Chapter 6

“I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov’s arguments.

“I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” Razumihin repeated. Puzzled, he tried to argue against Raskolnikov’s points.

They were by now approaching Bakaleyev’s lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about it.

They were now approaching Bakaleyev’s lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been waiting for them for a long time. As they walked, Razumihin kept stopping in the heat of their discussion. He was confused and excited because they were speaking openly about it for the first time.

“Don’t believe it, then!” answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile. “You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word.”

“Then don’t believe it!” Raskolnikov replied with a cold, careless smile. “As usual, you noticed nothing, but I was weighing every word.”

“You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words... h’m... certainly, I agree, Porfiry’s tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov!... You are right, there was something about him—but why? Why?”

“You’re suspicious. That’s why you weighed their words... Hmm... Yes, I agree, Porfiry’s tone was rather strange. And that wretch Zametov’s was even stranger! You’re right, there was something about him, but why? Why?”

“He has changed his mind since last night.”

“He has changed his mind since last night.”

“Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you afterwards.... But it was all impudent and careless.”

“Quite the opposite! If they had that stupid idea, they would do everything they could to hide it. They would keep their cards hidden so they could catch you later.... But it was all bold and careless.”

“If they had had facts—I mean, real facts—or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage—all ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in his vexation—or perhaps he has some plan... he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all. Stop!”

“If they had facts, I mean real facts, or even grounds for suspicion, they would certainly hide their game. They would hope to find out more. (Besides, they would have searched long ago.) But they have no facts, not one. It’s all a mirage. It’s all ambiguous. Just an idea floating around. So they try to throw me off with their nerve. And perhaps he was irritated because he had no facts, and blurted it out in frustration. Or perhaps he has some plan... he seems intelligent. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have their own psychology, brother. But it’s disgusting to explain it all. Stop!”

“And it’s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But... since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last—I am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of course the merest hint only—an insinuation—but why an insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach—he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. I’d hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I’d put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be downhearted. It’s a shame!”

“And it’s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But now that we’ve spoken openly, I’ll admit something frankly. It’s excellent that we’ve finally spoken openly, and I’m glad. I noticed that idea in them long ago. Of course, it was only the slightest hint, an insinuation. But why even insinuate it? How dare they? What grounds do they have? If only you knew how furious I’ve been. Just think! A poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, was on the verge of a severe illness with delirium. Remember that. He was suspicious, vain, and proud, and hadn’t spoken to a soul for six months. He was dressed in rags and wearing boots with no soles. Then he had to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence. And there was the unexpected debt shoved under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov, and the fresh paint. The temperature was thirty degrees Réaumur, and the air was stifling. There was a crowd of people, and they were talking about the murder of someone he had just visited. And all this on an empty stomach. He could easily have fainted! And that, that is what they base it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I’d laugh at them. Or better still, I’d spit in their ugly faces. I’d spit a dozen times in every direction. I’d hit out in every direction, neatly too, and put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be discouraged. It’s a shame!”

“He really has put it well, though,” Raskolnikov thought.

“He really did put it well, though,” Raskolnikov thought.

“Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?” he said with bitterness. “Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the restaurant....”

“Damn them? But what about the questioning again tomorrow?” he said bitterly. “Do I really have to explain myself to them? I’m already annoyed that I stooped to speaking to Zametov at the restaurant yesterday....”

“Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as for Zametov...”

“Damn it! I’ll go to Porfiry myself. I’ll get it out of him, as a member of the family. He has to tell me all the details! And as for Zametov...”

“At last he sees through him!” thought Raskolnikov.

“Finally, he sees through him!” Raskolnikov thought.

“Stay!” cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. “Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done that, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat... and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own it against himself?”

“Wait!” cried Razumihin, grabbing him by the shoulder again. “Wait! You were wrong. I’ve thought it through. You’re wrong! How was that a trap? You say the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done that, could you have said you saw them painting the apartment... and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would admit something that incriminated him?”

“If I had done that thing, I should certainly have said that I had seen the workmen and the flat,” Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and obvious disgust.

“If I had done that thing, I would certainly have said I had seen the workers and the apartment,” Raskolnikov answered reluctantly, with obvious disgust.

“But why speak against yourself?”

