Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  "Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it."

  "Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days."

  She laid emphasis on the word four.

  "Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?"

  "Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast heard Me."

  "And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me."

  "And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth."

  "And he that was dead came forth."

  (She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were seeing it before her eyes.)

  "Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go."

  "Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which Jesus did believed on Him."

  She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickly.

  "That is all about the raising of Lazarus," she whispered severely and abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle–end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty–stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been reading together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed.

  "I came to speak of something," Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it.

  "I have abandoned my family to–day," he said, "my mother and sister. I am not going to see them. I've broken with them completely."

  "What for?" asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and sister had left a great impression which she could not analyse. She heard his news almost with horror.

  "I have only you now," he added. "Let us go together… I've come to you, we are both accursed, let us go our way together!"

  His eyes glittered "as though he were mad," Sonia thought, in her turn.

  "Go where?" she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back.

  "How do I know? I only know it's the same road, I know that and nothing more. It's the same goal!"

  She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy.

  "No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have understood. I need you, that is why I have come to you."

  "I don't understand," whispered Sonia.

  "You'll understand later. Haven't you done the same? You, too, have transgressed… have had the strength to transgress. You have laid hands on yourself, you have destroyed a life… your own (it's all the same!). You might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you'll end in the Hay Market… But you won't be able to stand it, and if you remain alone you'll go out of your mind like me. You are like a mad creature already. So we must go together on the same road! Let us go!"

  "What for? What's all this for?" said Sonia, strangely and violently agitated by his words.

  "What for? Because you can't remain like this, that's why! You must look things straight in the face at last, and not weep like a child and cry that God won't allow it. What will happen, if you should really be taken to the hospital to–morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she'll soon die and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won't come to grief? Haven't you seen children here at the street corners sent out by their mothers to beg? I've found out where those mothers live and in what surroundings. Children can't remain children there! At seven the child is vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ: 'theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.' He bade us honour and love them, they are the humanity of the future…"

  "What's to be done, what's to be done?" repeated Sonia, weeping hysterically and wringing her hands.

  "What's to be done? Break what must be broken, once for all, that's all, and take the suffering on oneself. What, you don't understand? You'll understand later… Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all trembling creation and all the ant–heap!… That's the goal, remember that! That's my farewell message. Perhaps it's the last time I shall speak to you. If I don't come to–morrow, you'll hear of it all, and then remember these words. And some day later on, in years to come, you'll understand perhaps what they meant. If I come to–morrow, I'll tell you who killed Lizaveta… Good–bye."

  Sonia started with terror.

  "Why, do you know who killed her?" she asked, chilled with horror, looking wildly at him.

  "I know and will tell… you, only you. I have chosen you out. I'm not coming to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you out long ago to hear this, when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta was alive, I thought of it. Good–bye, don't shake hands. To–morrow!"

  He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But she herself was like one insane and felt it. Her head was going round.

  "Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It's awful!" But at the same time the idea did not enter her head, not for a moment! "Oh, he must be terribly unhappy!… He has abandoned his mother and sister… What for? What has happened? And what had he in his mind? What did he say to her? He had kissed her foot and said… said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he could not live without her… Oh, merciful heavens!"

  Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from time to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading the gospel and him… him with pale face, with burning eyes… kissing her feet, weeping.

  On the other side of the door on the right, which divided Sonia's room from Madame Resslich's flat, was a room which had long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the canal advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room's being uninhabited. But all that time Mr. Svidrigaïlov had been standing, listening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov went out he stood still, thought a moment, went on tiptoe to his own room which adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the door that led to Sonia's room. The conversation had struck him as interesting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it—so much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the future, to–morrow, for instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but might listen in comfort.

  CHAPTER V

  When next morning at eleven o'clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the department of the investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in to Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long: it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they would pounce upon him. But he stood in the waiting–room, and people, who apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro before him. In the next room which looked like an office, several clerks were sitting writing and obviously they had no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and suspiciously about him to see whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then other people, no one seemed to have any concern with him. He might go where he liked for them. The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have waited till he elected to appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet given information, or… or simply he knew nothin
g, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen anything?) and so all that had happened to him the day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling—and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that he ceased trembling at once; he made ready to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry Petrovitch.

  He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing–table, that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in the corner and several chairs—all government furniture, of polished yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov's entrance Porfiry Petrovitch had at once closed the door by which he had come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial and good–tempered air, and it was only after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of his reckoning or caught in something very secret.

