He heard Razumikhin’s hurried footsteps and his voice, closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumikhin opened the door and stood for a while at the threshold, as if hesitating. Then he stepped quietly into the room and cautiously approached the sofa. Nastasya’s whisper was heard:
“Don’t wake him; let him sleep. He’ll eat later.”
“True enough,” answered Razumikhin. Both quietly left and closed the door. Half an hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and once again flung himself on his back, clasping his hands behind his head…
“Who is he? Who is this man who emerged from beneath the earth? Where was he and what did he see? He saw everything—that’s certain. Where was he standing, and from where was he watching? Why is he only now emerging from under the floor? And how could he possibly have seen—was that even possible?… Hm…,” continued Raskolnikov, shivering and growing cold, “and the case that Nikolai found behind the door—was that possible too? Clues? You miss a hundred-thousandth little detail—that becomes evidence building up like the Egyptian pyramid! A fly was buzzing, it saw everything! Could it really be possible?”
He wasn't thinking about anything in particular. There were just thoughts, or fragments of thoughts, vague images—faces of people he had seen in childhood or met only once, and never would have remembered otherwise; the bell tower of V Church; a billiard hall in a tavern and some officer standing by the table; the smell of cigars in a basement tobacco shop; a spirits shop; a dark, narrow staircase, completely filthy, drenched in waste and littered with broken eggshells—and somewhere, Sunday church bells ringing. Images followed one another, swirling like a whirlwind. Some even pleased him, and he tried to hold on to them, but they faded away. Something weighed on him inside, but not too heavily. Sometimes it even felt quite pleasant... A slight shiver lingered, and that too felt almost good.
– Murderer – the man pronounced, even more distinctly and solemnly, as if with the hateful triumph of a smile, and again looked straight into Razumikhin’s pale face and his lifeless eyes. They had reached a crossroads. The civilian turned left into a street and walked away without looking back. Razumikhin remained standing where he was, watching him for a long time. He saw that after walking about fifty paces, the man turned and glanced back at him still standing motionless in the same spot. It was impossible to see clearly, but Razumikhin felt that he had smiled once more with that cold, hateful, triumphant smile. With quiet, feeble steps, his knees trembling, and as though terribly chilled, Razumikhin returned home and climbed up to his small room. He took off his cap and placed it on the table, then stood motionless beside it for about ten minutes. Then, overcome by weakness, he lay down on the couch and stretched out painfully, letting out a faint groan; his eyes remained closed. So he lay for half an hour.
Raskolnikov walked beside him. His legs suddenly grew terribly weak, a chill ran down his back, and his heart seemed to stop for a moment—then it pounded wildly, as if released from a hook. They walked about a hundred paces side by side, again in complete silence. The townsman did not look at him. “What... what... who’s the murderer?” Raskolnikov muttered barely audibly.
Raskolnikov hurried after the man and immediately saw him walking on the other side of the street, moving at the same steady, unhurried pace, eyes fixed on the ground, seemingly deep in thought. He quickly caught up, but for some time walked behind him. Finally, he drew level and glanced sideways at the man’s face. The man instantly noticed him, gave him a quick look over, but immediately lowered his eyes again. They walked side by side for about a minute, neither saying a word. “You… you asked about me… at the porter’s lodge?” Raskolnikov finally said, though very softly. The man gave no answer and didn’t even glance at him. Again, silence followed. “But why… why come asking and then stay silent… what is this?” Raskolnikov’s voice faltered, and the words seemed unable to come out clearly. This time, the man raised his eyes and fixed Raskolnikov with a dark, ominous stare. “Murderer,” he suddenly said, in a quiet but distinct and clear voice.
– Someone was asking if a student lives here, mentioned your name and where you're staying. You just came down, I pointed, and he went off. See? The watchman was somewhat puzzled, but not particularly so; after a moment's thought, he turned and climbed back into his little cubicle.
He stood as if deep in thought, a strange, meek, half-senseless smile playing on his lips. Finally, he picked up his cap and quietly left the room. His thoughts were jumbled. Absent-mindedly, he walked down the steps into the courtyard. – Well, here he is himself! – a loud voice shouted. He looked up. The watchman stood by the door of his lodge, pointing straight at him and addressing a short man who looked like a townsman, dressed in something like a long coat, wearing a waistcoat, and from a distance resembling a woman. The man’s head, covered with a greasy cap, hung low, and his whole figure seemed hunched. His flabby, wrinkled face looked over fifty; his small, sunken eyes stared gloomily, sternly, and with displeasure. – What is it? – asked Raskolnikov, approaching the watchman. The townsman glanced at him sideways, scrutinising him closely and attentively, without hurry; then, without uttering a word, slowly turned and walked out of the gate onto the street. – What is it? – cried Raskolnikov.
When Raskolnikov reached his house, his temples were damp with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He quickly climbed the stairs, entered his unlocked room, and immediately bolted the door with the hook. Then, fearfully and frantically, he rushed to the corner, to that very hole in the wallpaper where the things had been hidden, thrust his hand into it, and spent several minutes carefully feeling around every nook and crevice of the paper lining. Finding nothing, he stood up and took a deep breath. Earlier, just as he was approaching Bakaleev's porch, it had suddenly occurred to him that some item—a chain, a cufflink, or even a scrap of paper with the old woman’s handwriting—might somehow have slipped through and got lost in some crack, only to emerge later as sudden, undeniable evidence against him.
– So you want to torture me too! – he cried out bitterly, with such despair in his eyes that Razumikhin's hands dropped helplessly. For a while he stood on the porch, gloomily watching him hurry off towards his lane. Finally, clenching his teeth and fists, swearing to himself that he'd squeeze Porfiry dry like a lemon that very day, he went upstairs to calm down Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who had already grown anxious over their long absence.
But almost at that moment, he suddenly grew uneasy, as if an unexpected and troubling thought had struck him. His anxiety kept increasing. They had already reached the entrance of Bakaleev's lodgings. "Go in alone," said Raskolnikov abruptly. "I'll come back right away."
"Where to? We've just arrived!"
"I must, I have to; a matter of importance… I'll be back in half an hour… Tell them inside."
"Suit yourself, I'll follow you!"
– He would have immediately told you that no workers could possibly have been there two days earlier, which means you were definitely there on the day of the murder, at eight o'clock. He’d have caught you off guard! – That's exactly what he was counting on—that I wouldn’t have time to think, and in my hurry to sound convincing, I’d blurt out something plausible and forget that no workers could have been there two days prior. – But how could one possibly forget that? – It's the easiest thing in the world! It's precisely on such trivial points that clever people are most easily tripped up. The cleverer a man is, the less he suspects he’ll be caught out on something simple. That’s why you should trap the cleverest man with the simplest thing. Porfiry isn’t nearly as foolish as you think... – Then he’s a scoundrel after all! Raskolnikov couldn’t help but laugh. But at the very same moment, he found it strange how animated and eager he had become while explaining this, whereas until now, throughout the entire conversation, he’d spoken with gloomy reluctance, clearly driven only by necessity and some ulterior motive. "I’m actually getting a taste for certain things!" he thought to himself.
