Part 2

Chapter 6

33 min

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.

But as soon as she left, he got up and latched the door. He untied the parcel Razumihin had brought that evening and tied up again, then began to dress. Strangely, he seemed to have become perfectly calm at once. There was no trace of his recent delirium or the panic that had haunted him lately. It was the first moment of a strange, sudden calm. His movements were precise and deliberate, and they showed a firm sense of purpose. “Today, today,” he muttered to himself. He knew he was still weak, but his intense mental focus gave him strength and confidence. He also hoped he would not collapse in the street. Once he was dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money on the table. After a moment’s thought, he put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He also took all the copper change from the ten roubles Razumihin had spent on the clothes. Then he quietly unlatched the door, went out, and slipped downstairs. He glanced through the open kitchen door. Nastasya stood with her back to him, stoking the landlady’s samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed he would go out, after all? A minute later, he was in the street.

It was nearly eight o’clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: “that all this must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he would not go on living like that.” How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed “one way or another,” he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination.

It was nearly eight o’clock, and the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty city air. His head felt a little dizzy. A kind of savage energy suddenly shone in his feverish eyes and his gaunt, pale, yellow face. He did not know where he was going, and he did not think about it. He had only one thought: “that all this must end today, once and for all, immediately. That he would not return home without ending it, because he would not go on living like that.” How could he end it? What could he use? He had no idea, and he did not even want to think about it. He drove thought away because it tortured him. All he knew, all he felt, was that everything had to change “one way or another.” He repeated this with desperate, unshakable confidence and determination.

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.

Out of habit, he walked as usual toward the Hay Market. A dark-haired young man stood in the road outside a small general store, playing a very sentimental song on a barrel organ. He was accompanying a fifteen-year-old girl who stood on the sidewalk in front of him. She wore a crinoline, a cloak, and a straw hat with a flame-colored feather. All her clothes were old and shabby. She sang in the hope of getting a copper coin from the store. Her voice was strong and rather pleasant, though street singing had made it cracked and rough. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five-copeck coin, and put it in the girl’s hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note and called sharply to the organ grinder, “Come on.” Then they both moved on to the next store.

“Do you like street music?” said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.

“Do you like street music?” Raskolnikov asked a middle-aged man standing nearby with nothing to do. The man looked at him, startled and puzzled.

“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 love hearing people sing to a street organ,” said Raskolnikov. His manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject. “I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings. They must be damp. I like it when all the passersby have pale green, sickly faces. Or better still, when wet snow is falling straight down and there’s no wind. You know what I mean? And the street lamps shine through the snow...”

“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.

“I don’t know.... Excuse me...” the stranger muttered, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov’s strange manner. He crossed 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.

Raskolnikov walked straight ahead and reached the corner of the Hay Market. It was where the vendor and his wife had spoken with Lizaveta, but they were no longer there. Recognizing the place, he stopped and looked around. He spoke to a young man in a red shirt who stood staring outside a grain dealer’s shop.

“Isn’t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?”

“Isn’t there a man who runs a booth with his wife on this corner?”

“All sorts of people keep booths here,” answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.

“All sorts of people run booths here,” the young man replied, glancing down at Raskolnikov.

“What’s his name?”

“What he was christened.”

“What he was named at his baptism.”

“Aren’t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?”

“Aren’t you from Zaraïsky 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!”

“It’s a district, not a province, your excellency. Please forgive me, your excellency!”

“Is that a tavern at the top there?”

“Is that a tavern up there?”

“Yes, it’s an eating-house and there’s a billiard-room and you’ll find princesses there too.... La-la!”

“Yes, it’s a restaurant, and there’s a billiard room. 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.

Raskolnikov crossed the square. A dense crowd of peasants stood in one corner. He pushed into the thickest part of the crowd, looking at their faces. For some reason, he felt like talking to people. But the peasants paid no attention to him. They were all shouting in groups. He stood there thinking for a while, then turned 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.

He had often crossed the little street that bends as it leads from the marketplace to Sadovy Street. Lately, when he felt depressed, he had often felt drawn to wander around this district to feel even worse.

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.

Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point stood a large block of buildings, rented out entirely to bars and restaurants. Women kept running in and out, bareheaded and in their indoor clothes. Here and there, they gathered in groups on the sidewalk, especially near the entrances to various places of entertainment downstairs. From one of these came a loud din of singing, the tinkling of a guitar, and shouts of merriment. A crowd of women gathered around the door. Some sat on the steps, others on the sidewalk, and others stood talking. Nearby, a drunken soldier walked in the road, smoking a cigarette and swearing. He seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was arguing with another, and a man lay dead drunk across the road. Raskolnikov joined the crowd of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bareheaded and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. Some were forty, and others were no more than seventeen. Almost all had black 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.

He felt strangely drawn to the singing and all the noise and commotion in the saloon below.... Inside, someone was dancing wildly, tapping his heels in time to a guitar and a thin falsetto voice singing a cheerful tune. He listened closely, feeling gloomy and lost in thought. From the sidewalk, he bent down at the entrance and peered in curiously.

“Oh, my handsome soldier Don’t beat me for nothing,”

“Oh, my handsome soldier Don’t beat me for no reason,”

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.

the singer trilled in a thin voice. Raskolnikov desperately wanted to understand what he was singing, as though everything depended on it.

“Shall I go in?” he thought. “They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?”

“Should I go in?” he thought. “They’re laughing. Because they’ve been drinking. Should 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.

“Won’t you come in?” one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others’ voices. She was young and not repulsive, the only one in the group who wasn’t.

“Why, she’s pretty,” he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.

“Why, she’s pretty,” he said, straightening up and looking at her.

She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.

She smiled, very pleased by the compliment.

“You’re very nice looking yourself,” she said.

“You’re very good-looking yourself,” she said.

“Isn’t he thin though!” observed another woman in a deep bass. “Have you just come out of a hospital?”

“Isn’t he thin, though!” another woman remarked in a deep bass voice. “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.”

“They’re all generals’ daughters, it seems, but they all have snub noses,” said a tipsy peasant, interrupting. He wore a loose coat and had a sly smile on his face. “Look how cheerful they are.”

“Go along with you!”

“Oh, go on!”

“I’ll go, sweetie!”

And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.

And he dashed down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov went on.

“I say, sir,” the girl shouted after him.

“Hey, 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!”

“I’m always happy to spend an hour with you, kind sir, but I feel shy now. Give me six copecks for a drink, be a nice young man!”

Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen copecks.

Raskolnikov gave her the first money he found, fifteen copecks.

“Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!”

“Oh, what a kind 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....”

“Well, that’s too much,” one of the women said, shaking her head at Duclida. “I don’t know how you can ask like that. I think I’d die of 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.

Raskolnikov looked at the speaker with curiosity. She was a woman of thirty, with a pockmarked face, bruises all over, and a swollen upper lip. She spoke her criticism quietly and earnestly. “Where was it,” thought Raskolnikov. “Where was it that I read about someone condemned to death? An hour before his death, he says or thinks that even life on a high rock would be better than dying at once. The ledge would be so narrow he would only have room to stand. The ocean, endless darkness, endless solitude, and endless storms would surround him. Even if he had to stand on one square yard of space all his life, for a thousand years, for eternity, it would be better than dying at once! Just 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 the man 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.

He turned into another street. “Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking about the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth did I want? Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he’d read it in the papers. Do you have the papers?” he asked as he entered a very spacious, remarkably clean restaurant. It had several rooms, but they were rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea. In a room farther back, four men were drinking champagne. Raskolnikov thought Zametov was one of them, but he couldn’t be sure from that distance. “What if it is?” he thought.

“Will you have vodka?” asked the waiter.

“Would you like 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.”

“Bring me some tea and the newspapers from the last five days, and I’ll give you something.”

“Yes, sir, here’s to-day’s. No vodka?”

“Yes, sir, here’s today’s. No vodka?”

The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them.

The old newspapers and tea were brought in. Raskolnikov sat down and began looking through the newspapers.

“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.

“Oh, damn... these are the news items. An accident on a staircase, a shopkeeper spontaneously combusting 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!” At last he found what he was looking for and began to read. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read the whole report. Then he eagerly searched the following issues for updates. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the pages. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at the table. He looked up. It was the head clerk, Zametov, looking just as he had before. He wore rings on his fingers and a watch chain. His curly black hair was parted and slicked with pomade. He wore a smart vest, a rather shabby coat, and a shirt of questionable cleanliness. He was in a good mood, or at least he was smiling very cheerfully and good-naturedly. 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?”

“What, you’re here?” he said in surprise, as if he’d known him all his life. “But Razumihin told me just yesterday that you were unconscious. How strange! And did 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.

Raskolnikov knew he would come over to him. He put the papers aside and turned to Zametov. He was smiling, but his smile showed a new hint of irritated impatience.

“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?”

“I know you have,” he answered. “I’ve heard about it. You looked for my sock.... And do you know Razumihin has fallen in love with you? He says you went with him to Luise Ivanovna’s. You know, the woman you tried to befriend. You winked at the Explosive Lieutenant on her behalf, but he wouldn’t understand. Do you remember? How could he not understand? It was quite clear, wasn’t it?”

“What a hot head he is!”

“What a hothead 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?”

“You must have a great life, Mr. Zametov. You get into all the nicest places for free. Who’s been pouring champagne into you just now?”

“We’ve just been... having a drink together.... You talk about pouring it into me!”

“We’ve just been... having a drink together.... And you say you’re 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....”

“As a fee! You profit from everything!” Raskolnikov laughed. “It’s all right, my dear boy,” he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. “I’m not saying this out of anger, but in a friendly way, just for fun. That’s what your workman said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the old woman’s case....”

“How do you know about it?”

“Perhaps I know more about it than you do.”

“Maybe 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.”

“How strange you are.... I’m sure you’re still very sick. You shouldn’t have gone 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?”

“No, I’m not reading about the fires.” He gave Zametov a mysterious look, his lips twisting again into a mocking smile. “No, I’m not reading about the fires,” he continued, winking at Zametov. “But admit it, my friend, you’re dying to know what I’m reading about, aren’t you?”

“I am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why do you keep on...?”

“Not at all. Can’t I ask a question? Why do you keep on...?”

“Listen, you are a man of culture and education?”

“Listen, you’re a cultured and educated man, aren’t you?”

“I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,” said Zametov with some dignity.

“I was in the sixth year at the gymnasium,” Zametov said 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.

“Sixth class! Oh, my little sparrow! With your parted hair and your rings, you’re a wealthy gentleman. Oh, what a charming boy!” Raskolnikov burst into a nervous laugh right in Zametov’s face. Zametov drew back, more amazed than offended.

“Foo! how strange you are!” Zametov repeated very seriously. “I can’t help thinking you are still delirious.”

“Oh, how strange you are!” Zametov repeated very seriously. “I can’t help thinking you’re still delirious.”

“I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?”

“I'm delirious? You're lying, my little sparrow! So I'm 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?”

“Want me to tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? Look at all the papers I had them bring me. Suspicious, huh?”

“Well, what is it?”

“You prick up your ears?”

“Are you listening closely?”

“How do you mean—‘prick up my ears’?”

“What do you mean, ‘pay attention’?”

“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.

“I’ll explain that later, but now, my boy, I declare to you... no, ‘I confess’ is better... No, that’s not right either. ‘I make a statement and you take it down.’ I state that I was reading, that I was looking and searching....” He narrowed his eyes and paused. “I was searching for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman. I came here on purpose to do it,” he said at last, almost in a whisper. He brought his face very close to Zametov’s. Zametov looked steadily at him, without moving or pulling his face away. Later, what struck Zametov as strangest was the silence that followed. It lasted exactly a minute, and they stared at each other the whole time.

“What if you have been reading about it?” he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. “That’s no business of mine! What of it?”

“So what if you’ve been reading about it?” he cried at last, confused and impatient. “That’s none of my business! What does it matter?”

“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?”

“The same old woman,” Raskolnikov continued in the same whisper, ignoring Zametov’s explanation. “You remember her. You were talking about her at the police station when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?”

“What do you mean? Understand... what?” Zametov brought out, almost alarmed.

“What do you mean? Understand... what?” Zametov said, sounding 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!

Raskolnikov’s tense, serious face suddenly changed. He burst into the same nervous laugh as before, as if he could not stop himself. In a flash, he recalled a recent moment with extraordinary vividness. He had stood with the axe behind the door. The latch trembled as the men outside swore and shook it. He had suddenly wanted to shout and swear at them, stick out his tongue, mock them, and 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.

“You’re either mad, or...” Zametov began. He stopped, as though stunned by an idea that had suddenly crossed his mind.

“Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!”

“Or? Or what? What? Come on, tell me!”

“Nothing,” said Zametov, getting angry, “it’s all nonsense!”

“Nothing,” said Zametov, growing 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.

Both were silent. After his sudden burst of laughter, Raskolnikov became thoughtful and sad. He rested his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for a while.

“Why don’t you drink your tea? It’s getting cold,” said Zametov.

“Why aren’t you drinking 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.

