О чем говорят каналы

“I see, Avdotya Romanovna, that you’ve suddenly become quite inclined to defend him,” observed Luzhin, curling his lips into an ambiguous smile. “Indeed, he’s a crafty and charming man when it comes to women, as the tragic case of Marfa Petrovna—so strangely deceased—clearly shows. I merely wished to guide you and your mother with my advice, given his fresh and undoubtedly forthcoming attempts. As far as I’m concerned, I’m fully convinced that this man will surely land back in debtors’ prison. Marfa Petrovna never really intended to settle anything substantial on him, especially keeping her children in mind, and if she did leave him something, it would be only the barest essentials—something insignificant, temporary, hardly enough to last a year for a man of his habits.”

– I've heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself. – Precisely so, madam, but what led him to this violent death was the constant system of persecution and harsh demands imposed by Mr. Svidrigilov. – I don't know about that, – replied Dunya coldly. – I only heard a rather strange story, that this Philip was some sort of hypochondriac, a household philosopher. People said he was "read himself to death," and that he hanged himself more from mockery than from beatings by Mr. Svidrigilov. He treated people well in my presence, and they even liked him, though indeed some also blamed him for Philip's death.

shamefully assaulted by Svidrigailov. True, everything remained deeply unclear. The tip came from another German woman, a notorious character with no credibility whatsoever. In fact, thanks to Marfa Petrovna's efforts and money, no actual complaint ever materialised. It all ended with just a rumour. Still, that rumour carried great weight. Of course, Avdotya Romanovna, you must have also heard, while staying with them, about the incident involving a serf named Fyodor, who died from beatings some six years ago, back in the days of serfdom.

I'm only repeating what I heard myself, in strict confidence, from the late Marfa Petrovna. It must be noted that from a legal standpoint, this matter is quite murky. There lived here—and I believe still lives—a certain woman named Resslich, a foreigner, a petty moneylender, involved in other questionable dealings. With this Resslich, Mr. Svidrigailov had long maintained certain very close and mysterious relations. A distant relative of hers, I believe a niece, a deaf-mute girl of about fifteen, or even fourteen, lived under her roof. This Resslich hated the child bitterly, scolded her for every morsel of food, and even beat her cruelly. One day, the girl was found hanged in the attic. It was officially ruled a suicide. After the usual formalities, the case was dropped. But later, a complaint surfaced—though, mind you, it was never formally filed—that the child had been...

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened attentively. "Are you telling the truth—do you have definite information about this?" asked Dunya, sternly and impressively.

I have strong grounds to suspect that Marfa Petrovna, who unluckily came to love him so deeply eight years ago and paid off his debts, also helped him in another serious matter: solely through her efforts and sacrifices, a criminal case involving brutal and, so to speak, grotesque murder was hushed up right at the beginning—something for which he could very well have ended up in Siberia. That's the kind of man he is, if you really want to know.

About this, one cannot be certain. I have accurate information. I don't deny that he might have accelerated matters, so to speak, through the moral impact of the insult; but regarding his conduct and overall moral character, I agree with you. I don't know if he is wealthy now or what exactly Marfa Petrovna left him; I will know this very soon. But certainly, if he has even modest financial means here in St. Petersburg, he will immediately return to his old ways. He is the most depraved and morally ruined man among such types!

– Exactly so, and certainly not without some purpose, considering the haste of his departure and the circumstances preceding it. – Good heavens! Is he not going to leave Dunya in peace even here? – exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – It seems to me there's nothing much to worry about, neither for you nor for Avdotya Romanovna, of course, unless you yourselves choose to have any sort of connection with him. As far as I am concerned, I am keeping watch, and right now I'm trying to find out where he is staying... – Oh, Pyotr Petrovich, you can't imagine how frightened you've made me now! – continued Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – I've seen him only twice, and he struck me as dreadful, absolutely dreadful! I'm convinced he was the cause of the late Marfa Petrovna's death.

– Marfa Petrovna has passed away, you’ve heard? – she began, resorting to her trusted tactic. – Indeed, I have heard, madam. I was informed at the very first rumour and even came here today to let you know that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov left immediately for Petersburg right after his wife’s funeral. At least, that’s what my most reliable sources confirm. – To Petersburg? Here? – Dunya asked anxiously, exchanging a glance with her mother.

