A
strange
period
began
for
Raskolnikov:
it
was
as
though
a fog had fallen
upon
him
and
wrapped
him
in
a
dreary
solitude
from
which
there
was
no
escape. Recalling
that
period
long
after,
he
believed
that
his
mind
had been
clouded
at
times,
and
that
it
had
continued
so,
with
intervals,
till
the
final
catastrophe.
He
was
convinced
that
he
had been mistaken
about
many
things
at
that
time,
for
instance
as
to
the
date
of
certain
events. Anyway,
when
he
tried later
on
to
piece
his
recollections
together,
he
learnt a
great
deal
about
himself
from
what
other
people
told
him.
He
had mixed
up
incidents
and
had
explained
events
as
due
to
circumstances
which
existed
only
in
his
imagination.
At
times
he
was
a
prey
to
agonies
of
morbid
uneasiness, amounting sometimes
to
panic.
But
he
remembered, too, moments, hours,
perhaps
whole
days,
of
complete apathy,
which
came
upon
him
as
a
reaction
from
his
previous
terror
and
might
be
compared
with
the
abnormal
insensibility, sometimes
seen
in
the
dying.
He
seemed
to
be
trying
in
that
latter
stage
to
escape
from
a
full
and
clear
understanding
of
his
position.
Certain
essential
facts
which
required
immediate
consideration
were
particularly irksome
to
him.
How
glad
he
would
have
been
to
be
free
from
some
cares,
the
neglect
of
which
would
have
threatened
him
with
complete,
inevitable
ruin.
He
was
particularly worried
about
Svidrigaďlov,
he
might
be
said
to
be
permanently
thinking
of
Svidrigaďlov.
From
the
time
of
Svidrigaďlov's
too
menacing
and
unmistakable
words
in
Sonia's
room
at
the
moment
of
Katerina Ivanovna's death,
the
normal
working
of
his
mind
seemed
to
break
down.
But
although
this
new
fact
caused
him
extreme
uneasiness, Raskolnikov
was
in
no
hurry
for
an
explanation
of
it.
At
times,
finding
himself
in
a
solitary
and
remote
part
of
the
town,
in
some
wretched eating-house, sitting
alone
lost
in
thought,
hardly
knowing
how
he
had
come
there,
he
suddenly
thought
of
Svidrigaďlov.
He
recognised
suddenly, clearly,
and
with
dismay
that
he
ought
at
once
to
come
to
an
understanding
with
that
man
and
to
make
what
terms
he
could. Walking outside
the
city
gates
one
day,
he
positively fancied
that
they
had fixed a
meeting
there,
that
he
was
waiting
for
Svidrigaďlov.
Another
time
he
woke
up
before
daybreak lying
on
the
ground
under
some
bushes
and
could
not
at
first
understand
how
he
had
come
there.
But
during
the
two
or
three
days
after
Katerina Ivanovna's death,
he
had
two
or
three
times met Svidrigaďlov
at
Sonia's lodging,
where
he
had gone aimlessly
for
a moment.
They
exchanged
a
few
words
and
made
no
reference
to
the
vital subject,
as
though
they
were
tacitly
agreed
not
to
speak
of
it
for
a time. Katerina Ivanovna's
body
was
still
lying
in
the
coffin, Svidrigaďlov
was
busy
making
arrangements
for
the
funeral. Sonia
too
was
very
busy.
At
their
last
meeting
Svidrigaďlov
informed
Raskolnikov
that
he
had
made
an
arrangement,
and
a
very
satisfactory
one,
for
Katerina Ivanovna's children;
that
he
had,
through
certain
connections,
succeeded
in
getting
hold
of
certain
personages
by
whose
help
the
three
orphans
could
be
at
once
placed
in
very
suitable institutions;
that
the
money
he
had settled
on
them
had been
of
great
assistance,
as
it
is
much
easier
to
place
orphans
with
some
property
than
destitute
ones.
He
said
something
too
about
Sonia
and
promised
to
come
himself
in
a
day
or
two
to
see
Raskolnikov,
mentioning
that
"he
would
like
to
consult
with
him,
that
there
were
things
they
must
talk over...."
This
conversation
took
place
in
the
passage
on
the
stairs. Svidrigaďlov
looked
intently
at
Raskolnikov
and
suddenly,
after
a
brief
pause,
dropping
his
voice, asked: "But
how
is
it, Rodion Romanovitch;
you
don't
seem
yourself?