“But why speak against yourself?”

“Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can’t be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation.”

“Because only peasants or complete beginners deny everything outright during questioning. If a man has even a little education and experience, he will certainly try to admit all the facts he cannot deny. But he will look for other explanations for them. He will introduce some special, unexpected twist that gives the facts a different meaning and shows them in a different light. Porfiry could well expect me to answer that way. I would say I had seen them to make my story sound truthful, and then offer some explanation.”

“But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o’clock. And so he would have caught you over a detail.”

“But he would have told you right away that the workmen couldn’t have been there two days earlier. So you must have been there at eight o’clock on the day of the murder. He would have caught you on that detail.”

“Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before.”

“Yes, that’s what he was counting on. He thought I wouldn’t have time to think and would rush to give the most likely answer. Then I would forget that the workmen couldn’t have been there two days earlier.”

“But how could you forget it?”

“But how could you forget it?”

“Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think....”

“Nothing could be easier. Clever people are most easily caught by just such stupid things. The more cunning a man is, the less he expects to be caught by something simple. The more cunning the man, the simpler the trap needed to catch him. Porfiry is not as much of a fool as you think....”

“He is a knave then, if that is so!”

“Then he’s a scoundrel, if that’s true!”

Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from necessity.

Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But just then, he was struck by how strangely frank he had been. He was also struck by how eagerly he had offered the explanation. Until then, he had carried on the whole conversation with gloomy reluctance, plainly for some reason, out of necessity.

“I am getting a relish for certain aspects!” he thought to himself. But almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s.

“I’m starting to enjoy certain aspects of this!” he thought. But almost immediately, he felt uneasy, as if an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His unease kept growing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s.

“Go in alone!” said Raskolnikov suddenly. “I will be back directly.”

“Go in alone!” Raskolnikov said suddenly. “I'll be right back.”

“Where are you going? Why, we are just here.”

“Where are you going? We’re right here.”

“I can’t help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them.”

“I can’t help it.... I’ll come in half an hour. Tell them.”

“Say what you like, I will come with you.”

“Say what you like, I'm coming with you.”

“You, too, want to torture me!” he screamed, with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin’s hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence.

“You want to torture me too!” he screamed. His eyes showed such bitter anger and despair that Razumihin let his hands fall. He stood on the steps for a while, watching gloomily as Raskolnikov strode quickly toward his lodgings. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, Razumihin swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day. Then he went upstairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was now alarmed by their long absence.

When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev’s, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman’s handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.

When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He hurried upstairs, entered his unlocked room, and immediately latched the door. Then, in blind terror, he rushed to the corner, to the hole under the wallpaper where he had hidden the things. He put his hand in and spent several minutes carefully feeling through the hole and every crack and fold of paper. Finding nothing, he stood up and took a deep breath. As he had reached the steps of Bakaleyev’s, a thought had suddenly occurred to him. A chain, a stud, or even a scrap of the paper they had been wrapped in might have slipped out. The paper had the old woman’s handwriting on it. Any of these things might have fallen into a crack and then suddenly turned up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.

He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway.

He stood as if lost in thought. A strange, humiliated, almost senseless smile wandered across his lips. At last, he took his cap and quietly left the room. His thoughts were all tangled. He walked dreamily through the gateway.

“Here he is himself,” shouted a loud voice.

“There he is!” a loud voice shouted.

He raised his head.

He lifted his head.

The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.

The porter stood at the door of his small room, pointing him out to a short man who looked like a craftsman. The man wore a long coat and a waistcoat. From a distance, he looked remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head hung forward under a greasy cap. His wrinkled, flabby face made him look over fifty. His little eyes were buried in fat, and his gaze was grim, stern, and discontented.

“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.

“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, walking up to the porter.

The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word.

The man glanced at him from under his brows, looking at him closely and deliberately. Then he turned slowly and walked out through the gate into the street without a word.

“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov.

“What is it?” Raskolnikov cried.

“Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he went away. It’s funny.”

“That man was asking whether a student lived here. He mentioned your name and who you were staying with. I saw you coming and pointed you out, and he went away. It’s strange.”

The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.

The porter also seemed a little puzzled, but not much. After a moment, he turned and went back to his room.

Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word.