– Oh no, Mr. Pyotr Petrovich, we were quite distressed, – Pulcheria Alexandrovna quickly said with particular emphasis – and if God Himself hadn't sent us Dmitry Prokofyevich yesterday, I believe we would have been utterly lost. Here he is, Dmitry Prokofyevich Razumikhin, – she added, introducing him to Luzhin. – Indeed, had the pleasure… yesterday, – muttered Luzhin, casting an unfriendly glance at Razumikhin, then frowned and fell silent. In general, Mr. Pyotr Petrovich belonged to that class of people who appear extremely courteous in society and particularly pride themselves on their politeness, yet the moment anything goes against their wishes, they instantly lose all composure and resemble nothing so much as sacks of flour rather than lively, sociable gentlemen. Everyone fell silent again: Raskolnikov stubbornly kept quiet, Avdotya Romanovna did not wish to break the silence just yet, and Razumikhin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna grew anxious once more.

– What can one do—our national highways are quite long. The so-called 'Mother Russia' is vast... I, for my part, could not possibly hasten to the meeting yesterday despite my best intentions. I hope, however, that everything proceeded without much trouble?

There was an instant silence. Pyotr Petrovich slowly took out a batiste handkerchief, scented with perfume, and blew his nose with the air of a man who, though virtuous, felt somewhat offended in his dignity—and firmly resolved to demand an explanation. As he had stood in the hallway, it had occurred to him not to remove his coat and simply leave, thereby sternly and impressively punishing both ladies so as to make them feel the full weight of his displeasure. But he hesitated. Moreover, this man disliked uncertainty; here, something needed clarifying—if his instructions had been so blatantly disregarded, then something must be amiss, and it was better to learn the truth first. There would always be time to punish later—and the power to do so remained firmly in his hands. “Hope your journey went smoothly?” he formally addressed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “Thank God, Pyotr Petrovich.” “Most pleasing to hear. And Avdotya Romanovna—did you not tire?” “I’m young and strong—I won’t tire—but for Mama, it was very hard,” Dunyasha replied.

Pyotr Petrovich entered and bowed to the ladies quite courteously, though with doubled solemnity. However, he looked as if slightly flustered and still hadn’t gathered his wits. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, appearing equally flustered, immediately rushed to seat everyone around the round table where the samovar was steaming. Dunya and Luzhin sat opposite each other at either end of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov ended up facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna—Razumikhin closer to Luzhin, and Raskolnikov beside his sister.

“Of course, that’s right!” replied Raskolnikov. “But what will you say tomorrow?” he thought to himself. Strangely enough, it had never once occurred to him before: “What will Razumikhin think when he finds out?” Having thought this, Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He was scarcely interested in Razumikhin’s current account of his visit to Porfiry—so much had passed since then, and so much had changed! In the hallway, they bumped into Luzhin: he had arrived exactly at eight o’clock and was searching for the room number, so all three entered together—but without looking at each other or bowing. The young men went ahead, while Pyotr Petrovich, out of propriety, lingered briefly in the entryway, removing his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately came out to greet him at the threshold. Dunya greeted her brother.

If you were actually in danger, or something serious was going on, sure, then it matters. But you? You’ve got nothing to do with it—just ignore them. Later, we’ll laugh at them; if I were you, I’d even start tricking them. Think how ashamed they’ll feel later! Spit on them now—you can beat them up later, but for now, let’s just laugh!

– Well, listen to my answer, – he began. I came to see you, you were asleep. Then we had lunch, and after that I went to Porfiry’s. Zametov was there the whole time. I tried to start talking, but nothing came out right. I just couldn’t bring myself to speak plainly. They clearly don’t understand—and can’t understand—but they’re not the least bit embarrassed. I pulled Porfiry aside to the window and started talking, but again, for some reason, it didn’t work out: he looked away, and I looked away too. Finally, I shoved my fist in his face and told him I’d smash him, like family. He just stared at me. I spat and left—that’s all. Very stupid. I didn’t say a word to Zametov. But here’s the thing: I thought I’d messed things up, but as I was walking down the stairs, an idea suddenly struck me—like a flash: why are we even bothering?

– Who knows! Maybe I am mad after all, and everything that happened these past days—perhaps it was all just in my imagination… – Oh, Rodya! They’ve upset you again!... What did he say? Why did he come? Raskolnikov didn’t answer. Razumikhin thought for a minute.