– Because only raw peasants or the most inexperienced novices flatly deny everything outright during questioning. A man who’s even slightly educated and experienced will, by contrast, always try—and as far as possible—to admit to all external, undeniable facts. But he’ll attach different motives to them, introducing some personal, unique, unexpected twist that completely changes their meaning and puts them in a different light. Porfiry could well have expected that I’d answer exactly like this—that I’d certainly admit to having seen, just to appear credible, and then slip in some explanation…
"He did present it rather well," thought Raskolnikov. "Spit on it? But tomorrow another interrogation! Am I really to get into explanations with them? I already regret having lowered myself before Zamyotov in that tavern..."
"Damn it! I'll go to Porfiry myself! And I'll corner him; I'll make him reveal everything down to the last detail! And as for Zamyotov..."
"At last, I've figured it out!" thought Raskolnikov. "Stop!" cried Razumikhin, suddenly grabbing him by the shoulder. "Stop! You're lying! I've just realised—it's a lie! What kind of trap is that? You say the question about the workmen was a trap? Think: if you had done it, could you possibly have let slip that you saw the apartment being painted... and the workmen? On the contrary, you'd say you saw nothing—even if you had! Who would incriminate himself?"
"If I had done it, I would certainly have said I saw both the workmen and the apartment," answered Raskolnikov reluctantly and with obvious disgust. "But why on earth would you incriminate yourself?"
I see it’s annoying, but in your place, Rodya, I’d simply roar with laughter in their faces, or better still – spit right into their mugs, thick and heavy, flick two dozen well-aimed spits in all directions, as one always should, and that’d be the end of it. Spit and be done! Cheer up! It’s shameful!
I mean, really – just because a poor student, broken by poverty and hypochondria, on the brink of a severe feverish illness, perhaps already beginning (mark that!), sensitive, proud, aware of his own worth, who hasn’t seen a soul in six months, dressed in rags, with soles flapping off his shoes – stands before some petty clerks and endures their mockery; and suddenly, right in his face, appears an unexpected debt, a dishonoured bill with Collegiate Assessor Chebarov, foul-smelling paint, thirty degrees Réaumur, stifling air, a crowd of people, a story about a murder of someone he’d visited the day before – and all this on an empty stomach! How could a faint not occur? And to build everything on this! Good Lord!
– And it’s offensive, terribly offensive! I understand you! But… since we’ve finally started speaking plainly (and it’s excellent that we have, I’m glad!) – well then, I’ll confess straight away that I’ve long noticed this idea lurking in them, all this while, of course, only in a faint, creeping form, but still, why even in a creeping form! How dare they? Where, where do these roots lie hidden in them? If only you knew how furious I’ve been!
– But quite the opposite, quite the opposite! If they actually had this foolish idea, they would try by every means to hide it and keep their cards close, so as to catch me later. But now—this is bold and careless! – If they had facts, real facts, or even solid grounds for suspicion, then yes, they’d certainly try to conceal their game, hoping to gain more later (though then, mind you, they’d have searched me long ago!). But they have no facts—none at all. It’s all mirage, all guesswork, just a fleeting idea—so they’re trying to overwhelm me with audacity. Or perhaps he himself got angry at having no evidence, lost his temper and blurted it out. Or maybe he has some plan… He seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to scare me by showing he knows something… There’s psychology at play here, brother… Though honestly, it’s vile to explain all this. Leave it!
– Don't believe it! – replied Raskolnikov with a cold, careless smile. – As usual, you noticed nothing, whereas I weighed every word. – You're suspicious, that's why you weighed them... Hmm... Indeed, I agree, Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and especially that scoundrel Zametov!... You're right, there was something in him... But why? What was it? – I've thought it over through the night.
– Ugh! I’ve mixed things up! – Porfiry slapped his forehead. – Good heavens, this case has got me so worked up my mind’s going round in circles! – he said, almost apologetically to Raskolnikov – it was so important for us to find out whether anyone saw them in the flat at around eight o’clock, and now it suddenly occurs to me that you might have something to say too… I’ve completely muddled things up! – Well, you should pay more attention, then – muttered Razumikhin gloomily. These last words were spoken in the hallway. Porfiry Petrovich saw them right to the door with great courtesy. Both stepped out onto the street looking grim and silent, walking a few paces without saying a word. Raskolnikov took a deep breath…
VI
– I don’t believe it! I simply can’t believe it! – repeated the bewildered Razumikhin, struggling with all his might to refute Raskolnikov’s arguments. They were nearing Bakaleyev’s lodging house, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dunya had long been waiting for them. On the way, Razumikhin kept halting every few steps in the heat of the argument, disturbed and agitated by the very fact that they had finally spoken so openly about it.
— What are you talking about! — suddenly cried Razumikhin, as if coming to his senses and realising something. — The painters were there on the very day of the murder, weren't they? And he'd been there three days before that? Why are you even asking?
– At eight o'clock, sir, – replied Raskolnikov, immediately feeling unpleasant that he had said it. – So, passing by at eight o'clock, on the staircase, didn't you happen to see, on the second floor, in an open flat – do you remember? – two workmen, or even one of them? They were painting there; did you notice them? It's very, very important for them! – Painters? No, I didn't see them... – Raskolnikov answered slowly, as if searching his memory, at that very instant straining every fibre of his being, his heart pounding, desperately trying to grasp the trap and not miss a thing. – No, I didn't see them, and I don't recall noticing any flat open... But on the fourth floor (he had now fully grasped the trap and felt triumphant) – I do remember a clerk moving out, opposite Alyona Ivanovna's flat... Yes, clearly remember... soldiers were carrying out a sofa and had pushed me against the wall. But painters – no, I don't recall any painters... And as far as I remember, there wasn't any open flat anywhere. No, there wasn't.
– Why, there's no need for that at all just yet, sir! You've misunderstood. You see, I don't miss an opportunity—and I've already spoken with all the pawnbrokers... taken statements from some... and you, being the last... Ah, by the way!—he cried out, suddenly delighted by something—speaking of the matter!—he turned to Razumikhin—wasn't it you who kept harping on that Nikashka fellow? Well, I know, I know myself the boy's innocent!—he turned to Raskolnikov—but what could I do? Even Mitka had to be questioned... that's the whole point, sir, the essence of it: when you were going down the stairs that time... if I may ask: you were there at around eight o'clock, weren't you, sir?
Raskolnikov remained silent, staring intently and firmly at Porfiry. Razumikhin frowned darkly. Something had already seemed odd to him earlier. He glanced angrily around the room. A gloomy silence lasted for a minute. Raskolnikov turned to leave. “Oh, leaving already?” Porfiry said warmly, extending his hand with great cordiality. “Delighted, absolutely delighted to have met you! And as for your request—don’t worry about it at all. Just write it down as I suggested, or better still, come visit me in person—any day, really—why not even tomorrow? I’ll definitely be there around eleven. We’ll sort everything out… have a proper chat. Since you were one of the last people to visit, you might just have something useful to tell us,” he added in the most good-natured manner. “Do you intend to officially question me, with all due formalities?” Raskolnikov asked sharply.
"Well, come now, who among us Russians doesn't consider themselves Napoleon these days?" Porfiry suddenly remarked with shocking familiarity. Even in the tone of his voice there was something particularly pointed this time. "Could it be some future Napoleon who cracked Alyona Ivanovna's skull with an axe last week?" suddenly blurted out Zamyotov from the corner.
Razumikhin made a movement. "And if that's so, sir, would you yourself actually dare—say, due to some life misfortunes or hardships, or perhaps to advance the welfare of all humanity—to step over an obstacle?... For instance, to kill and rob?"