  "Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are… in our domain"… began Porfiry, holding out both hands to him. "Come, sit down, old man… or perhaps you don't like to be called 'my dear fellow' and 'old man!'—tout court? Please don't think it too familiar… Here, on the sofa."

  Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. "In our domain," the apologies for familiarity, the French phrase tout court, were all characteristic signs.

  "He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one—he drew it back in time," struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away.

  "I brought you this paper… about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right or shall I copy it again?"

  "What? A paper? Yes, yes, don't be uneasy, it's all right," Porfiry Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after he had said it he took the paper and looked at it. "Yes, it's all right. Nothing more is needed," he declared with the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table.

  A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the table and put it on his bureau.

  "I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me… formally… about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?" Raskolnikov was beginning again. "Why did I put in 'I believe'" passed through his mind in a flash. "Why am I so uneasy at having put in that 'I believe'?" came in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. "It's bad, it's bad! I shall say too much again."

  "Yes, yes, yes! There's no hurry, there's no hurry," muttered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at one moment avoiding Raskolnikov's suspicious glance, then again standing still and looking him straight in the face.

  His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from one side to the other and rebounding back.

  "We've plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your own? Here, a cigarette!" he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. "You know I am receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my government quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to have some repairs done here. It's almost finished now… Government quarters, you know, are a capital thing. Eh, what do you think?"

  "Yes, a capital thing," answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost ironically.

  "A capital thing, a capital thing," repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as though he had just thought of something quite different. "Yes, a capital thing," he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps from him.

  This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor.

  But this stirred Raskolnikov's spleen more than ever and he could not resist an ironical and rather incautious challenge.

  "Tell me, please," he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. "I believe it's a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal tradition—for all investigating lawyers—to begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are cross–examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an unexpected knock–down blow with some fatal question. Isn't that so? It's a sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?"

  "Yes, yes… Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government quarters… eh?"

  And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes and winked; a good–humoured, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov's repulsion overcame all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing in his visitor's face and to be very little disturbed at the annoyance with which the visitor received it. The latter fact was very significant in Raskolnikov's eyes: he saw that Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarrassed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there must be something, some motive here unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and in another moment would break upon him…

  He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his cap.

  "Porfiry Petrovitch," he began resolutely, though with considerable irritation, "yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you for some inquiries" (he laid special stress on the word "inquiries"). "I have come and if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me to withdraw. I have no time to spare… I have to be at the funeral of that man who was run over, of whom you… know also," he added, feeling angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at his anger. "I am sick of it all, do you hear? and have long been. It's partly what made me ill. In short," he shouted, feeling that the phrase about his illness was still more out of place, "in short, kindly examine me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so in the proper form! I will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile, good–bye, as we have evidently nothing to keep us now."

  "Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?" cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. "Please don't disturb yourself," he began fidgeting from place to place and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. "There's no hurry, there's no hurry, it's all nonsense. Oh, no, I'm very glad you've come to see me at last… I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for my confounded laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? That is your name?… It's my nerves, you tickled me so with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with laughter like an india–rubber ball for half an hour at a time… I'm often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry…"


  Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap.

  "I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch," Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding his visitor's eyes. "You see, I'm a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not used to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I'm set, I'm running to seed and… and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before they can find a subject for conversation—they are dumb, they sit opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of conversation, ladies for instance… people in high society always have their subjects of conversation, c'est de rigueur, but people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue–tied and awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public interest, or whether it is we are so honest we don't want to deceive one another, I don't know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, it looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable… I am so delighted…"

  Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry Petrovitch. "Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly babble?"

  "I can't offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a friend?" Porfiry pattered on, "and you know all these official duties… please don't mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensable for me. I'm always sitting and so glad to be moving about for five minutes… I suffer from my sedentary life… I always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks, even Privy Councillors, may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern science… yes, yes… But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such formalities… you mentioned inquiries yourself just now… I assure you these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the interrogated… You made the observation yourself just now very aptly and wittily." (Raskolnikov had made no observation of the kind.) "One gets into a muddle! A regular muddle! One keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and we shall be called by a different name, at least, he–he–he! And as for our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that they begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so happily put it) and then deal him a knock–down blow, he–he–he!—your felicitous comparison, he–he! So you really imagined that I meant by 'government quarters'… he–he! You are an ironical person. Come. I won't go on! Ah, by the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But what's the use of formality? In many cases it's nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow me to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way, he–he–he!"