Part 2

Chapter 5

17 min

This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov’s low and narrow “cabin.” With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this “cabin” by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:

The gentleman was no longer young. He was stiff and heavyset, with a wary, sour expression. He stopped abruptly in the doorway and looked around with open, offensive astonishment, as if wondering where he had come. He studied Raskolnikov’s low, narrow “cabin” suspiciously, putting on an air of alarm and almost of offense. He stared with the same amazement at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, disheveled, and unwashed on his miserable, dirty sofa, staring back at him. Then he studied Razumihin just as deliberately. Razumihin was rough and untidy, with an unshaven face. Without rising from his seat, he looked the gentleman boldly in the face, as if asking who he was. An awkward silence lasted a couple of minutes. Then, as might be expected, the scene changed. The gentleman apparently saw from some fairly unmistakable signs that he would get nowhere by trying to overawe them in this “cabin.” He softened somewhat and addressed Zossimov politely, though with some severity, emphasizing every syllable of his question:

“Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?”

“Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, are you a student or a former student?”

Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him.

Zossimov moved slightly and would have answered, but Razumihin spoke first.

“Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?”

“He’s lying here on the sofa! What do you want?”

This familiar “what do you want” seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again.

The familiar “what do you want” seemed to throw the pompous gentleman off balance. He started to turn to Razumihin, but stopped himself in time and turned back to Zossimov.

“This is Raskolnikov,” mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunter’s case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back.

“This is Raskolnikov,” mumbled Zossimov, nodding toward him. Then he yawned for a long time, opening his mouth as wide as possible. He lazily reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a huge gold watch with a round hinged case. He opened it, checked the time, and put it back just as slowly and lazily.

Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said “This is Raskolnikov” he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated:

Raskolnikov lay on his back without speaking, staring at the stranger without understanding. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the wallpaper, it was extremely pale. He looked anguished, as though he had just undergone a painful operation or been taken off the rack. But the newcomer gradually caught his attention, then aroused his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said “This is Raskolnikov,” he quickly sat up on the sofa. In an almost defiant voice, though weak and breaking, he said:

“Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?”

The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:

The visitor studied him closely and said solemnly:

“Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?”

“Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope you've at least heard my name?”

But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.

But Raskolnikov had expected something quite different. He stared at him blankly and dreamily, without answering, as if he were hearing the name Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.

“Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no information?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.

“Is it possible you still haven’t received any information?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat unsettled.

In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin’s face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.

In reply, Raskolnikov sank back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. He moved listlessly. Luzhin looked dismayed. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him even more curiously than before. At last, Luzhin showed clear signs of embarrassment.

“I had presumed and calculated,” he faltered, “that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago...”

“I had assumed and calculated,” he faltered, “that a letter mailed more than ten days ago, perhaps even two weeks ago...”

“I say, why are you standing in the doorway?” Razumihin interrupted suddenly. “If you’ve something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here’s a chair, thread your way in!”

“Hey, why are you standing in the doorway?” Razumihin interrupted suddenly. “If you have something to say, sit down. You and Nastasya are so cramped. Nastasya, make room. Here’s a chair. Squeeze through!”

He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to “thread his way in.” The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin.

He pushed his chair back from the table, leaving a little space between the table and his knees. He waited in the rather cramped position for the visitor to “thread his way in.” He chose the moment so that the visitor could not refuse. The visitor squeezed through, hurrying and stumbling. When he reached the chair, he sat down and looked suspiciously at Razumihin.

“No need to be nervous,” the latter blurted out. “Rodya has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of Rodya’s, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nursing him; so don’t you take any notice of us, but go on with your business.”

“Don’t be nervous,” the latter blurted out. “Rodya has been ill for five days and delirious for three. But now he’s recovering and has an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just examined him. I’m a friend of Rodya’s. Like him, I’m a former student, and now I’m nursing him. So don’t mind us. Go on with your business.”

“Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?” Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov.

“Thank you. But won’t my presence and conversation disturb the patient?” Pyotr Petrovitch asked Zossimov.