He suddenly winked again with his left eye and laughed silently, just as he had done earlier. "If I had stepped over, I certainly wouldn't tell you," replied Raskolnikov with defiant, haughty contempt. "No, sir, I only ask out of interest, purely to understand your article, from a literary standpoint only, sir..."
"How blatant and crude!" Raskolnikov thought with disgust. "Allow me to point out," he answered coldly, "that I do not consider myself Muhammad or Napoleon, nor anyone else of that sort, and therefore, not being them, I cannot give you a satisfactory answer about what I might have done."
– Very well, sir, do tell me your little idea – Rodion stood before him, pale and serious, waiting. – You see, sir… I really don’t know how best to put it… The idea is rather whimsical, so to speak… a psychological one… You see, sir, when you were writing your article, it couldn’t possibly be… ha-ha!… that you didn’t consider yourself, even just a little bit, as a man of “extraordinary” kind – that is, in your own sense of the word, sir… Could it, sir? – Very likely, indeed – Rodion replied with disdain.
– Whoever has it must suffer, if he realises his mistake. That itself is his punishment—over and above hard labour. – But what about truly genius ones? – Razumikhin asked frowning. – What about those who are given the right to cut down others? Should they not suffer at all, even for spilled blood? – Why use the word "allowed"? There's neither permission nor prohibition here. Let him suffer, if he feels pity for the victim... Suffering and pain are always inevitable for a broad mind and a deep heart. Truly great men, it seems to me, must experience profound sorrow in this world – he added suddenly, thoughtfully, almost out of tune with the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked thoughtfully at everyone, smiled, and picked up his cap. He was much calmer now than when he had entered earlier, and he felt it. Everyone stood up. – Well then, abuse me or not, take offence or not, but I can't help myself – Porfiry Petrovich concluded once again – let me just ask one more question (I'm troubling you so much already!), just to pass one little idea, only so as not to forget it...
– Well, it’s the same anyway, – Raskolnikov sneered. – I’m not to blame for that. Such is, and always will be. He (he nodded toward Razumikhin) was just saying now that I approve of bloodshed. So what? Society is well provided with prisons, jailers, investigating magistrates, penal colonies – why worry? Just catch the thief! – And if we do catch him? – Then off he goes. – You’re quite logical. But what about his conscience? – Why should you care about that? – Out of sheer humanity, you see.
– Well then, well then – Porfiry couldn’t sit still – it’s become almost clear to me now how you view the crime, sir, but... please excuse me for my persistence (I’m troubling you so much, I feel quite ashamed myself!) – you see, sir: you reassured me greatly earlier about those mistaken cases of confusion between the two categories, but... it's practical instances that keep bothering me again! Suppose, for example, some husband or young man imagines himself to be a Lycurgus or a Muhammad – a future one, of course – and starts removing all obstacles in his path... He believes a long journey lies ahead, and journeys require money... so he begins gathering funds for his journey... you understand? Suddenly, Zametov snorted from his corner. Raskolnikov didn’t even raise his eyes toward him. – I must agree – Raskolnikov replied calmly – that such cases really ought to occur. Particularly the foolish and the vain fall for this trap, especially the youth. – There you see, sir! Well then, what about it?
– No, you must have gotten carried away somehow! There's a mistake here. Let me read it... You've gotten carried away! You can't possibly think like that... Let me read. – None of this is in the article, only hints, – said Raskolnikov.
— Are you two joking or what? — Razumikhin finally cried out. — Are you pulling each other's leg or not? You're serious, Rodya? Raskolnikov silently raised his pale, almost mournful face towards him and said nothing. And to Razumikhin, the contrast between this quiet, sorrowful face and Porfiry's unmistakable, persistent, irritable, and sarcastic manner seemed strange. — Well, brother, if this is serious, then... Of course, you're right when you say it's nothing new, similar to all the things we've read and heard a thousand times; but what truly stands out here—and belongs uniquely to you, to my horror—is that you actually permit bloodshed, and, excuse me, with such fanaticism... So this permission to shed blood, then, is the core idea of your article. Because this permission, in my view, is more terrifying than any official, lawful sanction to spill blood. — Quite right — more terrifying, indeed, — responded Porfiry.
Someone with still greater independence, once in a hundred thousand. Geniuses, once in a million. And great geniuses, those who complete humanity's purpose – perhaps only one after millions upon millions of people have lived on Earth. In short, I haven't peered into the flask where all this happens. But there must be a definite law, and there should be one; chance cannot rule here.
– Oh, don't worry about that either – Raskolnikov continued in the same tone. – In general, people with new ideas, those even slightly capable of saying something truly extraordinary, are born very rarely, strangely so. One thing is clear: the process by which people are born, all these categories and subcategories, must be governed by some precise natural law. Of course, this law is not known now, but I believe it exists and may eventually become known. The vast majority of people, mere material, exist in the world for only one purpose: after some effort, through a certain mysterious process as yet unknown, perhaps through the crossing of bloodlines and races, to strain and finally give birth, say, to one truly independent person in a thousand. One with even greater independence might appear once in ten thousand (I speak roughly, for clarity).
Well, at least on this side, you’ve somewhat reassured me; but here’s another trouble: please tell me, how many such people are there who have the right to cut others down—these “extraordinary” ones? I’m certainly ready to bow before them, but admit it, isn’t it terrifying if there turn out to be too many of them?
You wouldn't even need an enforcer; they'd whip themselves, since they're so well-behaved. Some do it for each other, others take the task into their own hands... They publicly impose all sorts of penances upon themselves—looks quite elegant and edifying, in short, nothing for you to worry about... There's a law like that.
– Not worth worrying about, Sir; but do consider that error is possible only on the part of the first category—what I perhaps rather awkwardly called 'ordinary' people. In spite of their natural tendency to obedience, owing to a certain playfulness of nature, which even a cow isn't entirely deprived of, quite a few of them love to imagine themselves as progressive individuals, 'destroyers', and rush headlong into 'new ideas', quite sincerely, Sir. In reality, however, they often fail to notice, or even look down upon others as backward and disgracefully low-minded. But in my opinion, there's really no serious danger here, and you needn't be concerned, because they never go very far. Occasionally, of course, one may have to give them a good whipping to remind them of their place—but no more than that.
– Oh, this happens very often indeed! Your observation is even wittier than your earlier one. – Thank you very much.
– Thank you, sir. But tell me this: how exactly do we distinguish these extraordinary ones from the ordinary? Are there perhaps signs at birth? I mean, there ought to be greater precision, so to speak, something more outwardly definite—excuse my natural anxiety as a practical and well-meaning person—but couldn’t we, for instance, introduce special clothing, some sort of mark or even a brand? Because, you see, if there’s confusion and someone from the ordinary class imagines himself to belong to the extraordinary, and starts ‘removing all obstacles,’ as you so aptly put it, well then, you know…
— So you do believe in the New Jerusalem? — I do, — replied Raskolnikov firmly. As he said this, throughout his entire long speech, he kept his eyes fixed on a particular spot on the carpet. — And do you believe in God too? Forgive me for being so curious. — I do, — repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry. — And in the resurrection of Lazarus? — I do believe. Why are you asking all this? — Do you believe it literally? — Literally. — I see… just out of curiosity. Excuse me. But may I ask—going back to what we were discussing earlier—aren’t such people always punished? Some, on the contrary…
— Do they triumph in life? Of course, some even achieve triumph during their lifetime, and then…
— They begin punishing others themselves? — If necessary, yes, and, you know, more often than not. Your observation is quite sharp.