You
look
and
you
listen,
but
you
don't
seem
to
understand. Cheer up! We'll talk
things
over; I
am
only
sorry, I've
so
much
to
do
of
my
own
business
and
other
people's. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch,"
he
added suddenly, "what
all
men
need
is
fresh
air,
fresh
air...
more
than
anything!"
He
moved
to
one
side
to
make
way
for
the
priest
and
server,
who
were
coming
up
the
stairs.
They
had
come
for
the
requiem
service.
By
Svidrigaďlov's orders
it
was
sung
twice
a
day
punctually. Svidrigaďlov went
his
way. Raskolnikov stood
still
a moment, thought,
and
followed
the
priest
into
Sonia's room.
He
stood
at
the
door.
They
began quietly,
slowly
and
mournfully
singing
the
service.
From
his
childhood
the
thought
of
death
and
the
presence
of
death
had
something
oppressive
and
mysteriously
awful;
and
it
was
long
since
he
had
heard
the
requiem
service.
And
there
was
something
else
here
as
well,
too
awful
and
disturbing.
He
looked
at
the
children:
they
were
all
kneeling
by
the
coffin; Polenka
was
weeping.
Behind
them
Sonia prayed, softly and,
as
it
were,
timidly
weeping. "These
last
two
days
she
hasn't said a
word
to
me,
she
hasn't glanced
at
me," Raskolnikov
thought
suddenly.
The
sunlight
was
bright
in
the
room;
the
incense
rose
in
clouds;
the
priest
read, "Give rest,
oh
Lord...." Raskolnikov stayed
all
through
the
service.
As
he
blessed
them
and
took
his
leave,
the
priest
looked
round strangely.
After
the
service, Raskolnikov went
up
to
Sonia.
She
took
both
his
hands
and
let
her
head
sink
on
his
shoulder.
This
slight
friendly
gesture bewildered Raskolnikov.
It
seemed
strange
to
him
that
there
was
no
trace
of
repugnance,
no
trace
of
disgust,
no
tremor
in
her
hand.
It
was
the
furthest
limit
of
self-abnegation,
at
least
so
he
interpreted
it. Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov
pressed
her
hand
and
went out.
He
felt
very
miserable.
If
it
had been
possible
to
escape
to
some
solitude,
he
would
have
thought
himself
lucky,
even
if
he
had
to
spend
his
whole
life
there.
But
although
he
had
almost
always
been
by
himself
of
late,
he
had
never
been
able
to
feel alone. Sometimes
he
walked
out
of
the
town
on
to
the
high road,
once
he
had
even
reached a
little
wood,
but
the
lonelier
the
place
was,
the
more
he
seemed
to
be
aware
of
an
uneasy
presence
near
him.
It
did
not
frighten him,
but
greatly
annoyed him,
so
that
he
made
haste
to
return
to
the
town,
to
mingle
with
the
crowd,
to
enter
restaurants
and
taverns,
to
walk
in
busy
thoroughfares.
There
he
felt easier
and
even
more
solitary.
One
day
at
dusk
he
sat
for
an
hour
listening
to
songs
in
a
tavern
and
he
remembered
that
he
positively
enjoyed
it.
But
at
last
he
had suddenly felt
the
same
uneasiness again,
as
though
his
conscience
smote him. "Here I
sit
listening
to
singing,
is
that
what
I
ought
to
be
doing?"
he
thought.
Yet
he
felt
at
once
that
that
was
not
the
only
cause
of
his
uneasiness;
there
was
something
requiring
immediate
decision,
but
it
was
something
he
could
not
clearly
understand
or
put
into
words.
It
was
a hopeless tangle. "No,
better
the
struggle again!
Better
Porfiry again...
or
Svidrigaďlov....
Better
some
challenge
again...
some
attack. Yes, yes!"
he
thought.
He
went
out
of
the
tavern
and
rushed
away
almost
at
a run.
The
thought
of
Dounia
and
his
mother suddenly
reduced
him
almost
to
a panic.
That
night
he
woke
up
before
morning
among
some
bushes
in
Krestovsky Island,
trembling
all
over
with
fever;
he
walked home,
and
it
was
early
morning
when
he
arrived.
After
some
hours'
sleep
the
fever
left him,
but
he
woke
up
late,
two
o'clock
in
the
afternoon.
He
remembered
that
Katerina Ivanovna's funeral had been fixed
for
that
day,
and
was
glad
that
he
was
not
present
at
it. Nastasya brought
him
some
food;
he
ate
and
drank
with
appetite,
almost
with
greediness.
