“I don’t it, I can’t it!” Razumihin, trying in
perplexity to Raskolnikov’s arguments.
They were by now Bakaleyev’s lodgings, where Pulcheria
Alexandrovna and Dounia had been them a long while. Razumihin
kept stopping on the way in the of discussion, and excited
by the very that they were for the time speaking openly about
_it_.
“Don’t it, then!” answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless
smile. “You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was every
word.”
“You are suspicious. That is why you their words... h’m...
certainly, I agree, Porfiry’s was strange, and still
more that Zametov!... You are right, there was something about
him--but why? Why?”
“He has his mind since last night.”
“Quite the contrary! If they had that idea, they would do
their to it, and their cards, so as to catch you
afterwards.... But it was all and careless.”
“If they had had facts--I mean, facts--or at least for
suspicion, then they would have to their game,
in the of more (they would have a search long ago
besides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage--all
ambiguous. Simply a idea. So they try to me out by
impudence. And perhaps, he was at having no facts, and blurted
it out in his vexation--or he has some plan... he an
intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to me by to
know. They have a of their own, brother. But it is loathsome
explaining it all. Stop!”
“And it’s insulting, insulting! I you. But... since we have
spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last--I
am glad) I will own now that I noticed it in them long ago,
this idea. Of the hint only--an insinuation--but why an
insinuation even? How they? What have they? If only you
knew how I have been. Think only! Simply a student,
unhinged by and hypochondria, on the of a delirious
illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not a to
speak to for six months, in and in without soles, has to
face some and put up with their insolence; and
the under his nose, the I.O.U. presented
by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty Reaumur and a stifling
atmosphere, a of people, the talk about the of a person
where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach--he
might well have a fit! And that, that is what they it
all on! Damn them! I how it is, but in your place,
Rodya, I would laugh at them, or still, in their faces,
and a dozen times in all directions. I’d out in all
directions, too, and so I’d put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be
downhearted. It’s a shame!”
“He has put it well, though,” Raskolnikov thought.
“Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?” he said with
bitterness. “Must I enter into with them? I feel
vexed as it is, that I to speak to Zametov yesterday in the
restaurant....”
“Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will it out of him, as
one of the family: he must let me know the and of it all! And
as for Zametov...”
“At last he sees through him!” Raskolnikov.
“Stay!” Razumihin, him by the again. “Stay! you
were wrong. I have it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap?
You say that the question about the was a trap. But if you had
done _that_, you have said you had them painting the flat...
and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have nothing, if
you had it. Who would own it against himself?”
“If I had done _that thing_, I should have said that I had
seen the and the flat,” Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance
and disgust.
“But why speak against yourself?”
“Because only peasants, or the most deny
everything at examinations. If a man is so little developed
and experienced, he will try to admit all the facts
that can’t be avoided, but will other of them, will
introduce some special, turn, that will give them another
significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon
that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had them to give an
air of truth, and then make some explanation.”
“But he would have told you at once that the not have been
there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on
the day of the at eight o’clock. And so he would have you
over a detail.”
“Yes, that is what he was on, that I should not have time to
reflect, and should be in a to make the most likely answer, and
so would that the not have been there two days
before.”
“But how you it?”
“Nothing easier. It is in just such people are most
easily caught. The more a man is, the less he that he
will be in a thing. The more a man is, the simpler
the he must be in. Porfiry is not such a as you
think....”
“He is a then, if that is so!”
Raskolnikov not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was
struck by the of his own frankness, and the eagerness
with which he had this explanation, though he had up all the
preceding with repulsion, with a motive,
from necessity.
“I am a for aspects!” he to himself.
But almost at the same he uneasy, as though an
unexpected and idea had to him. His on
increasing. They had just the entrance to Bakaleyev’s.
“Go in alone!” said Raskolnikov suddenly. “I will be directly.”
“Where are you going? Why, we are just here.”
“I can’t help it.... I will come in an hour. Tell them.”
“Say what you like, I will come with you.”
“You, too, want to me!” he screamed, with such bitter
irritation, such in his that Razumihin’s hands dropped.
He for some time on the steps, looking at Raskolnikov
striding away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting
his teeth and his fist, he he would Porfiry
like a that very day, and up the stairs to Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, who was by now at their long absence.
When Raskolnikov got home, his was with and he was
breathing heavily. He up the stairs, walked into his
unlocked room and at once the latch. Then in terror
he to the corner, to that under the paper where he had put
the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes in the
hole, in every and of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up
and a breath. As he was the steps of Bakaleyev’s, he
suddenly that something, a chain, a or a of paper
in which they had been with the old woman’s on it,
might somehow have out and been in some crack, and then
might turn up as unexpected, against him.
He as though in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half
senseless on his lips. He took his cap at last and went
quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He dreamily
through the gateway.
