among us Russians doesn't consider themselves Napoleon these days?" Porfiry suddenly remarked with shocking familiarity. Even in the tone of his voice there was something particularly pointed this time. "Could it be some future Napoleon who cracked Alyona Ivanovna's skull with an axe last week?" suddenly blurted out Zamyotov from the corner.
Razumikhin made a movement. "And if that's so, sir, would you yourself actually dare—say, due to some life misfortunes or hardships, or perhaps to advance the welfare of all humanity—to step over an obstacle?... For instance, to kill and rob?"
He suddenly winked again with his left eye and laughed silently, just as he had done earlier. "If I had stepped over, I certainly wouldn't tell you," replied Raskolnikov with defiant, haughty contempt. "No, sir, I only ask out of interest, purely to understand your article, from a literary standpoint only, sir..."
"How blatant and crude!" Raskolnikov thought with disgust. "Allow me to point out," he answered coldly, "that I do not consider myself Muhammad or Napoleon, nor anyone else of that sort, and therefore, not being them, I cannot give you a satisfactory answer about what I might have done."
– Very well, sir, do tell me your little idea – Rodion stood before him, pale and serious, waiting. – You see, sir… I really don’t know how best to put it… The idea is rather whimsical, so to speak… a psychological one… You see, sir, when you were writing your article, it couldn’t possibly be… ha-ha!… that you didn’t consider yourself, even just a little bit, as a man of “extraordinary” kind – that is, in your own sense of the word, sir… Could it, sir? – Very likely, indeed – Rodion replied with disdain.
– Whoever has it must suffer, if he realises his mistake. That itself is his punishment—over and above hard labour. – But what about truly genius ones? – Razumikhin asked frowning. – What about those who are given the right to cut down others? Should they not suffer at all, even for spilled blood? – Why use the word "allowed"? There's neither permission nor prohibition here. Let him suffer, if he feels pity for the victim... Suffering and pain are always inevitable for a broad mind and a deep heart. Truly great men, it seems to me, must experience profound sorrow in this world – he added suddenly, thoughtfully, almost out of tune with the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked thoughtfully at everyone, smiled, and picked up his cap. He was much calmer now than when he had entered earlier, and he felt it. Everyone stood up. – Well then, abuse me or not, take offence or not, but I can't help myself – Porfiry Petrovich concluded once again – let me just ask one more question (I'm troubling you so much already!), just to pass one little idea, only so as not to forget it...
– Well, it’s the same anyway, – Raskolnikov sneered. – I’m not to blame for that. Such is, and always will be. He (he nodded toward Razumikhin) was just saying now that I approve of bloodshed. So what? Society is well provided with prisons, jailers, investigating magistrates, penal colonies – why worry? Just catch the thief! – And if we do catch him? – Then off he goes. – You’re quite logical. But what about his conscience? – Why should you care about that? – Out of sheer humanity, you see.
– Well then, well then – Porfiry couldn’t sit still – it’s become almost clear to me now how you view the crime, sir, but... please excuse me for my persistence (I’m troubling you so much, I feel quite ashamed myself!) – you see, sir: you reassured me greatly earlier about those mistaken cases of confusion between the two categories, but... it's practical instances that keep bothering me again! Suppose, for example, some husband or young man imagines himself to be a Lycurgus or a Muhammad – a future one, of course – and starts removing all obstacles in his path... He believes a long journey lies ahead, and journeys require money... so he begins gathering funds for his journey... you understand? Suddenly, Zametov snorted from his corner. Raskolnikov didn’t even raise his eyes toward him. – I must agree – Raskolnikov replied calmly – that such cases really ought to occur. Particularly the foolish and the vain fall for this trap, especially the youth. – There you see, sir! Well then, what about it?
– No, you must have gotten carried away somehow! There's a mistake here. Let me read it... You've gotten carried away! You can't possibly think like that... Let me read. – None of this is in the article, only hints, – said Raskolnikov.
— Are you two joking or what? — Razumikhin finally cried out. — Are you pulling each other's leg or not? You're serious, Rodya? Raskolnikov silently raised his pale, almost mournful face towards him and said nothing. And to Razumikhin, the contrast between this quiet, sorrowful face and Porfiry's unmistakable, persistent, irritable, and sarcastic manner seemed strange. — Well, brother, if this is serious, then... Of course, you're right when you say it's nothing new, similar to all the things we've read and heard a thousand times; but what truly stands out here—and belongs uniquely to you, to my horror—is that you actually permit bloodshed, and, excuse me, with such fanaticism... So this permission to shed blood, then, is the core idea of your article. Because this permission, in my view, is more terrifying than any official, lawful sanction to spill blood. — Quite right — more terrifying, indeed, — responded Porfiry.
