О чем говорят каналы

– Just let me die in peace! – she screamed at the crowd. – What kind of show do you think this is? Smoking cigarettes! Khe-khe-khe! Why don't you all walk in wearing hats too... One of you is already wearing a hat... Get out! At least show some respect for the dead!

"I have sent for a doctor," he kept saying to Katerina Ivanovna. "Don’t worry, I will pay. Is there any water? And give me a cloth, a towel, anything, quickly; we don’t know how badly he is injured… He is injured, not dead, be sure… What will the doctor say!"

Raskolnikov soon noticed that this woman was not one of those who faint easily. Within moments, a pillow appeared under the head of the distressed man—something no one had thought of yet. Catherine Ivanovna started undressing and examining him, bustling about without panicking, forgetting herself entirely, biting her trembling lips and holding back cries rising from her chest. Meanwhile, Raskolnikov managed to send someone to fetch the doctor, who lived just across the road.

– "Where should we place him?" asked the policeman, looking around the room after they had already dragged the bloodied and unconscious Marmeladov inside. – "On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, head over here," Raskolnikov directed. – "Run over in the street! While drunk!" someone shouted from the hallway. Katerina Ivanovna stood pale and struggling to breathe. The children were terrified. Little Lida shrieked, darted to Polechka, clung to her, and trembled violently. After laying Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov rushed to Katerina Ivanovna: "For God's sake, calm down, don't panic!" he blurted out. "He was crossing the road when a carriage hit him. Don't worry, he'll come to, I ordered them to bring him here… I was here before, remember… He'll come to, I'll pay!" "You've done it!" Katerina Ivanovna cried desperately and rushed to her husband.

What are they carrying? Lord Almighty!"

tomorrow… khm-khm-khm… it'll rip worse!" she shrieked, gasping. "Back then, the Petersburg chamber junker, Prince Schezhevsky, had just arrived… He danced the mazurka with me and wanted to propose the very next day; but I myself politely thanked him and said my heart belonged to another. That other was your father, Polly; Papa was furious… Is the water ready? Bring the shirt then; and the stockings?… Lida," she addressed her little daughter, "you'll just sleep without a shirt tonight; somehow manage… but lay the stockings out nearby… Wash them together… Why hasn't that drunken ragamuffin come yet! He dragged in the shirt like some rag, tore it all… Might as well do both at once so we don't suffer two nights! Lord! Khm-khm-khm-khm! Again! What is this?" she cried, looking at the crowd in the hallway and the people pushing in with some burden into her room. "What is this?

"You won't believe it, you can't even imagine, Polly dear," she said, pacing the room, "how joyfully and grandly we lived in Papa's house, and how this drunkard ruined me and will ruin you all! Papa was a civilian colonel and nearly a governor; he just needed one final step, and everyone came to him saying, 'We already consider you our governor, Ivan Mikhailovich.' When I… khm! When I… khm-khm-khm… oh, cursed life!" she cried, coughing up phlegm and clutching her chest. "When I… oh, at that last ball… at the district chief's… the Princess Bezsemyanaya saw me – who later blessed me when I married your father, Polly – she immediately asked, 'Is that the sweet young girl who danced with the shawl at the graduation?' (The tear needs mending; I should take the needle now and stitch it, as I taught you, otherwise tomorrow… khm!

Katya Ivanovna, as always, the moment she had a spare minute, began pacing back and forth across her small room—from the window to the stove and back again—her arms tightly crossed over her chest, muttering to herself and coughing. Lately, she had started talking more and more with her elder daughter, ten-year-old Polya, who, though still too young to understand much, clearly sensed that her mother needed her. So she constantly watched her with large, thoughtful eyes, doing her best to pretend she understood everything. This time, Polya was undressing her younger brother, who had been unwell all day, preparing him for bed. Waiting for his shirt to be changed—a shirt that would have to be washed that very night—the boy sat silently on a chair, stiff and serious, his legs stretched straight out, pressed tightly together, heels facing outward and toes turned apart. He listened to what his mother was saying to his sister, lips puffed out, eyes wide and unblinking, perfectly still—just as any well-behaved boy ought to sit when being undressed for bed. A younger child, even smaller, stood behind the screen in tattered rags, waiting for her turn. The door to the staircase was left open, in a futile attempt to escape the waves of tobacco smoke pouring in from other rooms, which kept triggering long, painful coughing fits in the poor consumptive woman. Katya Ivanovna seemed even thinner this week, and the red spots on her cheeks burned brighter than ever before.

