Section 22 of Crime and Punishment. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Part 4, Chapter 2. It was nearly eight o'clock the two young men hurried to Bakalayev's to arrive before Luzhin. Why, who was that? Asked Razumihin as soon as they were in the street. It was Fidri Gailov, that landowner whose house my sister was insulted when she was their governess, through his persecuting her with his attention. She was turned out by his wife Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa Petrovna begged Donya's forgiveness afterwards, and she's just died suddenly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don't know why I'm afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife's funeral. He is very strange and is determined on doing something. We must guard Donya from him. That's what I wanted to tell you, do you hear? Guard her. What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya, for speaking to me like that. We will. We will guard her. Where does he live? I don't know. Why didn't you ask? What a pity. I'll find out, though. Did you see him? Asked Raskolnikov after a pause. Yes, I noticed him. I noticed him well. You really did see him? You saw him clearly? Raskolnikov insisted. Yes, I remember him perfectly. I should know him in a thousand. I have a good memory for faces. They were silent again. Hmm, that's all right. Mattered Raskolnikov. You know, I fancied. I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination. What do you mean? I don't understand you.  That I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and have only seen a phantom. What do you mean? Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that happened all these days may be only imagination. Ah, Rodia, you have been upset again. But what did he say? What did he come for? Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute. Now let me tell you my story. He began. I came to you. You were asleep. Then we had dinner, and then I went to Porfiris. Zamietov was still with him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn't speak in the right way. They don't seem to understand and can't understand, but are not a bit ashamed. I drew Porfiris to the window and began talking to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked away.  He merely looked at me. I cursed and came away. That was all.  To Zamietov I didn't say a word. But you see, I thought I'd made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me. Why should we trouble? Of course, if you were in any danger or anything, but why need you care? You needn't care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I'd mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they'd be afterwards. Hang them. We can thrash them afterwards, but let's laugh at them now. To be sure. Answered Raskolnikov. Well, what will you say tomorrow? He thought to himself. Strange to say, till that moment it had never occurred to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he knew. As he thought it, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin's account of his visit to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much had come and gone since then. In the corridor they came upon Luzhin. He had arrived punctually at eight, and he was looking for the number, so that all three went in together without greeting or looking at one another. The young man walked in first, while Piotr Petrovich, for good manners, lingered a little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Aleksandrovna came forward at once to greet him in the doorway. Dunia was welcoming her brother. Piotr Petrovich walked in, and quite amiable, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little put out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria Aleksandrovna, who seemed also a little embarrassed, hastened to make them all sit down at the round table where a Samovar was boiling. Dunia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides of the table. Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Aleksandrovna. Razumihin was next to Luzhin, and Raskolnikov was beside his sister. A moment's silence followed. Piotr Petrovich deliberately drew out a cumbrick handkerchief reeking of sand, and blew his nose with an air of a benevolent man who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to insist on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson, and make them feel the gravity of the position. But he could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure uncertainty, and he wanted an explanation. If his request had been so openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was better to find it out beforehand. It rested with him to punish them, and there would always be time for that. I trust you had a favourable journey. He inquired officially of Pulcheria Aleksandrovna. Oh, very, Piotr Petrovich. I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotia Ramanovna is not over fatigued, either? I am young and strong. I don't get tired, but it was a great strain for mother. That's unavoidable. Our national railways are of terrible length. Mother Russia, as they say, is a vast country. In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust all passed off without inconvenience. Oh, no, Piotr Petrovich. It was all terribly disheartening. Pulcheria Aleksandrovna hastened to declare with peculiar intonation. And if Dmitry Prokovich had not been sent us, I really believe by God himself we should have been utterly lost. Here he is. Dmitry Prokovich Razumihin. She added, introducing him to Luzhin. I had the pleasure, yesterday. Mothered Piotr Petrovich with a hostile glance, sighed long at Razumihin. Then he scowled and was silent. Piotr Petrovich belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very polite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but who, directly they are crossed in anything, are completely disconcerted and become more like sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society. Again all was silent. Raskolnikov was obstinately mute. Avdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the conversation too soon. Razumihin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria Aleksandrovna was anxious again. Mother Petrovna is dead, have you heard? She began having recourse to her leading item of conversation. To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed. And I have come to make you acquainted with the fact that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov set off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife's funeral. So at least I have excellent authority for believing. To Petersburg? Here! Dunya asked in alarm and looked at her mother. Yes indeed, and doubtless, not without some design, having in view the rapidity of his departure and all the circumstances preceding it. Good heavens! Won't he leave Dunya in pace even here? I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any grounds for uneasiness, unless of course you are yourselves desirous of getting into communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and am now discovering where he is lodging. Oh, Piotr Petrovich, you would not believe what a fright you have given me! Pulcheria Aleksandrovna went on. I've only seen him twice, but I thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of Marfa Petrovna's death. It's impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I do not dispute that he may have contributed to accelerate the course of events by the moral influence, so to say, of the affront. But as to the general conduct and moral characteristics of that personage, I am in agreement with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him. This will be known to me within a very short period. But no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any pecuniary resources, he will relapse at once into his old ways. He is the most depraved and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was so unfortunate as to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years ago, was of service to him also in another way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a criminal charge involving an element of fantastic and homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to Siberia was hushed up. That's the sort of man he is, if you care to know. Good heavens! cried Pulcheria Aleksandrovna, Raskolnikov listened attentively. Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of this? Dunya asked sternly and emphatically. I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman called Reslih, a foreigner who lent small sums of money at interest and did other commissions. And with this woman Svidrigailov had for a long while close and mysterious relations.  Reslih hated this girl and grudged her every crust. She used to beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but later on information was given that the child had been cruelly outraged by Svidrigailov. It is true this was not clearly established. The information was given by another German woman of loose character whose word could not be trusted. No statement was actually made to the police thanks to Marfa Petrovna's money and exertions. It did not get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant one. You heard, no doubt Avdotia Romanovna, when you were with them, the story of the servant Philip, who died of ill treatment he received six years ago before the abolition of serfdom. I heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself. Quite so. But what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him to suicide, was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr. Svidrigailov. I don't know that. Answered Dunia dryly.  The servants used to say he read himself silly, and that he hanged himself partly on account of Mr. Svidrigailov's mockery of him, and not his blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they were actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for Philip's death. I perceive, Avdotia Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his defense all of a sudden. Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into an ambiguous smile. There's no doubt that he is an astute man, and insinuating where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part, it's my firm conviction that he will end in a debtor's prison again. Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling anything substantial on him, having regard for his children's interests, and if she left him anything, it would only be the merest sufficiency, something insignificant and ephemeral, which would not last a year for a man of his habits. Piotr Petrovich, I beg you. Said Dunya. Say no more of Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me miserable. He has just been to see me. Said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time. There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to him. Even Piotr Petrovich was roused. An hour and a half ago he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and introduced himself. Raskolnikov continued. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand rubles in her will, Dunya, and that you can receive the money very shortly. Thank God! cried Pulcheria Aleksandrovna, crossing herself. Pray for her soul, Dunya. It's a fact. Broke from Luzhin. Tell us what more. Dunya urged Raskolnikov. He said that he wasn't rich and all that estate was left to his children, who are now with an aunt. Then that he was staying somewhere, not far from me. But where I don't know, I didn't ask. But what? What does he want to propose to Dunya? Cried Pulcheria Aleksandrovna in a fright. Did he tell you? Yes. What was it? I'll tell you afterwards. Raskolnikov ceased speaking, and turned his attention to his tea. Piotr Petrovich looked at his watch. I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in your way. He added with an air of some peak, and he began getting up. Don't go, Piotr Petrovich. Said Dunya. You intended to spend the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an explanation with mother. Precisely so, Avdotia Ramanovna. Piotr Petrovich answered impressively, sitting down again, but still holding his head. I certainly desired an explanation with you and your honoured mother, upon a very important point indeed. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence of some proposals of Mr. Svidrigailov, I too do not desire, and am not able to speak openly, in the presence of others, of certain matters of the greatest gravity. Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been disregarded. Assuming an aggrieved air loosing relapsed into dignified silence. Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was disregarded solely at my instance. Said Dunya. You wrote that you had been insulted by my brother. I think that this must be explained at once, and you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted you, then he should and will apologise. Piotr Petrovich took a stronger line. There are insults, Avdotia Ramanovna, which no good will can make us forget. There is a line in everything, which it is dangerous to overstep. And when it has been overstepped, there is no return. That wasn't what I was speaking of exactly, Piotr Petrovich. Dunya interrupted with some impatience. Please understand, as our whole future depends now on whether all this is explained and set right as soon as possible. I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at it in any other light. And if you have the least regard for me, all this business must be ended today. However hard that may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame, he will ask your forgiveness. I am surprised at your putting the question like that. Saturin getting more and more irritated. Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you. I may at the same time very well indeed be able to dislike some member of your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I cannot accept duties incompatible with... Ah, don't be so ready to take offence, Piotr Petrovich. Dunya interrupted with feeling. And be the sensible and generous man I have always considered and wished to consider you to be. I've given you a great promise. I am your betroaded. Trust me in this matter, and believe me, I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of judge is as much as a prize for my brother as for you. When I insisted on his coming to our interview today after your letter, I told him nothing over what I meant to do. Understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose between you. It must be either you or he. That is how the question rests on your side and on his. I don't want to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be.  For my brother's sake, I must break off with you. I can find out for certain now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it.  Avdotya Romanovna, Wozhin declared happily, Your words are of too much consequence to me. I will say more, they are offensive in view of the position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy, you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. You say you or he, showing thereby of how little consequence I am in your eyes. I cannot let this pass, considering the relationship and the obligations existing between us. What? cried Dunya, flushing.  Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but Piotr Petrovich did not accept the reproof. On the contrary, at every word he became more persistent and irritable as though he relished it. Love for the future partner of your life? for your husband? ought to outweigh your love for your brother? He pronounced sententiously. And in any case, I cannot be put on the same level. Although I said so emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother's presence, nevertheless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a necessary explanation on a point of great importance, closely affecting my dignity. Your son? He turned to Pulharie Aleksandrovna. Yesterday, in the presence of Mr. Razutkin, or I think that's it, excuse me, I have forgotten your surname. He bowed politely to Razumihin. Insulted me by misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation drinking coffee. That is, that marriage with a poor girl who has had experience of trouble is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than with one who has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally exaggerated the significance of my words and made them ridiculous accusing me of malicious intentions and, as far as I could see, relied upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulharie Aleksandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of an opposite conclusion and thereby considerably reassure me. Kindly let me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Radion Ramanovich. I don't remember. Faulted Pulharie Aleksandrovna. I repeated them as I understood them. I don't know how Rodja repeated them to you, perhaps he exaggerated. He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation. Pyotr Petrovich Pulharie Aleksandrovna declared with dignity the proof that Dunya and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here. Good mother, said Dunya approvingly. Then this is my fault again, said Luzhin, aggrieved. Well, Pyotr Petrovich, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have just written what was false about him. Pulharie Aleksandrovna added, gaining courage. I don't remember writing anything false. You wrote, Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin. That I gave money yesterday, not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was the fact, but to his daughter, whom I had never seen till yesterday. You wrote this to make dissension between me and my family, and for that object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you don't know. All that is mean slander. Excuse me, sir, said Luzhin, quivering with fury. I enlarged upon your qualities and conduct in my letter, solely in response to your sister's and mother's inquiries, how I found you, and what impression you made on me. As for what you've alluded to in my letter, be so good as to point out one word of falsehood. Show, that is, that you didn't throw away your money and that there are not worthless persons in that family, however unfortunate.   I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down to-day with mother and Donya. Rodya! cried Pulcheri Aleksandrovna. Donya crimsoned, resuming him knitted his brows, Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm. You may see for yourself, Avdotia Ramanovna, he said. Whether it is possible for us to agree, I hope now that this question is at an end once and for all. I will withdraw that I may not hinder the pleasures of family intimacy and the discussion of secrets. He got up from his chair and took his hat. But in withdrawing I venture to request that for the future I may be spared similar meetings and, so to say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honoured Pulcheri Aleksandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter was addressed to you and to no one else. Pulcheri Aleksandrovna was a little offended. You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Piotr Petrovich. Donya has told you the reason your desire was disregarded. She had the best intentions. And indeed you write as though you were laying commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a command? Let me tell you, on the contrary, that you ought to show particular delicacy and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up everything and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case, in a sense, in your hands. That is not quite true, Pulcheri Aleksandrovna, especially at the present moment when the news has come of Marfa Petrovna's legacy, which seems indeed very apropos, judging from the new tone you take to me. He added sarcastically. Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were reckoning on our helplessness. Donya observed irritably. But now, in any case, I cannot reckon on it. And I particularly desire not to hinder your discussion of the secret proposals of Arkady Ivanovich Svidikailov, which he has entrusted to your brother, and which have, I perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest for you. Good heavens! cried Pulcheri Aleksandrovna. Razumihin could not sit still on his chair. Aren't you ashamed now, sister? asked Raskolnikov. I am ashamed, Rodja. said Dunya. Piotr Petrovich, go away. She turned to him, wide with anger. Piotr Petrovich had apparently not at all expected such a conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his power, and in the helplessness of his victims. He could not believe it, even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered. Adotia Romanovna. If I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal, then you may reckon on it, I will never come back. Consider what you are doing. My word is not to be shaken. What an insolence! cried Dunya, springing up from her seat. I don't want you to come back again. What? So that's how it stands. cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the last moment to believe in the rupture, and so completely thrown out of his reckoning now. So that's how it stands. But do you know, Adotia Romanovna, that I might protest? What right have you to speak to her like that? Bulgaria Alexandrovna intervened hotly. And what can you protest about? What rights have you? Am I to give my Dunya to a man like you?  We are to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above all. But you have bound me, Bulgaria Alexandrovna. Luzhin stormed in a frenzy. By your promise. And now you deny it. And besides, I have been led, on account of that, into expenses. This last complaint was so characteristic of Piotr Petrovich that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But Bulgaria Alexandrovna was furious. Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound you. What are you thinking about, Piotr Petrovich? It was you bound us, hand and foot, not we. Enough, mother. No more, please. Adotia Romanovna implored. Piotr Petrovich, do be kind and go. I am going, but one last word. He said, quite unable to control himself. Your mama seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all over the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might very well reckon on a fitting return and might indeed look for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now been opened. I see myself that I may have acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict. Does the fellow want his head smashed? Kraitrasumihin jumping up. You are a mean and spiteful man. Kraitdunya. Not a word, not a movement. Kraitraskolnikov holding Razumihin back, then going close up to Ruzhin. Kindly leave the room. He said quietly and distinctly. And not a word more, or...? Piotr Petrovich gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that worked with anger. Then he turned, went out, and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against Razkolnikov. Him and him alone he blamed for everything. It is noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps not utterly lost and that, as far as the ladies were concerned, all might. Very well, indeed. Be said right again. He had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that the two destitute and defenseless women could escape from his control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. Piotr Petrovich, who had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and capacities and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he had amassed by his labor and by all sorts of devices. That money made him the equal of all who had been his superiors. When he had bitterly reminded Dunya that he had decided to take her in spite of evil report, Piotr Petrovich had spoken with perfect sincerity and had indeed felt genuinely indignant at such. And yet, when he