Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

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

  "Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud.

  "Yes. What then?"

  "Nothing."

  "How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossimov.

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

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

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

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

  "Yes. You've heard of it?"

  "Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood."

  "Do you know the details?"

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

  "There are many economic changes," put in Zossimov.

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

  "How do you mean?"

  "What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? 'Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.' I don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've grown used to having everything ready–made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck[1], and every man showed himself in his true colours."

  "But morality? And so to speak, principles…"

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

  "In accordance with my theory?"

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

  "Upon my word!" cried Luzhin.

  "No, that's not so," put in Zossimov.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "What's the matter with you?" cried Razumihin.

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

  "I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov.

  "So much the worse…"

  "Go to hell!"

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

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

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

  "Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.

  "But we can't leave him like this!"

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

  "It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated."

  "What's the matter with him?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya…"

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

  "Won't you have some tea now?" she asked.

  "Later! I am sleepy! Leave me."

  He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.

  CHAPTER VI

  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.

  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.

  From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market. A dark–haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame–coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on," and both moved on to the next shop.

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

  "I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject—"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings—they must be damp—when all the passers–by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind—you know what I mean?—and the street lamps shine through it…"

  "I don't know… Excuse me…" muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street.

  Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler's shop.

  "Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"

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

  "What's his name?"

  "What he was christened."

  "Aren't you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?"

  The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.

  "It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"

  "Is that a tavern at the top there?"

  "Yes, it's an eating–house and there's a billiard–room and you'll find princesses there too… La–la!"

  Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V.

  He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the market–place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so.

  Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating–houses; women were continually running in and out, bare–headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare–headed and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.

  He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below… someone could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement.

  "Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing,"

  trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.

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

  "Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive—the only one of the group.

  "Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.

  She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.

  "You're very nice looking yourself," she said.

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

  "They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are."

  "Go along with you!"

  "I'll go, sweetie!"

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

  "I say, sir," the girl shouted after him.

  "What is it?"

  She hesitated.

  "I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice young man!"

  Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen copecks.

  "Ah, what a good–natured gentleman!"

  "What's your name?"

  "Ask for Duclida."

  "Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking
her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame…"

  Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock–marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!… How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature!… And vile is he who calls him vile for that," he added a moment later.

  He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers… Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. "What if it is?" he thought.

  "Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter.

  "Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days, and I'll give you something."

  "Yes, sir, here's to–day's. No vodka?"

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

  "Oh, damn… these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski… a fire in the Petersburg quarter… another fire in the Petersburg quarter… and another fire in the Petersburg quarter… Ah, here it is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch–chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good–humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk.