Prestuplenie i nakazanie. English by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
CHAPTER VI
"I don't believe it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying inperplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments.
They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgings, where PulcheriaAlexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihinkept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excitedby the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about_it_.
"Don't believe it, then!" answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, carelesssmile. "You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing everyword."
"You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words... h'm...certainly, I agree, Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and stillmore that wretch Zametov!... You are right, there was something abouthim--but why? Why?"
"He has changed his mind since last night."
"Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would dotheir utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch youafterwards.... But it was all impudent and careless."
"If they had had facts--I mean, real facts--or at least grounds forsuspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game,in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long agobesides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage--allambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out byimpudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurtedit out in his vexation--or perhaps he has some plan... he seems anintelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending toknow. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsomeexplaining it all. Stop!"
"And it's insulting, insulting! I understand you. But... since we havespoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last--Iam 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 aninsinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only youknew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student,unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe deliriousillness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul tospeak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has toface some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; andthe unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presentedby Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stiflingatmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a personwhere he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach--hemight well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found itall 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 alldirections, neatly too, and so I'd put an end to it. Damn them! Don't bedownhearted. It's a shame!"
"He really has put it well, though," Raskolnikov thought.
"Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?" he said withbitterness. "Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feelvexed as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in therestaurant...."
"Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, asone of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! Andas for Zametov..."
"At last he sees through him!" thought Raskolnikov.
"Stay!" cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. "Stay! youwere 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 haddone _that_, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat...and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even ifyou had seen it. Who would own it against himself?"
"If I had done _that thing_, I should certainly have said that I hadseen the workmen and the flat," Raskolnikov answered, with reluctanceand obvious disgust.
"But why speak against yourself?"
"Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices denyeverything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developedand experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external factsthat can't be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, willintroduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them anothersignificance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckonthat I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give anair of truth, and then make some explanation."
"But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have beenthere two days before, and that therefore you must have been there onthe day of the murder at eight o'clock. And so he would have caught youover a detail."
"Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time toreflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, andso would forget that the workmen could not have been there two daysbefore."
"But how could you forget it?"
"Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are mosteasily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that hewill be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simplerthe trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as youthink...."
"He is a knave then, if that is so!"
Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he wasstruck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagernesswith which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all thepreceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive,from 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 anunexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept onincreasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev's.
"Go in alone!" said Raskolnikov suddenly. "I will be back directly."
"Where are you going? Why, we are just here."
"I can't help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them."
"Say what you like, I will come with you."
"You, too, want to torture me!" he screamed, with such bitterirritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin's hands dropped.He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikovstriding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, grittinghis teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfirylike a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure PulcheriaAlexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence.
When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he wasbreathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into hisunlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terrorhe rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had putthe things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in thehole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got upand drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev's, hesuddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paperin 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 thenmight suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.
He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, halfsenseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and wentquietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamilythrough the gateway.
"Here he is himself," shouted a loud voice.
He raised his head.
The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointinghim out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coatand a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. Hestooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkledflabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat andthey looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.
"What is it?" Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at himattentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of thegate into the street without s
"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.
"Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned yourname and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out andhe went away. It's funny."
The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and afterwondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight ofhim walking along the other side of the street with the same even,deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though inmeditation. 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 mannoticed 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.
"You were inquiring for me... of the porter?" Raskolnikov said at last,but in a curiously quiet voice.
The man made no answer; he didn't even look at him. Again they were bothsilent.
"Why do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... What's themeaning of it?"
Raskolnikov's voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the wordsclearly.
The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look atRaskolnikov.
"Murderer!" he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.
Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, acold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still fora moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. Sothey walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
The man did not look at him.
"What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?" mutteredRaskolnikov hardly audibly.
"_You_ are a murderer," the man answered still more articulately andemphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he lookedstraight into Raskolnikov's pale face and stricken eyes.
They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the leftwithout looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing afterhim. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him stillstanding there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied thathe was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.