“What! Tea? Oh, yes....” Raskolnikov sipped from the glass and put a small piece of bread in his mouth. Suddenly, he looked at Zametov and seemed to remember everything. He pulled himself together, and at the same moment, his face took on its mocking expression again. He went on drinking his tea.

“There have been a great many of these crimes lately,” said Zametov. “Only the other day I read in the Moscow News that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets!”

“There have been a lot of these crimes lately,” said Zametov. “Just the other day, I read in the Moscow News that a whole gang of counterfeiters had been caught in Moscow. They were practically a society. They used to forge tickets!”

“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.

“Oh, but that was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago,” Raskolnikov replied calmly. “So you think they’re 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 other 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?”

“They? They’re children, fools, not criminals! Fifty people getting together for a job like that. What an idea! Three would be too many. And they expect to trust one another more than they trust themselves! Only one has to let something slip while drunk, and the whole thing falls apart. Fools! They hired people they couldn’t trust to exchange the notes. Imagine trusting a casual stranger with that! Well, suppose these fools succeed and each makes a million. What happens for the rest of their lives? Each one depends on the others for the rest of his life! Better to hang yourself at once! And they didn’t even know how to exchange the notes. The man who exchanged them took five thousand roubles, and his hands were shaking. He counted the first four thousand, but not the fifth. He was so eager to pocket the money and run away. Of course he aroused suspicion. And the whole thing fell apart because of one fool! Can you believe it?”

“That his hands trembled?” observed Zametov, “yes, that’s quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can’t stand things.”

“His hands were trembling?” Zametov said. “Yes, that’s quite possible. I’m quite sure it’s possible. Sometimes a person just 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?”

“Could you really go through with it? No, I couldn’t. Go through such a terrible experience for a hundred roubles? Take fake banknotes into a bank where it’s their job to spot them? No, I wouldn’t have the nerve. Would you?”

Raskolnikov had an intense desire again “to put his tongue out.” Shivers kept running down his spine.

Raskolnikov felt a strong urge again “to stick out his tongue.” 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.”

“I’d do it quite differently,” Raskolnikov began. “Here’s how I’d exchange the notes: I’d count the first thousand three or four times, forward and backward, looking at every note. Then I’d start on the second thousand. Halfway through counting it, I’d hold a fifty-rouble note up to the light. Then I’d turn it over and hold it up again to see if it was genuine. ‘I’m worried,’ I’d say. ‘A relative of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day because of a counterfeit note.’ Then I’d tell them the whole story. “And after I started counting the third thousand, I’d say, ‘No, excuse me. I think I made a mistake in the seventh hundred of the second thousand. I’m not sure.’ So I’d stop counting the third thousand and go back to the second, and so on until I finished. Then I’d pick out one note from the fifth thousand and one from the second. I’d hold them up to the light again and ask, ‘Change them, please.’ I’d make the clerk so flustered that he wouldn’t know how to get rid of me. Once I’d finished and gone out, I’d come back and say, ‘No, excuse me,’ and ask for an 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...”

“Oh, what terrible things you say!” said Zametov, laughing. “But all that is just talk. I expect you’d make a mistake if you actually tried it. I believe even an experienced, desperate man can’t always count on himself, much less you or I. Take an example close to home: the old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow. He risked everything in broad daylight and was saved by a miracle. But his hands shook, too. He didn’t manage to rob the place. He couldn’t go through with it. That was clear from the...”

Raskolnikov seemed offended.

“Clear? Why don’t you catch him then?” he cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov.

“Clear? Then why don’t you catch him?” he cried, mocking Zametov maliciously.

“Well, they will catch him.”

“Well, they’ll 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.”

“Who? You? Do you think you could catch him? You’ve got a tough job! You place great importance on whether a man is spending money. If he had no money and suddenly starts spending, he must be the man. So 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?”

“The fact is, they always do that, though,” Zametov replied. “A man will commit a clever murder, risking his life, and then go straight to a tavern to drink. They get caught spending money. They’re not all as clever 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.

“You seem to enjoy this subject. Would you like to know how I would act in that case too?” he asked, annoyed.

“I should like to,” Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.

“I’d like to,” Zametov answered firmly and seriously. His words and expression began to seem a little too earnest.

“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.”