“N-no,” mumbled Zossimov; “you may amuse him.” He yawned again.

“N-no,” Zossimov mumbled. “You may amuse him.” He yawned again.

“He has been conscious a long time, since the morning,” went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good-nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student.

“He’s been conscious for a long time, since this morning,” Razumihin went on. His casual manner seemed so naturally good-natured that Pyotr Petrovitch began to feel more cheerful. Perhaps this was partly because the shabby, rude man had introduced himself as a student.

“Your mamma,” began Luzhin.

“Your mother,” Luzhin began.

“Hm!” Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly.

“Hm!” Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him questioningly.

“That’s all right, go on.”

Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.

Luzhin shrugged.

“Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment...”

“Your mother had started a letter to you while I was staying near her. After arriving here, I waited a few days before visiting you. I wanted to be sure you had received all the news. But now, to my astonishment...”

“I know, I know!” Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. “So you are the fiancé? I know, and that’s enough!”

“I know, I know!” Raskolnikov cried suddenly, annoyed and impatient. “So you’re the fiancé? I know, and that’s enough!”

There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch’s being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment’s silence.

There was no doubt that Pyotr Petrovitch was offended this time, but he said nothing. He tried desperately to understand what it all meant. There was a moment of silence.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch’s whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of “fiancé” so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed—a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rôle of fiancé. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor’s and were all right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr Petrovitch’s attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly about his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser’s, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before.

Meanwhile, Raskolnikov had turned slightly toward Pyotr Petrovitch as he answered. Suddenly he began staring at him again with obvious curiosity. It was as if he had not yet had a good look at him, or something new had caught his attention. He raised himself from his pillow just to stare. There certainly was something peculiar about Pyotr Petrovitch’s appearance. It seemed to justify the title of “fiancé” that had been so bluntly applied to him. For one thing, it was all too clear that Pyotr Petrovitch had eagerly used his few days in the capital to prepare for his fiancée’s arrival. He had dressed himself up, a perfectly innocent and acceptable thing to do. He was perhaps a little too pleased with his improved appearance. But even that might have been forgiven, given that he had taken on the role of fiancé. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor and looked fine, except that they were too new and too obviously suited to the occasion. Even his stylish new round hat suggested the same thing. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully. His exquisite lavender gloves, made of genuine Louvain leather, told the same story. He was not wearing them, but carried them in his hand for show. Light, youthful colors dominated Pyotr Petrovitch’s outfit. He wore a charming fawn-colored summer jacket, light, thin trousers, a matching waistcoat, and a new shirt of fine linen. His cravat was made of the lightest cambric, with pink stripes. Best of all, the whole outfit suited him. His fresh, even handsome face always looked younger than his forty-five years. His dark mutton-chop whiskers framed it pleasantly on both sides. They grew thickly around his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair did not make him look foolish, though it was touched here and there with gray and had been combed and curled at a hairdresser’s. Curled hair usually has that effect, because it inevitably brings to mind a German on his wedding day. If there really was something unpleasant and repulsive about his rather handsome and impressive face, it came from quite other causes. After looking Mr. Luzhin over without any ceremony, Raskolnikov smiled maliciously, sank back on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling as before.

But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities.

But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed determined to ignore their odd behavior.

“I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation,” he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. “If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute.”

“I’m very sorry to find you in this situation,” he began, making an effort to break the silence again. “If I had known you were ill, I would have come sooner. But you know how business is. I also have a very important legal matter before the Senate. And there are other concerns you can probably imagine. I’m expecting your mother and sister any minute.”

Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on:

Raskolnikov stirred and seemed about to speak. His face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused and waited, but Raskolnikov said nothing, so he went on:

“... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival.”

“... Any minute. I’ve found them a place to stay when they arrive.”

“Where?” asked Raskolnikov weakly.

“Where?” Raskolnikov asked weakly.

“Very near here, in Bakaleyev’s house.”