Someone with still greater independence, once in a hundred thousand. Geniuses, once in a million. And great geniuses, those who complete humanity's purpose – perhaps only one after millions upon millions of people have lived on Earth. In short, I haven't peered into the flask where all this happens. But there must be a definite law, and there should be one; chance cannot rule here.
– Oh, don't worry about that either – Raskolnikov continued in the same tone. – In general, people with new ideas, those even slightly capable of saying something truly extraordinary, are born very rarely, strangely so. One thing is clear: the process by which people are born, all these categories and subcategories, must be governed by some precise natural law. Of course, this law is not known now, but I believe it exists and may eventually become known. The vast majority of people, mere material, exist in the world for only one purpose: after some effort, through a certain mysterious process as yet unknown, perhaps through the crossing of bloodlines and races, to strain and finally give birth, say, to one truly independent person in a thousand. One with even greater independence might appear once in ten thousand (I speak roughly, for clarity).
Well, at least on this side, you’ve somewhat reassured me; but here’s another trouble: please tell me, how many such people are there who have the right to cut others down—these “extraordinary” ones? I’m certainly ready to bow before them, but admit it, isn’t it terrifying if there turn out to be too many of them?
You wouldn't even need an enforcer; they'd whip themselves, since they're so well-behaved. Some do it for each other, others take the task into their own hands... They publicly impose all sorts of penances upon themselves—looks quite elegant and edifying, in short, nothing for you to worry about... There's a law like that.
– Not worth worrying about, Sir; but do consider that error is possible only on the part of the first category—what I perhaps rather awkwardly called 'ordinary' people. In spite of their natural tendency to obedience, owing to a certain playfulness of nature, which even a cow isn't entirely deprived of, quite a few of them love to imagine themselves as progressive individuals, 'destroyers', and rush headlong into 'new ideas', quite sincerely, Sir. In reality, however, they often fail to notice, or even look down upon others as backward and disgracefully low-minded. But in my opinion, there's really no serious danger here, and you needn't be concerned, because they never go very far. Occasionally, of course, one may have to give them a good whipping to remind them of their place—but no more than that.
– Oh, this happens very often indeed! Your observation is even wittier than your earlier one. – Thank you very much.
– Thank you, sir. But tell me this: how exactly do we distinguish these extraordinary ones from the ordinary? Are there perhaps signs at birth? I mean, there ought to be greater precision, so to speak, something more outwardly definite—excuse my natural anxiety as a practical and well-meaning person—but couldn’t we, for instance, introduce special clothing, some sort of mark or even a brand? Because, you see, if there’s confusion and someone from the ordinary class imagines himself to belong to the extraordinary, and starts ‘removing all obstacles,’ as you so aptly put it, well then, you know…
— So you do believe in the New Jerusalem? — I do, — replied Raskolnikov firmly. As he said this, throughout his entire long speech, he kept his eyes fixed on a particular spot on the carpet. — And do you believe in God too? Forgive me for being so curious. — I do, — repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry. — And in the resurrection of Lazarus? — I do believe. Why are you asking all this? — Do you believe it literally? — Literally. — I see… just out of curiosity. Excuse me. But may I ask—going back to what we were discussing earlier—aren’t such people always punished? Some, on the contrary…
— Do they triumph in life? Of course, some even achieve triumph during their lifetime, and then…
— They begin punishing others themselves? — If necessary, yes, and, you know, more often than not. Your observation is quite sharp.
The first category always rules the present; the second, the future. The former preserve the world and multiply it numerically; the latter move the world forward and lead it toward its goal. Both have an equal right to exist. In short, in my view, all have equal rights—and vive la guerre éternelle, until the New Jerusalem, of course!
The crimes of these people, of course, are relative and varied; for the most part, they demand, in various forms, the destruction of the present for the sake of a better future. But if he must, for the sake of his idea, step even over a corpse, over blood, then, inwardly, in his conscience, he may, in my view, grant himself permission to step over blood—depending, of course, on the idea and its scale—note that. In this sense only do I speak, in my article, of their right to crime. (Recall, after all, we began with a legal question.) That said, there’s little cause for alarm: the masses almost never recognize this right in them, punish them, and hang them (more or less), thus, quite justly, fulfilling their conservative purpose—yet with the added fact that in later generations, the same masses place the executed on a pedestal and worship them (more or less).