His
head
was
fresher
and
he
was
calmer
than
he
had been
for
the
last
three
days.
He
even
felt a passing
wonder
at
his
previous
attacks
of
panic.
The
door
opened
and
Razumihin came in. "Ah, he's eating,
then
he's
not
ill," said Razumihin.
He
took
a chair
and
sat
down
at
the
table
opposite
Raskolnikov.
He
was
troubled
and
did
not
attempt
to
conceal
it.
He
spoke
with
evident
annoyance,
but
without
hurry
or
raising
his
voice.
He
looked
as
though
he
had
some
special
fixed determination. "Listen,"
he
began resolutely. "As
far
as
I
am
concerned,
you
may
all
go
to
hell,
but
from
what
I see, it's clear
to
me
that
I can't
make
head
or
tail
of
it;
please
don't
think
I've
come
to
ask
you
questions. I don't
want
to
know,
hang
it!
If
you
begin
telling
me
your
secrets, I
dare
say
I shouldn't stay
to
listen, I
should
go
away
cursing. I
have
only
come
to
find
out
once
for
all
whether
it's a
fact
that
you
are
mad?
There
is
a
conviction
in
the
air
that
you
are
mad
or
very
nearly so. I
admit
I've been disposed
to
that
opinion
myself,
judging
from
your
stupid,
repulsive
and
quite
inexplicable
actions,
and
from
your
recent
behavior
to
your
mother
and
sister.
Only
a
monster
or
a madman
could
treat
them
as
you
have;
so
you
must
be
mad." "When
did
you
see
them
last?" "What
do
you
mean
to
do
now?" "What
business
is
it
of
yours
what
I
mean
to
do?" "You
are
going
in
for
a drinking bout." "How...
how
did
you
know?" "Why, it's pretty plain." Razumihin
paused
for
a minute. "You
always
have
been a
very
rational
person
and
you've
never
been mad, never,"
he
observed
suddenly
with
warmth. "You're right: I
shall
drink. Good-bye!"
And
he
moved
to
go
out. "I
was
talking
with
my sister—the
day
before
yesterday, I
think
it
was—about you, Razumihin." "About me! But...
where
can
you
have
seen
her
the
day
before
yesterday?" Razumihin stopped
short
and
even
turned
a
little
pale.
One
could
see
that
his
heart
was
throbbing
slowly
and
violently. "She came
here
by
herself, sat
there
and
talked
to
me." "She did!" "Yes." "What
did
you
say
to
her... I mean,
about
me?" "I
told
her
you
were
a
very
good, honest,
and
industrious
man. I didn't
tell
her
you
love
her,
because
she
knows
that
herself." "She
knows
that
herself?" "Well, it's pretty plain. Wherever I
might
go, whatever
happened
to
me,
you
would
remain
to
look
after
them. I,
so
to
speak,
give
them
into
your
keeping, Razumihin. I
say
this
because
I
know
quite
well
how
you
love
her,
and
am
convinced
of
the
purity
of
your
heart. I
know
that
she
too
may
love
you
and
perhaps
does
love
you
already.
Now
decide
for
yourself,
as
you
know
best,
whether
you
need
go
in
for
a drinking
bout
or
not." "Rodya!
You
see... well.... Ach,
damn
it!
But
where
do
you
mean
to
go?
Of
course,
if
it's
all
a secret,
never
mind....
But
I... I
shall
find
out
the
secret...
and
I
am
sure
that
it
must
be
some
ridiculous
nonsense
and
that
you've
made
it
all
up.
Anyway
you
are
a
capital
fellow, a
capital
fellow!..." "That
was
just
what
I wanted
to
add,
only
you
interrupted,
that
that
was
a
very
good
decision
of
yours
not
to
find
out
these
secrets.
Leave
it
to
time, don't worry
about
it. You'll
know
it
all
in
time
when
it
must
be.
Yesterday
a
man
said
to
me
that
what
a
man
needs
is
fresh
air,
fresh
air,
fresh
air. I
mean
to
go
to
him
directly
to
find
out
what
he
meant
by
that." Razumihin stood lost
in
thought
and
excitement,
making
a
silent
conclusion. "He's a
political
conspirator!
He
must
be.
And
he's
on
the
eve
of
some
desperate
step, that's certain.