“Very close to here, in Bakaleyev’s house.”

“That’s in Voskresensky,” put in Razumihin. “There are two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I’ve been there.”

“That’s in Voskresensky,” Razumihin added. “There are two floors of rooms rented out by a merchant named Yushin. I’ve been there.”

“Yes, rooms...”

“A disgusting place—filthy, stinking and, what’s more, of doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It’s cheap, though...”

“A disgusting place. It’s filthy, it stinks, and it’s a shady place, too. Things have happened there, and all sorts of strange people live there. And I went there on scandalous business. It’s cheap, though...”

“I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. “However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time... I have already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat,” he said, addressing Raskolnikov, “and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev’s house, too...”

“Of course, I couldn’t find out very much about it. I’m a stranger in Petersburg myself,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied irritably. “Still, the two rooms are very clean, and it’s only for a short time... I’ve already rented a permanent flat, our future flat,” he said to Raskolnikov. “I’m having it renovated. Meanwhile, I’m cramped in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in Madame Lippevechsel’s flat. He was also the one who told me about Bakaleyev’s house...”

“Lebeziatnikov?” said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something.

“Lebeziatnikov?” Raskolnikov said slowly, as if remembering something.

“Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?”

“Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk at the Ministry. Do you know him?”

“Yes... no,” Raskolnikov answered.

“Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian.... A very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns new things from them.” Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.

“Excuse me, your question made me think so. I was once his guardian.... A very nice young man, with progressive ideas. I like meeting young people. One learns new things from them.” Luzhin looked around at them all hopefully.

“How do you mean?” asked Razumihin.

“What do you mean?” asked Razumihin.

“In the most serious and essential matters,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted at the question. “You see, it’s ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it’s my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted...”

“In the most serious and important matters,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted by the question. “You see, it’s been ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the new developments, reforms, and ideas have reached us in the provinces. But to see them more clearly, you have to be in Petersburg. I think you learn the most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I’m delighted...”

“At what?”

“Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality...”

“Your question is a broad one. I may be wrong, but I think I find clearer views, more criticism, so to speak, and more practical thinking...”

“That’s true,” Zossimov let drop.

“That’s true,” Zossimov remarked.

“Nonsense! There’s no practicality.” Razumihin flew at him. “Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting,” he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, “and desire for good exists, though it’s in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there’s no practicality. Practicality goes well shod.”

“Nonsense! There’s no practicality.” Razumihin snapped at him. “Practicality is hard to find. It doesn’t fall from heaven. And for the last two hundred years, we’ve been cut off from all practical life. Ideas are brewing, if you like,” he said to Pyotr Petrovitch. “And people want to do good, though in a childish way. You can find honesty too, although there are crowds of robbers. But anyway, there’s no practicality. Practicality goes well shod.”

“I don’t agree with you,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment. “Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It’s my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious prejudices have been rooted up and turned into ridicule.... In a word, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing...”

“I don’t agree with you,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied, clearly enjoying himself. “Of course, people get carried away and make mistakes, but we should be forgiving. Those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of unusual circumstances. If little has been done, there has been little time. I won’t speak about the means available. If you want my opinion, something has already been accomplished. New, valuable ideas and works are circulating in place of our old dreamy, romantic authors. Literature is becoming more mature, and many harmful prejudices have been uprooted and ridiculed.... In short, we have cut ourselves off from the past for good. I think that is a great thing...”

“He’s learnt it by heart to show off!” Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly.

“He memorized it to show off!” Raskolnikov suddenly declared.

“What?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no reply.

“What?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, who had not heard his words. But he received no reply.

“That’s all true,” Zossimov hastened to interpose.

“That’s all true,” Zossimov quickly interjected.

“Isn’t it so?” Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. “You must admit,” he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness—he almost added “young man”—“that there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth...”

“Isn’t that so?” Pyotr Petrovitch continued, glancing pleasantly at Zossimov. He turned to Razumihin with a hint of triumph and superiority. He almost added “young man.” “You must admit that there is advancement, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth...”