“All right then. This is how I would do it,” Raskolnikov began. Again he brought his face close to Zametov’s and stared at him. He spoke in a whisper, making Zametov shudder. “This is what I would have done. I would have taken the money and jewels and walked out of there. Then I would have gone straight to some deserted place, surrounded by fences, where hardly anyone could be seen. A vegetable garden or somewhere like that. I would have picked out a stone beforehand, weighing a hundred pounds or more. It would have been lying in a corner since the house was built. I would lift the stone. There would be a hollow under it for sure, and I would put the jewels and money in the hole. Then I’d roll the stone back so it looked as it had before. I’d press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, maybe three, I wouldn’t touch the money or jewels. And, well, they could search all they liked! 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.

“You’re mad,” said Zametov. For some reason, he too spoke in a whisper. He moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. Raskolnikov had turned deathly pale, and his upper lip was twitching and trembling. He leaned as close to Zametov as he could, and his lips began to move without making a sound. This went on for half a minute. He knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door. Any moment now it will burst out. Any moment now 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.

“And what if I murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?” he said suddenly. Then he realized what he had done.

Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile.

Zametov stared wildly at him and turned as white as the tablecloth. His face twisted into a smile.

“But is it possible?” he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him.

“But is it possible?” he said faintly. Raskolnikov looked at him angrily.

“Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?”

“Admit that you believed it. Yes, you did, didn’t you?”

“Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,” Zametov cried hastily.

“Not at all. I believe it less than ever now,” Zametov cried quickly.

“I’ve caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe it less than ever?”

“I’ve caught my little sparrow! So you did believe it before, if you believe it less than ever now?”

“Not at all,” cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. “Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?”

“Not at all,” cried Zametov, clearly embarrassed. “Have you been trying to scare me just 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?”

“You don’t believe it, then? What were you saying behind my back when I left the police station? And why did the hot-tempered lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there,” he shouted to the waiter. He got up and took his cap. “How much?”

“Thirty copecks,” the latter replied, running up.

“Thirty copecks,” the other person replied, running up.

“And here is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!” he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. “Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You’ve cross-examined my landlady, I’ll be bound.... Well, that’s enough! Assez causé! Till we meet again!”

“And here’s twenty copecks for vodka. Look how much money I have!” He held out his shaking hand to Zametov, with banknotes in it. “Red notes and blue ones, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I didn’t have a copeck. I bet you’ve questioned my landlady.... Well, that’s enough! Enough talk! See you again!”

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.

He went out, trembling all over with a wild, almost hysterical feeling that included unbearable delight. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted, as if he had just had a fit. He grew tired rapidly. Any shock or irritation instantly stirred him and revived his energy. But his strength failed just as quickly when the shock or irritation passed.

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.

Left alone, Zametov sat in the same place for a long time, deep in thought. Without realizing it, Raskolnikov had completely changed his thinking on one point and settled the matter for him.

“Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,” he decided.

“Ilya Petrovitch is an idiot,” 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.

Raskolnikov had hardly opened the restaurant door when he bumped into Razumihin on the steps. Neither saw the other until they almost collided. For a moment, they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was stunned. Then anger, real anger, flashed 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?”

“So here you are!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “You ran away from your bed! And I’ve been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the attic. I almost beat Nastasya because of you. And here he is after all. Rodya! What does this mean? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear me?”

“It means that I’m sick to death of you all and I want to be alone,” Raskolnikov answered calmly.

“It means I’m sick of all of you, 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!”

“Alone? You can’t even walk, your face is as white as a sheet, and you’re gasping for breath! Idiot!... What have you been doing at the Palais de Cristal? Tell me right now!”

“Let me go!” said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.

“Let me go!” said Raskolnikov, trying to get past him. Razumihin could not take any more. He gripped Raskolnikov 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!”

“Let you go? How dare you tell me to let you go? Do you know what I’ll do to you right now? I’ll pick you up, tie you into 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!”

“Listen, Razumihin,” Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm. “Can’t you see I don’t want your kindness? It’s strange that you want to shower favors on a man who... curses them and finds them a burden! Why did you seek me out when I first fell ill? Maybe I was happy to die. Didn’t I tell you clearly enough today that you were torturing me, that I was... sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you, all this is seriously slowing my recovery because it keeps irritating me. You saw Zossimov leave just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness’ sake! What right do you have to keep me here by force? Can’t you see that I’m in full possession of my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you to stop persecuting me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, but just 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.

He began calmly, savoring the poisonous words he was about to say. But he ended in a frenzy, gasping for breath, just as he had with Luzhin.

Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.

Razumihin stood for 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?”

