are all very well theoretically, but try it and see. Look, for
example, at the murder of the money lender, a case in point. There
was a desperate villain who in broad daylight stopped at nothing,
and yet his hand shook, did it not?--and he could not finish, and
left all the spoil behind him. The deed evidently robbed him of
his presence of mind."
This language nettled Raskolnikoff. "You think so? Then lay your
hand upon him," said he, maliciously delighted to tease him.
"Never fear but we shall!"
"You? Go to, you know nothing about it. All you think of
inquiring is whether a man is flinging money about; he is--then,
ergo he is guilty."
"That is exactly what they do," replied Zametoff, "they murder,
risk their lives, and then rush to the public house and are caught.
Their lavishness betrays them. You see they are not all so crafty
as you are. You would not run there, I suppose?"
Raskolnikoff frowned and looked steadily at Zametoff. "You seem
anxious to know how I should act," he said with some displeasure.
"I should very much like to know," replied Zametoff in a serious
tone. He seemed, indeed, very anxious.
"Very much?"
"Very much."
"Good. This would be my plan," Raskolnikoff said, as he again bent
near to the face of his listener, and speaking in such a tragic
whisper as almost to make the latter shudder. "I should take the
money and all I could find, and make off, going, however, in no
particular direction, but on and on until I came to some obscure
and inclosed place, where no one was about--a market garden, or any
such-like spot. I should then look about me for a stone, perhaps a
pound and a half in weight, lying, it may be, in a corner against a
partition, say a stone used for building purposes; this I should
lift up and under it there would be a hole. In that hole I should
deposit all the things I had got, roll back the stone, stamp it
down with my feet, and be off. For a year I should let them lie--
for two years, three years. Now then, search for them! Where are
they?"
"You are indeed mad," said Zametoff, also in a low tone, but
turning away from Raskolnikoff. The latter's eyes glistened, he
became paler than ever, while his upper lip trembled violently. He
placed his face closer, if possible, to that of Zametoff, his lips
moving as if he wished to speak, but no words escaped them--several
moments elapsed--Raskolnikoff knew what he was doing, but felt
utterly unable to control himself, that strange impulse was upon
him as when he stood at the bolted door, to come forth and let all
be known.
"What if I killed the old woman and Elizabeth?" he asked suddenly,
and then--came to himself.
Zametoff turned quite pale; then his face changed to a smile. "Can
it be so?" he muttered to himself.
Raskolnikoff eyed him savagely. "Speak out. What do you think?
Yes? Is it so?"
"Of course not. I believe it now less than ever," replied Zametoff
hastily.
"Caught at last! caught, my fine fellow! What people believe less
than ever, they must have believed once, eh?"
"Not at all. You frightened me into the supposition," said
Zametoff, visibly confused.
"So you do not think this? Then why those questions in the office?
Why did the lieutenant question me after my swoon? Waiter," he
cried, seizing his cap, "here, how much?"
"Thirty kopecks, sir," replied the man.
"There you are, and twenty for yourself. Look, what a lot of
money!" turning to Zametoff and thrusting forth his shaking hand
filled with the twenty-five rubles, red and blue notes. "Whence
comes all this? Where did I obtain these new clothes from? You
know I had none. You have asked the landlady, I suppose? Well, no
matter!--Enough! Adieu, most affectionately."
He went out, shaking from some savage hysterical emotion, a mixture
of delight, gloom, and weariness. His face was drawn as if he had
just recovered from a fit; and, as his agitation of mind increased,
so did his weakness.
Meanwhile, Zametoff remained in the restaurant where Raskolnikoff
had left him, deeply buried in thought, considering the different
points Raskolnikoff had placed before him.
His heart was empty and depressed, and he strove again to drive off
thought. No feeling of anguish came, neither was there any trace
of that fierce energy which moved him when he left the house to
"put an end to it all."
"What will be the end of it? The result lies in my own will. What
kind of end? Ah, we are all alike, and accept the bit of ground
for our feet and live. Must this be the end? Shall I say the word
or not? Oh, how weary I feel! Oh, to lie down or sit anywhere!