“A commonplace.”

“A cliché.”

“No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, ‘love thy neighbour,’ what came of it?” Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with excessive haste. “It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it, ‘Catch several hares and you won’t catch one.’ Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised in society—the more whole coats, so to say—the firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to pass my neighbour’s getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it...”

“No, it’s not a commonplace! Until now, for example, if I were told, ‘love your neighbor,’ what happened?” Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps a little too hastily. “I would tear my coat in half to share it with my neighbor, and we would both be left half naked. As a Russian proverb says, ‘Chase several hares and you won’t catch one.’ Science now tells us to love ourselves before everyone else, because everything in the world rests on self-interest. If you love yourself and manage your own affairs properly, your coat remains whole. Economics adds that the better people manage their private affairs, the more whole coats there are, so to speak. Society’s foundations are firmer, and the common welfare is better served, too. “Therefore, by acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring wealth for everyone, so to speak. I help bring about a time when my neighbor gets a little more than a torn coat. And that happens not because of my personal generosity, but as a result of general progress. The idea is simple, but unfortunately it has taken a long time to reach us, held back by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to take very little intelligence to see it...”

“Excuse me, I’ve very little wit myself,” Razumihin cut in sharply, “and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I’ve grown so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don’t blame you, that’s quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That’s enough!”

“Excuse me, I’m not very clever myself,” Razumihin interrupted sharply, “so let’s drop it. I started this discussion for a reason. But over the last three years, I’ve grown sick of people talking just to amuse themselves. They go on endlessly, saying the same things everyone else says. By God, I even blush when other people talk like that. You’re eager to show off what you know, no doubt. I don’t blame you. That’s quite understandable. I only wanted to find out what kind of man you are. Lately, so many unscrupulous people have taken up the progressive cause. They’ve twisted everything they touched to serve their own interests, and dragged the whole cause through the mud. That’s enough!”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive dignity. “Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too...”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, offended and speaking with exaggerated dignity. “Are you really suggesting so bluntly that I too...”

“Oh, my dear sir... how could I?... Come, that’s enough,” Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation.

“Oh, sir... how could I?... Come on, that’s enough,” Razumihin said. He turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their earlier conversation.

Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two.

Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the denial. He decided to leave in another minute or two.

“I trust our acquaintance,” he said, addressing Raskolnikov, “may, upon your recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware, become closer... Above all, I hope for your return to health...”

“I hope we may become better acquainted once you recover,” he said to Raskolnikov, “given the circumstances you know about... Above all, I hope you recover...”

Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from his chair.

Raskolnikov didn't even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began to get up from his chair.

“One of her customers must have killed her,” Zossimov declared positively.

“One of her customers must have killed her,” Zossimov said confidently.

“Not a doubt of it,” replied Razumihin. “Porfiry doesn’t give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there.”

“No doubt about it,” Razumihin replied. “Porfiry isn’t giving his opinion, but he’s questioning everyone who left something with her as a pledge.”

“Examining them?” Raskolnikov asked aloud.

“Yes. What then?”

“Nothing.”

“How does he get hold of them?” asked Zossimov.

“How does he get them?” asked Zossimov.

“Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves.”

“Koch has given the names of some of them. Other names are on the wrappers of the pawned items, and some people have come forward on their own.”

“It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!”

“It must have been a cunning and experienced criminal! So bold! So calm!”

“That’s just what it wasn’t!” interposed Razumihin. “That’s what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn’t work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it’s clear that it was only a chance that saved him—and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman’s trunk, her rags—and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel!”

“That’s exactly what it wasn’t!” Razumihin interrupted. “That’s what throws you all off the trail. But I insist he isn’t cunning or experienced, and this was probably his first crime! The idea that the crime was planned and the criminal cunning doesn’t hold up. Suppose he was inexperienced. Then it’s clear that only chance saved him, and chance can do anything. Why, perhaps he didn’t foresee any obstacles! And how did he go about it? He stuffed his pockets with jewels worth ten or twenty roubles and searched the old woman’s trunk and her rags. Yet they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides banknotes, in a box in the chest’s top drawer! He didn’t know how to rob. He only knew how to murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime. He lost his head. And he got away more by luck than good judgment!”