It is this: that mankind, according to the law of nature, is divided into two categories: the lower (ordinary), that is, so to speak, material, serving solely for the propagation of its own kind, and actual people—those gifted or talented enough to utter a new word in their society. The subdivisions here, of course, are infinite, but the distinguishing features of the two categories are fairly sharp. The first category, the material—people generally conservative by nature, orderly, living in obedience and loving to obey. In my view, they are even obliged to obey, since that is their purpose, and there is absolutely nothing humiliating in this for them. The second category—all of them break laws, are destroyers or inclined to destruction, depending on their abilities.
In short, I conclude that not only great men, but even those who step slightly out of line—those who are even slightly capable of saying something new—must, by their very nature, necessarily be criminals, more or less, of course. Otherwise, it would be difficult for them to step out of line, and, by their very nature, they certainly cannot agree to remain within it. According to me, in fact, they are even obliged not to agree. In short, you see, thus far there’s nothing particularly new here. This has been printed and read a thousand times. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I agree it’s somewhat arbitrary, but I don’t insist on precise figures. I only believe in my main idea.
Furthermore, I recall developing in my article the idea that all… well, let us say, lawgivers and founders of humanity—beginning from ancient times, continuing with Lycurguses, Solons, Muhammads, Napoleons, and so on—were all, without exception, criminals, simply by virtue of introducing a new law, thus violating the ancient one, revered by society and handed down from their fathers, and certainly did not shrink from shedding blood, whenever it could benefit them, even if that blood was entirely innocent and heroically spilled in defence of the old law. It is striking indeed how most of these benefactors and founders of humanity were especially terrible shedders of blood.
Perhaps I’m not mistaken in assuming that you’d actually like that; please, allow me. In my view, if Kepler’s and Newton’s discoveries, due to some circumstances, could in no way become known to mankind except by sacrificing the lives of one, ten, a hundred or more individuals who stood in the way or obstructed the discovery, then Newton would have had the right—and indeed, the duty—to eliminate those ten or a hundred people in order to share his discoveries with all humanity. That said, it by no means follows that Newton would have the right to kill anyone he pleased, strangers or passers-by, or to steal daily at the marketplace.
– It isn’t quite like that with me, – he began simply and modestly. – Still, I must admit, you’ve stated her position almost correctly, even, if you like, entirely correctly… (He found it genuinely pleasant to agree that it was entirely correct). The only difference is that I do not insist, as you say, that extraordinary people must necessarily and always commit all sorts of excesses. In fact, I think such an article wouldn’t even be allowed into print. I merely hinted that an “extraordinary” man has the right… that is, not an official right, but one he grants himself—the right to permit his conscience to step over… certain obstacles, but only in the single case where carrying out his idea (perhaps one that might even save all humanity) demands it. You say my article is unclear; I’m ready to explain it to you, as far as possible.
– No, no, not quite that, – replied Porfiry. – The point is, in their article, people are somehow divided into ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary’. Ordinary people must live in obedience and have no right to transgress the law, because, you see, they’re ordinary. But extraordinary people have the right to commit any crime and break the law in all sorts of ways, precisely because they are extraordinary. That’s your idea, isn’t it, if I’m not mistaken? – How can that be? It’s impossible! – muttered Razumikhin in bewilderment. Raskolnikov smiled again. He immediately understood what was going on and what they were trying to lead him to; he remembered his article. He decided to accept the challenge.
Raskolnikov sneered at the deliberate and exaggerated distortion of his idea. – What? What do you mean? A right to commit a crime? But not because 'the environment pushed one to it'? – Razumikhin inquired, almost with a hint of fear.
– Bravo, Rodya! And I didn’t know either! – exclaimed Razumikhin. – I’ll dash to the reading room today and check the issue number! Two months ago? What date exactly? I’ll track it down anyway! Now that’s something! And he wouldn’t even tell! – But how did you find out it was my article? It’s signed with a letter. – Purely by chance, just the other day, through the editor; I know him… I was very intrigued. – I was examining, if I recall, the psychological state of a criminal throughout the commission of the crime. – Yes indeed, and you insist that the act of committing a crime is always accompanied by a kind of illness. Very, very original. But… what actually interested me wasn’t so much that part of your article, but rather a certain idea, slipped in at the end, which you unfortunately only hinted at, rather vaguely… In short, if you remember, there’s a hint that there exist, as it were, certain individuals who can… not merely can, but who have the full right to commit all sorts of outrages and crimes, and for whom, apparently, the law is simply not meant.