The first category always rules the present; the second, the future. The former preserve the world and multiply it numerically; the latter move the world forward and lead it toward its goal. Both have an equal right to exist. In short, in my view, all have equal rights—and vive la guerre éternelle, until the New Jerusalem, of course!
The crimes of these people, of course, are relative and varied; for the most part, they demand, in various forms, the destruction of the present for the sake of a better future. But if he must, for the sake of his idea, step even over a corpse, over blood, then, inwardly, in his conscience, he may, in my view, grant himself permission to step over blood—depending, of course, on the idea and its scale—note that. In this sense only do I speak, in my article, of their right to crime. (Recall, after all, we began with a legal question.) That said, there’s little cause for alarm: the masses almost never recognize this right in them, punish them, and hang them (more or less), thus, quite justly, fulfilling their conservative purpose—yet with the added fact that in later generations, the same masses place the executed on a pedestal and worship them (more or less).
It is this: that mankind, according to the law of nature, is divided into two categories: the lower (ordinary), that is, so to speak, material, serving solely for the propagation of its own kind, and actual people—those gifted or talented enough to utter a new word in their society. The subdivisions here, of course, are infinite, but the distinguishing features of the two categories are fairly sharp. The first category, the material—people generally conservative by nature, orderly, living in obedience and loving to obey. In my view, they are even obliged to obey, since that is their purpose, and there is absolutely nothing humiliating in this for them. The second category—all of them break laws, are destroyers or inclined to destruction, depending on their abilities.
In short, I conclude that not only great men, but even those who step slightly out of line—those who are even slightly capable of saying something new—must, by their very nature, necessarily be criminals, more or less, of course. Otherwise, it would be difficult for them to step out of line, and, by their very nature, they certainly cannot agree to remain within it. According to me, in fact, they are even obliged not to agree. In short, you see, thus far there’s nothing particularly new here. This has been printed and read a thousand times. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I agree it’s somewhat arbitrary, but I don’t insist on precise figures. I only believe in my main idea.
Furthermore, I recall developing in my article the idea that all… well, let us say, lawgivers and founders of humanity—beginning from ancient times, continuing with Lycurguses, Solons, Muhammads, Napoleons, and so on—were all, without exception, criminals, simply by virtue of introducing a new law, thus violating the ancient one, revered by society and handed down from their fathers, and certainly did not shrink from shedding blood, whenever it could benefit them, even if that blood was entirely innocent and heroically spilled in defence of the old law. It is striking indeed how most of these benefactors and founders of humanity were especially terrible shedders of blood.
Perhaps I’m not mistaken in assuming that you’d actually like that; please, allow me. In my view, if Kepler’s and Newton’s discoveries, due to some circumstances, could in no way become known to mankind except by sacrificing the lives of one, ten, a hundred or more individuals who stood in the way or obstructed the discovery, then Newton would have had the right—and indeed, the duty—to eliminate those ten or a hundred people in order to share his discoveries with all humanity. That said, it by no means follows that Newton would have the right to kill anyone he pleased, strangers or passers-by, or to steal daily at the marketplace.
– It isn’t quite like that with me, – he began simply and modestly. – Still, I must admit, you’ve stated her position almost correctly, even, if you like, entirely correctly… (He found it genuinely pleasant to agree that it was entirely correct). The only difference is that I do not insist, as you say, that extraordinary people must necessarily and always commit all sorts of excesses. In fact, I think such an article wouldn’t even be allowed into print. I merely hinted that an “extraordinary” man has the right… that is, not an official right, but one he grants himself—the right to permit his conscience to step over… certain obstacles, but only in the single case where carrying out his idea (perhaps one that might even save all humanity) demands it. You say my article is unclear; I’m ready to explain it to you, as far as possible.
– No, no, not quite that, – replied Porfiry. – The point is, in their article, people are somehow divided into ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary’. Ordinary people must live in obedience and have no right to transgress the law, because, you see, they’re ordinary. But extraordinary people have the right to commit any crime and break the law in all sorts of ways, precisely because they are extraordinary. That’s your idea, isn’t it, if I’m not mistaken? – How can that be? It’s impossible! – muttered Razumikhin in bewilderment. Raskolnikov smiled again. He immediately understood what was going on and what they were trying to lead him to; he remembered his article. He decided to accept the challenge.
Raskolnikov sneered at the deliberate and exaggerated distortion of his idea. – What? What do you mean? A right to commit a crime? But not because 'the environment pushed one to it'? – Razumikhin inquired, almost with a hint of fear.
– Bravo, Rodya! And I didn’t know either! – exclaimed Razumikhin. – I’ll dash to the reading room today and check the issue number! Two months ago? What date exactly? I’ll track it down anyway! Now that’s something! And he wouldn’t even tell! – But how did you find out it was my article? It’s signed with a letter. – Purely by chance, just the other day, through the editor; I know him… I was very intrigued. – I was examining, if I recall, the psychological state of a criminal throughout the commission of the crime. – Yes indeed, and you insist that the act of committing a crime is always accompanied by a kind of illness. Very, very original. But… what actually interested me wasn’t so much that part of your article, but rather a certain idea, slipped in at the end, which you unfortunately only hinted at, rather vaguely… In short, if you remember, there’s a hint that there exist, as it were, certain individuals who can… not merely can, but who have the full right to commit all sorts of outrages and crimes, and for whom, apparently, the law is simply not meant.
– It’s true; but when ‘Weekly Speech’ ceased to exist, it merged with ‘Periodical Speech’, and so your article, published two months ago, appeared in ‘Periodical Speech’. Didn’t you know? Raskolnikov truly knew nothing about it. – Good heavens, you could even claim payment for that article! But what a character you have! You live so secluded that you’re unaware of matters directly concerning you. This is a fact, after all.
– You're lying! I stitched the dress earlier. It was because of the new dress that I thought of fooling you all. – So you're really such a pretender? – asked Raskolnikov carelessly. – What, didn't expect it? Just wait, I'll trick you too – ha ha ha! No, you see, sir, I'll tell you the whole truth. All these questions, crimes, society, girls – they reminded me just now (though actually, they've always interested me) of one of your articles: 'On Crime'... or whatever it was called, I forget the title. I had the pleasure of reading it two months ago in the 'Periodical Speech'. – My article? In the 'Periodical Speech'? – Raskolnikov asked in surprise. – I did write an article about six months ago, when I left university, on a book – but I sent it to the 'Weekly Speech', not the 'Periodical'. – But it ended up in the 'Periodical Speech'. – But the 'Weekly Speech' ceased publication; that's exactly why they didn't print it...
– He's just pretending, damn it! – cried Razumikhin, jumping up and waving his hand. – What's the use of arguing with you! He's doing it on purpose—you don't know him yet, Rodya! Yesterday he took their side just to fool everyone. And what did he say yesterday, good Lord! And they were so delighted with him!... He can keep up this act for two whole weeks. Last year, for some reason, he convinced us he was becoming a monk—he insisted on it for two months! Recently, he started claiming he was getting married, said everything was ready for the wedding—had even stitched a new suit. We began congratulating him. But no bride, nothing—pure illusion!