“You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?” Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression and his vanity overcame his prudence.

“You’re talking about the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?” Pyotr Petrovitch interjected, addressing Zossimov. He stood with his hat and gloves in hand. But before leaving, he felt like making a few more intellectual remarks. He was clearly eager to make a good impression, and his vanity overcame his caution.

“Yes. You’ve heard of it?”

“Yes. Have you heard of it?”

“Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh, yes, since I was in the neighborhood.”

“Do you know the details?”

“I can’t say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case—the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student’s robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain.... And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society—for peasants don’t pawn gold trinkets—how are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?”

“I can’t say that, but another aspect of the case interests me, the whole question, so to speak. Crime among the lower classes has increased greatly over the last five years, and robberies and arson are happening everywhere. But what strikes me as strangest is that crime is increasing just as much among the upper classes. In one place, you hear of a student robbing the mail on the highway. In another, people of good social standing are making counterfeit banknotes. Recently, a whole gang was caught in Moscow for forging lottery tickets. One of the ringleaders was a lecturer in world history. Then our secretary abroad was murdered, apparently for some unclear financial gain.... And perhaps someone from a higher social class murdered the old woman, the pawnbroker. After all, peasants don’t pawn gold trinkets. If so, how are we to explain this moral decline among the civilized part of our society?”

“There are many economic changes,” put in Zossimov.

“There are many economic changes,” Zossimov added.

“How are we to explain it?” Razumihin caught him up. “It might be explained by our inveterate impracticality.”

“How can we explain it?” Razumihin interrupted. “It might be explained by our deep-rooted impracticality.”

“How do you mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? ‘Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.’ I don’t remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We’ve grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck,[*] and every man showed himself in his true colours.”

“What did your lecturer in Moscow say when he was asked why he was forging banknotes? ‘Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to get rich quickly too.’ I don’t remember his exact words, but the point was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We’ve grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great moment came,[*] and every man showed his true colors.”

“But morality? And so to speak, principles...”

“But what about morality? And, so to speak, principles...”

“But why do you worry about it?” Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. “It’s in accordance with your theory!”

“But why do you worry about it?” Raskolnikov interrupted suddenly. “It fits your theory!”

“In accordance with my theory?”

“According to my theory?”

“Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed...”

“But if you follow the theory you were just arguing for to its logical conclusion, people may be killed...”

“Upon my word!” cried Luzhin.

“Good heavens!” cried Luzhin.

“No, that’s not so,” put in Zossimov.

“No, that’s not true,” Zossimov interjected.

Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully.

Raskolnikov lay with a pale face and a twitching upper lip, breathing painfully.

“There’s a measure in all things,” Luzhin went on superciliously. “Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose...”

“There’s a limit to everything,” Luzhin continued smugly. “Economic ideas don’t encourage murder, and one only has to suppose...”

“And is it true,” Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, “is it true that you told your fiancée... within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most... was that she was a beggar... because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?”

“And is it true,” Raskolnikov suddenly interrupted again, his voice shaking with fury and the pleasure of insulting him, “is it true that you told your fiancée something within an hour of her accepting your proposal? Did you tell her that what pleased you most was that she was a beggar? That it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so you could have complete control over her and remind her that you were her benefactor?”

“Upon my word,” Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, “to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I... suspect who... in a word... this arrow... in a word, your mamma... She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking.... But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way.... And indeed... indeed...”

“Honestly,” Luzhin cried angrily, his face red with embarrassment, “to twist my words like that! Excuse me, but I assure you that what you heard has no truth in it. Or rather, what someone has told you. And I... suspect who... in short... this arrow... in short, your mother... For all her excellent qualities, she seemed to me rather lofty and romantic in some of her thinking.... But I never imagined she would misunderstand and misrepresent things so fancifully.... And really... really...”