How foolish it is to strive against my illness! Bah! What
thoughts run through my brain!" Thus he meditated as he went
drowsily along the banks of the canal, until, turning to the right
and then to the left, he reached the office building. He stopped
short, however, and, turning down a lane, went on past two other
streets, with no fixed purpose, simply, no doubt, to give himself a
few moments longer for reflection. He went on, his eyes fixed on
the ground, until all of a sudden he started, as if some one had
whispered in his ear. Raising his eyes he saw that he stood before
THE HOUSE, at its very gates.
Quick as lightning, an idea rushed into his head, and he marched
through the yard and made his way up the well-known staircase to
the fourth story. It was, as usual, very dark, and as he reached
each landing he peered almost with caution. There was the room
newly painted, where Dmitri and Mikola had worked. He reached the
fourth landing and he paused before the murdered woman's room in
doubt. The door was wide open and he could hear voices within;
this he had not anticipated. However, after wavering a little, he
went straight in. The room was being done up, and in it were some
workmen. This astonished him--indeed, it would seem he had
expected to find everything as he had left it, even to the dead
bodies lying on the floor. But to see the place with bare walls
and bereft of furniture was very strange! He walked up to the
windows and sat on the sill. One of the workmen now saw him and
cried:
"What do you want here?"
Instead of replying, Raskolnikoff walked to the outer door and,
standing outside, began to pull at the bell. Yes, that was the
bell, with its harsh sound. He pulled again and again three times,
and remained there listening and thinking.
"What is it you want?" again cried the workman as he went out to
Raskolnikoff.
"I wish to hire some rooms. I came to look at these."
"People don't take lodgings in the night. Why don't you apply to
the porter?"
"The floor has been washed. Are you going to paint it?" remarked
Raskolnikoff. "Where is the blood?"
"What blood?"
"The old woman's and her sister's. There was quite a pool."
"Who are you?" cried the workman uneasily.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikoff, ex-student. I live at the
house Schilla, in a lane not far from here, No. 14. Ask the porter
there--he knows me," Raskolnikoff replied indifferently, without
turning to his questioner.
"What were you doing in those rooms?"
"Looking at them."
"What for? Come, out you go then, if you won't explain yourself,"
suddenly shouted the porter, a huge fellow in a smock frock, with a
large bunch of keys round his waist; and he caught Raskolnikoff by
the shoulder and pitched him into the street. The latter lurched
forward, but recovered himself, and, giving one look at the
spectators, went quietly away.
"What shall I do now?" thought Raskolnikoff. He was standing on
the bridge, near a crossing, and was looking around him as if
expecting some one to speak. But no one spoke, and all was dark
and dull, and dead--at least to him, and him alone.
A few days later, Raskolnikoff heard from his friend Razoumikhin
that those who had borrowed money from Alena Ivanovna were going to
the police office to redeem their pledges. He went with
Razoumikhin to the office where they were received by Porphyrius
Petrovitch, the examining magistrate, who seemed to have expected
them.
"You have been expecting this visit? But how did you know that he
had pledged anything with Alena Ivanovna?" cried Razoumikhin.
Porphyrius Petrovitch, without any further reply, said to
Raskolnikoff: "Your things, a ring and a watch, were at her place,
wrapped up in a piece of paper, and on this paper your name was
legibly written in pencil, with the date of the day she had
received these things from you."
"What a memory you must have got!" said Raskolnikoff, with a forced
smile, doing his best to look the magistrate unflinchingly in the
face. However, he could not help adding: "I say so, because, as
the owners of the pledged articles are no doubt very numerous, you
must, I should fancy, have some difficulty in remembering them all;
but I see, on the contrary, that you do nothing of the kind. (Oh!
fool! why add that?)"
"But they have nearly all of them come here; you alone had not done
so," answered Porphyrius, with an almost imperceptible sneer.
"I happened to be rather unwell."
"So I heard. I have been told that you have been in great pain.
Even now you are pale."
"Not at all. I am not pale. On the contrary, I am very well!"
answered Raskolnikoff in a tone of voice which had all at once
become brutal and violent. He felt rising within him
uncontrollable anger. "Anger will make me say some foolish thing,"
he thought. "But why do they exasperate me?"
"He was rather unwell! A pretty expression, to be sure!" exclaimed
Razoumikhin. "The fact is that up to yesterday he has been almost
unconscious. Would you believe it, Porphyrius? Yesterday, when he
could hardly stand upright, he seized the moment when we had just
left him, to dress, to be off by stealth, and to go loafing about,
Heaven only knows where, till midnight, being, all the time, in a
completely raving condition. Can you imagine such a thing? It is
a most remarkable case!"