– Just look at him, he's burst out, banging away! Need to hold him by the hands, – Porfiry laughed. – Imagine, – he turned to Raskolnikov, – just like this yesterday evening, in one room, six people shouting at once, and I'd plied him with punch beforehand – can you picture it? No, brother, you're lying: 'environment' means a great deal in crime; I'll confirm that for you. – And I myself know it means a lot, but tell me this: does a forty-year-old man raping a ten-year-old girl – is it the 'environment' that drives him to it? – Well, strictly speaking, it might just be the environment, – observed Porfiry with surprising solemnity, – a crime against a little girl can indeed be very well explained by 'environment'. Razumikhin nearly flew into a rage. – Oh yeah? Want me to demonstrate right now, – he roared, – that your white eyelashes exist solely because Ivan the Great is thirty-five sazhens tall – and I'll prove it clearly, precisely, progressively, and even with a liberal touch? I'll do it! Come on, want to bet? – I'm in! Let's hear how he proves it, by all means!
And the result is that everything is reduced to laying bricks and arranging corridors and rooms in a phalanstère! The phalanstère may be ready, but your human nature isn't ready for the phalanstère yet—it still wants life, it hasn't completed the living process, it's too early for the graveyard! You can't leap over human nature with logic alone! Logic anticipates three cases, but there are a million! Chop off the million and reduce everything to a single question of comfort! The easiest solution to the problem! Temptingly clear, and no need to think! The main thing—no need to think! The whole mystery of life fits into two printed pages!
With them, it's not humanity, having developed through historical processes to their full extent, naturally transforming itself into a normal society; on the contrary, a social system, born straight out of some mathematical brain, will instantly arrange all of humanity and, in a single moment, make it virtuous and sinless—before any living process, without any historical or organic path! That's precisely why they instinctively dislike history: 'nothing but ugliness and nonsense in it'—and everything is explained away as mere stupidity! That's why they so dislike the living process of life: no need for it! The living soul of life demands its due; the living soul won't obey machinery; the living soul is suspect, the living soul is reactionary! But if here it stinks a bit of death, it can at least be made of rubber—so much the better! Not alive, without will, servile, won't rebel!
– Nothing is allowed! – Razumikhin interrupted heatedly. – I'm not joking! I'll show you their books: everything with them happens just because 'circumstances crushed them', and nothing more! That's their favourite phrase! From this it follows directly that if society is properly arranged, all crimes will vanish at once, since there'll be nothing left to protest against, and everyone will instantly become righteous. Human nature isn't taken into account, human nature is excluded, human nature isn't permitted!
"You're lying again!" exclaimed Porfiry Petrovich. He was clearly getting animated, laughing every moment as he looked at Razumikhin, which only further inflamed him.
– Not quite, that’s true – Razumikhin immediately agreed, eager and heated as usual. Listen, Rodya, hear me out and give me your opinion. I really want to. I was arguing late into the night with them yesterday, waiting for you; I even spoke to them about you, saying you’d come… It started with the socialists’ view. You know the idea: crime is merely a protest against the abnormal structure of society – nothing more, absolutely nothing else, no other causes allowed at all… nothing!..
All this flashed through his mind like lightning. Porfiry Petrovich instantly turned back. He suddenly seemed cheerful. "My dear fellow, my head’s been spinning since yesterday — and I feel quite loose at the joints altogether!" he said, laughing, to Razumikhin, in an entirely different tone. "But tell me, was it interesting? I left you at the most interesting point yesterday. Who won?"
"Well, naturally, nobody. We drifted onto eternal questions, just floating in mid-air."
"Just imagine, Rodya — yesterday we started debating whether crime actually exists! Said we argued ourselves silly!"
"Nothing surprising there — just an ordinary social question," replied Raskolnikov absently. "The question wasn't framed quite like that," remarked Porfiry.
But perhaps it’s good—playing a sick man’s part… He’s probing me. Trying to throw me off. Why did I come?
They certainly talked about me before I came!... Do they know about the flat? I wish they’d just get on with it!... When I said I ran off yesterday to rent a flat, he let it pass, didn’t pick up on it… But clever of me to mention the flat—might come in handy later!... Just raving, I was delirious, that’s all!... Ha-ha-ha! He knows about the whole of yesterday evening! But he didn’t know about my mother’s arrival!... And that witch wrote down the number in pencil!... Lies! I won’t give in! This isn’t evidence yet—it’s all just mirage! No, bring me facts! And the flat isn’t a fact, only delirium; I know what to say to them… But do they know about the flat? I won’t leave without finding out! Why did I even come? The fact that I’m angry now—well, maybe that’s evidence too! Ugh, how irritable I am!
Their words may be ordinary, but there’s something in them… You can always say these things, but still, there’s something. Why did he say directly "at her place"? Why did Zametov add that I had mentioned it? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes… that tone… Razumikhin was sitting right there—why didn’t he sense anything? That innocent fool never suspects anything! Again, fever coming on… Did Porfiry wink at me earlier or not? No, nonsense—why would he wink? Are they trying to irritate my nerves, or just taunting me? Or is it all just a mirage—or even Zametov being insolent… Is Zametov insolent? Zametov changed his mind overnight. I knew he would! He’s acting like he’s at home, though it’s his first time here. Porfiry doesn’t treat him like a guest, sits with his back to him. They’ve conspired! They must have conspired!
The main thing is, they don’t even hide it anymore, they don’t bother with formalities! And why did you talk about me with Nikodim Fomich, if you don’t even know me at all? So they don’t even want to hide that they’re watching me like a pack of dogs! They just spit right in my face! – he trembled with rage. – Well then, strike straight, instead of playing cat and mouse! That’s simply rude, Porfiry Petrovich—maybe I won’t even allow it! I’ll stand up and slap the whole truth right in your faces, and then you’ll see how I despise you! – He gasped for breath. – But what if it’s only in my mind? What if it’s all a mirage, and I’m mistaken about everything, getting angry out of inexperience, unable to bear my lowly role? Maybe it’s all unintentional?
– Just give me some tea at least! My throat’s completely dry! – cried Razumikhin. – Excellent idea! Perhaps everyone will join in. Wouldn’t you like something stronger, just before tea? – Get out! Porfiry Petrovich left to order the tea. Raskolnikov’s thoughts swirled like a whirlwind in his head. He was terribly irritated.
— Or perhaps I found some treasure somewhere, and you don’t know about it? That’s why I was so generous yesterday... Mr. Zametov knows I found a treasure!... Please forgive me, sir — he turned to Porfiry with trembling lips — for bothering you with such trivial nonsense for half an hour. We’ve gotten on your nerves, haven’t we? — Not at all, quite the contrary! If only you knew how fascinating you are to me! It’s truly interesting to watch and listen... and I must admit, I’m so delighted that you’ve finally condescended to visit...
– They really got on my nerves yesterday, – suddenly said Raskolnikov to Porfiry, with a bold, defiant smirk, – so I ran off to rent a room so they couldn't find me, and took a heap of money with me. That gentleman there, Zametov, saw the money myself. Well then, Mr. Zametov, tell me, was I clever yesterday or out of my mind? Settle the argument for us? He seemed ready to strangle Zametov at that very moment. He disliked his look and silence far too much. – In my opinion, you spoke very sensibly, sir, even cunningly, only you were excessively irritable, – Zametov replied curtly. – Just now Nikodim Fomich was telling me, – put in Porfiry Petrovich, – that he met you last night, quite late, in the flat of some official who'd been trampled to death by horses... – Ah, take that official, for instance! – Razumikhin jumped in. – Weren't you out of your mind at the official's place? You gave the widow the very last money you had for the funeral! If you wanted to help, give fifteen, give twenty roubles—but keep at least three for yourself! Yet you handed over all twenty-five, every single kopeck!