He had even managed to slip something discreetly into someone's hand; the matter, after all, was clear and proper, and help was close at hand anyway. The injured man was lifted and carried away; helpers had appeared. Kozel’s house was just about thirty paces away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully supporting the man’s head and guiding the way. “This way, this way! Up the stairs, carry him head first—turn him around… that’s right! I’ll pay, I’ll make it worth your while,” he muttered.

“I know him, I know him!” he cried, pushing his way right to the front. “He’s a government clerk, retired—Titular Councillor Marmeladov. He lives right here, nearby, in Kozel’s house. Quick, get a doctor! I’ll pay, see?” He pulled out money from his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in a state of intense agitation. The policemen were relieved to find out who the injured man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and with all his might, as if it were his own father, urged them to carry the unconscious Marmeladov at once to his apartment. “Just three houses from here,” he hurried, “Kozel’s house—German, wealthy. He must’ve been drunk, on his way home. I know him—he’s a drunkard. His family’s there—wife, children, one daughter. If we drag him to hospital now, he’ll die on the way—there’s surely a doctor in the building anyway! I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least at home they’ll care for him properly, help him right away—otherwise he won’t make it to the hospital.”

– Exactly three times, everyone heard it! – shouted the third man. However, the coachman was neither particularly gloomy nor frightened. Clearly, the carriage belonged to some wealthy and important master who was waiting for its arrival somewhere; naturally, the police were quite concerned about how best to handle this matter. The injured man would have to be taken first to the station, then to the hospital. No one knew his name. Meanwhile, Raskolnikov pushed through and bent closer. Suddenly, the lantern brightly illuminated the face of the injured man; he recognised him.

Raskolnikov pushed through as best he could and finally saw the cause of all the commotion and curiosity. On the ground lay a man, apparently unconscious, recently crushed by horses. He was poorly dressed, though in what looked like "respectable" clothes, and was covered in blood. Blood streamed from his face and head; his features were bruised, scraped, and horribly disfigured. Clearly, he had been seriously injured. "Good heavens!" wailed the coachman. "How could anyone have avoided it? Had I been speeding or not shouted, that might be another matter—but I was going slow, steady-like. Everyone saw: people lie, but this is the truth! I saw him crossing the road, staggering, nearly falling. I shouted once, then again, then a third time, and I reined in my horses. But straight into their hooves he dropped—flat! Was it on purpose, or was he just too drunk to stand?" "That's exactly how it happened!" someone in the crowd called out. "He did shout—yes, shouted three times, that's true," another voice confirmed.

In the middle of the street stood a stylish, aristocratic carriage drawn by a pair of spirited grey horses; there were no passengers, and the coachman himself had climbed down and stood beside it, holding the horses by the reins. A large crowd had gathered around, with policemen at the front. One of them held a lit lantern, bending down to illuminate something on the pavement near the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming in shock. The coachman looked bewildered and muttered from time to time: – What a tragedy! Good Lord, what a terrible thing this is!

“No point getting involved,” decided the big watchman. “He’s clearly a rogue! He’s asking for trouble, that’s obvious—get involved and you’ll never get out of it… We know how it goes!” “Should I go ahead or not?” thought Raskolnikov, stopping in the middle of the road at a crossroads and looking around as if waiting for a final word from someone. But no sound came from anywhere; everything was silent and lifeless, as hard and cold as the stones beneath his feet—lifeless, utterly lifeless, for him alone… Suddenly, far off, about two hundred paces away, at the end of the street, in the thickening darkness, he noticed a crowd, heard voices, shouts… In the midst of the crowd stood some kind of carriage… A tiny light flickered in the middle of the street. “What’s happening?” Raskolnikov turned right and walked towards the crowd. He seemed to be clutching at anything now, and coldly smiled at the thought, because he had already made up his mind about the office and firmly knew that everything would end right now.

– What’s the use of talking to him? – shouted the other watchman, a huge fellow in an open Armenian coat with keys dangling from his belt. – Be off!... He’s a real rogue... Be off! And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder, he flung him out into the street. Raskolnikov staggered, almost fell, but recovered himself, silently looked around at the onlookers, and walked on. – A strange man, that, – said the labourer. – People have become strange these days, – remarked a woman. – Should’ve taken him straight to the office, – added a townsman.