It
can
only
be
that! And...
and
Dounia knows,"
he
thought
suddenly. "So Avdotya Romanovna
comes
to
see
you,"
he
said,
weighing
each
syllable, "and you're going
to
see
a
man
who
says
we
need
more
air,
and
so
of
course
that
letter...
that
too
must
have
something
to
do
with
it,"
he
concluded
to
himself. "What letter?" "She got a
letter
to-day.
It
upset
her
very
much—very
much
indeed.
Too
much
so. I began
speaking
of
you,
she
begged
me
not
to. Then...
then
she
said
that
perhaps
we
should
very
soon
have
to
part...
then
she
began warmly
thanking
me
for
something;
then
she
went
to
her
room
and
locked
herself
in." "She got a letter?" Raskolnikov
asked
thoughtfully. "Yes,
and
you
didn't know? hm..."
They
were
both
silent. "Good-bye, Rodion.
There
was
a time, brother,
when
I....
Never
mind, good-bye.
You
see,
there
was
a time.... Well, good-bye! I
must
be
off
too. I
am
not
going
to
drink. There's
no
need
now.... That's
all
stuff!"
He
hurried out;
but
when
he
had
almost
closed
the
door
behind
him,
he
suddenly
opened
it
again,
and
said,
looking
away: "Oh,
by
the
way,
do
you
remember
that
murder,
you
know
Porfiry's,
that
old
woman?
Do
you
know
the
murderer
has been found,
he
has confessed
and
given
the
proofs. It's
one
of
those
very
workmen,
the
painter,
only
fancy!
Do
you
remember
I
defended
them
here?
Would
you
believe
it,
all
that
scene
of
fighting
and
laughing
with
his
companions
on
the
stairs
while
the
porter
and
the
two
witnesses
were
going up,
he
got
up
on
purpose
to
disarm
suspicion.
The
cunning,
the
presence
of
mind
of
the
young
dog!
One
can
hardly
credit
it;
but
it's
his
own
explanation,
he
has confessed
it
all.
And
what
a fool I
was
about
it! Well, he's simply a
genius
of
hypocrisy
and
resourcefulness
in
disarming
the
suspicions
of
the
lawyers—so there's
nothing
much
to
wonder
at, I suppose!
Of
course
people
like
that
are
always
possible.
And
the
fact
that
he
couldn't
keep
up
the
character,
but
confessed,
makes
him
easier
to
believe
in.
But
what
a fool I was! I
was
frantic
on
their
side!" "Tell me, please,
from
whom
did
you
hear
that,
and
why
does
it
interest
you
so?" Raskolnikov
asked
with
unmistakable agitation. "What next?
You
ask
me
why
it
interests
me!... Well, I
heard
it
from
Porfiry,
among
others...
It
was
from
him
I
heard
almost
all
about
it." "From Porfiry?" "From Porfiry." "What...
what
did
he
say?" Raskolnikov
asked
in
dismay. "He gave
me
a
capital
explanation
of
it. Psychologically,
after
his
fashion." "He
explained
it?
Explained
it
himself?" "Yes, yes; good-bye. I'll
tell
you
all
about
it
another
time,
but
now
I'm busy.
There
was
a time
when
I fancied...
But
no
matter,
another
time!...
What
need
is
there
for
me
to
drink
now?
You
have
made
me
drunk
without
wine. I
am
drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I'm going. I'll
come
again
very
soon."
He
went out. "He's a
political
conspirator, there's
not
a
doubt
about
it," Razumihin decided,
as
he
slowly
descended
the
stairs. "And he's
drawn
his
sister
in; that's quite,
quite
in
keeping
with
Avdotya Romanovna's character.
There
are
interviews
between
them!...
She
hinted
at
it
too...
So
many
of
her
words....
and
hints...
bear
that
meaning!
And
how
else
can
all
this
tangle
be
explained? Hm!
And
I
was
almost
thinking...
Good
heavens,
what
I thought! Yes, I
took
leave
of
my senses
and
I
wronged
him!
It
was
his
doing,
under
the
lamp
in
the
corridor
that
day. Pfoo!
What
a crude, nasty,
vile
idea
on
my part! Nikolay
is
a brick,
for
confessing....
And
how
clear
it
all
is
now!
His
illness then,
all
his
strange
actions...
before
this,
in
the
university,
how
morose
he
used
to
be,
how
gloomy....
But
what's
the
meaning
now
of
that
letter? There's
something
in
that, too, perhaps.
Whom
was
it
from? I suspect...! No, I
must
find out!"
He
thought
of
Dounia,
realising
all
he
had
heard
and
his
heart
throbbed,
and
he
suddenly
broke
into
a run.
