But
as
soon
as
she
went out,
he
got up, latched
the
door, undid
the
parcel
which
Razumihin had brought
in
that
evening
and
had
tied
up
again
and
began dressing.
Strange
to
say,
he
seemed
immediately
to
have
become
perfectly calm;
not
a
trace
of
his
recent
delirium
nor
of
the
panic
fear
that
had
haunted
him
of
late.
It
was
the
first
moment
of
a
strange
sudden
calm.
His
movements
were
precise
and
definite; a
firm
purpose
was
evident
in
them. "To-day, to-day,"
he
muttered
to
himself.
He
understood
that
he
was
still
weak,
but
his
intense
spiritual
concentration
gave
him
strength
and
self-confidence.
He
hoped, moreover,
that
he
would
not
fall
down
in
the
street.
When
he
had dressed
in
entirely
new
clothes,
he
looked
at
the
money
lying
on
the
table,
and
after
a moment's
thought
put
it
in
his
pocket.
It
was
twenty-five roubles.
He
took
also
all
the
copper
change
from
the
ten
roubles spent
by
Razumihin
on
the
clothes.
Then
he
softly unlatched
the
door, went out, slipped downstairs
and
glanced
in
at
the
open
kitchen door. Nastasya
was
standing
with
her
back
to
him, blowing
up
the
landlady's samovar.
She
heard
nothing.
Who
would
have
dreamed
of
his
going out, indeed? A
minute
later
he
was
in
the
street.
From
old
habit
he
took
his
usual
walk
in
the
direction
of
the
Hay
Market. A dark-haired
young
man
with
a
barrel
organ
was
standing
in
the
road
in
front
of
a
little
general
shop
and
was
grinding
out
a
very
sentimental song.
He
was
accompanying
a
girl
of
fifteen,
who
stood
on
the
pavement
in
front
of
him.
She
was
dressed
up
in
a crinoline, a
mantle
and
a straw
hat
with
a flame-coloured
feather
in
it,
all
very
old
and
shabby.
In
a
strong
and
rather
agreeable
voice,
cracked
and
coarsened
by
street
singing,
she
sang
in
hope
of
getting
a
copper
from
the
shop. Raskolnikov
joined
two
or
three
listeners,
took
out
a
five
copeck
piece
and
put
it
in
the
girl's hand.
She
broke
off
abruptly
on
a sentimental high note, shouted
sharply
to
the
organ
grinder
"Come on,"
and
both
moved
on
to
the
next
shop. "Do
you
like
street
music?" said Raskolnikov,
addressing
a middle-aged
man
standing
idly
by
him.
The
man
looked
at
him, startled
and
wondering. "I
love
to
hear
singing
to
a
street
organ," said Raskolnikov,
and
his
manner
seemed
strangely
out
of
keeping
with
the
subject—"I
like
it
on
cold, dark, damp
autumn
evenings—they
must
be
damp—when
all
the
passers-by
have
pale
green, sickly faces,
or
better
still
when
wet
snow
is
falling straight down,
when
there's
no
wind—you
know
what
I mean?—and
the
street
lamps
shine
through
it..." "I don't know....
Excuse
me..."
muttered
the
stranger, frightened
by
the
question
and
Raskolnikov's
strange
manner,
and
he
crossed
over
to
the
other
side
of
the
street. Raskolnikov walked straight
on
and
came
out
at
the
corner
of
the
Hay
Market,
where
the
huckster
and
his
wife
had talked
with
Lizaveta;
but
they
were
not
there
now.
Recognising
the
place,
he
stopped,
looked
round
and
addressed
a
young
fellow
in
a
red
shirt
who
stood gaping
before
a corn chandler's shop. "Isn't
there
a
man
who
keeps
a
booth
with
his
wife
at
this
corner?" "All
sorts
of
people
keep
booths
here,"
answered
the
young
man, glancing
superciliously
at
Raskolnikov. "What's
his
name?" "What
he
was
christened." "Aren't
you
a Zaraďsky man, too?
Which
province?"
The
young
man
looked
at
Raskolnikov again. "It's
not
a province,
your
excellency,
but
a district. Graciously
forgive
me,
your
excellency!" "Is
that
a
tavern
at
the
top
there?" "Yes, it's
an
eating-house
and
there's a billiard-room
and
you'll find
princesses
there
too.... La-la!" Raskolnikov
crossed
the
square.
In
that
corner
there
was
a
dense
crowd
of
peasants.
He
pushed
his
way
into
the
thickest
part
of
it,
looking
at
the
faces.
He
felt
an
unaccountable
inclination
to
enter
into
conversation
with
people.
But
the
peasants
took
no
notice
of
him;
they
were
all
shouting
in
groups
together.
He
stood
and
thought
a
little
and
took
a
turning
to
the
right
in
the
direction
of
V.
He
had
often
crossed
that
little
street
which
turns
at
an
angle, leading
from
the
market-place
to
Sadovy Street.
Of
late
he
had
often
felt
drawn
to
wander
about
this
district,
when
he
felt depressed,
that
he
might
feel
more
so.
Now
he
walked along,
thinking
of
nothing.
At
that
point
there
is
a
great
block
of
buildings, entirely
let
out
in
dram
shops
and
eating-houses; women
were
continually
running
in
and
out, bare-headed
and
in
their
indoor clothes.
Here
and
there
they
gathered
in
groups,
on
the
pavement, especially
about
the
entrances
to
various
festive
establishments
in
the
lower
storeys.
From
one
of
these
a
loud
din,
sounds
of
singing,
the
tinkling
of
a
guitar
and
shouts
of
merriment,
floated
into
the
street. A crowd
of
women
were
thronging round
the
door;
some
were
sitting
on
the
steps,
others
on
the
pavement,
others
were
standing talking. A
drunken
soldier,
smoking
a cigarette,
was
walking
near
them
in
the
road, swearing;
he
seemed
to
be
trying
to
find
his
way
somewhere,
but
had forgotten where.