– But how could you have gone out if you weren't delirious? – Razumikhin suddenly flared up. – Why did you go out at all? What for?.. And why sneak out like that? Could you even think straight at that time? Now that the danger's over, I'm telling you straight!
And as if nothing had happened, he carefully held out the ashtray to Razumikhin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash all over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry Petrovich seemed not to notice, still apparently preoccupied with Razumikhin's cigarette. "What? Was waiting? Did you know he had pawned things too?" cried Razumikhin. Porfiry Petrovich turned directly to Raskolnikov:
"Both your items—your ring and your watch—were wrapped together in a piece of paper, and on that paper your name was clearly written in pencil, along with the date of the month when she received them from you..."
"How observant of you..." Raskolnikov gave an awkward smile, making a special effort to look him straight in the eye. But he couldn't help adding suddenly, "I only noticed this now because, probably, there were so many people pawning things... it would be hard for you to remember them all. Yet you, on the contrary, remember them so clearly, and... and..."
"Foolish! Weak! Why did I add that!"
Is it alright? Does it sound natural? Did I exaggerate? — Raskolnikov trembled inwardly. — Why did I say "women"? — Your mother has arrived, hasn't she? — inquired Porfiry Petrovich, for some reason. — Yes. — When exactly was that? — Yesterday evening. Porfiry paused, as though pondering. — Under no circumstances could your belongings have gone missing — he continued calmly and coolly. — I've been expecting you here for quite some time.
This was unbearable. Raskolnikov could not endure it and glared at him with his black eyes blazing with anger—then immediately came to his senses. “Brother, you seem to be making fun of me?” he addressed him, feigning irritation with practiced skill. “I admit I may be overly concerned about such trifles in your eyes; but you can’t call me selfish or greedy for that. And in my eyes, these two insignificant items are far from being trifles. I just told you, these silver watches—with practically no value—are the only thing left after my father. You may laugh at me, but my mother has come here,” he suddenly turned to Porfiry, “and if she were to find out”—he quickly turned back to Razumikhin, deliberately trying to make his voice tremble—“that these watches had gone missing, I swear she’d be heartbroken! Women!”
“No, no, not at all! I didn’t mean it that way! Quite the opposite!” cried the distressed Razumikhin.
– Sorry to have troubled you with such small matters – he continued, a little flustered – my things are worth only five rupees, but they're especially precious to me as a memory of those from whom I received them, and, I admit, when I found out, I became terribly frightened…
– No wonder you jumped so suddenly yesterday when I let it slip in front of Zosimov that Porfiry is questioning the pawnbrokers! – interjected Razumikhin, quite deliberately.
– The thing is, right now... I've tried my best to be embarrassed, Raskolnikov said, visibly flustered—I'm not exactly in funds at the moment... and I can't even produce petty cash... I merely wished to state that these items belong to me, and when I come into money... – That makes no difference at all, sir, replied Porfiry Petrovich, coldly accepting the financial explanation. – However, if you wish, you may simply write to me directly, stating that upon learning of such and such, and declaring ownership of certain articles, you kindly request... – It can be on plain paper? Raskolnikov quickly interrupted, once again concerned about the financial aspect. – Oh, the simplest paper possible, sir! And suddenly, Porfiry Petrovich gave him a strangely mocking look, narrowing his eyes as if winking at him. Well, perhaps it only seemed that way to Raskolnikov—it lasted just a split second. At any rate, something of the sort happened. Raskolnikov could have sworn the man winked—goodness knows why. "He knows!" flashed through him like lightning.
"You should file a report with the police," replied Porfiry in a thoroughly businesslike manner, "stating that, having learned of a certain incident—namely, this murder—you kindly request the investigating officer in charge of the case to be informed that certain items belong to you, and that you wish to redeem them... or something along those lines. Anyway, they'll write to you."
As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that the visitor had "some business" with him, he immediately asked him to sit on the sofa and himself sat at the other end, fixing his eyes on the guest with such intense and overly serious attention that it became almost oppressive and awkward, especially at first meeting, particularly when what one has to say seems, in one's own opinion, hardly worthy of such extraordinary gravity. But Raskolnikov explained his matter in brief, coherent terms, clearly and precisely, and was satisfied with himself, even managing to observe Porfiry quite well. Porfiry Petrovich, for his part, did not take his eyes off him for a moment throughout. Razumikhin, seated opposite them at the same table, followed the conversation eagerly and impatiently, constantly shifting his gaze from one to the other and back again—something that was already a bit too much. "Fool!" Raskolnikov thought to himself.
Porfiry Petrovich was at home, wearing a robe, clean underclothes, and worn-out slippers. He was about thirty-five years old, slightly below average height, stout, even with a little belly, clean-shaven, without moustache or sideburns, his hair closely cropped on a large round head, oddly prominent at the back. His plump, round face, with a slightly snub nose, had a sickly dark-yellow complexion, yet looked fairly lively and even mocking. It would have seemed quite pleasant, were it not for his eyes, with their watery, slippery gleam, hidden beneath almost white, fluttering eyelashes that kept blinking, as if covertly winking at someone. That gaze strangely clashed with his overall appearance, which had something almost effeminate, yet lent him an air far more serious than one might have expected at first glance.
– Oh, you! The investigating officer! Well, damn all of you! – snapped Razumihin, but suddenly bursting into laughter, he approached Porfiry Petrovich with a cheerful face, as if nothing had happened. – Enough nonsense! We’re all fools; let’s get down to business. Here’s my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. First, he’s heard a lot about you and wanted to meet, and second, he has a small matter to discuss with you. Hey! Zamyotov! What are you doing here? Do you two already know each other? How long have you been acquainted? "This is strange!" Raskolnikov thought uneasily. Zamyotov seemed slightly embarrassed, but not much. – We met yesterday at your place, – he replied casually. – So God saved me from loss! Last week he was begging me to somehow get introduced to you, Porfiry, and you’ve already hooked up without me… Where’s your tobacco?
– Oh, please, very pleased indeed—and it’s nice how you came in… What, doesn’t he even want to greet me? – Porfiry Petrovich nodded toward Razumikhin. – Honestly, I don’t know why he got so upset with me. I just told him on the way here that he looks like Romeo, and… and proved it—nothing more, as far as I recall. – Pig! – Razumikhin responded without turning around. – So, he must have very serious reasons to get so angry over just one little word, – Porfiry chuckled.
The scene unfolded like this: Raskolnikov was still laughing, inadvertently leaving his hand in the host's grip, yet knowing full well the measure of the situation, he waited for the right moment to end it as quickly and naturally as possible. Razumikhin, thoroughly embarrassed by the overturned table and the broken glass, glared gloomily at the shards, spat, and abruptly turned toward the window, where he stood with his back to the room, his face terribly frowning as he stared out without seeing anything. Porfiry Petrovich kept laughing and wanted to keep laughing, but it was clear he needed an explanation. In the corner, on a chair, sat Zamiotov, who had risen when the guests entered and now stood waiting, his mouth stretched wide in a grin, yet looking at the entire scene with bewilderment, even a kind of disbelief—and at Raskolnikov himself with something like confusion. Raskolnikov was unpleasantly struck by Zamiotov’s unexpected presence. “I’ve got to think this through!” he thought. “Excuse me, please,” he began, visibly flustered, “Raskolnikov…”
– Uff, blast it! – he roared, waving his hand and striking it against the small round table, on which stood a half-finished glass of tea. Everything went flying and clattered. – But why break chairs, gentlemen? The government will have to bear the loss! – Porfiry Petrovich shouted cheerfully.