“Well, go to hell then,” he said gently and thoughtfully. “Stay!” he roared as Raskolnikov started to leave. “Listen to me. You’re all a bunch of babbling, posing idiots! If you have some little trouble, you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And even that is copied from someone else! There isn’t a sign of independent life in any of you! You’re made of spermaceti ointment, and you have lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don’t believe in any of you! Whatever the circumstances, the first thing you all do is try not to be human! Stop!” he cried, even more furiously, noticing that Raskolnikov was moving again. “Hear me out! You know I’m having a housewarming tonight. I expect the guests have arrived by now, but I left my uncle there to receive them. I just ran in here. And if you weren’t a fool, an ordinary fool, a complete fool, if you were an original instead of a translation... You see, Rodya, I know you’re a clever fellow, but you’re a fool! If you weren’t a fool, you’d come to my place tonight instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Now that you’ve gone out, there’s no helping it! I’d give you a comfortable armchair. My landlady has one. You’d have a cup of tea and some company.... Or you could lie on the sofa. Either way, you’d 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....”

“R-rubbish!” Razumihin shouted, losing patience. “How do you know? You can’t even speak for yourself! You don’t know anything about it.... Thousands of times I’ve fought tooth and nail with people, then gone running back to them.... You feel ashamed and go back to the person! So remember, Potchinkov’s house, on the third floor....”

“Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you’d let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence.”

“Why, Mr. Razumihin, I believe you’d let anyone beat you just because you’re so kind.”

“Beat? Whom? Me? I’d twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s flat....”

“Beat? Who? Me? I’d twist his nose off just for thinking about it! Potchinkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s apartment....”

“I shall not come, Razumihin.” Raskolnikov turned and walked away.

“I won't 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?”

“I bet you will,” Razumihin shouted after him. “I’ll have nothing to do with you if you don’t! Wait, 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!”

“What about? Damn you, then don’t tell me. Potchinkov’s house, number 47, Babushkin’s apartment. 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 on the stairs.

Raskolnikov kept walking and turned the corner onto Sadovy Street. Razumihin watched him go, deep in thought. Then he waved his hand and went into the house, but stopped suddenly on 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.

“Damn it,” he went on, almost speaking aloud. “He made sense, but still... I’m a fool! As if madmen don’t make sense! And that was just what Zossimov seemed afraid of.” He tapped his forehead with his finger. “What if... how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself.... Oh, what a mistake! I can’t.” He ran back to catch up with Raskolnikov, but there was no sign of him. Cursing, he hurried back 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.

Raskolnikov walked straight to X—— Bridge and stopped in the middle. He leaned both elbows on the railing and stared into the distance. After parting with Razumihin, he felt so weak that he could barely make it there. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Leaning over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink glow of sunset. He looked at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight. Far away on the left bank, an attic window flashed as if on fire in the sun’s last rays. He looked at the darkening canal water, which seemed to catch his attention. At last, red circles flashed before his eyes. The houses seemed to move. The passersby, canal banks, and carriages all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, perhaps saved from fainting again by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing to his right. He looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head. Her face was long, yellow, and wasted, and her eyes were red and sunken. She was looking straight at him, but clearly saw nothing and recognized no one. Suddenly she put her right hand on the parapet and lifted her right leg over the railing. Then she lifted her left leg over and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed her for a moment. But an instant later, the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current. Her head and legs were in the water, and her skirt ballooned 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.

“A woman is drowning! A woman is drowning!” shouted dozens of voices. People rushed over, and spectators crowded both banks. On the bridge, people gathered around Raskolnikov, pressing in behind him.

“Mercy on us! it’s our Afrosinya!” a woman cried tearfully close by. “Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!”

“Oh no! It’s our Afrosinya!” a woman nearby cried tearfully. “Oh no! Save her! Please, someone, 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.

“A boat, a boat!” people shouted in the crowd. But there was no need for a boat. A policeman ran down the steps to the canal, took off his overcoat and boots, and rushed into the water. She was easy to reach. She was floating just a couple of yards from the steps. He grabbed her clothes with his right hand. With his left, he seized a pole another policeman held out to him. The drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon regained consciousness, raised her head, and sat up. She 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....”

“She’s drunk herself out of her mind,” the same woman wailed beside her. “Out of her mind. The other day she tried to hang herself, and we cut her down. I just ran to the shop and left my little girl to look after her. And now she’s in trouble again! I’m a neighbor, sir, a neighbor. We live close by, in the second house from the end, over there....”