One
beggar
was
quarrelling
with
another,
and
a
man
dead
drunk
was
lying
right
across
the
road. Raskolnikov
joined
the
throng
of
women,
who
were
talking
in
husky
voices.
They
were
bare-headed
and
wore
cotton
dresses
and
goatskin shoes.
There
were
women
of
forty
and
some
not
more
than
seventeen;
almost
all
had blackened eyes.
He
felt
strangely
attracted
by
the
singing
and
all
the
noise
and
uproar
in
the
saloon
below.... someone
could
be
heard
within
dancing
frantically,
marking
time
with
his
heels
to
the
sounds
of
the
guitar
and
of
a
thin
falsetto
voice
singing
a
jaunty
air.
He
listened
intently, gloomily
and
dreamily,
bending
down
at
the
entrance
and
peeping
inquisitively
in
from
the
pavement. trilled
the
thin
voice
of
the
singer. Raskolnikov felt a
great
desire
to
make
out
what
he
was
singing,
as
though
everything
depended
on
that. "Shall I
go
in?"
he
thought. "They
are
laughing.
From
drink.
Shall
I
get
drunk?" "Won't
you
come
in?"
one
of
the
women
asked
him.
Her
voice
was
still
musical
and
less
thick
than
the
others,
she
was
young
and
not
repulsive—the
only
one
of
the
group. "Why, she's pretty,"
he
said, drawing
himself
up
and
looking
at
her.
She
smiled,
much
pleased
at
the
compliment. "You're
very
nice
looking
yourself,"
she
said. "Isn't
he
thin
though!"
observed
another
woman
in
a
deep
bass. "Have
you
just
come
out
of
a hospital?" "They're
all
generals' daughters,
it
seems,
but
they
have
all
snub noses,"
interposed
a tipsy
peasant
with
a
sly
smile
on
his
face, wearing a
loose
coat. "See
how
jolly
they
are." "Go
along
with
you!" "I'll go, sweetie!"
And
he
darted
down
into
the
saloon
below. Raskolnikov
moved
on. "I say, sir,"
the
girl
shouted
after
him. "What
is
it?"
She
hesitated. "I'll
always
be
pleased
to
spend
an
hour
with
you,
kind
gentleman,
but
now
I feel shy.
Give
me
six
copecks
for
a drink, there's a
nice
young
man!" Raskolnikov gave
her
what
came first—fifteen copecks. "Ah,
what
a good-natured gentleman!" "What's
your
name?" "Ask
for
Duclida." "Well, that's
too
much,"
one
of
the
women observed, shaking
her
head
at
Duclida. "I don't
know
how
you
can
ask
like
that. I
believe
I
should
drop
with
shame...." Raskolnikov
looked
curiously
at
the
speaker.
She
was
a pock-marked wench
of
thirty, covered
with
bruises,
with
her
upper
lip
swollen.
She
made
her
criticism
quietly
and
earnestly. "Where
is
it,"
thought
Raskolnikov. "Where
is
it
I've read
that
someone condemned
to
death
says
or
thinks,
an
hour
before
his
death,
that
if
he
had
to
live
on
some
high rock,
on
such
a
narrow
ledge
that
he'd
only
room
to
stand,
and
the
ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting
tempest
around
him,
if
he
had
to
remain
standing
on
a
square
yard
of
space
all
his
life, a
thousand
years, eternity,
it
were
better
to
live
so
than
to
die
at
once!
Only
to
live,
to
live
and
live! Life, whatever
it
may
be!...
How
true
it
is!
Good
God,
how
true!
Man
is
a
vile
creature!...
And
vile
is
he
who
calls
him
vile
for
that,"
he
added a
moment
later.
He
went
into
another
street. "Bah,
the
Palais
de
Cristal! Razumihin
was
just
talking
of
the
Palais
de
Cristal.
But
what
on
earth
was
it
I wanted? Yes,
the
newspapers.... Zossimov said he'd read
it
in
the
papers.
Have
you
the
papers?"
he
asked, going
into
a
very
spacious
and
positively clean restaurant,
consisting
of
several
rooms,
which
were, however,
rather
empty.
Two
or
three
people
were
drinking tea,
and
in
a
room
further
away
were
sitting
four
men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied
that
Zametov
was
one
of
them,
but
he
could
not
be
sure
at
that
distance. "What
if
it
is?"
he
thought. "Will
you
have
vodka?"
asked
the
waiter. "Give
me
some
tea
and
bring
me
the
papers,
the
old
ones
for
the
last
five
days,
and
I'll
give
you
something." "Yes, sir, here's to-day's.
No
vodka?"
The
old
newspapers
and
the
tea
were
brought. Raskolnikov sat
down
and
began
to
look
through
them. "Oh, damn...
these
are
the
items
of
intelligence.
An
accident
on
a staircase,
spontaneous
combustion
of
a shopkeeper
from
alcohol, a
fire
in
Peski... a
fire
in
the
Petersburg quarter...
another
fire
in
the
Petersburg quarter...
and
another
fire
in
the
Petersburg quarter.... Ah,
here
it
is!"
He
found
at
last
what
he
was
seeking
and
began
to
read it.
The
lines danced
before
his
eyes,
but
he
read
it
all
and
began
eagerly
seeking
later
additions
in
the
following
numbers.
His
hands
shook
with
nervous
impatience
as
he
turned
the
sheets. Suddenly someone sat
down
beside
him
at
his
table.