– It’s true; but when ‘Weekly Speech’ ceased to exist, it merged with ‘Periodical Speech’, and so your article, published two months ago, appeared in ‘Periodical Speech’. Didn’t you know? Raskolnikov truly knew nothing about it. – Good heavens, you could even claim payment for that article! But what a character you have! You live so secluded that you’re unaware of matters directly concerning you. This is a fact, after all.
– You're lying! I stitched the dress earlier. It was because of the new dress that I thought of fooling you all. – So you're really such a pretender? – asked Raskolnikov carelessly. – What, didn't expect it? Just wait, I'll trick you too – ha ha ha! No, you see, sir, I'll tell you the whole truth. All these questions, crimes, society, girls – they reminded me just now (though actually, they've always interested me) of one of your articles: 'On Crime'... or whatever it was called, I forget the title. I had the pleasure of reading it two months ago in the 'Periodical Speech'. – My article? In the 'Periodical Speech'? – Raskolnikov asked in surprise. – I did write an article about six months ago, when I left university, on a book – but I sent it to the 'Weekly Speech', not the 'Periodical'. – But it ended up in the 'Periodical Speech'. – But the 'Weekly Speech' ceased publication; that's exactly why they didn't print it...
– He's just pretending, damn it! – cried Razumikhin, jumping up and waving his hand. – What's the use of arguing with you! He's doing it on purpose—you don't know him yet, Rodya! Yesterday he took their side just to fool everyone. And what did he say yesterday, good Lord! And they were so delighted with him!... He can keep up this act for two whole weeks. Last year, for some reason, he convinced us he was becoming a monk—he insisted on it for two months! Recently, he started claiming he was getting married, said everything was ready for the wedding—had even stitched a new suit. We began congratulating him. But no bride, nothing—pure illusion!
– Just look at him, he's burst out, banging away! Need to hold him by the hands, – Porfiry laughed. – Imagine, – he turned to Raskolnikov, – just like this yesterday evening, in one room, six people shouting at once, and I'd plied him with punch beforehand – can you picture it? No, brother, you're lying: 'environment' means a great deal in crime; I'll confirm that for you. – And I myself know it means a lot, but tell me this: does a forty-year-old man raping a ten-year-old girl – is it the 'environment' that drives him to it? – Well, strictly speaking, it might just be the environment, – observed Porfiry with surprising solemnity, – a crime against a little girl can indeed be very well explained by 'environment'. Razumikhin nearly flew into a rage. – Oh yeah? Want me to demonstrate right now, – he roared, – that your white eyelashes exist solely because Ivan the Great is thirty-five sazhens tall – and I'll prove it clearly, precisely, progressively, and even with a liberal touch? I'll do it! Come on, want to bet? – I'm in! Let's hear how he proves it, by all means!
And the result is that everything is reduced to laying bricks and arranging corridors and rooms in a phalanstère! The phalanstère may be ready, but your human nature isn't ready for the phalanstère yet—it still wants life, it hasn't completed the living process, it's too early for the graveyard! You can't leap over human nature with logic alone! Logic anticipates three cases, but there are a million! Chop off the million and reduce everything to a single question of comfort! The easiest solution to the problem! Temptingly clear, and no need to think! The main thing—no need to think! The whole mystery of life fits into two printed pages!
With them, it's not humanity, having developed through historical processes to their full extent, naturally transforming itself into a normal society; on the contrary, a social system, born straight out of some mathematical brain, will instantly arrange all of humanity and, in a single moment, make it virtuous and sinless—before any living process, without any historical or organic path! That's precisely why they instinctively dislike history: 'nothing but ugliness and nonsense in it'—and everything is explained away as mere stupidity! That's why they so dislike the living process of life: no need for it! The living soul of life demands its due; the living soul won't obey machinery; the living soul is suspect, the living soul is reactionary! But if here it stinks a bit of death, it can at least be made of rubber—so much the better! Not alive, without will, servile, won't rebel!
– Nothing is allowed! – Razumikhin interrupted heatedly. – I'm not joking! I'll show you their books: everything with them happens just because 'circumstances crushed them', and nothing more! That's their favourite phrase! From this it follows directly that if society is properly arranged, all crimes will vanish at once, since there'll be nothing left to protest against, and everyone will instantly become righteous. Human nature isn't taken into account, human nature is excluded, human nature isn't permitted!