– It was Svidrigailov, that landlord whose household had wronged Dunya when she worked there as a governess. She left after suffering his advances, thrown out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. That very Marfa Petrovna later begged Dunya’s forgiveness, and now suddenly passed away. It was about her they were speaking earlier. I don’t know why, but I’m terribly afraid of this man. He arrived right after his wife’s funeral. He’s very strange and seems determined to do something… He seems to know something… We must protect Dunya from him… That’s what I wanted to tell you, do you hear? – Protect her? But what could he possibly do against Avdotya Romanovna? Still, thank you, Rodya, for telling me this… We will, we certainly will protect her! Where is he staying? – I don’t know. – Why didn’t you ask? Oh dear, what a pity! No matter, I’ll find out! – Have you seen him? – asked Raskolnikov after a brief silence. – Yes, I noticed him—clearly noticed him. – You actually saw him? You saw him clearly? – Raskolnikov insisted. – Yes, I remember clearly—I’d recognise him among a thousand; I’ve always had a good memory for faces. They fell silent again.

– Well, who was that? – asked Razumikhin, just as they stepped out onto the street.

– What journey? – Why, that ‘voyage’… You yourself mentioned it. – A voyage? Ah, yes… Indeed, I did mention a voyage to you… Well, that’s a broad subject… Though if only you knew what it is you’re asking about! – he added, suddenly bursting into loud, short laughter. – I might end up getting married instead of going on that voyage; they’re matchmaking for me. – Here? – Yes. – When on earth did you manage that? – But I’d very much like to meet Avdotya Romanovna once. I’m asking you seriously. Well froodbye… Ah, yes! I almost forgot! Please tell your sister, Rodion Romanovich, that in Marfa Petrovna’s will she’s been left three thousand. It’s absolutely true. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and I was present. Avdotya Romanovna can receive the money in about two or three weeks. – Are you telling the truth? – I am. Do pass it on. Well froodbye… I’m staying quite close by, you know. As Svidrigailov was leaving, he bumped into Razumikhin at the door. II It was almost eight o’clock; both hurried towards Bakaleyev’s so as to arrive before Luzhin.

– By chance, sir... I somehow feel there's something in you that suits me perfectly. Don't worry, I'm not bothersome; I've lived with card-sharpers, didn't irritate Prince Svirshey, my distant relative and a high official, managed to write about Raphael's Madonna in Mrs. Prilukova's album, lived seven years non-stop with Marfa Petrovna, once stayed at Viazemsky's house near Sennaya, and perhaps I'll even fly in Berg's balloon one day. – Well then, sir. May I ask, are you leaving on a journey soon?

– Quite possible. – Oh, but that's not the case, sir. Still, if not, then so be it. But ten thousand is indeed a fine sum, handy when needed. In any case, I'd request you to pass on my words to Avdotya Romanovna. – No, I won't pass it on. – Then, Rodion Romanovich, I'll have no choice but to seek a personal meeting myself, and thus, trouble you. – But if I do pass it on, you won't seek a personal meeting? – Honestly, I can't say for sure. I'd very much like to meet, just once. – Don't count on it. – A pity. Though, you don't really know me yet. Perhaps, we might grow closer. – You think we might grow closer? – Why not? – Svidrigailov said with a smile, stood up, and picked up his hat. – I don't mean to trouble you overly. When I came here, I wasn't counting on much, though earlier this morning your face did strike me... – Where did you see me this morning? – Raskolnikov asked uneasily.

Saying this, Svidrigailov remained extremely calm and composed. "Please finish," said Raskolnikov. "In any case, this is unacceptably bold." "Not at all. After this, a man can do nothing but harm to another man in this world, and yet has no right to offer the smallest good, all because of empty formalities. It's absurd. For instance, if I were to die and leave that sum to your sister by will, would she refuse to accept it then?"

– I knew you would shout; but first, though I'm not wealthy, these ten thousand roubles are completely free—entirely, absolutely not needed by me. If Avdotya Romanovna refuses, I may as well spend them on something even more foolish. That's point one. Second, my conscience is perfectly at ease; I'm making this offer without any ulterior motive. Believe me or not, but later both you and Avdotya Romanovna will see the truth. The whole matter is that I've indeed caused some trouble and inconvenience to your respected sister; therefore, feeling sincere remorse, I sincerely wish—not to buy myself off, not to pay compensation for the unpleasantness, but simply, straightforwardly, to do something beneficial for her, on the grounds that surely I'm not entitled only to cause harm. If there were even a millionth part of calculation in my proposal, I wouldn't offer so directly; nor would I offer merely ten thousand, when just five weeks ago I offered her more. Besides, I may very, very soon marry a young lady, and thus any suspicion of designs against Avdotya Romanovna will vanish altogether. Finally, let me say that by marrying Mr. Luzhin, Avdotya Romanovna would take the very same sum—only from another man... Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich; please judge calmly and coolly.