He
looked
up,
it
was
the
head
clerk Zametov,
looking
just
the
same,
with
the
rings
on
his
fingers
and
the
watch-chain,
with
the
curly,
black
hair,
parted
and
pomaded,
with
the
smart waistcoat,
rather
shabby
coat
and
doubtful linen.
He
was
in
a
good
humour,
at
least
he
was
smiling
very
gaily
and
good-humouredly.
His
dark face
was
rather
flushed
from
the
champagne
he
had drunk. "What,
you
here?"
he
began
in
surprise,
speaking
as
though
he'd known
him
all
his
life. "Why, Razumihin
told
me
only
yesterday
you
were
unconscious.
How
strange!
And
do
you
know
I've been
to
see
you?" Raskolnikov
knew
he
would
come
up
to
him.
He
laid
aside
the
papers
and
turned
to
Zametov.
There
was
a
smile
on
his
lips,
and
a
new
shade
of
irritable
impatience
was
apparent
in
that
smile. "I
know
you
have,"
he
answered. "I've
heard
it.
You
looked
for
my sock....
And
you
know
Razumihin has lost
his
heart
to
you?
He
says you've been
with
him
to
Luise Ivanovna's—you know,
the
woman
you
tried
to
befriend,
for
whom
you
winked
to
the
Explosive
Lieutenant
and
he
would
not
understand.
Do
you
remember?
How
could
he
fail
to
understand—it
was
quite
clear, wasn't it?" "What a
hot
head
he
is!" "The
explosive
one?" "No,
your
friend
Razumihin." "You
must
have
a
jolly
life, Mr. Zametov;
entrance
free
to
the
most
agreeable
places. Who's been pouring
champagne
into
you
just
now?" "We've
just
been...
having
a
drink
together....
You
talk
about
pouring
it
into
me!" "By
way
of
a fee!
You
profit
by
everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's
all
right, my
dear
boy,"
he
added,
slapping
Zametov
on
the
shoulder. "I
am
not
speaking
from
temper,
but
in
a
friendly
way,
for
sport,
as
that
workman
of
yours said
when
he
was
scuffling
with
Dmitri,
in
the
case
of
the
old
woman...." "How
do
you
know
about
it?" "Perhaps I
know
more
about
it
than
you
do." "How
strange
you
are.... I
am
sure
you
are
still
very
unwell.
You
oughtn't
to
have
come
out." "Oh,
do
I
seem
strange
to
you?" "Yes.
What
are
you
doing,
reading
the
papers?" "Yes." "There's a
lot
about
the
fires." "No, I
am
not
reading
about
the
fires."
Here
he
looked
mysteriously
at
Zametov;
his
lips
were
twisted
again
in
a mocking smile. "No, I
am
not
reading
about
the
fires,"
he
went on,
winking
at
Zametov. "But
confess
now, my
dear
fellow, you're awfully
anxious
to
know
what
I
am
reading
about?" "I
am
not
in
the
least. Mayn't I
ask
a question?
Why
do
you
keep
on...?" "Listen,
you
are
a
man
of
culture
and
education?" "I
was
in
the
sixth
class
at
the
gymnasium," said Zametov
with
some
dignity. "Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow!
With
your
parting
and
your
rings—you
are
a gentleman
of
fortune. Foo!
what
a charming boy!"
Here
Raskolnikov
broke
into
a
nervous
laugh
right
in
Zametov's face.
The
latter
drew
back,
more
amazed
than
offended. "Foo!
how
strange
you
are!" Zametov repeated
very
seriously. "I can't
help
thinking
you
are
still
delirious." "I
am
delirious?
You
are
fibbing, my cock-sparrow!
So
I
am
strange?
You
find
me
curious,
do
you?" "Yes, curious." "Shall I
tell
you
what
I
was
reading
about,
what
I
was
looking
for?
See
what
a
lot
of
papers I've
made
them
bring
me. Suspicious, eh?" "Well,
what
is
it?" "You
prick
up
your
ears?" "How
do
you
mean—'prick
up
my ears'?" "I'll
explain
that
afterwards,
but
now, my boy, I
declare
to
you... no,
better
'I confess'... No, that's
not
right
either; 'I
make
a
deposition
and
you
take
it.' I
depose
that
I
was
reading,
that
I
was
looking
and
searching...."
he
screwed
up
his
eyes
and
paused. "I
was
searching—and came
here
on
purpose
to
do
it—for
news
of
the
murder
of
the
old
pawnbroker woman,"
he
articulated
at
last,
almost
in
a whisper,
bringing
his
face exceedingly close
to
the
face
of
Zametov. Zametov
looked
at
him
steadily,
without
moving
or
drawing
his
face away.
What
struck Zametov afterwards
as
the
strangest
part
of
it
all
was
that
silence
followed
for
exactly a minute,
and
that
they
gazed
at
one
another
all
the
while. "What
if
you
have
been
reading
about
it?"
he
cried
at
last, perplexed
and
impatient. "That's
no
business
of
mine!
What
of
it?" "The
same
old
woman," Raskolnikov went
on
in
the
same
whisper,
not
heeding Zametov's explanation, "about
whom
you
were
talking
in
the
police-office,
you
remember,
when
I fainted. Well,
do
you
understand
now?" "What
do
you
mean? Understand... what?" Zametov brought out,
almost
alarmed. Raskolnikov's
set
and
earnest
face
was
suddenly transformed,
and
he
suddenly went
off
into
the
same
nervous
laugh
as
before,
as
though
utterly
unable
to
restrain
himself.