“Here he is himself,” a loud voice.
He his head.
The was at the door of his little room and was pointing
him out to a man who looked like an artisan, a long coat
and a waistcoat, and looking at a like a woman. He
stooped, and his in a cap forward. From his wrinkled
flabby he looked over fifty; his little were in and
they looked out grimly, and discontentedly.
“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
The man a look at him from under his and he looked at him
attentively, deliberately; then he slowly and out of the
gate into the without saying a word.
“What is it?” Raskolnikov.
“Why, he there was a student here, mentioned your
name and you with. I saw you and pointed you out and
he away. It’s funny.”
The too puzzled, but not much so, and after
wondering for a moment he and to his room.
Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once of
him walking along the other of the with the same even,
deliberate step with his on the ground, as though in
meditation. He soon him, but for some time walked him.
At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man
noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but his again;
and so they walked for a minute by without a word.
“You were for me... of the porter?” Raskolnikov said at last,
but in a voice.
The man no answer; he didn’t look at him. Again they were both
silent.
“Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What’s the
meaning of it?”
Raskolnikov’s voice and he unable to the words
clearly.
The man his this time and a look at
Raskolnikov.
“Murderer!” he said in a but clear and voice.
Raskolnikov on walking him. His weak, a
cold ran his spine, and his to still for
a moment, then as though it were set free. So
they walked for about a hundred paces, by in silence.
The man did not look at him.
“What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?” muttered
Raskolnikov audibly.
“_You_ are a murderer,” the man answered still more and
emphatically, with a of hatred, and again he looked
straight into Raskolnikov’s and eyes.
They had just the cross-roads. The man to the left
without looking him. Raskolnikov standing, after
him. He saw him turn fifty away and look at him still
standing there. Raskolnikov not see clearly, but he that
he was again the same of cold and triumph.
With slow steps, with knees, Raskolnikov his way
back to his little garret, all over. He took off his cap
and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he without moving.
Then he on the sofa and with a weak of pain he
stretched himself on it. So he for an hour.
He of nothing. Some or of thoughts, some
images without order or his mind--faces of
people he had in his or met once, he would
never have recalled, the of the church at V., the table
in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the of cigars
in some tobacco shop, a room, a quite
dark, all with dirty water and with egg-shells, and the
Sunday in from somewhere.... The images one
another, like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried
to at, but they and all the while there was an oppression
within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even
pleasant.... The still persisted, but that too
was an almost sensation.
He the of Razumihin; he closed his and
pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and for some
time in the as though hesitating, then he into
the room and to the sofa. Raskolnikov Nastasya’s
whisper:
“Don’t him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.”
“Quite so,” answered Razumihin. Both and closed the
door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, on
his again, his hands his head.
“Who is he? Who is that man who out of the earth? Where was he,
what did he see? He has it all, that’s clear. Where was he then?
And from where did he see? Why has he only now out of the earth?
And how he see? Is it possible? Hm...” Raskolnikov,
turning cold and shivering, “and the case Nikolay the
door--was that possible? A clue? You miss an line and you
can it into a of evidence! A by and saw it! Is it
possible?” He with how weak, how physically weak he
had become. “I ought to have it,” he with a smile.
“And how I, myself, how I should be, take up an
axe and blood! I ought to have beforehand.... Ah, but I did
know!” he in despair. At times he came to a at some
thought.
“No, those men are not so. The _Master_ to all is
permitted Toulon, makes a in Paris, _forgets_ an army in
Egypt, _wastes_ a men in the Moscow and off
with a at Vilna. And are set up to him after his death, and
so _all_ is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of but
of bronze!”
One idea almost him laugh. Napoleon, the
pyramids, Waterloo, and a old woman, a with
a red under her bed--it’s a for Porfiry Petrovitch to
digest! How can they it! It’s too inartistic. “A Napoleon creep
under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!”
At moments he he was raving. He into a of feverish
excitement. “The old woman is of no consequence,” he thought, and
incoherently. “The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not
what matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a to
overstep.... I didn’t kill a being, but a principle! I killed the
principle, but I didn’t overstep, I stopped on this side.... I was
only of killing. And it I wasn’t of that...
Principle? Why was that Razumihin the socialists? They are
industrious, people; ‘the of all’ is their case.