With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his wayback to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his capand 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 hestretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, someimages without order or coherence floated before his mind--faces ofpeople he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he wouldnever have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard tablein a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigarsin some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quitedark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and theSunday bells floating in from somewhere.... The images followed oneanother, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and triedto clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppressionwithin him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was evenpleasant.... The slight shivering still persisted, but that toowas an almost pleasant sensation.
He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes andpretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for sometime in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly intothe room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya'swhisper:
"Don't disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later."
"Quite so," answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed thedoor. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned onhis back again, clasping 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 thedoor--was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and youcan build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is itpossible?" He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak hehad 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 anaxe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I didknow!" he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at somethought.
"No, those men are not made so. The real _Master_ to whom all ispermitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, _forgets_ an army inEgypt, _wastes_ half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets offwith a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, andso _all_ is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh butof bronze!"
One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, thepyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker witha red trunk under her bed--it's a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch todigest! How can they digest it! It's too inartistic. "A Napoleon creepunder an old woman's bed! Ugh, how loathsome!"
At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverishexcitement. "The old woman is of no consequence," he thought, hotly andincoherently. "The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is notwhat matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry tooverstep.... I didn't kill a human being, but a principle! I killed theprinciple, but I didn't overstep, I stopped on this side.... I wasonly capable of killing. And it seems I wasn't even capable of that...Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They areindustrious, commercial people; 'the happiness of all' is their case.No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; Idon'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 motherstarving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the'happiness of all.' I am putting my little brick into the happiness ofall and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I onlylive once, I too want.... Ech, I am an aesthetic louse and nothingmore," he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. "Yes, I am certainly alouse," he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playingwith it with vindictive pleasure. "In the first place, because I canreason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have beentroubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not formy own fleshly lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and nobleobject--ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly aspossible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I pickedout the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as Ineeded for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have goneto a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that Iam utterly a louse," he added, grinding his teeth, "is that I amperhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and _I feltbeforehand_ that I should tell myself so _after_ killing her. Cananything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! Theabjectness! I understand the 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed:Allah commands and 'trembling' creation must obey! The 'prophet' isright, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows upthe innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It's for you toobey, trembling creation, and not _to have desires_, for that's not foryou!... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!"
His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, hiseyes were fixed on the ceiling.
"Mother, sister--how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hatethem, 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 herand think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? That's just whatI might do.... _She_ must be the same as I am," he added, straininghimself to think, as it were stru
He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't rememberhow he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallenand the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was apeculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in thestreet; workmen and business people were making their way home; otherpeople had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust andstagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he wasdistinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to dosomething in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly hestood 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 andwalked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign tohim. "Stay, did he really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered, but he triedto overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him andwas frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the longcoat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating;they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. "Does heknow I am following him?" thought Raskolnikov. The man went into thegateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked into see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yardthe man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov atonce followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must havegone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heardslow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangelyfamiliar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shonethrough the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then hereached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters wereat work... but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The stepsof the man above had died away. "So he must have stopped or hiddensomewhere." He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was astillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The sound of his ownfootsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must behiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, hehesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, asthough everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlourwhich was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, thechairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in theframes. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows."It's the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thoughtRaskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the moresilent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it waspainful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharpcrack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A flyflew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. Atthat moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the littlecupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is that cloakhere?" he thought, "it wasn't there before...." He went up to it quietlyand felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously movedthe cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bentdouble so that he couldn't see her face; but it was she. He stood overher. "She is afraid," he thought. He stealthily took the axe from thenoose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strangeto say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He wasfrightened, 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 upinto her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the oldwoman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doingher utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the doorfrom the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter andwhispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting theold woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axethe laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the oldwoman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but thepassage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on thelanding, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows ofheads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation.Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, theywould 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 thedoorway watching him intently.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed themagain. He lay on his back without stirring.
"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardlyperceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watchinghim.
He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door afterhim, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes onRaskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; heput his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his caneand his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to waitindefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolenglances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almostwhitish beard.
Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. Therewas complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs.Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It wasunbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.
"Come, tell me what you want."
"I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger answeredoddly, laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, allow me tointroduce myself...."
PART IV