And
in
one
flash
he
recalled
with
extraordinary
vividness
of
sensation
a
moment
in
the
recent
past,
that
moment
when
he
stood
with
the
axe
behind
the
door,
while
the
latch
trembled
and
the
men outside swore
and
shook it,
and
he
had a
sudden
desire
to
shout
at
them,
to
swear
at
them,
to
put
out
his
tongue
at
them,
to
mock them,
to
laugh,
and
laugh,
and
laugh! "You
are
either
mad, or..." began Zametov,
and
he
broke
off,
as
though
stunned
by
the
idea
that
had suddenly flashed
into
his
mind. "Or?
Or
what? What? Come,
tell
me!" "Nothing," said Zametov,
getting
angry, "it's
all
nonsense!"
Both
were
silent.
After
his
sudden
fit
of
laughter
Raskolnikov became suddenly
thoughtful
and
melancholy.
He
put
his
elbow
on
the
table
and
leaned
his
head
on
his
hand.
He
seemed
to
have
completely forgotten Zametov.
The
silence
lasted
for
some
time. "Why don't
you
drink
your
tea? It's
getting
cold," said Zametov. "What! Tea? Oh, yes...." Raskolnikov
sipped
the
glass,
put
a
morsel
of
bread
in
his
mouth
and, suddenly
looking
at
Zametov,
seemed
to
remember
everything
and
pulled
himself
together.
At
the
same
moment
his
face
resumed
its
original
mocking expression.
He
went
on
drinking tea. "Oh,
but
it
was
a
long
time ago! I read
about
it
a
month
ago," Raskolnikov
answered
calmly. "So
you
consider
them
criminals?"
he
added, smiling. "Of
course
they
are
criminals." "They?
They
are
children, simpletons,
not
criminals! Why,
half
a
hundred
people
meeting
for
such
an
object—what
an
idea!
Three
would
be
too
many,
and
then
they
want
to
have
more
faith
in
one
another
than
in
themselves!
One
has
only
to
blab
in
his
cups
and
it
all
collapses. Simpletons!
They
engaged untrustworthy
people
to
change
the
notes—what a
thing
to
trust
to
a
casual
stranger! Well,
let
us
suppose
that
these
simpletons
succeed
and
each
makes
a million,
and
what
follows
for
the
rest
of
their
lives?
Each
is
dependent
on
the
others
for
the
rest
of
his
life!
Better
hang
oneself
at
once!
And
they
did
not
know
how
to
change
the
notes
either;
the
man
who
changed
the
notes
took
five
thousand
roubles,
and
his
hands
trembled.
He
counted
the
first
four
thousand,
but
did
not
count
the
fifth
thousand—he
was
in
such
a hurry
to
get
the
money
into
his
pocket
and
run
away.
Of
course
he
roused
suspicion.
And
the
whole
thing
came
to
a crash
through
one
fool!
Is
it
possible?" "That
his
hands
trembled?"
observed
Zametov, "yes, that's
quite
possible. That, I feel
quite
sure,
is
possible. Sometimes
one
can't
stand
things." "Can't
stand
that?" "Why,
could
you
stand
it
then? No, I couldn't.
For
the
sake
of
a
hundred
roubles
to
face
such
a
terrible
experience?
To
go
with
false
notes
into
a
bank
where
it's
their
business
to
spot
that
sort
of
thing! No, I
should
not
have
the
face
to
do
it.
Would
you?" Raskolnikov had
an
intense
desire
again
"to
put
his
tongue out." Shivers kept running
down
his
spine. "I
should
do
it
quite
differently," Raskolnikov began. "This
is
how
I
would
change
the
notes: I'd
count
the
first
thousand
three
or
four
times backwards
and
forwards,
looking
at
every
note
and
then
I'd
set
to
the
second
thousand; I'd
count
that
half-way
through
and
then
hold
some
fifty-rouble
note
to
the
light,
then
turn
it,
then
hold
it
to
the
light
again—to
see
whether
it
was
a
good
one. 'I
am
afraid,' I
would
say, 'a
relation
of
mine
lost twenty-five roubles
the
other
day
through
a
false
note,'
and
then
I'd
tell
them
the
whole
story.
And
after
I began
counting
the
third, 'No,
excuse
me,' I
would
say, 'I fancy I
made
a mistake
in
the
seventh
hundred
in
that
second
thousand, I
am
not
sure.'
And
so
I
would
give
up
the
third
thousand
and
go
back
to
the
second
and
so
on
to
the
end.
And
when
I had finished, I'd pick
out
one
from
the
fifth
and
one
from
the
second
thousand
and
take
them
again
to
the
light
and
ask
again, 'Change them, please,'
and
put
the
clerk
into
such
a
stew
that
he
would
not
know
how
to
get
rid
of
me.
When
I'd finished
and
had gone out, I'd
come
back, 'No,
excuse
me,'
and
ask
for
some
explanation. That's
how
I'd
do
it." "Foo!
what
terrible
things
you
say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But
all
that
is
only
talk. I
dare
say
when
it
came
to
deeds
you'd
make
a slip. I
believe
that
even
a practised,
desperate
man
cannot
always
reckon
on
himself,
much
less
you
and
I.
To
take
an
example
near
home—that
old
woman
murdered
in
our
district.
The
murderer
seems
to
have
been a
desperate
fellow,
he
risked
everything
in
open
daylight,
was
saved
by
a miracle—but
his
hands
shook, too.
He
did
not
succeed
in
robbing
the
place,
he
couldn't
stand
it.
That
was
clear
from
the..." Raskolnikov
seemed
offended. "Clear?
Why
don't
you
catch
him
then?"
he
cried, maliciously gibing
at
Zametov. "Well,
they
will
catch
him." "Who? You?
Do
you
suppose
you
could
catch
him? You've a
tough
job! A
great
point
for
you
is
whether
a
man
is
spending
money
or
not.
If
he
had
no
money
and
suddenly
begins
spending,
he
must
be
the
man.