Raskolnikov ran after the stranger and immediately spotted him walking on the other side of the street. The man walked at the same steady, deliberate pace, his eyes fixed on the ground as if lost in thought. Raskolnikov soon caught up with him, but walked behind him for a while. At last, he moved alongside him and looked at his face. The man noticed him at once and glanced at him, but then lowered his eyes again. They walked side by side for a minute without saying a word.

“You were inquiring for me... of the porter?” Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.

“You were asking the porter about me...?” Raskolnikov said at last, but in a strangely quiet voice.

The man made no answer; he didn’t even look at him. Again they were both silent.

The man didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at him. Once again, they were both silent.

“Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What’s the meaning of it?”

“Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What does it mean?”

Raskolnikov’s voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly.

Raskolnikov’s voice broke, and he seemed unable to say the words clearly.

The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov.

This time, the man looked up and gave Raskolnikov a dark, sinister look.

“Murderer!” he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.

“Murderer!” he said suddenly, in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.

Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.

Raskolnikov kept walking beside him. His legs suddenly felt weak, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. His heart seemed to stop for a moment, then suddenly began pounding as if it had been set free. They walked side by side in silence for about a hundred paces.

The man did not look at him.

The man did not look at him.

“What do you mean... what is.... Who is the murderer?” muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly.

“What do you mean... what is.... Who is the murderer?” Raskolnikov muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

“You are a murderer,” the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and stricken eyes.

“You are a murderer,” the man replied, speaking even more clearly and forcefully, with a smile of triumphant hatred. Again, he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and stricken eyes.

They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.

They had just reached the crossroads. The man turned left without looking back. Raskolnikov stood watching him walk away. Fifty paces away, the man turned and looked back at Raskolnikov, who was still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he thought the man was smiling again with the same cold hatred and triumph.

With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.

Raskolnikov walked slowly back to his small attic room, his steps unsteady and his knees shaking. He felt chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table. Then he stood motionless for ten minutes. Exhausted, he sank onto the sofa and stretched out with a faint moan of pain. He lay there for half an hour.

He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind—faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere.... The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant.... The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation.

He thought of nothing. Thoughts or fragments of thoughts drifted through his mind, along with images in no clear order. He saw faces of people he had known in childhood or met somewhere once, people he would never have remembered otherwise. He saw the bell tower of the church at V., a billiard table in a restaurant, and officers playing billiards. He smelled cigars in an underground tobacco shop. He saw a tavern room and a dark back staircase, wet with dirty water and littered with eggshells. Sunday bells drifted in from somewhere.... The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. He liked some of them and tried to hold on to them, but they faded. All the while, he felt a heaviness inside him. But it was not overwhelming. Sometimes it was even pleasant.... He was still shivering slightly, but that too was almost pleasant.

He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya’s whisper:

He heard Razumihin’s hurried footsteps. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood there for a while, as if hesitating. Then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya whisper:

“Don’t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.”

“Don’t wake him! Let him sleep. He can eat dinner later.”

“Quite so,” answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head.

“Exactly,” Razumihin replied. They both left carefully and closed the door. Another half hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and turned onto his back again. He clasped his hands behind his head.

“Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, that’s clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...” continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, “and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door—was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?” He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. “I ought to have known it,” he thought with a bitter smile. “And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did know!” he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.

“Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the ground? Where was he, and what did he see? He saw everything, that’s clear. Where was he then? And where did he see it from? Why has he only now sprung out of the ground? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...” Raskolnikov went on, growing cold and shivering. “And the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door, was that possible? A clue? Miss one tiny detail and you can build it into a mountain of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?” He felt a sudden loathing at how weak, how physically weak he had become. “I should have known,” he thought with a bitter smile. “Knowing myself, knowing how I would be, how could I dare to take up an axe and shed blood! I should have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did know!” he whispered in despair. At times, a thought would bring him to a complete stop.

“No, those men are not made so. The real Master to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so all is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of bronze!”

“No, those men are not made that way. The real Master, who is allowed to do anything, storms Toulon and massacres people in Paris. He forgets an army in Egypt and wastes half a million men on the Moscow expedition. Then he gets away with a joke at Vilna. After his death, altars are set up to him, and so all is permitted. No, such people seem to be made not of flesh but of bronze!”