"Indeed! In a completely raving state?" remarked Porphyrius, with
the toss of the head peculiar to Russian rustics.
"Absurd! Don't you believe a word of it! Besides, I need not urge
you to that effect--of course you are convinced," observed
Raskolnikoff, beside himself with passion. But Porphyrius
Petrovitch did not seem to hear these singular words.
"How could you have gone out if you had not been delirious?" asked
Razoumikhin, getting angry in his turn. "Why have gone out at all?
What was the object of it? And, above all, to go in that secret
manner? Come, now, make a clean breast of it--you know you were
out of your mind, were you not? Now that danger is gone by, I tell
you so to your face."
"I had been very much annoyed yesterday," said Raskolnikoff,
addressing the magistrate, with more or less of insolence in his
smile, "and, wishing to get rid of them, I went out to hire
lodgings where I could be sure of privacy, to effect which I had
taken a certain amount of money. Mr. Zametoff saw what I had by
me, and perhaps he can say whether I was in my right senses
yesterday or whether I was delirious? Perhaps he will judge as to
our quarrel." Nothing would have pleased him better than there and
then to have strangled that gentleman, whose taciturnity and
equivocal facial expression irritated him.
"In my opinion, you were talking very sensibly and even with
considerable shrewdness; only I thought you too irritable,"
observed Zametoff off-handedly.
"Do let us have some tea! We are as dry as fishes!" exclaimed
Razoumikhin.
"Good idea! But perhaps you would like something more substantial
before tea, would you?"
"Look alive, then!"
Porphyrius Petrovitch went out to order tea. All kinds of thoughts
were at work in Raskolnikoff's brain. He was excited. "They don't
even take pains to dissemble; they certainly don't mince matters as
far as I am concerned: that is something, at all events! Since
Porphyrius knew next to nothing about me, why on earth should he
have spoken with Nicodemus Thomich Zametoff at all? They even
scorn to deny that they are on my track, almost like a pack of
hounds! They certainly speak out plainly enough!" he said,
trembling with rage. "Well, do so, as bluntly as you like, but
don't play with me as the cat would with the mouse! That's not
quite civil, Porphyrius Petrovitch; I won't quite allow that yet!
I'll make a stand and tell you some plain truths to your faces, and
then you shall find out my real opinion about you!" He had some
difficulty in breathing. "But supposing that all this is pure
fancy?--a kind of mirage? Suppose I had misunderstood? Let me try
and keep up my nasty part, and not commit myself, like the fool, by
blind anger! Ought I to give them credit for intentions they have
not? Their words are, in themselves, not very extraordinary ones--
so much must be allowed; but a double meaning may lurk beneath
them. Why did Porphyrius, in speaking of the old woman, simply say
'At her place?' Why did Zametoff observe that I had spoken very
sensibly? Why their peculiar manner?--yes, it is this manner of
theirs. How is it possible that all this cannot have struck
Razoumikhin? The booby never notices anything! But I seem to be
feverish again! Did Porphyrius give me a kind of wink just now, or
was I deceived in some way? The idea is absurd! Why should he
wink at me? Perhaps they intend to upset my nervous organization,
and, by so doing, drive me to extremes! Either the whole thing is
a phantasmagoria, or--they know!"
These thoughts flashed through his mind with the rapidity of
lightning. Porphyrius Petrovitch came back a moment afterwards.
He seemed in a very good temper. "When I left your place
yesterday, old fellow, I was really not well," he commenced,
addressing Razoumikhin with a cheeriness which was only just
becoming apparent, "but that is all gone now."
"Did you find the evening a pleasant one? I left you in the thick
of the fun; who came off best?"
"Nobody, of course. They caviled to their heart's content over
their old arguments."
"Fancy, Rodia, the discussion last evening turned on the question:
'Does crime exist? Yes, or No.' And the nonsense they talked on
the subject!"
"What is there extraordinary in the query? It is the social
question without the charm of novelty," answered Raskolnikoff
abruptly.