– I’m Rodyon Romanovich Raskolnikov, a former student. I live in Mr. Shil’s house, just down the lane from here – not far at all, in flat number fourteen. Ask the caretaker, he knows me. – Raskolnikov spoke these words slowly and absent-mindedly, without turning around, his eyes fixed intently on the darkening street. – Then why did you come here wearing that coat? – Just to look. – What’s there to see? – Why not just take him to the station? – suddenly chimed in the townsman, then fell silent. Raskolnikov glanced sideways over his shoulder, studied him closely, and said just as quietly and lazily: – Let’s go. – Yes, let’s! – the emboldened townsman eagerly agreed. – What was he after, anyway? What’s going on in his mind? – Drunk or sober, who can tell? – muttered the labourer. – What do you want? – the caretaker shouted again, now growing seriously annoyed. – Why are you bothering me? – Scared to go to the station? – Raskolnikov mocked him. – Scared? What are you bothering me for? – Rogue! – a woman screamed.

– Was here a while ago. What do you want? Raskolnikov didn’t answer and stood beside them, lost in thought. – Came to see the flat, the senior workman said, approaching. – What flat? – The one where we’re working. “Why’ve you washed the blood away?” he says. “A murder happened here,” says he, “and I’ve come to rent it.” Then starts ringing the bell, nearly tore it off. “Come,” says he, “let’s go to the office, I’ll prove everything there.” Just won’t leave us alone. The watchman stared at Raskolnikov, puzzled and frowning. – And who exactly are you? he shouted, more sternly this time.

– I want to rent a room, – he said. – Just having a look around. – Rooms aren't rented out at night; besides, you should come with the caretaker. – The floor's been washed; are they going to paint? – continued Raskolnikov. – There's no blood left? – What blood? – The old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a whole pool of blood. – What kind of man are you? – the workman cried, alarmed. – Me? – Yes, you. – You want to know, do you?... Come to the office, I'll tell you there. The workers stared at him in bewilderment. – We ought to be going, we're late. Come on, Alyosha. Need to lock up, – said the older workman. – All right, let's go! – Raskolnikov replied indifferently, and walked ahead, slowly descending the stairs. – Hey, caretaker! – he shouted as he passed through the gateway. A small group of people stood near the entrance from the street, watching passers-by: both caretakers, a woman, a townsman in a dressing gown, and a few others. Raskolnikov walked straight up to them. – What do you want? – one of the caretakers responded. – Did you go to the office? – Was there just now. What's it to you? – Are they sitting there? – They are. – Is the assistant there too?

Instead of answering, Raskolnikov got up, went into the passage, reached for the doorbell, and pulled. The same bell, the same tinny sound! He pulled a second, then a third time, listening intently, trying to remember. The old, agonising, terrifying, hideous sensation began to return to him more vividly and clearly; he shuddered with each ring, yet felt increasingly elated. – What d'you want? Who are you? – shouted the porter, coming out to him. Raskolnikov stepped back through the doorway.

– A magazine, my dear fellow, is something with coloured pictures, and these come here every Saturday by post from abroad, for our local tailors, showing how people should dress – men and women alike. It's all in pictures, you see. Men are mostly drawn in long coats, but the women's section, brother, has such fancy gowns – give me everything you've got, and it still wouldn't be enough! – And there's nothing, absolutely nothing missing in this Petersburg! – cried the younger one enthusiastically – except one's mother and father, everything else is here! – Except that, my dear fellow, everything else can be found, – concluded the elder one with authority. Raskolnikov stood up and went into the other room, where the bed, trunk and chest of drawers had stood earlier. Without furniture, the room seemed terribly small to him. The wallpaper was the same; in the corner, the spot on the wall was clearly visible where the icon case used to stand. He looked at it and returned to his window. The older workman was watching him sideways. – What do you want, sir? – he suddenly asked, turning to him.

– She comes to me, this one, in the morning, – the elder was telling the younger, – so early, dressed up to the nines. 'And what's all this, I says, parading yourself before me like a lemon? What's this orange-business you're pulling, I says?' – 'I want, she says, Tit Vasilyevich, from now on, henceforth, to be entirely at your service.' That's how it was! And the way she was dressed: a magazine, simply a magazine! – But what's this "magazine", uncle? – asked the youth. He was clearly learning from his "uncle".