One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed—it’s a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it! It’s too inartistic. “A Napoleon creep under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!”

A sudden, unrelated thought almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a miserable, skinny old woman. She was a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed. What a mess for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it? It’s too clumsy to be art. “A Napoleon crawling under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how disgusting!”

At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. “The old woman is of no consequence,” he thought, hotly and incoherently. “The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry to overstep.... I didn’t kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn’t overstep, I stopped on this side.... I was only capable of killing. And it seems I wasn’t even capable of that... Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; ‘the happiness of all’ is their case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of all.’ I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn’t pass by my mother starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the ‘happiness of all.’ I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want.... Ech, I am an æsthetic louse and nothing more,” he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. “Yes, I am certainly a louse,” he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive pleasure. “In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object—ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “is that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and I felt beforehand that I should tell myself so after killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the ‘prophet’ with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and ‘trembling’ creation must obey! The ‘prophet’ is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It’s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have desires, for that’s not for you!... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!”

At times he felt he was raving. He fell into a feverish state of excitement. “The old woman doesn’t matter,” he thought, angrily and incoherently. “Perhaps the old woman was a mistake, but she isn’t what matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry to cross the line.... I didn’t kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn’t cross the line. I stayed on this side.... All I was capable of was killing. And it seems I wasn’t even capable of that... “Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin attacking the socialists? They are industrious, businesslike people. ‘The happiness of all’ is their cause. No, I’m only given one life, and I’ll never have another. I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of all.’ I want to live myself, or else I’d rather not live at all. I simply couldn’t walk past my starving mother with my rouble in my pocket, waiting for ‘the happiness of all.’ I’m adding my little brick to the happiness of all, so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I want to live too.... Oh, I’m an aesthetic louse and nothing more,” he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. “Yes, I’m certainly a louse,” he went on. He seized on the idea, savoring it and playing with it with spiteful pleasure. “First, because I can reason that I’m a louse. Second, because for the past month I’ve been bothering kind Providence. I’ve been calling on it to witness that I didn’t do it for my own bodily desires. I did it for a grand and noble purpose, ha-ha! Third, because I tried to carry it out as fairly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice, I picked the most useless one. I planned to take from her only what I needed for the first step, no more and no less. So the rest would have gone to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha! “And what shows that I’m completely a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “is this. Perhaps I’m even viler and more disgusting than the louse I killed. And I felt beforehand that I would tell myself so after killing her. Can anything compare with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The wretchedness! I understand the ‘prophet’ with his saber, on his horse. Allah commands, and ‘trembling’ creation must obey! The ‘prophet’ is right. He is right when he sets a battery of guns across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty. He doesn’t even bother to explain! Your place is to obey, trembling creation, and not to have desires. That’s not for you!... I will never, never forgive the old woman!”

His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

His hair was soaked with sweat, and his trembling lips were dry. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

“Mother, sister—how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can’t bear them near me.... I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.... To embrace her and think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? That’s just what I might do.... H’m. She must be the same as I am,” he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. “Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in?... It’s strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes.... Dear women! Why don’t they weep? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything... their eyes are soft and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”

“Mother, sister, how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them. I feel a physical hatred for them. I can’t stand having them near me.... I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.... To hug her and think, if she only knew... should I tell her, then? That’s just what I might do.... H’m. She must be just like me,” he added, trying hard to think, as if struggling against delirium. “Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I would kill her again if she came back to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in?... Still, it’s strange. Why do I hardly ever think of her, as if I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle creatures, with gentle eyes.... Dear women! Why don’t they cry? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything... their eyes are soft and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”

He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn’t remember how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. “Stay, did he really beckon?” Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. “Does he know I am following him?” thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were at work... how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. “So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere.” He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. “It’s the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery,” thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. “Why is that cloak here?” he thought, “it wasn’t there before....” He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn’t see her face; but it was she. He stood over her. “She is afraid,” he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move.... He tried to scream and woke up.