He was already entering the rooms. He came in with an air as if he were straining every muscle to keep from bursting into laughter. Behind him, with a face completely upturned and ferociously grim, flushed like a peony, tall and awkward, entered the embarrassed Razumikhin. His face and entire figure at that moment were indeed comical and justified Raskolnikov’s laughter. Raskolnikov, still not introduced, bowed to the host standing in the middle of the room and looking at them inquisitively, shook his hand—all while visibly struggling to suppress his mirth and manage at least two or three words to introduce himself. No sooner had he managed to assume a serious expression and mumble something than—almost involuntarily—he glanced again at Razumikhin and simply could not hold back: the suppressed laughter broke out all the more uncontrollably the harder he had restrained it until then. The extraordinary ferocity with which this “dear friend” took the laughter lent the whole scene an air of utmost sincerity and, above all, naturalness. Razumikhin, as if on purpose, only added to the effect.
Raskolnikov laughed so hard that he seemed unable to contain himself, and they entered Porfiry Petrovich’s apartment still laughing. That was exactly what Raskolnikov wanted: from the rooms, one could hear that they had come in laughing and were still chuckling in the hallway. “Not a word here, or I’ll… smash you!” Razumikhin hissed furiously, grabbing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.
– No, brother, really, it’s obvious. The other day you sat on the chair in a way you never do—perched right on the edge, and your whole body kept twitching. You’d jump up for no reason at all. One moment angry, the next your face turns all sweet, like some sugary candy, for no reason. You even blushed—especially when they invited you for lunch, you turned bright red. – I didn’t, you’re lying!... What are you even talking about? – Come on, you’re squirming like a schoolboy! Ugh, damn it, he’s blushing again! – What a bloody pig you are! – Why are you getting so flustered? Romeo! Wait, I’ll tell someone about this today, ha-ha-ha! I’ll have Mother in stitches… and a few others too…
– Listen, listen, listen—this is serious, this is… What in the world happens now, damn it! – Razumikhin finally stammered, freezing in horror. – What will you tell them? I swear, brother… Bloody hell, what a pig you are! – Just a spring rose, that’s all! And how well it suits you, if you only knew! Romeo, ten inches tall! And look how you’ve washed up today—actually cleaned your nails! When did that ever happen? Honestly, you’ve even pomaded your hair! Come closer! – He bent down. – Pig!!!
Most important — does Porfiry know or doesn’t he that I was in the old hag’s flat yesterday and asked about the blood? I must find it out in a flash, the moment I step in, read it from his face; otherwise… I’m done, but I will find out! – Hey, you know what? – he suddenly turned to Razumikhin with a sly smile – I noticed today, brother, you’ve been in some kind of unusual excitement since morning? Am I right? – What excitement? I’m not excited at all, – Razumikhin twitched.
– What's this? Do they take me for a madman? Well, perhaps I really am. He grimaced tensely. – Yes… yes… no, I mean, damn it, no! Well, never mind – all I said (and everything else just now) was nonsense, blabber from a hangover. – Why are you apologizing? How utterly sick I am of all this! – cried Raskolnikov with exaggerated irritation. Though partly, he was pretending. – I know, I know, I understand. Rest assured, I do understand. It's even embarrassing to talk about it…
– Well, if it's embarrassing, then don't talk! They both fell silent. Razumikhin was more than delighted, and Raskolnikov felt it with disgust. What also troubled him was that Razumikhin was now speaking about Porfiry. "This one too must sing Lazarus," he thought, growing pale, his heart pounding. "And sing it naturally. Most natural would be not to sing at all. Forcefully not singing anything! No, that would seem unnatural again… Well, we'll see how it turns out… we'll see… is it good or bad that I'm going? The moth flies straight into the flame. It's bad that my heart's pounding like this…"
– In that grey house – said Razumikhin.
– But why particularly? – Well, not exactly... you see, recently, especially when you fell ill, I mentioned you quite often. He was listening... and when he found out you're studying law but can't finish the course due to circumstances, he said, "What a pity!" That's how I came to conclude... I mean, it's everything taken together, not just that one thing; yesterday, Zamyetov... You see, Rodya, I was babbling something to you yesterday while we were walking home, when I was drunk... and I'm afraid, brother, that you might be making too much of it, you know...
– Oh yes, yes, yes – hurriedly chiming in without knowing quite why, Razumikhin exclaimed – that's why you were partly shocked back then... You know, even in your delirium you kept muttering about rings and chains!... Well, yes, yes... Now it's all clear, everything is so clear now. 'Just look at how widely this idea has spread among them! This man here would go to the cross for me, yet he's so pleased to think I was babbling about rings in my fever! How deeply rooted it is in all of them!'
– But will we find him in? – he asked aloud. – We will, we will – Razumikhin hastened to say. – He's a good fellow, you'll see! A bit awkward, I mean, he's a man of society, but I'm saying he's awkward in another sense. Bright lad, intelligent, really quite sharp, only his way of thinking is rather peculiar... Suspicious, sceptical, cynical... Likes to fool around, I mean not deceive exactly, but just tease... Well, and that old materialist approach... But he knows his job, knows it well... He once solved a murder case last year where almost all the clues had been lost! He's extremely, extremely eager to meet you!
– When? – Raskolnikov paused, trying to recall. – I was with her, I think, about three days before her death. But anyway, I’m not here to redeem my things now, – he added with sudden haste and peculiar emphasis on the items, – I’ve only got a single silver rouble on me... all because of that cursed delirium yesterday! He pronounced the word 'delirium' with particular solemnity.
"You're staying at Kaper-naumov's!" he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. "He altered my waistcoat yesterday. I'm staying just next door, with Madame Resslich, Gertruda Karlovna. What a coincidence!"
Sonia looked at him closely. "Neighbours," he went on, unusually cheerful. "I've only been in town three days. Well then, see you later."
Sonia didn't answer. The door opened, and she slipped into her room. For some reason, she felt ashamed, as if something had frightened her... On the way to Porfiry, Razumikhin was in an unusually excited state. "Brother, this is excellent," he repeated several times. "I'm glad! So glad!"
"What exactly are you so glad about?" Raskolnikov wondered to himself. "I had no idea you were also pawning things with the old woman. And... and... when was it? I mean, how long ago did you see her?"
"What a simpleton!" Raskolnikov thought.
When Sonia stepped out onto the canal embankment, they found themselves alone on the pavement. Watching her, he noticed her deep thoughtfulness and distraction. Upon reaching her house, Sonia turned in through the gate—he followed, somewhat surprised. Once inside the courtyard, she went to the right, towards the corner where the staircase led up to her apartment. "Well, well!" muttered the stranger, beginning to climb the steps behind her. Only then did Sonia notice him. She went up to the third floor, turned into the gallery, and rang the bell at number nine, where chalk letters on the door read: 'Kapernaumov, Tailor'. "Well, well!" repeated the stranger again, astonished at the strange coincidence, and rang next door at number eight. The two doors were barely six paces apart.