So
that
any
child
can
mislead
you." "The
fact
is
they
always
do
that, though,"
answered
Zametov. "A
man
will
commit
a
clever
murder
at
the
risk
of
his
life
and
then
at
once
he
goes
drinking
in
a tavern.
They
are
caught
spending
money,
they
are
not
all
as
cunning
as
you
are.
You
wouldn't
go
to
a tavern,
of
course?" Raskolnikov frowned
and
looked
steadily
at
Zametov. "You
seem
to
enjoy
the
subject
and
would
like
to
know
how
I
should
behave
in
that
case, too?"
he
asked
with
displeasure. "I
should
like
to," Zametov
answered
firmly
and
seriously.
Somewhat
too
much
earnestness began
to
appear
in
his
words
and
looks. "Very much?" "Very much!" "All
right
then.
This
is
how
I
should
behave," Raskolnikov began,
again
bringing
his
face close
to
Zametov's,
again
staring
at
him
and
speaking
in
a whisper,
so
that
the
latter
positively shuddered. "This
is
what
I
should
have
done. I
should
have
taken
the
money
and
jewels, I
should
have
walked
out
of
there
and
have
gone straight
to
some
deserted
place
with
fences round
it
and
scarcely
anyone
to
be
seen,
some
kitchen
garden
or
place
of
that
sort. I
should
have
looked
out
beforehand
some
stone
weighing
a hundredweight
or
more
which
had been lying
in
the
corner
from
the
time
the
house
was
built. I
would
lift
that
stone—there
would
sure
to
be
a
hollow
under
it,
and
I
would
put
the
jewels
and
money
in
that
hole.
Then
I'd
roll
the
stone
back
so
that
it
would
look
as
before,
would
press
it
down
with
my
foot
and
walk away.
And
for
a
year
or
two,
three
maybe, I
would
not
touch
it. And, well,
they
could
search! There'd
be
no
trace." "You
are
a madman," said Zametov,
and
for
some
reason
he
too
spoke
in
a whisper,
and
moved
away
from
Raskolnikov,
whose
eyes
were
glittering.
He
had
turned
fearfully
pale
and
his
upper
lip
was
twitching
and
quivering.
He
bent
down
as
close
as
possible
to
Zametov,
and
his
lips
began
to
move
without
uttering
a word.
This
lasted
for
half
a minute;
he
knew
what
he
was
doing,
but
could
not
restrain
himself.
The
terrible
word
trembled
on
his
lips,
like
the
latch
on
that
door;
in
another
moment
it
will
break
out,
in
another
moment
he
will
let
it
go,
he
will
speak
out. "And
what
if
it
was
I
who
murdered
the
old
woman
and
Lizaveta?"
he
said suddenly and—realised
what
he
had done. Zametov
looked
wildly
at
him
and
turned
white
as
the
tablecloth.
His
face wore a
contorted
smile. "But
is
it
possible?"
he
brought
out
faintly. Raskolnikov
looked
wrathfully
at
him. "Own
up
that
you
believed
it, yes,
you
did?" "Not a
bit
of
it, I
believe
it
less
than
ever
now," Zametov cried hastily. "I've
caught
my cock-sparrow!
So
you
did
believe
it
before,
if
now
you
believe
less
than
ever?" "Not
at
all," cried Zametov,
obviously
embarrassed. "Have
you
been frightening
me
so
as
to
lead
up
to
this?" "You don't
believe
it
then?
What
were
you
talking
about
behind
my
back
when
I went
out
of
the
police-office?
And
why
did
the
explosive
lieutenant
question
me
after
I fainted? Hey, there,"
he
shouted
to
the
waiter,
getting
up
and
taking
his
cap, "how much?" "Thirty copecks,"
the
latter
replied, running up.
He
went out,
trembling
all
over
from
a
sort
of
wild
hysterical
sensation,
in
which
there
was
an
element
of
insufferable rapture.
Yet
he
was
gloomy
and
terribly tired.
His
face
was
twisted
as
after
a fit.
His
fatigue
increased rapidly.
Any
shock,
any
irritating
sensation
stimulated
and
revived
his
energies
at
once,
but
his
strength
failed
as
quickly
when
the
stimulus
was
removed. Zametov, left alone, sat
for
a
long
time
in
the
same
place, plunged
in
thought. Raskolnikov had
unwittingly
worked
a
revolution
in
his
brain
on
a
certain
point
and
had
made
up
his
mind
for
him
conclusively. "Ilya Petrovitch
is
a blockhead,"
he
decided. Raskolnikov had
hardly
opened
the
door
of
the
restaurant
when
he
stumbled against Razumihin
on
the
steps.
They
did
not
see
each
other
till
they
almost
knocked
against
each
other.
For
a
moment
they
stood
looking
each
other
up
and
down. Razumihin
was
greatly
astounded,
then
anger,
real
anger
gleamed
fiercely
in
his
eyes. "So
here
you
are!"
he
shouted
at
the
top
of
his
voice—"you
ran
away
from
your
bed!
And
here
I've been
looking
for
you
under
the
sofa!
We
went
up
to
the
garret. I
almost
beat Nastasya
on
your
account.
And
here
he
is
after
all. Rodya!
What
is
the
meaning
of
it?
Tell
me
the
whole
truth! Confess!
Do
you
hear?" "It
means
that
I'm
sick
to
death
of
you
all
and
I
want
to
be
alone," Raskolnikov
answered
calmly. "Alone?
When
you
are
not
able
to
walk,
when
your
face
is
as
white
as
a
sheet
and
you
are
gasping
for
breath! Idiot!...
What
have
you
been doing
in
the
Palais
de
Cristal?
Own
up
at
once!" "Let
me
go!" said Raskolnikov
and
tried
to
pass him.