"Talking of crime," said Porphyrius Petrovitch, speaking to
Raskolnikoff, "I remember a production of yours which greatly
interested me. I am speaking about your article ON CRIME. I don't
very well remember the title. I was delighted in reading it two
months ago in the Periodical Word."
"But how do you know the article was mine? I only signed it with
an initial."
"I discovered it lately, quite by chance. The chief editor is a
friend of mine; it was he who let out the secret of your
authorship. The article has greatly interested me."
"I was analyzing, if I remember rightly, the psychological
condition of a criminal at the moment of his deed."
"Yes, and you strove to prove that a criminal, at such a moment, is
always, mentally, more or less unhinged. That point of view is a
very original one, but it was not this part of your article which
most interested me. I was particularly struck by an idea at the
end of the article, and which, unfortunately, you have touched upon
too cursorily. In a word, if you remember, you maintained that
there are men in existence who can, or more accurately, who have an
absolute right to commit all kinds of wicked, and criminal acts--
men for whom, to a certain extent, laws do not exist."
"Is it not very likely that some coming Napoleon did for Alena
Ivanovna last week?" suddenly blustered Zametoff from his corner.
Without saying a word, Raskolnikoff fixed on Porphyrius a firm and
penetrating glance. Raskolnikoff was beginning to look sullen. He
seemed to have been suspecting something for some time past. He
looked round him with an irritable air. For a moment there was an
ominous silence. Raskolnikoff was getting ready to go.
"What, are you off already?" asked Porphyrius, kindly offering the
young man his hand with extreme affability. "I am delighted to
have made your acquaintance. And as for your application, don't be
uneasy about it. Write in the way I suggested. Or, perhaps, you
had better do this. Come and see me before long--to-morrow, if you
like. I shall be here without fail at eleven o'clock. We can make
everything right--we'll have a chat--and as you were one of the
last that went THERE, you might be able to give some further
particulars?" he added, with his friendly smile.
"Do you wish to examine me formally?" Raskolnikoff inquired, in an
uncomfortable tone.
"Why should I? Such a thing is out of the question. You have
misunderstood me. I ought to tell you that I manage to make the
most of every opportunity. I have already had a chat with every
single person that has been in the habit of pledging things with
the old woman--several have given me very useful information--and
as you happen to be the last one-- By the by," he exclaimed with
sudden pleasure, "how lucky I am thinking about it, I was really
going to forget it!" (Saying which he turned to Razoumikhin.)
"You were almost stunning my ears, the other day, talking about
Mikolka. Well, I am certain, quite certain, as to his innocence,"
he went on, once more addressing himself to Raskolnikoff. "But
what was to be done? It has been necessary to disturb Dmitri.
Now, what I wanted to ask was: On going upstairs--was it not
between seven and eight you entered the house?"
"Yes," replied Raskolnikoff and he immediately regretted an answer
he ought to have avoided.
"Well, in going upstairs, between seven and eight, did you not see
on the second floor, in one of the rooms, when the door was wide
open--you remember, I dare say?--did you not see two painters or,
at all events, one of the two? They were whitewashing the room, I
believe; you must have seen them! The matter is of the utmost
importance to them!"
"Painters, you say? I saw none," replied Raskolnikoff slowly,
trying to sound his memory: for a moment he violently strained it
to discover, as quickly as he could, the trap concealed by the
magistrate's question. "No, I did not see a single one; I did not
even see any room standing open," he went on, delighted at having
discovered the trap, "but on the fourth floor I remember noticing
that the man lodging on the same landing as Alena Ivanovna was in
the act of moving. I remember that very well, as I met a few
soldiers carrying a sofa, and I was obliged to back against the
wall; but, as for painters, I don't remember seeing a single one--I
don't even remember a room that had its door open. No, I saw
nothing."
"But what are you talking about?" all at once exclaimed
Razoumikhin, who, till that moment, had attentively listened; "it
was on the very day of the murder that painters were busy in that
room, while he came there two days previously! Why are you asking
that question?"
"Right! I have confused the dates!" cried Porphyrius, tapping his
forehead. "Deuce take me! That job makes me lose my head!" he
added by way of excuse, and speaking to Raskolnikoff. "It is very
important that we should know if anybody saw them in that room
between seven and eight. I thought I might have got that
information from you without thinking any more about it. I had
positively confused the days!"
"You ought to be more attentive!" grumbled Razoumikhin.