No, life is only to me once and I shall have it again; I
don’t want to wait for ‘the of all.’ I want to live myself,
or else not live at all. I couldn’t pass by my mother
starving, my in my pocket while I waited for the
‘happiness of all.’ I am my little into the of
all and so my is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only
live once, I too want.... Ech, I am an æsthetic and nothing
more,” he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. “Yes, I am a
louse,” he on, at the idea, over it and playing
with it with pleasure. “In the place, I can
reason that I am one, and secondly, for a month past I have been
troubling Providence, calling it to that not for
my own did I it, but with a and noble
object--ha-ha! Thirdly, I at it out as as
possible, weighing, and calculating. Of all the I picked
out the most one and to take from her only as much as I
needed for the step, no more less (so the would have gone
to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what that I
am a louse,” he added, his teeth, “is that I am
perhaps and more than the I killed, and _I felt
beforehand_ that I should tell myself so _after_ killing her. Can
anything be with the of that? The vulgarity! The
abjectness! I the ‘prophet’ with his sabre, on his steed:
Allah and ‘trembling’ must obey! The ‘prophet’ is
right, he is right when he sets a across the and up
the and the without to explain! It’s for you to
obey, creation, and not _to have desires_, for that’s not for
you!... I shall never, the old woman!”
His was with sweat, his were parched, his
eyes were on the ceiling.
“Mother, sister--how I loved them! Why do I them now? Yes, I hate
them, I a physical for them, I can’t them near me....
I up to my mother and her, I remember.... To her
and think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? That’s just what
I might do.... _She_ must be the same as I am,” he added, straining
himself to think, as it were with delirium. “Ah, how I hate
the old woman now! I I should kill her again if she came to life!
Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in?... It’s though, why is it
I think of her, as though I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta!
Sonia! Poor things, with eyes.... Dear women! Why don’t
they weep? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything... their eyes
are soft and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”
He consciousness; it to him that he didn’t remember
how he got into the street. It was late evening. The had fallen
and the full moon was more and more brightly; but there was a
peculiar in the air. There were of people in the
street; and people were making their way home; other
people had come out for a walk; there was a of mortar, and
stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, and anxious; he was
distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do
something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he
stood still and saw a man on the other of the street,
beckoning to him. He over to him, but at once the man and
walked away with his hanging, as though he had no to
him. “Stay, did he beckon?” Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried
to overtake him. When he was ten he him and
was frightened; it was the same man with in the long
coat. Raskolnikov him at a distance; his was beating;
they a turning; the man still did not look round. “Does he
know I am him?” Raskolnikov. The man into the
gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov to the gate and looked in
to see he would look and to him. In the court-yard
the man did turn and again to him. Raskolnikov at
once him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have
gone up the staircase. Raskolnikov after him. He heard
slow steps two above. The strangely
familiar. He the window on the floor; the moon shone
through the with a and light; then he
reached the second floor. Bah! this is the where the were
at work... but how was it he did not it at once? The steps
of the man above had died away. “So he must have stopped or hidden
somewhere.” He the third storey, should he go on? There was a
stillness that was dreadful.... But he on. The of his own
footsteps and him. How dark it was! The man must be
hiding in some here. Ah! the was wide open, he
hesitated and in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as
though had been removed; he on into the parlour
which was with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the
chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the
frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows.
“It’s the moon that makes it so still, some mystery,” thought
Raskolnikov. He and waited, waited a long while, and the more
silent the moonlight, the more his beat, till it was
painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he a sharp
crack like the of a and all was still again. A fly
flew up and the window with a buzz. At
that moment he noticed in the the window and the little
cupboard something like a on the wall. “Why is that cloak
here?” he thought, “it wasn’t there before....” He up to it quietly
and that there was someone it. He moved
the and saw, on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent
double so that he couldn’t see her face; but it was she. He over
her. “She is afraid,” he thought. He took the from the
noose and her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange
to say she did not stir, as though she were of wood. He was
frightened, nearer and to look at her; but she, too,
bent her lower. He right to the ground and up
into her from below, he and cold with horror: the old
woman was and laughing, with noiseless laughter, doing
her that he should not it. Suddenly he that the door
from the was opened a little and that there was and
whispering within. He was overcome with and he the
old woman on the with all his force, but at every of the axe
the and from the louder and the old
woman was with mirth. He was away, but the
passage was full of people, the doors of the open and on the
landing, on the stairs and there were people, of
heads, all looking, but together in and expectation.
Something his heart, his were to the spot, they
would not move.... He to and up.
He a breath--but his to persist:
his door was open and a man he had in the
doorway him intently.
Raskolnikov had opened his and he closed them
again. He on his without stirring.
“Is it still a dream?” he and again his hardly
perceptibly; the was in the same place, still watching
him.
He into the room, the door after
him, up to the table, paused a moment, still his on
Raskolnikov, and seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he
put his on the him and his hands on his cane
and his on his hands. It was that he was prepared to wait
indefinitely. As as Raskolnikov make out from his stolen
glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost
whitish beard.
Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but to dusk. There
was complete in the room. Not a came from the stairs.
Only a big and against the window pane. It was
unbearable at last. Raskolnikov got up and sat on the sofa.
“Come, tell me what you want.”
“I you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the answered
oddly, laughing calmly. “Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to
introduce myself....”
PART IV