He was a man of about fifty, taller than average, stout, with broad and high shoulders, which gave him a slightly stooping appearance. He was smartly and comfortably dressed, and looked every inch a distinguished gentleman. In his hand he carried a handsome cane, which he tapped lightly on the pavement with each step, and his hands were covered with fresh gloves. His broad, high-cheekboned face was quite pleasant, with a fresh complexion—unlike the usual Petersburg pallor. His hair, still thick, was a light fair colour, just touched with grey, while his broad, heavy beard, spreading out like a spade, was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue, cold, penetrating, and thoughtful; his lips were rosy. Overall, he was a remarkably well-preserved man who appeared much younger than his years.
Reaching the turning, he crossed to the opposite side of the street, turned around and saw that Sonia was already following him along the same path, unaware of her surroundings. When she reached the corner, she too turned into the same street. He followed, keeping his eyes on her from the opposite pavement; after walking about fifty paces, he crossed again to Sonia's side, caught up with her and walked behind, keeping a distance of about five steps.
And of course, she couldn't have noticed at that moment an unfamiliar gentleman who was carefully watching her and following closely behind. He had been tailing her since she left the gate. Just as the three of them—Razumikhin, Raskolnikov, and she—had paused for a brief exchange on the pavement, this passerby, while moving around them, suddenly seemed to start, accidentally catching Sonya's words: "and she asked: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?" He quickly but attentively scanned all three, especially Raskolnikov, to whom Sonya had spoken. Then he looked at the building and took note of it. All this happened in an instant, as he walked past, and without even appearing to do so, the man moved ahead, slowing his pace as if waiting. He was waiting for Sonya; he had seen they were saying goodbye and that she would soon head off somewhere to her place. "So, where to? I've definitely seen that face somewhere," he thought, trying to recall Sonya's features. "Must find out."
– Please, not today, not today! – she muttered, her heart sinking, as if pleading with someone, like a frightened child. – Lord! Coming to me… into this room… he'll see… oh Lord!
– Poly? Oh, yes... Polechka! She's... little... she's your sister? Did I give her the address? – How could you forget? – No... I remember... – I'd heard about you back then from the late one himself... Only I didn't know your surname then, and he himself didn't know it either... Now I've come... and when I found out your surname yesterday... I asked today: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?... I didn't know you were living with the tenants too... Good day, sir... I'm going to Katerina Ivanovna... She was terribly relieved to finally leave; she walked with downcast eyes, hurrying to get out of their sight as quickly as possible, to cover the twenty paces to the right turn onto the street and at last be alone—so she could walk fast, without looking at anyone, noticing nothing, thinking, remembering, piecing together every word spoken, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this before. An entirely new, unknown and hazy world had entered her soul. Suddenly she remembered that Raskolnikov himself had intended to visit her today—perhaps this morning, perhaps right now!
– Never!... Though come to think of it, I've been meaning to buy a lock for two years now, – he added carelessly. – Lucky people, aren't they, who've got nothing to lock up? – he said, laughing, turning to Sonia. They had stopped at the gate. – You go right, Sofya Semyonovna? By the way, how did you manage to find me? – he asked, as if wanting to say something quite different. He kept wanting to look into her quiet, clear eyes, but somehow it didn't quite work out... – Why, you gave the address to Polenka yesterday.
– Not just anyone, straight to Porfiry! – cried Razumikhin with extraordinary excitement. – How glad I am! Come on, let’s go now, it’s just two steps, we’ll surely catch him! – All right… let’s go…
– He’ll be very, very, very, very pleased to meet you! I’ve spoken to him a lot about you, at different times… Even yesterday. Come on!… So you knew the old woman? That’s it!… Splendid, how wonderfully everything has turned out!… Oh yes… Sofya Ivanovna…
– Sofya Semyonovna, – corrected Raskolnikov. – Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumikhin, a good man…
– If you need to go now… – began Sonya, not even looking at Razumikhin, and becoming all the more flustered because of it. – Let’s go then! – decided Raskolnikov. – I’ll come see you today, Sofya Semyonovna. Just tell me where you live? He wasn’t exactly stammering, but as though hurrying and avoiding her gaze. Sonya gave her address, blushing. All of them went out together. – Don’t you lock up? – asked Razumikhin, following them down the stairs.
– He asked about the pawned items, and I’ve got some things pledged there too—just junk, really, but my sister’s little ring, which she gave me as a keepsake when I left for here, and my father’s silver watch. They’re worth maybe five or six rupees, but they’re precious to me—sentimental value. So what should I do now? I don’t want the things lost, especially the watch. I was quite anxious earlier when Mother asked to see it, after we began talking about Dunya’s watch. It’s the only thing left from Father. She’ll fall ill if it goes missing! Women, you know! So what should I do—advise me! I know I ought to report it to the station. But wouldn’t it be better to go straight to Porfiry? What do you think? The matter needs settling quickly. You’ll see, Mother will ask again before lunch!
– Never mind what’s written! They’ve talked and written about us too—have we forgotten? I’m sure she’s… a wonderful person, and all this is nonsense! – God grant it! – And Pyotr Petrovich is a despicable gossip, – Dunyasha suddenly snapped. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken aback. The conversation broke off. – Look here, this is what I wanted to discuss with you… – said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumikhin aside to the window…
– Then I shall tell Katerina Ivanovna that you’ll come… – Sonya quickly began taking her leave. – Just a moment, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets here, you’re not in the way at all… I’d like to say a couple more words… Listen, – he suddenly turned, breaking off mid-sentence, directly to Razumikhin – you know that man… what’s his name? Porfiry Petrovich? – Of course! He’s a relative. What about him? – Razumikhin added with sudden curiosity. – Isn’t he handling this case… you know, the murder… the one you were talking about yesterday? – Yes… well? – Razumikhin’s eyes suddenly widened.
– She doesn't suit at all! – Dunya exclaimed irritably. – And what are we to make of your presentiments, Mama! He's only known her since yesterday, and now, when she walked in, he didn't even recognise her. – Well, just wait and see!... She makes me uneasy, I'm telling you, you'll see, you'll see! I was so frightened: she kept staring at me, staring, with such eyes—I could hardly sit still on the chair, remember how he started introducing her? And it struck me as odd: Pyotr Petrovich writes about her in such glowing terms, yet here he is recommending her to us, especially to you! Clearly, she means something to him!
— Dunyasha! Just think, what a position we’re in now! What if Pyotr Petrovich refuses? — poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out thoughtlessly. — Then what’s he worth after that! — Dunyasha retorted sharply and contemptuously. — We did well to leave just now, — Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interjected, cutting her off. — He was rushing off somewhere on business; let him walk around, breathe some fresh air… it’s suffocating in there… but where’s the fresh air to be had here? On the streets too, it’s like rooms without windows. Oh Lord, what a city this is!... Wait, step aside, they’ll crush us—they’re carrying something! That was a piano, truly… how they shove… I’m terribly afraid of that girl too…
— Which girl, Mama? — Why, that one, Sofya Semyonovna, who was here just now…
— And why? — I have a feeling, Dunya. Whether you believe me or not, the moment she walked in, I thought right then—that’s exactly where the crux of the matter lies…