"You're lying again!" exclaimed Porfiry Petrovich. He was clearly getting animated, laughing every moment as he looked at Razumikhin, which only further inflamed him.
– Not quite, that’s true – Razumikhin immediately agreed, eager and heated as usual. Listen, Rodya, hear me out and give me your opinion. I really want to. I was arguing late into the night with them yesterday, waiting for you; I even spoke to them about you, saying you’d come… It started with the socialists’ view. You know the idea: crime is merely a protest against the abnormal structure of society – nothing more, absolutely nothing else, no other causes allowed at all… nothing!..
All this flashed through his mind like lightning. Porfiry Petrovich instantly turned back. He suddenly seemed cheerful. "My dear fellow, my head’s been spinning since yesterday — and I feel quite loose at the joints altogether!" he said, laughing, to Razumikhin, in an entirely different tone. "But tell me, was it interesting? I left you at the most interesting point yesterday. Who won?"
"Well, naturally, nobody. We drifted onto eternal questions, just floating in mid-air."
"Just imagine, Rodya — yesterday we started debating whether crime actually exists! Said we argued ourselves silly!"
"Nothing surprising there — just an ordinary social question," replied Raskolnikov absently. "The question wasn't framed quite like that," remarked Porfiry.
But perhaps it’s good—playing a sick man’s part… He’s probing me. Trying to throw me off. Why did I come?
They certainly talked about me before I came!... Do they know about the flat? I wish they’d just get on with it!... When I said I ran off yesterday to rent a flat, he let it pass, didn’t pick up on it… But clever of me to mention the flat—might come in handy later!... Just raving, I was delirious, that’s all!... Ha-ha-ha! He knows about the whole of yesterday evening! But he didn’t know about my mother’s arrival!... And that witch wrote down the number in pencil!... Lies! I won’t give in! This isn’t evidence yet—it’s all just mirage! No, bring me facts! And the flat isn’t a fact, only delirium; I know what to say to them… But do they know about the flat? I won’t leave without finding out! Why did I even come? The fact that I’m angry now—well, maybe that’s evidence too! Ugh, how irritable I am!
Their words may be ordinary, but there’s something in them… You can always say these things, but still, there’s something. Why did he say directly "at her place"? Why did Zametov add that I had mentioned it? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes… that tone… Razumikhin was sitting right there—why didn’t he sense anything? That innocent fool never suspects anything! Again, fever coming on… Did Porfiry wink at me earlier or not? No, nonsense—why would he wink? Are they trying to irritate my nerves, or just taunting me? Or is it all just a mirage—or even Zametov being insolent… Is Zametov insolent? Zametov changed his mind overnight. I knew he would! He’s acting like he’s at home, though it’s his first time here. Porfiry doesn’t treat him like a guest, sits with his back to him. They’ve conspired! They must have conspired!
The main thing is, they don’t even hide it anymore, they don’t bother with formalities! And why did you talk about me with Nikodim Fomich, if you don’t even know me at all? So they don’t even want to hide that they’re watching me like a pack of dogs! They just spit right in my face! – he trembled with rage. – Well then, strike straight, instead of playing cat and mouse! That’s simply rude, Porfiry Petrovich—maybe I won’t even allow it! I’ll stand up and slap the whole truth right in your faces, and then you’ll see how I despise you! – He gasped for breath. – But what if it’s only in my mind? What if it’s all a mirage, and I’m mistaken about everything, getting angry out of inexperience, unable to bear my lowly role? Maybe it’s all unintentional?
– Just give me some tea at least! My throat’s completely dry! – cried Razumikhin. – Excellent idea! Perhaps everyone will join in. Wouldn’t you like something stronger, just before tea? – Get out! Porfiry Petrovich left to order the tea. Raskolnikov’s thoughts swirled like a whirlwind in his head. He was terribly irritated.
— Or perhaps I found some treasure somewhere, and you don’t know about it? That’s why I was so generous yesterday... Mr. Zametov knows I found a treasure!... Please forgive me, sir — he turned to Porfiry with trembling lips — for bothering you with such trivial nonsense for half an hour. We’ve gotten on your nerves, haven’t we? — Not at all, quite the contrary! If only you knew how fascinating you are to me! It’s truly interesting to watch and listen... and I must admit, I’m so delighted that you’ve finally condescended to visit...