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.

The crowd dispersed. The police were still gathered around the woman, and someone mentioned the police station.... Raskolnikov watched with a strange feeling of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. “No, that’s disgusting... water... it’s not good enough,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing will come of it,” he added. “There’s no point in waiting. What about the police station...? And why isn’t Zametov at the police station? The police station is open until ten o’clock....” He turned his back to the railing and looked around.

“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.

“Very well then!” he said firmly. He left the bridge and walked toward the police station. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed. Not a trace remained of the energy he had felt when he set out “to make an end of it all.” Complete apathy had taken its place.

“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.”

“Well, it’s a way out,” he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. “Anyway, I’ll put an end to it, because I want to.... But is it a way out? What does it matter! There’ll be that square yard of space. Ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Should I tell them or not? Ah... damn! I’m so tired! If only I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What embarrasses me most is how stupid it is. But I don’t care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into my head.”

To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute’s thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of the house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since that evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. “That wasn’t so then,” he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. “It’s shut up and the door newly painted. So it’s to let.” Then the third storey and the fourth. “Here!” He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov’s coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened.

To reach the police station, he had to go straight ahead and take the second street on the left. It was only a few steps away. But he stopped at the first turn and thought for a minute. Then he turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way. Perhaps he had no reason, or perhaps he wanted to delay and gain a little time. He walked with his eyes on the ground. Suddenly, someone seemed to whisper in his ear. He raised his head and saw that he was standing at the gate of the house. He had not passed it or gone near it since that evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable urge drew him on. He went through the gate and entered the first doorway on the right. Then he began climbing the familiar staircase to the fourth floor. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked around with curiosity. On the first landing, the window frame had been removed. “That wasn’t like that then,” he thought. Here was the apartment on the second floor where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. “It’s closed up, and the door has been freshly painted. So it’s for rent.” Then came the third floor and the fourth. “Here!” He was puzzled to find the apartment door wide open. There were men inside, and he could hear their voices. He had not expected that. After a brief hesitation, he climbed the last few stairs and went into the apartment. It was being renovated too, and workmen were inside. This seemed to amaze him. Somehow, he had imagined he would find everything as he had left it, perhaps even the bodies in the same places on the floor. Instead, the walls were bare, and there was no furniture. It seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat on the windowsill. There were two workmen, both young men, though one was much younger than the other. They were putting up new white wallpaper covered with lilac flowers in place of the old, dirty yellow paper. For some reason, this annoyed Raskolnikov terribly. He looked at the new wallpaper with dislike, as though he regretted seeing everything so changed. The workmen had clearly stayed past their usual time. Now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice when Raskolnikov came in. They were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened.

“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 a regular fashion book!”

“She comes to me very early in the morning,” the older one said to the younger one. “She’s all dressed up. ‘Why are you fussing over your appearance?’ I ask. ‘I’m ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!’ Imagine that! And she was dressed up like a fashion magazine!”

“And what is a fashion book?” the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority.

“And what is a fashion book?” the younger one asked. He clearly saw the other man 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 as for the ladies’ fluffles, they’re beyond anything you can fancy.”

“A fashion book is full of colored pictures. They arrive by mail from abroad every Saturday for the tailors here. They show people how to dress, both men and women. They’re pictures. The gentlemen are usually wearing fur coats, and the ladies’ frills are beyond anything you can imagine.”

“There’s nothing you can’t find in Petersburg,” the younger cried enthusiastically, “except father and mother, there’s everything!”

“You can find anything in Petersburg,” the younger one cried enthusiastically. “Everything except a father and mother!”

“Except them, there’s everything to be found, my boy,” the elder declared sententiously.

“Except for them, you can find everything, my boy,” the older man said solemnly.

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.

Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room. The strongbox, bed, and chest of drawers had been there. Without the furniture, the room seemed very small to him. The wallpaper was the same. In the corner, it showed where the case of icons had stood. He looked at the spot and went to the window. The older workman glanced at him suspiciously.

“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.

Instead of answering, Raskolnikov went into the hallway and pulled the bell. It was the same bell, with the same cracked sound. He rang it a second and a third time. He listened and remembered. The horrible, agonizing terror he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered each time the bell rang, and each ring gave him more satisfaction.

“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.

“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” the workman shouted as he went out to him. Raskolnikov went back inside.

“I want to take a flat,” he said. “I am looking round.”

“I want to rent an apartment,” he said. “I’m looking around.”