made Dunya his offer, he was fully aware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere contradicted by Marfa Petrovna and was, by then, disbelieved by all the townspeople who were warm in Dunya's defence. And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution in lifting Dunya to his level and regarded it as something heroic. In speaking of it to Dunya, he had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear agreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised. Dunya was simply essential to him. To do without her was unthinkable. For many years he had had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish in profound secret over the image of a girl. Virtuous, poor, she must be poor, very young, very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one who had suffered much and was completely humbled before him, one who would all her life look on him as her saviour, worship him, admire him, and only him. How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme when his work was over. And, behold, the dream of so many years was all but realised. The beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him. Her helpless position had been a great allurement. In her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to his own, he felt that, and this creature would be slavishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension and would humble herself in the dust before him and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her. Not long before he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now entering on a wider circle of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely to be realised. He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might make his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an oriole around him and now everything was in ruins. This sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder. It was like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, been carried away and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dunya in his own way. He already possessed her in his dreams and all at once? No. The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all, he must crush that conceited milk-sup who was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin, too, but he soon reassured himself on that score, as though a fellow like that could be put on a level with him. The man he really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigailov. He had, in short, a great deal to attend to. No, I... I am more to blame than any one.  I was tempted by his money, but on my honour, brother, I had no idea he was such a baseman. If I had seen through him before, nothing would have tempted me. Don't blame me, brother. God has delivered us. God has delivered us. Pulcheria Aleksandrovna mattered, but health-consciously, as though scarcely able to realise what had happened. They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now and then Dunya turned white and frowned, remembering what had passed. Pulcheria Aleksandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad. She had only that morning thought rapture with Wilhelm a terrible misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement, as though a ton weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them. Anything might happen now. But he felt afraid to think of further possibilities, and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost solemn and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had happened. Dunya could not help thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria Aleksandrovna watched him timidly. What did Svidragailov say to you? said Dunya, approaching him. Yes, yes, cried Pulcheria Aleksandrovna. Raskolnikov raised his head. He wants to make you a present of ten thousand rubles, and he desires to see you once in my presence. See her? On no account! cried Pulcheria Aleksandrovna. And how dare he offer her money! Then Raskolnikov repeated, rather dryly, his conversation with Svidragailov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk. What answer did you give him? asked Dunya. At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without my help. He assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation. Now he has no feeling for you. He doesn't want you to marry Lurin. His talk was altogether rather muddled. How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you? I must confess I don't quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and in ten minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says he is going to be married, and is already fixed on the girl. No doubt he has a motive, and probably a bad one. But it's odd that he should be so clumsy about it if he had any designs against you. Of course I refuse this money on your account, once for all. Altogether I thought him very strange. One might almost think he was mad. But I may be mistaken. That may only be the part he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great impression on him. God rest her soul! exclaimed Bulgaria Alexandrovna. I shall always, always pray for her. Where should we be now, Dunya, without this three thousand? It's as though it had fallen from heaven. Why, Rodya, this morning we had only three rubles in our pocket, and Dunya and I were just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from that man, until he offered help. Dunya seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov's offer. She still stood, meditating. He has got some terrible plan. She said, in a half whisper to herself, almost shuddering, and as Kolynikov noticed this disproportionate terror. I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again. He said to Dunya, We will watch him. I will trek him out. cried Razumihin vigorously. I won't lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. He said to me, himself, just now, take care of my sister. Will you give me leave, too, Avdotya Romanovna? Dunya smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave her face. Bulgaria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand rubles had obviously a soothing effect on her. A quarter of an hour later they were all engaged in a lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time, though he did not talk. Razumihin was the speaker. And why? Why should you go away? He flowed on ecstatically. And what are you to do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here together and you need one another. You do need one another, believe me, for a time, anyway. Take me into partnership and I assure you we'll plan a capital enterprise. Listen, I'll explain it all in detail to you, the whole project. It all flashed into my head this morning before anything had happened. I tell you what. I have an uncle. I must introduce him to you, a most accommodating and respectable old man. This uncle has got a capital of a thousand rubles. And he lives on his pension and has no need of that money. For the last two years he has been bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six percent interest. I know what that means. He simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we have enough for a start so we'll go into partnership. And what are we going to do? Then Razumihin began to unfold his project and he explained at length that almost all publishers and booksellers knew nothing at all of what they were selling. And for that reason they are usually bad publishers and that any decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumihin had indeed been dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had been working in a publisher's office and knew three European languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days before that he was schwa in German with an object of persuading him to take half his translation and half the payment for it. He had told a lie then and Raskolnikov knew he was lying. Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief means of success, money of our own? cried Razumihin warmly. Of course there will be a lot of work, but we will work. You, Avdoty Romanovna, I, Rodion, you get a splendid profit on some books nowadays and the great point of the business is that we shall know just what wants translating and we shall be translating, publishing, learning all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I've been scuttling about among the publishers and now I know every detail of their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me. And why, why should we let our chance slip? Why, I know, and I kept the secret, two or three books which one might get a hundred rubles simply for thinking of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he'd hesitate. They are such blockheads. And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling you trust to me, I know my way about. We'll begin in a small way and we go on to a large. In any case, it will get us our living and we shall get back our capital. Dunya's eyes shone. I like what you're saying, Dimitri Prokofic. She said, I know nothing about it, of course. Put in Pulcher de Alexandrovna. It may be a good idea, but again, God knows. It's new and untried. Of course, we must remain here, at least for a time. She looked at Rodya. What do you think, brother? Said Dunya. I think he's got a very good idea. He answered. Of course, it's too soon to dream of a publishing firm. But we certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself, which would be sure to go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there's no doubt about that, either. He knows the business. But we can talk it over later. Hurrah! Could I try zooming in? Now, stay. There's a flat here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It's a special flat apart, not communicating with these lodgings. It's furnished, rent-moderate, three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I'll pawn your watch tomorrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But where are you off to, Rodya? What? Rodya, are you going already? Pulheria Alexandrovna asked in dismay. At such a minute! cried Razumihin. Dunya looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in his hand. He was preparing to leave them. One would think you were burying me or saying goodbye forever. He said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a smile. But who knows? Perhaps it is the last time we shall see each other. He let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow was uttered aloud.  Where are you going, Rodya? asked Dunya, rather strangely. Oh, I'm quite obliged to. He answered vaguely, as though hesitating what he would say. But there was a look of sharp determination at his white face. I meant to say, as I was coming here, I meant to tell you, mother, and you, Dunya, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I feel ill. I am not at peace. I will come afterwards. I will come of myself. When it's possible. I remember you and love you. Leave me. Leave me alone. I decided this even before. I'm absolutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether. It's better. Don't inquire after me. When I can, I'll come of myself, or I'll sin for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now, if you love me, give me up. Else I shall begin to hate you. I feel it. Goodbye. Good God! cried Pulcheria Aleksandrovna. Both his mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also. Roger, Roger! Be reconciled with us. Let us be as before. cried his poor mother. He turned slowly to the door, and slowly went out of the room. Dunya overtook him. Brother, what are you doing to mother? she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation. He looked dolly at her. No matter, I shall come. I'm coming. He muttered in an undertone, as though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the room. Wicked, heartless, egotist! cried Dunya. He is insane. But not heartless. He is mad. Don't you see it? You're heartless after that. Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. I shall be back directly. He shouted to the chorus-stricken mother, and she ran out of the room. Laskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage. I knew you would run after me. He said, Go back to them. Be with them. Be with them tomorrow and always. Perhaps I shall come. If I can. Goodbye. And without holding out his hand, he walked away. But where are you going? What are you doing? What's the matter with you? How can you go on like this? Razumihin mattered at his wit's end. Laskolnikov stopped once more. Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you. Don't come to see me. Maybe I'll come here. Leave me, but don't leave them. Do you understand me? It was dark in the corridor. They were standing near the lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihin remembered that minute all his life.  Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between them. Some idea, some hint, as it were, slipped. Something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides. Razumihin turned pale. Do you understand now? said Laskolnikov, his face twitching nervously. Go back. Go to them. He said suddenly, and turning quickly he went out of the house. I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodia needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodia was sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consultation. In fact, from that evening Razumihin took his place with them as a son and a brother. It was an old green house of three stories. He found the porter and obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of Kapernaumov, the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to the second floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second story over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov's door, Kaper opened three paces from him. He mechanically took hold of it. Who is there? A woman's voice asked uneasily. It's I. Come to see you. Answered Raskolnikov and he went into the tiny entry on a broken chair to the candle in a battered copper candlestick. It's you, good heavens! cried Sonya weakly and she stood, rooted to the spot. Which is your room, this way? And Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, hastened in. A minute later Sonya, too, came in with the candle, sat down the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The color rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came into her eyes.  Raskolnikov turned away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance. It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only one left by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall on the left. In the opposite side, on the right-hand wall, was another door, always kept locked. This led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging. Sonya's room looked like a barn. It was a very irregular quadrangle, and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out onto the canal ran as land, so that one corner formed a very acute angle and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light. The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in the big room, and the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal-table covered by a blue cloth against the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Two rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall, near the acute angle, stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers, looking, as it were, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wallpaper was black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was every sign of poverty, even the bedstead had no curtain. Sonja looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and unceremoniously scrutinizing her room, and even began at last to tremble with terror, as though she was standing before her judge and the arbiter of her destinies. I am late. It's eleven, isn't it? He asked, still not lifting his eyes. Yes. Mattered Sonja. Oh, yes, it is. She added hastily, as though in that lay her means of escape. My landlady's clock has just struck. I heard it myself. I have come to you for the last time. Raskolnikov went on gloomily, although this was the first time. I may perhaps not see you again. Are you going away? I don't know. Tomorrow. Then you are not coming to Caterina Ivanovna tomorrow? Sonja's voice shook. I don't know. I shall know tomorrow morning. Never mind that. I've come to say one word. He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting down while she was all the while standing before him. Why are you standing? Sit down. He said in a changed voice, gentle and friendly. She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her. How thin you are! What a hand!  