This
was
too
much
for
Razumihin;
he
gripped
him
firmly
by
the
shoulder. "Let
you
go?
You
dare
tell
me
to
let
you
go?
Do
you
know
what
I'll
do
with
you
directly? I'll pick
you
up,
tie
you
up
in
a bundle, carry
you
home
under
my
arm
and
lock
you
up!" "Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm—"can't
you
see
that
I don't
want
your
benevolence? A
strange
desire
you
have
to
shower benefits
on
a
man
who...
curses
them,
who
feels
them
a
burden
in
fact!
Why
did
you
seek
me
out
at
the
beginning
of
my illness? Maybe I
was
very
glad
to
die. Didn't I
tell
you
plainly
enough
to-day
that
you
were
torturing me,
that
I was...
sick
of
you!
You
seem
to
want
to
torture people! I
assure
you
that
all
that
is
seriously
hindering
my recovery,
because
it's
continually
irritating
me.
You
saw
Zossimov went
away
just
now
to
avoid
irritating
me.
You
leave
me
alone
too,
for
goodness' sake!
What
right
have
you, indeed,
to
keep
me
by
force? Don't
you
see
that
I
am
in
possession
of
all
my faculties now? How,
how
can
I
persuade
you
not
to
persecute
me
with
your
kindness? I
may
be
ungrateful, I
may
be
mean,
only
let
me
be,
for
God's sake,
let
me
be!
Let
me
be,
let
me
be!"
He
began calmly,
gloating
beforehand
over
the
venomous
phrases
he
was
about
to
utter,
but
finished,
panting
for
breath,
in
a frenzy,
as
he
had been
with
Luzhin. Razumihin stood a moment,
thought
and
let
his
hand
drop. "Well,
go
to
hell
then,"
he
said gently
and
thoughtfully. "Stay,"
he
roared,
as
Raskolnikov
was
about
to
move. "Listen
to
me.
Let
me
tell
you,
that
you
are
all
a
set
of
babbling,
posing
idiots!
If
you've
any
little
trouble
you
brood
over
it
like
a
hen
over
an
egg.
And
you
are
plagiarists
even
in
that!
There
isn't a
sign
of
independent
life
in
you!
You
are
made
of
spermaceti
ointment
and
you've
lymph
in
your
veins
instead
of
blood. I don't
believe
in
anyone
of
you!
In
any
circumstances
the
first
thing
for
all
of
you
is
to
be
unlike a
human
being! Stop!"
he
cried
with
redoubled
fury, noticing
that
Raskolnikov
was
again
making
a movement—"hear
me
out!
You
know
I'm
having
a house-warming
this
evening, I
dare
say
they've
arrived
by
now,
but
I left my
uncle
there—I
just
ran
in—to
receive
the
guests.
And
if
you
weren't a fool, a
common
fool, a perfect fool,
if
you
were
an
original
instead
of
a translation...
you
see, Rodya, I
recognise
you're a
clever
fellow,
but
you're a fool!—and
if
you
weren't a fool you'd
come
round
to
me
this
evening
instead
of
wearing
out
your
boots
in
the
street!
Since
you
have
gone out, there's
no
help
for
it! I'd
give
you
a
snug
easy
chair, my landlady has one... a
cup
of
tea, company....
Or
you
could
lie
on
the
sofa—any
way
you
would
be
with
us.... Zossimov
will
be
there
too.
Will
you
come?" "No." "R-rubbish!" Razumihin shouted,
out
of
patience. "How
do
you
know?
You
can't
answer
for
yourself!
You
don't
know
anything
about
it....
Thousands
of
times I've
fought
tooth
and
nail
with
people
and
run
back
to
them
afterwards....
One
feels
ashamed
and
goes
back
to
a man!
So
remember, Potchinkov's
house
on
the
third
storey...." "Why, Mr. Razumihin, I
do
believe
you'd
let
anybody beat
you
from
sheer
benevolence." "Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist
his
nose
off
at
the
mere
idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat...." "I
shall
not
come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov
turned
and
walked away. "I
bet
you
will," Razumihin shouted
after
him. "I
refuse
to
know
you
if
you
don't! Stay, hey,
is
Zametov
in
there?" "Yes." "Did
you
see
him?" "Yes." "Talked
to
him?" "Yes." "What about?
Confound
you, don't
tell
me
then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!" Raskolnikov walked
on
and
turned
the
corner
into
Sadovy Street. Razumihin
looked
after
him
thoughtfully.
Then
with
a
wave
of
his
hand
he
went
into
the
house
but
stopped
short
of
the
stairs. "Confound it,"
he
went
on
almost
aloud. "He talked sensibly
but
yet... I
am
a fool!
As
if
madmen didn't talk sensibly!
And
this
was
just
what
Zossimov
seemed
afraid
of."
He
struck
his
finger
on
his
forehead. "What if...
how
could
I
let
him
go
off
alone?
He
may
drown
himself.... Ach,
what
a blunder! I can't."
And
he
ran
back
to
overtake
Raskolnikov,
but
there
was
no
trace
of
him.
With
a
curse
he
returned
with
rapid
steps
to
the
Palais
de
Cristal
to
question
Zametov. Raskolnikov walked straight
to
X—— Bridge, stood
in
the
middle,
and
leaning
both
elbows
on
the
rail stared
into
the
distance.
On
parting
with
Razumihin,
he
felt
so
much
weaker
that
he
could
scarcely
reach
this
place.
He
longed
to
sit
or
lie
down
somewhere
in
the
street.
Bending
over
the
water,
he
gazed mechanically
at
the
last
pink
flush
of
the
sunset,
at
the
row
of
houses
growing
dark
in
the
gathering
twilight,
at
one
distant
attic
window
on
the
left bank, flashing
as
though
on
fire
in
the
last
rays
of
the
setting
sun,
at
the
darkening
water
of
the
canal,
and
the
water
seemed
to
catch
his
attention.