– You really, truly are mad! – cried Raskolnikov, less angry than astonished. – How dare you speak like that!

– With the greatest pleasure. Having come here, and now deciding to undertake a certain… journey, I wished to make the necessary preliminary arrangements. My children are with my sister-in-law; they are well provided for, and I am of no personal use to them. What sort of father am I anyway? I have taken for myself only what Marfa Petrovna gifted me a year ago. That is enough for me. Forgive me, I now come directly to the point. Before this journey—which may or may not happen—I wish to settle matters with Mr. Luzhin. Not that I particularly dislike him, but it was through him, after all, that my quarrel with Marfa Petrovna arose, when I discovered that she had arranged this marriage. I now wish, through your kind mediation, and perhaps even in your presence, to meet Avdotya Romanovna and explain to her, first, that she will gain no benefit whatsoever from Mr. Luzhin, but, on the contrary, will surely suffer clear loss. Secondly, after asking her forgiveness for the recent unpleasantness, I would like to request permission to offer her ten thousand rupees, thereby making it easier for her to break off with Mr. Luzhin—a break, I am convinced, she would not be averse to herself, were only the opportunity to arise.

– I began noticing it earlier, but was finally convinced the other day, almost at the very moment of my arrival in Petersburg. Still, back in Moscow, I had imagined I was coming to win the hand of Avdotya Romanovna and to rival Mr. Luzhin. – Excuse me for interrupting, but kindly be so good as to shorten it and come straight to the point of your visit. I’m in a hurry; I need to leave right away…

– This is very naive of you; excuse me, I meant to say—bold, – said Raskolnikov. – You mean to imply that I'm acting for personal gain. Don't worry, Rodion Romanovich, had I been, I wouldn't have spoken so openly; I'm not that much of a fool. Let me share with you a psychological oddity on this matter. Earlier, while justifying my affection for Avdotya Romanovna, I claimed to be a victim myself. Well, know this—now I feel no love at all, n-not the slightest, so much so that it even surprises me, because truly, I did feel something once… – From idleness and indulgence, – interrupted Raskolnikov. – Indeed, I am an idle and indulgent man. Still, your sister possesses so many qualities that naturally, I couldn't help being somewhat impressed. But now I see it was all nonsense. – When did you realise that?

I am certain that you have already formed your opinion about this Mr. Luzhin, my wife’s relative, if you’ve spent even half an hour with him or heard anything accurate and true about him. Avdotya Romanovna is not his match. In my view, Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself most generously—and imprudently—for… for her family. From everything I’d heard about you, it seemed to me that you, on your part, would be very pleased if this marriage could be broken off without harming anyone’s interests. Now, having met you personally, I am even more convinced of this.

– Please do me a favour, – Raskolnikov continued irritably, – allow me to ask you to explain yourself quickly and tell me why you’ve honoured me with your visit… and… and… I’m in a hurry, I have no time, I need to leave for the yard… – Very well, very well. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is getting married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich? – Can’t we somehow avoid any mention of my sister and not bring up her name? I don’t even understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if you truly are Svidrigailov? – But I came precisely to speak about her—how could I avoid mentioning her? – Fine; speak, but make it quick!

A sudden chill seized Raskolnikov at this grotesque reply. Svidrigailov raised his head, stared intently at him, and suddenly burst into laughter. — No, just think about this — he cried — half an hour ago we’d never even seen each other, we consider ourselves enemies, there’s an unresolved matter between us; yet here we’ve dropped all that and plunged straight into literature! Isn’t it true, I said, that we’re cut from the same cloth?

“I don’t believe in the afterlife,” said Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov sat in thought. “What if, over there, it’s just spiders, or something like that?” he suddenly said. “He’s mad,” thought Raskolnikov. “We always imagine eternity as an idea—a thing impossible to grasp, something vast, immense! But why must it necessarily be vast? And what if, instead of all that, there’s just a little room—like a village bathhouse, all sooty, with spiders in every corner—and that’s eternity. Sometimes I imagine it exactly like that.” “And surely, surely nothing more comforting and just comes to your mind than this?” cried Raskolnikov, with painful emotion. “Just? Who knows—perhaps this is justice. And you know, I’d make it exactly like that on purpose!” replied Svidrigailov, smiling vaguely.