– They really got on my nerves yesterday, – suddenly said Raskolnikov to Porfiry, with a bold, defiant smirk, – so I ran off to rent a room so they couldn't find me, and took a heap of money with me. That gentleman there, Zametov, saw the money myself. Well then, Mr. Zametov, tell me, was I clever yesterday or out of my mind? Settle the argument for us? He seemed ready to strangle Zametov at that very moment. He disliked his look and silence far too much. – In my opinion, you spoke very sensibly, sir, even cunningly, only you were excessively irritable, – Zametov replied curtly. – Just now Nikodim Fomich was telling me, – put in Porfiry Petrovich, – that he met you last night, quite late, in the flat of some official who'd been trampled to death by horses... – Ah, take that official, for instance! – Razumikhin jumped in. – Weren't you out of your mind at the official's place? You gave the widow the very last money you had for the funeral! If you wanted to help, give fifteen, give twenty roubles—but keep at least three for yourself! Yet you handed over all twenty-five, every single kopeck!
– But how could you have gone out if you weren't delirious? – Razumikhin suddenly flared up. – Why did you go out at all? What for?.. And why sneak out like that? Could you even think straight at that time? Now that the danger's over, I'm telling you straight!
And as if nothing had happened, he carefully held out the ashtray to Razumikhin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash all over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry Petrovich seemed not to notice, still apparently preoccupied with Razumikhin's cigarette. "What? Was waiting? Did you know he had pawned things too?" cried Razumikhin. Porfiry Petrovich turned directly to Raskolnikov:
"Both your items—your ring and your watch—were wrapped together in a piece of paper, and on that paper your name was clearly written in pencil, along with the date of the month when she received them from you..."
"How observant of you..." Raskolnikov gave an awkward smile, making a special effort to look him straight in the eye. But he couldn't help adding suddenly, "I only noticed this now because, probably, there were so many people pawning things... it would be hard for you to remember them all. Yet you, on the contrary, remember them so clearly, and... and..."
"Foolish! Weak! Why did I add that!"
Is it alright? Does it sound natural? Did I exaggerate? — Raskolnikov trembled inwardly. — Why did I say "women"? — Your mother has arrived, hasn't she? — inquired Porfiry Petrovich, for some reason. — Yes. — When exactly was that? — Yesterday evening. Porfiry paused, as though pondering. — Under no circumstances could your belongings have gone missing — he continued calmly and coolly. — I've been expecting you here for quite some time.
This was unbearable. Raskolnikov could not endure it and glared at him with his black eyes blazing with anger—then immediately came to his senses. “Brother, you seem to be making fun of me?” he addressed him, feigning irritation with practiced skill. “I admit I may be overly concerned about such trifles in your eyes; but you can’t call me selfish or greedy for that. And in my eyes, these two insignificant items are far from being trifles. I just told you, these silver watches—with practically no value—are the only thing left after my father. You may laugh at me, but my mother has come here,” he suddenly turned to Porfiry, “and if she were to find out”—he quickly turned back to Razumikhin, deliberately trying to make his voice tremble—“that these watches had gone missing, I swear she’d be heartbroken! Women!”
“No, no, not at all! I didn’t mean it that way! Quite the opposite!” cried the distressed Razumikhin.
– Sorry to have troubled you with such small matters – he continued, a little flustered – my things are worth only five rupees, but they're especially precious to me as a memory of those from whom I received them, and, I admit, when I found out, I became terribly frightened…
– No wonder you jumped so suddenly yesterday when I let it slip in front of Zosimov that Porfiry is questioning the pawnbrokers! – interjected Razumikhin, quite deliberately.
– The thing is, right now... I've tried my best to be embarrassed, Raskolnikov said, visibly flustered—I'm not exactly in funds at the moment... and I can't even produce petty cash... I merely wished to state that these items belong to me, and when I come into money... – That makes no difference at all, sir, replied Porfiry Petrovich, coldly accepting the financial explanation. – However, if you wish, you may simply write to me directly, stating that upon learning of such and such, and declaring ownership of certain articles, you kindly request... – It can be on plain paper? Raskolnikov quickly interrupted, once again concerned about the financial aspect. – Oh, the simplest paper possible, sir! And suddenly, Porfiry Petrovich gave him a strangely mocking look, narrowing his eyes as if winking at him. Well, perhaps it only seemed that way to Raskolnikov—it lasted just a split second. At any rate, something of the sort happened. Raskolnikov could have sworn the man winked—goodness knows why. "He knows!" flashed through him like lightning.