At
last
red
circles flashed
before
his
eyes,
the
houses
seemed
moving,
the
passers-by,
the
canal
banks,
the
carriages,
all
danced
before
his
eyes. Suddenly
he
started, saved
again
perhaps
from
swooning
by
an
uncanny
and
hideous
sight.
He
became
aware
of
someone standing
on
the
right
side
of
him;
he
looked
and
saw
a
tall
woman
with
a
kerchief
on
her
head,
with
a long, yellow, wasted face
and
red
sunken eyes.
She
was
looking
straight
at
him,
but
obviously
she
saw
nothing
and
recognised
no
one. Suddenly
she
leaned
her
right
hand
on
the
parapet, lifted
her
right
leg
over
the
railing,
then
her
left
and
threw
herself
into
the
canal.
The
filthy
water
parted
and
swallowed
up
its
victim
for
a moment,
but
an
instant
later
the
drowning
woman
floated
to
the
surface,
moving
slowly
with
the
current,
her
head
and
legs
in
the
water,
her
skirt
inflated
like
a balloon
over
her
back. "A
woman
drowning! A
woman
drowning!" shouted
dozens
of
voices;
people
ran
up,
both
banks
were
thronged
with
spectators,
on
the
bridge
people
crowded
about
Raskolnikov, pressing
up
behind
him. "Mercy
on
it! it's
our
Afrosinya!" a
woman
cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her!
kind
people,
pull
her
out!" "A boat, a boat"
was
shouted
in
the
crowd.
But
there
was
no
need
of
a boat; a policeman
ran
down
the
steps
to
the
canal, threw
off
his
great
coat
and
his
boots
and
rushed
into
the
water.
It
was
easy
to
reach her:
she
floated
within
a
couple
of
yards
from
the
steps,
he
caught
hold
of
her
clothes
with
his
right
hand
and
with
his
left
seized
a pole
which
a
comrade
held
out
to
him;
the
drowning
woman
was
pulled
out
at
once.
They
laid
her
on
the
granite
pavement
of
the
embankment.
She
soon
recovered
consciousness,
raised
her
head, sat
up
and
began sneezing
and
coughing,
stupidly
wiping
her
wet
dress
with
her
hands.
She
said nothing. "She's
drunk
herself
out
of
her
senses,"
the
same
woman's voice wailed
at
her
side. "Out
of
her
senses.
The
other
day
she
tried
to
hang
herself,
we
cut
her
down. I
ran
out
to
the
shop
just
now, left my
little
girl
to
look
after
her—and
here
she's
in
trouble
again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour,
we
live
close by,
the
second
house
from
the
end,
see
yonder...."
The
crowd
broke
up.
The
police
still
remained
round
the
woman, someone
mentioned
the
police
station.... Raskolnikov
looked
on
with
a
strange
sensation
of
indifference
and
apathy.
He
felt disgusted. "No, that's loathsome... water... it's
not
good
enough,"
he
muttered
to
himself. "Nothing
will
come
of
it,"
he
added, "no
use
to
wait.
What
about
the
police
office...?
And
why
isn't Zametov
at
the
police
office?
The
police
office
is
open
till
ten
o'clock...."
He
turned
his
back
to
the
railing
and
looked
about
him. "Very
well
then!"
he
said resolutely;
he
moved
from
the
bridge
and
walked
in
the
direction
of
the
police
office.
His
heart
felt
hollow
and
empty.
He
did
not
want
to
think.
Even
his
depression
had passed,
there
was
not
a
trace
now
of
the
energy
with
which
he
had
set
out
"to
make
an
end
of
it
all." Complete
apathy
had
succeeded
to
it. "Well, it's a
way
out
of
it,"
he
thought, walking
slowly
and
listlessly
along
the
canal
bank. "Anyway I'll
make
an
end,
for
I
want
to....
But
is
it
a
way
out?
What
does
it
matter! There'll
be
the
square
yard
of
space—ha!
But
what
an
end!
Is
it
really
the
end?
Shall
I
tell
them
or
not? Ah... damn!
How
tired I am!
If
I
could
find somewhere
to
sit
or
lie
down
soon!
What
I
am
most
ashamed
of
is
its
being
so
stupid.
But
I don't
care
about
that
either!
What
idiotic
ideas
come
into
one's head." "She
comes
to
me
in
the
morning," said
the
elder
to
the
younger, "very early,
all
dressed up. 'Why
are
you
preening
and
prinking?' says I. 'I
am
ready
to
do
anything
to
please
you,
Tit
Vassilitch!' That's a
way
of
going on!
And
she
dressed
up
like
a regular
fashion
book!" "And
what
is
a
fashion
book?"
the
younger
one
asked.
He
obviously
regarded
the
other
as
an
authority. "A
fashion
book
is
a
lot
of
pictures, coloured,
and
they
come
to
the
tailors
here
every
Saturday,
by
post
from
abroad,
to
show
folks
how
to
dress,
the
male
sex
as
well
as
the
female. They're pictures.
The
gentlemen
are
generally wearing
fur
coats
and
for
the
ladies' fluffles, they're
beyond
anything
you
can
fancy." "There's
nothing
you
can't find
in
Petersburg,"
the
younger
cried enthusiastically, "except father
and
mother, there's everything!" "Except them, there's everything
to
be
found, my boy,"
the
elder
declared
sententiously. Raskolnikov got
up
and
walked
into
the
other
room
where
the
strong
box,
the
bed,
and
the
chest
of
drawers had been;
the
room
seemed
to
him
very
tiny
without
furniture
in
it.