– No? You think so? – continued Svidrigailov, slowly looking at him. – But what if we reason like this (just help me out): “Ghosts are, so to speak, fragments and scraps of other worlds, their beginnings. A healthy person, of course, has no need to see them, because a healthy person is the most earthly being, and thus must live solely by this earthly life, for completeness and order. But as soon as one falls slightly ill, as soon as the normal earthly order in the body is disturbed, the possibility of another world immediately begins to manifest; and the sicker one becomes, the more connections with that other world there are—so that when a person dies completely, they pass straight into the other world.” I’ve long pondered this. If you believe in the afterlife, then you can also believe in this reasoning.

– Usually, how do they say? – muttered Svidrigailov, as if to himself, looking away and tilting his head slightly. – They say: “You’re ill, therefore what you see is merely a nonexistent delirium.” But there’s no strict logic here. I agree that ghosts appear only to the sick; but that merely proves that ghosts can appear only to the sick, not that they don’t exist in themselves. – Of course not! – Raskolnikoff insisted irritably.

“No, I’ll never believe it!” Raskolnikov cried out, almost angrily.

– Well, perhaps you’re lying after all? – replied Raskolnikov. – I rarely lie, – answered Svidrigailov, thoughtfully, as if not even noticing the rudeness of the question. – And before this, had you ever seen ghosts? – N… no, only once in my life, six years ago. I had a servant named Filka; he’d just been buried, and I shouted, forgetting myself: “Filka, bring me my pipe!” – and in he came, straight to the shelf where my pipes are kept. I was sitting there, thinking: “He’s come to get back at me,” because we’d had a terrible quarrel right before his death. “How dare you,” I said, “come to me with a torn elbow—out, you scoundrel!” He turned around, left, and never came back. I didn’t tell Marfa Petrovna about it then. I even thought of ordering a memorial service for him, but felt ashamed. – Go see a doctor. – That’s something I understand even without you, that I’m not well—though I honestly don’t know why; in my opinion, I’m probably five times healthier than you. But that’s not what I asked you—I asked whether you believe or not that ghosts appear? I asked you: do you believe ghosts exist?

Aniska could never sew one like this.’ (Aniska—that’s our village seamstress, a former serf girl, trained in Moscow—quite a pretty young thing.) She stands there, twirling in front of me. I examined the dress, then looked her straight in the face: ‘Really, Marfa Petrovna,’ I said, ‘must you bother me with such nonsense?’ – ‘Oh my dear, good heavens, can’t I even visit you now?’ I said, just to tease her: ‘Marfa Petrovna, I’m thinking of getting married.’ – ‘That’s just like you, Arkady Ivanovich. No honour in it—no sooner have you buried your wife than you rush straight off to wed again. And what if you don’t even choose well? I know you—you’ll neither please her nor yourself, you’ll only make decent folk laugh.’ And off she went, her train swishing as if on purpose. Ridiculous, isn’t it?

Arrived at the station at dawn—had dozed a bit during the night, all stiff, eyes heavy with sleep—had some coffee; look, suddenly Marfa Petrovna sits beside me, a deck of cards in her hands: ‘Shall I not tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovich?’ She was quite skilled at fortune-telling, you know. Well, and I’ll never forgive myself now for not letting her! Ran off, frightened, and just then, true enough, the bell rang. Today, after a wretched meal from the caterer, with a heavy stomach, I’m sitting, smoking—suddenly Marfa Petrovna again, walks in all dressed up, in a brand-new silk green dress, with a long trailing train: ‘Good day, Arkady Ivanovich! What do you think of my dress?

– She? Just imagine—about the most trivial of things, and you’ll marvel at human nature: it’s precisely this that irritates me. The first time she came in (I was tired, you see—funeral service, requiem for the departed, then the memorial meal, snacks, finally alone in my study, lit a cigar, lost in thought)—she walks through the door: ‘Arkady Ivanovich,’ she says, ‘today, what with all your busy work, you forgot to wind the clock in the dining room.’ And indeed, for seven years I’d wound that clock myself every week, and if I forgot, she’d always remind me. The next day I was off here.

– I thought I said it aloud. Just now, when I came in and saw you lying there with your eyes closed, pretending – I immediately said to myself, 'This must be the very man!' – What do you mean, 'the very man'? What are you talking about? – cried Raskolnikov. – What about? Well, to tell the truth, I don't know what about... – mumbled Svidrigailov honestly, seeming confused even to himself. They sat in silence for a minute, staring intently at each other. – All this is nonsense! – Raskolnikov exclaimed irritably. – What exactly does she tell you when she comes?