“I tell you what,” cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, “I tell you what.”

“I’ll tell you what,” cried Raskolnikov. He raised himself on his pillow and fixed his piercing, shining eyes on him. “I’ll tell you what.”

“What?” Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds.

“What?” Luzhin stood still, waiting, his face defiant and offended. There was silence for a few seconds.

“Why, if ever again... you dare to mention a single word... about my mother... I shall send you flying downstairs!”

“If you ever dare to say another word about my mother, I’ll throw you down the stairs!”

“What’s the matter with you?” cried Razumihin.

“What’s the matter with you?” Razumihin cried.

“So that’s how it is?” Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. “Let me tell you, sir,” he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, “at the first moment I saw you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you... never after this...”

“So that’s how it is?” Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. “Let me tell you, sir,” he began slowly. He was breathing hard and doing his best to control himself. “I could see from the start that you were against me, but I stayed to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a relative, but you... never after this...”

“I am not ill,” cried Raskolnikov.

“I’m not sick,” Raskolnikov cried.

“So much the worse...”

“That's even worse...”

“Go to hell!”

But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulder to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received.

But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair. This time Razumihin got up to let him pass. Luzhin left without looking at anyone or even nodding to Zossimov. For some time, Zossimov had been signaling him to leave the sick man alone. As Luzhin ducked through the doorway, he raised his hat to shoulder height to keep from crushing it. Even the curve of his spine expressed the terrible insult he had suffered.

“How could you—how could you!” Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity.

“How could you, how could you!” Razumihin said, shaking his head in confusion.

“Let me alone—let me alone all of you!” Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. “Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!”

“Leave me alone! All of you, leave me alone!” Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. “Will you ever stop tormenting me? I’m not afraid of you! I’m not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!”

“Come along,” said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.

“Come on,” said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.

“But we can’t leave him like this!”

“Come along,” Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him.

“Come along,” Zossimov insisted again, and he went out. Razumihin thought for a moment, then ran to catch up with him.

“It might be worse not to obey him,” said Zossimov on the stairs. “He mustn’t be irritated.”

“It might be worse not to do as he says,” Zossimov said on the stairs. “We mustn’t upset him.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“If only he could get some favourable shock, that’s what would do it! At first he was better.... You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him.... I am very much afraid so; he must have!”

“If only he could get some good shock, that would do it! At first he was better.... You know he has something on his mind! Some idea he can’t let go of is weighing on him.... I’m very much afraid so. There must be something on his mind!”

“Perhaps it’s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness....”

“Perhaps it’s that man, Pyotr Petrovitch. From what he said, I gather that he is going to marry his sister. He had received a letter about it just before he became ill....”

“Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excited—that’s the murder?”

“Yes, damn the man! He may have ruined the case altogether. But have you noticed? He takes no interest in anything and responds to nothing except the murder. That’s the one thing that seems to excite him.”

“Yes, yes,” Razumihin agreed, “I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted.”

“Yes, yes,” Razumihin agreed, “I noticed that, too. He’s interested and frightened. It shocked him that day at the police station when he was ill. He fainted.”

“Tell me more about that this evening and I’ll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I’ll go and see him again.... There’ll be no inflammation though.”

“Tell me more about that this evening, and I’ll tell you something afterward. He really interests me! I’ll go see him again in half an hour.... There won’t be any inflammation, though.”

“Thanks! And I’ll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya....”

“Thanks! In the meantime, I’ll wait with Pashenka and keep an eye on him through Nastasya....”

Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered.

Raskolnikov, left alone, looked at Nastasya with impatience and misery, but she still stayed.

“Won’t you have some tea now?” she asked.

“Would you like some tea now?” she asked.

“Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.”

“Later! I'm sleepy! Leave me alone.”

He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.

He turned abruptly to the wall. Nastasya left.