He lost consciousness. It seemed strange to him that he could not remember how he had gotten into the street. It was late evening. Twilight had fallen, and the full moon was shining more and more brightly. But the air was strangely stifling. Crowds filled the street. Workers and businesspeople were making their way home, while others had come out for a walk. The air smelled of mortar, dust, and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, sad and anxious. He knew he had come out for a reason and had to do something quickly. But he had forgotten what it was. Suddenly he stopped. A man stood on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. Raskolnikov crossed over, but the man immediately turned and walked away with his head hanging. He acted as though he had made no sign. “Wait, did he really beckon to me?” Raskolnikov wondered. But he tried to catch up with him. When he was within ten paces, he recognized the man and was frightened. It was the same stooped man in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance, his heart beating. They turned down another street, but the man still did not look back. “Does he know I’m following him?” Raskolnikov thought. The man went through the gate of a large house. Raskolnikov hurried to the gate and looked in, waiting to see if the man would turn and signal to him. In the courtyard, the man did turn and again seemed to beckon. Raskolnikov followed him into the yard at once, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow, measured footsteps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the first-floor window, where the moon shone through the panes with a sad, mysterious light. Then he reached the second floor. Of course! This was the apartment where the painters had been working. How had he not recognized it at once? The man’s footsteps above had died away. “So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere.” He reached the third floor. Should he keep going? The stillness was dreadful. But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps frightened him. It was so dark! The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! The apartment door was wide open. He hesitated, then went in. The passage was dark and empty, as though everything had been taken away. He crept on tiptoe into the sitting room, which was flooded with moonlight. Everything was as before: the chairs, the mirror, the yellow sofa, and the framed pictures. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in through the windows. “It’s the moon that makes everything so still, weaving some mystery,” Raskolnikov thought. He stood waiting for a long time. The more silent the moonlight, the harder his heart beat, until it hurt. Still, the same hush held. Suddenly he heard a brief, sharp crack, like a splinter snapping. Then all was still again. A fly suddenly took flight and struck the windowpane with a mournful buzz. Just then, he noticed something like a cloak hanging on the wall. It was in the corner between the window and the small cupboard. “Why is that cloak here?” he thought. “It wasn’t there before....” He went up to it quietly and sensed that someone was hiding behind it. He carefully moved the cloak and saw the old woman sitting on a chair in the corner. She was bent over so far that he could not see her face, but it was her. He stood over her. “She’s afraid,” he thought. He quietly took the axe from its loop and struck her on the skull, then struck again. But strangely, she did not move, as though she were made of wood. Frightened, he bent closer and tried to look at her, but she lowered her head even more. He bent down to the floor and peered up at her face. He turned cold with horror. The old woman was sitting there laughing, shaking with silent laughter. She was doing all she could to keep him from hearing it. Suddenly he imagined that the bedroom door had opened a little. He thought he heard laughter and whispering inside. He flew into a frenzy and began striking the old woman’s head with all his strength. But with every blow of the axe, the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder. The old woman was shaking with laughter. He rushed to get away, but the passage was full of people. The apartment doors stood open. People crowded the landing, the stairs, and everywhere below. There were rows of heads, all watching, huddled together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart. His legs were rooted to the spot and would not move.... He tried to scream and woke up.

He drew a deep breath—but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.

He took a deep breath, but his dream seemed strangely to continue. His door flew open, and a man he had never seen before stood in the doorway, watching him intently.

Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring.

Raskolnikov had barely opened his eyes before he closed them again. He lay on his back without moving.

“Is it still a dream?” he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him.

“Is it still a dream?” he wondered. Again, he opened his eyes just a little. The stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him.

He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard.

He stepped cautiously into the room and carefully closed the door behind him. He went up to the table and paused for a moment, keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov. Then he sat down silently on the chair by the sofa. He put his hat on the floor beside him, rested his hands on his cane, and leaned his chin on them. Clearly, he was prepared to wait indefinitely. From his stolen glances, Raskolnikov could see that the man was no longer young and was stout. He had a full, fair beard that was almost white.

Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.

Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but dusk was beginning to fall. The room was completely silent. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a large fly buzzed and fluttered against the window. At last, it became unbearable. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.

“Come, tell me what you want.”

“Go on, tell me what you want.”

“I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. “Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to introduce myself....”

“I knew you weren’t asleep. You were just pretending,” the stranger replied oddly, laughing calmly. “Let me introduce myself. Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov....”