— Why, I somehow always thought something like this was bound to happen with you! — Rascolnikov suddenly said, and at the very same moment he was surprised that he had said it. He was in a state of great agitation. — Oh? You thought so? — Svidrigailov asked, surprised. — Really? Didn’t I say there’s some common point between us? — You never said that! — Rascolnikov replied sharply and eagerly. — I didn’t? — No!

– You seem to miss Marfa Petrovna terribly? – Me? Perhaps. Honestly, perhaps. By the way, do you believe in ghosts? – What kind of ghosts? – Ordinary ghosts, the usual kind! – Do you believe in them? – Well, yes and no, just to please you... I mean, it's not exactly no... – Have they appeared to you? Svidrigailov gave him a strange look. – Marfa Petrovna has been visiting me, – he said, twisting his mouth into a peculiar smile. – What do you mean, visiting? – Well, she's come three times. First, I saw her on the very day of the funeral, about an hour after we left the cemetery. That was the day before I left for here. The second time, three days ago, at dawn, on the journey, at Malaya Vishera station. And the third time, about two hours ago, in the room at the lodgings where I'm staying – I was alone. – While you were awake? – Completely. All three times, wide awake. She comes in, speaks for a minute, and then walks out through the door – always through the door. It's even as if you hear it.

– No, the document didn't restrain me – mused Svidrigailov – it was I myself who didn't leave the village. In fact, about a year ago, on my name day, Marfa Petrovna returned the document to me and even gave me a considerable sum as a gift. She had capital of her own. "You see how much I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich," – indeed, those were her exact words. You don't believe she could have said that? But you know, I actually became a respectable landowner in the village; I'm known in the district. I also subscribed to books. At first Marfa Petrovna approved, but later she began to worry that I'd become too learned.

— And if it weren’t for the document, would you have been allowed to travel? — I’m not sure how to answer. That document hardly constrained me at all. I didn’t want to go anywhere, and Marfa Petrovna herself invited me abroad twice, seeing that I was bored. But really! I’ve traveled abroad before, and it always made me feel queasy. Not that I’m sad exactly, but when dawn breaks over the Bay of Naples, the sea stretches out, and you look at it — somehow, you feel melancholy. The worst part is, you’re genuinely saddened by something! No, it’s better here at home: at least you can blame everyone else and excuse yourself. Maybe now I’d even join an expedition to the North Pole—j’ai le vin mauvais, and drinking disgusts me, yet aside from wine, there’s nothing left. I’ve tried. By the way, they say Berg is flying in a giant balloon in Yusupov Garden this Sunday—he’s inviting passengers for a fee. True? — Well, would you go? — Me? No… just thinking aloud—muttered Svidrigailov, seemingly lost in thought. “What’s up with him, really?” Raskolnikov wondered.

And notice this—she kept that document against me, in someone else’s name, for the entire thirty thousand, so that if ever I thought of rebelling in any way—snap, straight into the trap! And she would’ve done it too! With women, you see, all these things can live together peacefully.

– How could it be otherwise? We were quite a crowd—perfectly respectable folks, about eight years ago; we used to have a good time. All well-mannered people, you know, poets, capitalists. And generally speaking, in Russian society, those who've been punished tend to have the best manners—have you noticed that? Actually, I’ve now sunk into village life. But still, they did lock me up back then for debt—over some buckwheat flour from Nezhin. That's when Marfa Petrovna appeared, bargained a bit, and bought me out for thirty thousand silver roubles. (I owed only seventy thousand in total.) We got married properly, and she took me straight off to her village like some precious treasure. She was five years older than me. Very much in love with me. I didn’t leave the village for seven years.

– To which anatomy? – As for those clubs, Dussauts, your points or perhaps even progress—well, let’s keep that away from us—continued he, again not noticing the question. – And really, is it worth being a cheat? – And have you yourself been a cheat?

“You’re right—I do have acquaintances,” Svidrigailov picked up, avoiding the main point. “I’ve already run into a few; it’s my third day wandering around. I recognize people, and they seem to recognize me too. Of course, I’m decently dressed and considered no pauper—our peasant reform bypassed us after all: forests and floodplain meadows still yield steady income. But… I won’t go there. I was already fed up long before; I’ve been walking for three days now without confessing to anyone… And then this city! How on earth did it come together, pray tell? A city of clerks and every sort of seminarian! Honestly, eight years ago when I loafed around here, I hadn’t noticed half of this… Now I’m banking solely on anatomy, I swear!”

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.