The
paper
was
the
same;
the
paper
in
the
corner
showed
where
the
case
of
ikons had stood.
He
looked
at
it
and
went
to
the
window.
The
elder
workman
looked
at
him
askance. "What
do
you
want?"
he
asked
suddenly.
Instead
of
answering
Raskolnikov went
into
the
passage
and
pulled
the
bell.
The
same
bell,
the
same
cracked
note.
He
rang
it
a
second
and
a
third
time;
he
listened
and
remembered.
The
hideous
and
agonisingly fearful
sensation
he
had felt
then
began
to
come
back
more
and
more
vividly.
He
shuddered
at
every
ring
and
it
gave
him
more
and
more
satisfaction. "Well,
what
do
you
want?
Who
are
you?"
the
workman
shouted, going
out
to
him. Raskolnikov went
inside
again. "I
want
to
take
a flat,"
he
said. "I
am
looking
round." "It's
not
the
time
to
look
at
rooms
at
night!
and
you
ought
to
come
up
with
the
porter." "The
floors
have
been washed,
will
they
be
painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is
there
no
blood?" "What blood?" "Why,
the
old
woman
and
her
sister
were
murdered
here.
There
was
a perfect pool there." "But
who
are
you?"
the
workman
cried, uneasy. "Who
am
I?" "Yes." "You
want
to
know?
Come
to
the
police
station, I'll
tell
you."
The
workmen
looked
at
him
in
amazement. "It's time
for
us
to
go,
we
are
late.
Come
along, Alyoshka.
We
must
lock
up," said
the
elder
workman. "Very well,
come
along," said Raskolnikov indifferently,
and
going
out
first,
he
went
slowly
downstairs. "Hey, porter,"
he
cried
in
the
gateway.
At
the
entrance
several
people
were
standing, staring
at
the
passers-by;
the
two
porters, a
peasant
woman, a
man
in
a
long
coat
and
a
few
others. Raskolnikov went straight
up
to
them. "What
do
you
want?"
asked
one
of
the
porters. "Have
you
been
to
the
police
office?" "I've
just
been there.
What
do
you
want?" "Is
it
open?" "Of course." "Is
the
assistant
there?" "He
was
there
for
a time.
What
do
you
want?" Raskolnikov
made
no
reply,
but
stood
beside
them
lost
in
thought. "He's been
to
look
at
the
flat," said
the
elder
workman, coming forward. "Which flat?" "Where
we
are
at
work. 'Why
have
you
washed
away
the
blood?' says he. 'There has been a
murder
here,' says he, 'and I've
come
to
take
it.'
And
he
began ringing
at
the
bell,
all
but
broke
it. 'Come
to
the
police
station,' says he. 'I'll
tell
you
everything there.'
He
wouldn't
leave
us."
The
porter
looked
at
Raskolnikov,
frowning
and
perplexed. "Who
are
you?"
he
shouted
as
impressively
as
he
could. "I
am
Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov,
formerly
a student, I
live
in
Shil's house,
not
far
from
here,
flat
Number
14,
ask
the
porter,
he
knows
me." Raskolnikov said
all
this
in
a lazy,
dreamy
voice,
not
turning
round,
but
looking
intently
into
the
darkening
street. "Why
have
you
been
to
the
flat?" "To
look
at
it." "What
is
there
to
look
at?" "Take
him
straight
to
the
police
station,"
the
man
in
the
long
coat jerked
in
abruptly. Raskolnikov
looked
intently
at
him
over
his
shoulder
and
said
in
the
same
slow,
lazy
tones: "Come along." "He's
not
drunk,
but
God
knows
what's
the
matter
with
him,"
muttered
the
workman. "But
what
do
you
want?"
the
porter shouted again,
beginning
to
get
angry
in
earnest—"Why
are
you
hanging about?" "You
funk
the
police
station
then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly. "How
funk
it?
Why
are
you
hanging about?" "He's a rogue!" shouted
the
peasant
woman. "Why
waste
time talking
to
him?" cried
the
other
porter, a
huge
peasant
in
a
full
open
coat
and
with
keys
on
his
belt. "Get along!
He
is
a
rogue
and
no
mistake.
Get
along!"
And
seizing
Raskolnikov
by
the
shoulder
he
flung
him
into
the
street.
He
lurched forward,
but
recovered
his
footing,
looked
at
the
spectators
in
silence
and
walked away. "Strange man!"
observed
the
workman. "There
are
strange
folks
about
nowadays," said
the
woman. "You
should
have
taken
him
to
the
police
station
all
the
same," said
the
man
in
the
long
coat. "Better
have
nothing
to
do
with
him," decided
the
big
porter. "A regular rogue!
Just
what
he
wants,
you
may
be
sure,
but
once
take
him
up,
you
won't
get
rid
of
him....
We
know
the
sort!" "Shall I
go
there
or
not?"
thought
Raskolnikov, standing
in
the
middle
of
the
thoroughfare
at
the
cross-roads,
and
he
looked
about
him,
as
though
expecting
from
someone a
decisive
word.
But
no
sound
came,
all
was
dead
and
silent
like
the
stones
on
which
he
walked,
dead
to
him,
to
him
alone....
All
at
once
at
the
end
of
the
street,
two
hundred
yards
away,
in
the
gathering
dusk
he
saw
a crowd
and
heard
talk
and
shouts.
In
the
middle
of
the
crowd stood a carriage.... A
light
gleamed
in
the
middle
of
the
street. "What
is
it?" Raskolnikov
turned
to
the
right
and
went
up
to
the
crowd.
He
seemed
to
clutch
at
everything
and
smiled
coldly
when
he
recognised
it,
for
he
had
fully
made
up
his
mind
to
go
to
the
police
station
and
knew
that
it
would
all
soon
be
over.