As
soon
as
Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up,
turned
to
the
window, walked
into
one
corner
and
then
into
another,
as
though
forgetting
the
smallness
of
his
room,
and
sat
down
again
on
the
sofa.
He
felt,
so
to
speak, renewed;
again
the
struggle,
so
a
means
of
escape
had come. "Yes, a
means
of
escape
had come!
It
had been
too
stifling,
too
cramping,
the
burden
had been
too
agonising. A
lethargy
had
come
upon
him
at
times.
From
the
moment
of
the
scene
with
Nikolay
at
Porfiry's
he
had been suffocating, penned
in
without
hope
of
escape.
After
Nikolay's confession,
on
that
very
day
had
come
the
scene
with
Sonia;
his
behaviour
and
his
last
words
had been
utterly
unlike
anything
he
could
have
imagined
beforehand;
he
had grown feebler, instantly
and
fundamentally!
And
he
had
agreed
at
the
time
with
Sonia,
he
had
agreed
in
his
heart
he
could
not
go
on
living
alone
with
such
a
thing
on
his
mind! "And Svidrigaďlov
was
a riddle...
He
worried him,
that
was
true,
but
somehow
not
on
the
same
point.
He
might
still
have
a struggle
to
come
with
Svidrigaďlov. Svidrigaďlov, too,
might
be
a
means
of
escape;
but
Porfiry
was
a
different
matter. "And
to
think
that
even
Razumihin had begun
to
suspect!
The
scene
in
the
corridor
under
the
lamp
had produced
its
effect
then.
He
had
rushed
to
Porfiry....
But
what
had
induced
the
latter
to
receive
him
like
that?
What
had been
his
object
in
putting
Razumihin
off
with
Nikolay?
He
must
have
some
plan;
there
was
some
design,
but
what
was
it?
It
was
true
that
a
long
time had
passed
since
that
morning—too
long
a time—and
no
sight
nor
sound
of
Porfiry. Well,
that
was
a
bad
sign...." Raskolnikov
took
his
cap
and
went
out
of
the
room,
still
pondering.
It
was
the
first
time
for
a
long
while
that
he
had felt clear
in
his
mind,
at
least. "I
must
settle
Svidrigaďlov,"
he
thought, "and
as
soon
as
possible; he, too,
seems
to
be
waiting
for
me
to
come
to
him
of
my
own
accord."
And
at
that
moment
there
was
such
a
rush
of
hate
in
his
weary
heart
that
he
might
have
killed
either
of
those
two—Porfiry
or
Svidrigaďlov.
At
least
he
felt
that
he
would
be
capable
of
doing
it
later,
if
not
now. "We
shall
see,
we
shall
see,"
he
repeated
to
himself.
But
no
sooner
had
he
opened
the
door
than
he
stumbled
upon
Porfiry
himself
in
the
passage.
He
was
coming
in
to
see
him. Raskolnikov
was
dumbfounded
for
a minute,
but
only
for
one
minute.
Strange
to
say,
he
was
not
very
much
astonished
at
seeing
Porfiry
and
scarcely
afraid
of
him.
He
was
simply startled,
but
was
quickly, instantly,
on
his
guard. "Perhaps
this
will
mean
the
end?
But
how
could
Porfiry
have
approached
so
quietly,
like
a cat,
so
that
he
had
heard
nothing?
Could
he
have
been
listening
at
the
door?" "You didn't
expect
a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch," Porfiry explained, laughing. "I've been meaning
to
look
in
a
long
time; I
was
passing
by
and
thought
why
not
go
in
for
five
minutes.
Are
you
going out? I won't
keep
you
long.
Just
let
me
have
one
cigarette." "Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch,
sit
down." Raskolnikov gave
his
visitor
a
seat
with
so
pleased
and
friendly
an
expression
that
he
would
have
marvelled
at
himself,
if
he
could
have
seen
it.
The
last
moment
had come,
the
last
drops
had
to
be
drained!
So
a
man
will
sometimes
go
through
half
an
hour
of
mortal
terror
with
a brigand,
yet
when
the
knife
is
at
his
throat
at
last,
he
feels
no
fear. Raskolnikov
seated
himself
directly facing Porfiry,
and
looked
at
him
without
flinching. Porfiry screwed
up
his
eyes
and
began
lighting
a cigarette. "Speak, speak,"
seemed
as
though
it
would
burst
from
Raskolnikov's heart. "Come,
why
don't
you
speak?"