He took her hand. Sonja smiled faintly. I have always been like that. She said, Even when you lived at home? Yes. Of course you were. He added abruptly and the expression of his face and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly. He looked round him once more. You rent this room from the Cap-Eirna-Umoffs? Yes. They lived there through that door? Yes. They have another room like this. All in one room? Yes. I should be afraid in your room at night. He observed gloomily. They are very good people, very kind. Answered Sonja, who still seemed bewildered. And all the furniture, everything, everything is theirs. And they are very kind. And the children, too, often come to see me. They all stammer, don't they? Yes. He stammers and he's lame. And his wife, too. It's not exactly that she stammers, but she can't speak plainly. She is a very kind woman. And he used to be a house-surf. And there are seven children. And it's only the eldest one that stammers. And the others are simply ill. But they don't stammer. But where did you hear about them? She added with some surprise. Your father told me then. He told me all about you. And how you went out at six o'clock and came back at nine and how Caterina Yvonne-Opna knelt down by your bed. Sonja was confused. I fancied I saw him today. She whispered hesitatingly. Whom? Father. I wasn't sure. I was walking in the street out there at the corner, about ten o'clock. And he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I wanted to go to Caterina Yvonne-Opna. You were walking in the streets? Yes. Sonja whispered abruptly, again, overcome with confusion and looking down.  Oh, no. What are you saying? No. Sonja looked at him almost with dismay. You love her, then? Love her, of course. Said Sonja with plaintive emphasis, and she clasped her hands in distress.  Her mind is quite unhinged, you see, from sorrow. And how clever she used to be. How generous. How kind. Ah, you don't understand. You don't understand. Sonja said this as though in despair, wringing her hands in excitement and distress. Her pale cheeks flushed. There was a look of anguish in her eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the very depths, that she was longing to speak, to champion, to express something. A sort of insatiable compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in every feature of her face. Beat me? How can you? Good heavens, beat me. And if she did beat me, what then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it. She is so unhappy. Oh, how unhappy and ill. She is seeking righteousness, she is pure. She has such faith that there must be righteousness everywhere, and she expects it. And if you were to torture her, she wouldn't do wrong. She doesn't see that it's impossible for people to be righteous, and she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is good. And what will happen to you? Sonja looked at him inquiringly. They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands before, though. And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well, how will it be now? I don't know. Sonja articulated mournfully. Will they stay there? I don't know. They are in debt for lodging, but the landlady here said the day that she wanted to get rid of them, and Caterina of Onimna says that she won't stay another minute. How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you. Oh, no, don't talk like that. We are one. We live like one. Sonja was agitated again and even angry, as though a cannery or some other little bird were to be angry. And what could she do? What could she do? She persisted, getting hot and excited. And how she cried today. Her mind is unhinged, haven't you noticed it? At one minute she is worrying like a child that everything should be right tomorrow, the lunch and all that. Then she is wringing her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all at once she will begin knocking her head against the wall in despair. Then she will be comforted again.  She says that you will help her now, and she will borrow a little money somewhere and go to her native town with me and set up a boarding school for the daughters of gentlemen and take me to superintendent. We will begin a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts me. And you know she has such faith, such faith in her fancies. One can't contradict her. And all the day long she has been washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with her feeble hands and sank on the bed, gasping for breath. We went this morning to the shops to buy shoes for Polinka and Lida for theirs are quite worn out. Only the money we'd reckon wasn't enough, not nearly enough. And she picked out such dear little boots for she has taste you don't know. And there in the shop she burst out crying before the shopman because she hadn't enough. I was sad to see her. Well, after that I can understand your living like this. As Kolnikov said with a bitter smile. And aren't you sorry for them, aren't you sorry? Sonia flew at him again.  And if you'd seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how often I've brought her to tears. Only last week, yes I, only a week before his death. He was cruel and how often I've done it. I've been wretched at the thought of it all day. Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it. You were cruel? Yes, I, I, I went to see them. She went on weeping. And father said, Read me something, Sonia. My headaches read to me. Here's a book. He had a book he had got from Andrei Semyonovich Lebsiyatnikov. He lives there. He always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said, I can't stay. As I didn't want to read. And I'd gone in chiefly to show Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lisa Vietta, the peddler, sold me some collars and cuffs cheap. Pretty new, embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much. She put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was delighted with them. Make me a present of them, Sonia. She said, please do. She said she wanted them so much. And when could she wear them? They just reminded her of her old happy days. She looked at herself in the glass, admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no things of her own, hasn't had all these years. And she never asks anyone for anything. She is proud. She'd sooner give away everything. And these she asked for. She liked them so much. And I was sorry to give them. What use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna, I said? I spoke like that to her. I ought not to have said that. She gave me such a look. And she was so grieved. So grieved by refusing her. And it was so sad to see. And she was not grieved for the collars. But for my refusing I saw that. If only I could bring it all back. Change it. Take back those words. But it's nothing to you. Did you know Lisa Vietta, the peddler? Yes. Did you know her? Sonia asked with some surprise. Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption. Rapid consumption.  Zedraskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question. Oh no, no, no. And Sonia unconsciously clutched both her hands as though imploring that she should not. But it will be better if she does die. No, not better. Not at all better. Sonia unconsciously repeated in dismay. And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you? I don't know. Cried Sonia almost in despair, and she put her hands to her head. It was evident that the idea had very often occurred to her before and he had only roused it again. And what if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, you get ill and are taken to the hospital. What will happen then? He persisted pitilessly. How can you? That cannot be. And Sonia's face worked with awful terror. Cannot be? Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. You are not insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They will be in the street, all of them.  Then she will fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital.  And the children? Oh no, God will not let it be. Broke at last from Sonia's overburdened bosom. She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands in dumb entreaty, as though it all depended upon him. Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A minute passed. Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible dejection. And can't you save? Put by for a rainy day. He asked, stopping suddenly before her. No. Whispered Sonia. Of course not, have you tried? He added, almost ironically. Yes. And it didn't come off. Of course not, no need to ask. And again he paced the room. Another minute passed. You don't give money every day. Sonia was more confused than ever and color rushed into her face again. No. She whispered with a painful effort. It will be the same with Polinka, no doubt. He said suddenly. No, no, it can't be. No. Sonia cried aloud in desperation as though she had been stabbed. God would not allow anything so awful. Others come to it. No. No God will protect her. God. She repeated beside herself. But perhaps there is no God at all. Raskolnikov answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked at her. Sonia's face suddenly changed. A tremor passed over it. She looked at him with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not speak and broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands. You say. Katarina Ivanovna's mind is unhinged. Your own mind is unhinged. He said after a brief silence. Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not looking at her. At last he went up to her. His eyes glittered. He put his two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful face. His eyes were hard, feverish and piercing. His lips were twitching. At once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground kissed her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman and certainly he looked like a madman. What are you doing to me? She muttered, turning pale and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart. He stood up at once. I did not bow down to you. I bowed down to all the suffering of humanity. He said wildly and walked away to the window. Listen. He was turning to her a minute later. I said just now to an insolent man that he was not worth your little finger and that I did my sister honour making her sit beside you. You said that to them and in her presence. Cried Sonia, frightened. Sit down with me and honour why I'm dishonourable. Why did you say that? It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you but because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that's true. He added almost solemnly.  Isn't that fearful? Isn't it fearful that you are living in this filth which you loathe so and at the same time you know yourself? You've only to open your eyes that you are not helping anyone by it. Not saving anyone from anything. Tell me. How this shame and degradation can exist in you side by side with other opposite, holy feelings. It would be better, a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and end it all. But what would become of them? Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with eyes of anguish but not seeming surprised at his suggestion. Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face. So she must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly that now she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty of his words, the significance of his approaches and his peculiar attitude to her shame she had of course not noticed either. And that too was clear to him. But he saw how monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shameful position was torturing her and had long tortured her. What? What? He thought. Could hitherto have hindered her from putting an end to it?  But nevertheless it was clear to him again that with her character and the amount of education she had after all received she could not in any case remain so. He was still confronted by the question how could she have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind since she could not bring herself to jump into the water. Of course he knew that Sonia's position was an exceptional case, though unhappily not unique and not infrequent indeed. But that very exceptionalness, her tinge of education, her previous life, might, one would have thought, have killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her up? Surely not depravity. All that infamy had obviously only touched her mechanically. Not one drop of real depravity had penetrated to her heart. He saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him. There are three ways before her. He thought. The canal, the mad house, or at last a sink into depravity which obscures the mind and turns the heart to stone. The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a skeptic. He was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, so he could not help believing that the last end was the most likely. But can that be true? He cried to himself. Can that creature who has still preserved the purity of her spirit consciously drawn at last into that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the process already have begun? Can it be that she has only been able to bear it till now? Because vice has begun to be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be. He cried as Sonya had just before. No. What has kept her from the canal till now is the idea of sin, and they, the children. And if she has not gone out of her mind, but who says she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her senses? Can one talk? Can one reason as she does? How can she sit on the edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is slipping and refuse to listen when she is told of danger? Does she expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn't that all mean madness? He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation indeed better than any other. He began looking more intently at her. So you prayed to God a great deal, Sonya? He asked her. Sonya did not speak. He stood beside her, waiting for an answer. What should I be without God? She whispered rapidly, forcibly, glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes and squeezing his hand. Ah, so that is it? He thought. And what does God do for you? He asked, probing her further. Sonya was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak chest kept heaving with emotion. Be silent, don't ask. You don't deserve. She cried suddenly, looking sternly and dreadfully at him. That's it. That's it. He repeated to himself. He does everything. She whispered quickly, looking down again. That's the way out. That's the explanation. He decided, scrutinizing her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almost morbid feeling. He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular, angular little face, those soft blue eyes which could flash with such fire, such stern energy. That little body still shaking with indignation and anger, and it still seemed to him more and more strange, almost impossible. She is a religious maniac. He repeated to himself. There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it every time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and looked at it. It was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It was bound in leather, old and worn. Where did you get that? He called to her across the room. She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table. It was brought me. She answered, as it were unwillingly, not looking at him. Who brought it? Zavieta. I asked her for it. Zavieta? Strange. He thought. Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn over the pages. Where is the story of Lazarus? He asked suddenly. Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was standing sideways to the table. Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia. You are not looking in the right place. It's in the fourth gospel. She whispered sternly, without looking at him. Find it and read it to me. He said. He sat down with his elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to listen. In three weeks' time they'll welcome me in the madhouse. I shall be there if I am not in a worse place. He muttered to himself. Sonia heard Raskolnikov's request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly to the table. She took the book, however. Haven't you read it? She asked, looking up at him across the table. Her voice became sterner and sterner. Long ago, when I was in school, read. And haven't you heard it in church? I haven't been. Do you often go? No. Whispered Sonia. Raskolnikov smiled. I understand. And you won't go to your father's funeral tomorrow. Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too. I had a requiem service. For whom? For Liza Vietta. She was killed with an axe. His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round. Were you friends with Liza Vietta? Yes. She was good. She used to come, not often. She couldn't. We used to read together and talk. She will see God. The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new again. The mysterious meeting with Liza Vietta. And both of them religious maniacs. I shall be a religious maniac myself soon. It's infectious. Read. He cried irritably and insistently. Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the unhappy lunatic. What for? You don't believe? She whispered softly and as it were breathlessly. Read, I want you to. He persisted. You used to read to Liza Vietta. Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking. Her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the first syllable. Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany. She forced herself at last to read. But at the third word her voice broke like an overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath. Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read to him. And the more he saw this, the more roughly and irritably he insisted on her doing so. He understood only too well how painful it was for her to betray and unveil all that was her own. He understood that these feelings really were her secret treasure, which she had kept perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief in the midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches. But at the same time he knew now and knew for certain that although it filled her with dread and suffering, yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to him that he might hear it and to read now whatever might come of it. He read this in her eyes. He could see it in her intense emotion. She mastered herself, controlled the spasm in her throat, and went on reading the eleventh chapter of St. John. She went on to the nineteenth verse. And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning their brother. Then Martha, as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming, went and met him, but Mary sat still in the house. Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hast been here, my brother had not died, but I know that even now whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee. Then she stopped again with a shame-faced feeling that her voice would quiver and break again. Jesus said unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die, believeth thou this? She saith unto him. And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as though she were making a public confession of faith. Yea, Lord, I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world. She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling herself went on reading. Raskolnikov said without moving, his elbows on the table and his eyes turned away. She read to the thirty-second verse. Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. When Jesus therefore saw her weeping and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit and was troubled and said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto him, Lord, come and see. Jesus wept. Then said the Jews, behold, how he loved him. And some of them said, could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died? Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, he had known it. She was trembling in a real physical fever. He had expected it. She was getting near the story of the greatest miracle, and a feeling of immense triumph came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell. Triumph and joy gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she was reading by heart. At the last verse, Could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, Dropping her voice she passionately reproduced the doubt, Roach and Sanger of the blind, this believing Jews, Who in another moment would fall at his feet, As though struck by thunder, sobbing and believing. And he, he too, is blinded and unbelieving. He too will hear. He too will believe. Yes, yes, at once, now. Was what she was dreaming, and she was quivering with happy anticipation. Jesus, therefore again groaning in himself, Comeeth 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 for. Jesus saith unto her, Said I not, unto thee, that if thou wouldest believe, Thou shouldst see the glory of God. Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was late, 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 grave clothes, 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-and was flickering out in a 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. Raskoldikov said aloud, frowning. He got up and went to Sonia.  His face was particularly stern, And there was a sort of savage determination in it. I 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 analyze. 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.  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.  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.  What will happen if you should really be taken to the hospital tomorrow? She is mad and in consumption.  Do you mean to tell me Polinka won't come to grief? Haven't you seen children here at the street corners sent out by their mothers to beg? I 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. There's the kingdom of heaven. He made us honor and loved them. They are the humanity of the future. What's to be done? What's to be done? Repeat, 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. Overall 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 tomorrow 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.  Goodbye. Sonia started with terror. Wait, 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 Lisa Vietta was alive I thought of it. Goodbye. Don't shake hands. Tomorrow. 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 Lisa Vietta? 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 drunk her hands, then sank again into feverish sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lisa Vietta 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 Leslie'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 rooms being uninhabited, but all that time Mr. Svidrigailov 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 had joined 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. Tomorrow, for instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but might listen in comfort.