These last words were uttered in the anteroom, as Porhyrius very
civilly led his visitors to the door. They were gloomy and morose
on leaving the house, and had gone some distance before speaking.
Raskolnikoff breathed like a man who had just been subjected to a
severe trial.
When, on the following day, precisely at eleven o'clock,
Raskolnikoff called on the examining magistrate, he was astonished
to have to dance attendance for a considerable time. According to
his idea, he ought to have been admitted immediately; ten minutes,
however, elapsed before he could see Porphyrius Petrovitch. In the
outer room where he had been waiting, people came and went without
heeding him in the least. In the next room, which was a kind of
office, a few clerks were at work, and it was evident that not one
of them had even an idea who Raskolnikoff might be. The young man
cast a mistrustful look about him. "Was there not," thought he,
"some spy, some mysterious myrmidon of the law, ordered to watch
him, and, if necessary, to prevent his escape?" But he noticed
nothing of the kind; the clerks were all hard at work, and the
other people paid him no kind of attention. The visitor began to
become reassured. "If," thought he, "this mysterious personage of
yesterday, this specter which had risen from the bowels of the
earth, knew all, and had seen all, would they, I should like to
know, let me stand about like this? Would they not rather have
arrested me, instead of waiting till I should come of my own
accord? Hence this man has either made no kind of revelation as
yet about me, or, more probably, he knows nothing, and has seen
nothing (besides how could he have seen anything?): consequently I
have misjudged, and all that happened yesterday was nothing but an
illusion of my diseased imagination." This explanation, which had
offered itself the day before to his mind, at the time he felt most
fearful, he considered a more likely one.
Whilst thinking about all this and getting ready for a new
struggle, Raskolnikoff suddenly perceived that he was trembling; he
became indignant at the very thought that it was fear of an
interview with the hateful Porphyrius Petrovitch which led him to
do so. The most terrible thing to him was to find himself once
again in presence of this man. He hated him beyond all expression,
and what he dreaded was lest he might show this hatred. His
indignation was so great that it suddenly stopped this trembling;
he therefore prepared himself to enter with a calm and self-
possessed air, promised himself to speak as little as possible, to
be very carefully on the watch in order to check, above all things,
his irascible disposition. In the midst of these reflections, he
was introduced to Porphyrius Petrovitch. The latter was alone in
his office, a room of medium dimensions, containing a large table,
facing a sofa covered with shiny leather, a bureau, a cupboard
standing in a corner, and a few chairs: all this furniture,
provided by the State, was of yellow wood. In the wall, or rather
in the wainscoting of the other end, there was a closed door, which
led one to think that there were other rooms behind it. As soon as
Porphyrius Petrovitch had seen Raskolnikoff enter his office, he
went to close the door which had given him admission, and both
stood facing one another. The magistrate received his visitor to
all appearances in a pleasant and affable manner, and it was only
at the expiration of a few moments that the latter observed the
magistrate's somewhat embarrassed manner--he seemed to have been
disturbed in a more or less clandestine occupation.
"Good! my respectable friend! Here you are then--in our
latitudes!" commenced Porphyrius, holding out both hands. "Pray,
be seated, batuchka! But, perhaps, you don't like being called
respectable? Therefore, batuchka, for short! Pray, don't think me
familiar. Sit down here on the sofa."
Raskolnikoff did so without taking his eyes off the judge. "These
words 'in our latitudes,' these excuses for his familiarity, this
expression 'for short,' what could be the meaning of all this? He
held out his hands to me without shaking mine, withdrawing them
before I could do so, thought Raskolnikoff mistrustfully. Both
watched each other, but no sooner did their eyes meet than they
both turned them aside with the rapidity of a flash of lightning.
"I have called with this paper--about the-- If you please. Is it
correct, or must another form be drawn up?"
"What, what paper? Oh, yes! Do not put yourself out. It is
perfectly correct," answered Porphyrius somewhat hurriedly, before
he had even examined it; then, after having cast a glance on it, he
said, speaking very rapidly: "Quite right, that is all that is
required," and placed the sheet on the table. A moment later he
locked it up in his bureau, chattering about other things.
"Yesterday," observed Raskolnikoff, "you had, I fancy, a wish to
examine me formally--with reference to my dealings with--the
victim? At least so it seemed to me!"