“It’s not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the porter.”

“It’s no time to look at rooms at night! And you should come up with the porter.”

“The floors have been washed, will they be painted?” Raskolnikov went on. “Is there no blood?”

“The floors have been washed. Will they be painted?” Raskolnikov continued. “Is there no blood?”

“What blood?”

“Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there.”

“Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a huge pool there.”

“But who are you?” the workman cried, uneasy.

“But who are you?” the worker cried, uneasy.

“Who am I?”

“Yes.”

“You want to know? Come to the police station, I’ll tell you.”

“You want to know? Come to the police station. I’ll tell you.”

The workmen looked at him in amazement.

The workers 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.

“It’s time to go. We’re late. Come on, Alyoshka. We have to lock up,” said the older workman.

“Very well, come along,” said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. “Hey, porter,” he cried in the gateway.

“Okay, come along,” said Raskolnikov indifferently. He went out first and walked slowly downstairs. “Hey, porter,” he called from 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.

Several people stood at the entrance, staring at passersby. They included 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?”

“Have you been to the police station?”

“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?”

“He was there for a while. What do you want?”

Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.

Raskolnikov said nothing, but stood beside them, lost in thought.

“He’s been to look at the flat,” said the elder workman, coming forward.

“He came to look at the apartment,” said the older worker, stepping forward.

“Which flat?”

“Which apartment?”

“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.”

“Where we’re working. ‘Why have you washed away the blood?’ he says. ‘There’s been a murder here,’ he says, ‘and I’ve come to take it.’ Then he started ringing the bell and almost broke it. ‘Come to the police station,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you everything there.’ He wouldn’t leave us.”

The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.

The porter looked at Raskolnikov with a puzzled frown.

“Who are you?” he shouted as impressively as he could.

“Who are you?” he shouted, trying to sound as impressive 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.

“I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a former student. I live in Shil’s house, not far from here, in apartment Number 14. Ask the porter. He knows me.” Raskolnikov spoke in a lazy, dreamy voice. He did not turn around, but stared intently into the darkening street.

“Why have you been to the flat?”

“Why did you go to the apartment?”

“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.

“Take him straight to the police station,” the man in the long coat interrupted abruptly.

Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tone:

Raskolnikov looked at him intently over his shoulder and spoke in the same slow, lazy tone:

“Come along.”

“Yes, take him,” the man went on more confidently. “Why was he going into that, what’s in his mind, eh?”

“Yes, take him,” the man continued more confidently. “Why was he getting into that? What’s on his mind, eh?”

“He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s the matter with him,” muttered the workman.

“He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s wrong with him,” muttered the worker.

“But what do you want?” the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest—“Why are you hanging about?”

“But what do you want?” the porter shouted again, starting to get really angry. “Why are you hanging around?”

“You funk the police station then?” said Raskolnikov jeeringly.

“So you’re afraid of the police station?” Raskolnikov said mockingly.

“How funk it? Why are you hanging about?”

“Why are you afraid of it? Why are you hanging around?”

“He’s a rogue!” shouted the peasant woman.

“He’s a scoundrel!” 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!”

“Why waste time talking to him?” shouted the other porter, a huge peasant wearing an open coat with keys on his belt. “Get going! He’s a scoundrel, no doubt about it. Get going!”

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.

He grabbed Raskolnikov by the shoulder and threw him into the street. Raskolnikov stumbled forward but regained his footing. He looked at the onlookers in silence and walked away.

“Strange man!” observed the workman.

“Strange man!” said the worker.

“There are strange folks about nowadays,” said the woman.

“There are strange people around these days,” said the woman.

“You should have taken him to the police station all the same,” said the man in the long coat.

“You should have taken him to the police station anyway,” 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!”

“Better stay away from him,” decided the big porter. “He’s a real crook! That’s just what he wants, you can be sure. But once you take him in, you won’t get rid of him.... We know his 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.

“Should I go there or not?” Raskolnikov thought, standing in the middle of the crossroads. He looked around as if expecting someone to give him a decisive answer. But no sound came. Everything was dead and silent, like the stones beneath his feet, dead to him, to him alone.... Suddenly, he saw a crowd at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk. He heard people talking and shouting. A carriage stood in the middle of the crowd.... A light shone in the middle of the street. “What is it?” Raskolnikov turned right and walked up to the crowd. He seemed to seize on everything and smiled coldly when he recognized what it was. He had fully decided to go to the police station and knew it would all soon be over.