The room was being redecorated too; there were workers inside—it seemed to strike him. He had somehow imagined that everything would be exactly as he had left it, perhaps even the bodies lying in the same places on the floor. But now: bare walls, no furniture. It felt strange! He walked over to the window and sat on the sill. There were only two workers, both young men—one older, the other much younger. They were pasting new wallpaper over the old, tattered yellow one: white with lilac flowers. For some reason, this displeased Raskolnikov intensely; he looked at the new wallpaper with hostility, as though it pained him to see everything so changed. The workers, clearly delayed, were hurriedly rolling up their paper and preparing to leave. Raskolnikov’s arrival hardly caught their attention. They were talking to each other. He folded his arms and began to listen.

An irresistible and inexplicable urge drew him in. He entered the building, passed through the courtyard, turned right into the first entrance, and began climbing the familiar staircase to the fourth floor. The narrow, steep stairs were very dark. He stopped at each landing, looking around with curiosity. On the first-floor landing, the window frame was fully opened: "That wasn't there before," he thought. Here was the second-floor apartment where Nikolas and Mitya had worked: "Locked up, and the door's freshly painted—so it's up for rent, then." The third floor... and now the fourth... "Here it is!" He was struck by confusion—the apartment door stood wide open, people were inside, voices could be heard. This was the last thing he had expected. Hesitating a moment, he climbed the final steps and walked into the apartment.

"Well, this is the end!" he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the embankment of the canal. "Still, I'll finish it, because I want to... But is it really the end? Never mind! Just a yard of space—that's all, heh! What a ridiculous ending! Can it really be the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah, damn it! I'm so tired—better lie down somewhere, or sit quickly! The worst is how utterly stupid it all is. But who cares anymore? Ugh, what nonsense keeps coming into my head..."

People were dispersing, the police were still dealing with the drowned woman, someone shouted about the office… Raskolnikov watched it all with a strange sense of indifference and detachment. He felt disgusted. "No, it's filthy… the water… not worth it," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will happen—I've nothing to expect. What was that about an office? And why isn't Zametov at the office? The office opens at ten…" He turned his back to the railing and looked around. "Well then, so be it! Perhaps I will!" he said firmly; he left the bridge and headed towards the office. His heart felt empty and numb. He didn't want to think. Even the anguish had faded, leaving no trace of the energy he'd had when he left home with the intention of "ending everything!" Complete apathy had taken its place.

– She's drunk herself to the devil, good people, drunk herself to the devil, – wailed the same woman's voice, now close to Afrosinushka, – and then tried to hang herself too, we had to cut her down. So I went off to the shop, left the little girl watching over her, – and look what happened! She's a townsfolk, sir, our own neighbour, lives right nearby, the second house from the corner, just here…

– Drowned! She’s drowned! – dozens of voices shouted. People came rushing in; both embankments were crowded with onlookers. A crowd gathered on the bridge, all around Raskolnikov, pressing in and pushing him from behind. – Oh my God, it’s our little Afrosinya! – a woman’s wailing cry rang out nearby. – Oh dear, save her! Kind souls, pull her out! – A boat! Get a boat! – the crowd cried. But a boat was no longer needed. A constable had already dashed down the steps to the canal, flung off his coat and boots, and jumped into the water. It didn’t take long: the drowned woman was drifting just two steps from the landing. He grabbed her by her clothes with his right hand, managed to seize a pole extended by his comrade with his left, and in an instant the woman was pulled out. They laid her on the granite slabs of the steps. She quickly regained consciousness, sat up, and began sneezing and snorting, senselessly wiping her soaked clothes with her hands. She said nothing.

He felt someone standing beside him, on his right, close by. He looked—and saw a woman, tall, with a kerchief on her head, her face long, yellow, worn, with sunken reddish eyes. She stared straight ahead, but clearly saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly, she leaned her right hand on the railing, lifted her right leg over the railing and swung it across, then followed with her left, and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water splashed apart, swallowed the victim momentarily, but after a minute the drowned woman surfaced and floated slowly downstream, her head and feet submerged, her back uppermost, her skirt bunched up and ballooning above the water like a pillow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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