CRIME AND PUNISHMENT, PART 6 CHAPTER V CRIME AND PUNISHMENT by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. PART 6 CHAPTER V Raskolnikov walked after him. What's this? cried Svidrigailov, turning round. I thought I said. It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now. What? You stood still and gazed at one another as though measuring their strength. From all your half-tipsy stories, Raskolnikov observed harshly, I am positive that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learned that my sister received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this time. You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing. I should like to make certain myself. Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he wished to make certain. Upon my word, I'll call the police. Call away. A dandy stood for a minute, facing each other. At last Svidrigailov's face changed. Unsatisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air. What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair, though I am devoured by curiosity. It's a fantastic affair. I've put it off till another time, but you are enough to rouse the dead. Well, let us go. When I warn you beforehand, I'm only going home for a moment to get some money. Then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab, and go to spend the evening at the islands. Now, are you going to follow me? I am coming to your lodgings not to see you, but Sophie Semyonovna, to say I'm sorry not to have been at the funeral. It's as you like, but Sophie Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some orphan asylums whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told her too the story of Sophie Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It produced an undescribable effect on her. That's why Sophie Semyonovna has been invited to call today at the ex-hotel where the lady is staying for the time. No matter. I'll come all the same. As you like, it's nothing to me, but I won't come with you. She'll be at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just because I have shown such delicacy. I have not so far troubled you with questions.  It struck you as extraordinary. I don't mind betting it's that. Well, it teaches one to show a delicacy. And to listen at doors. Ah, that's it. Is it? Love, sweet regalov. Yes. I should have been surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha. Though I did understand something of the pranks you have been up to and were told in Sophie Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I'm quite behind the times and can't understand. For goodness' sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories. You couldn't have heard anything.  But I'm not talking about that, though I did hear something. No, I'm talking of the way you keep sighing and growing now. The shell in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If that's how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance. You made a little mistake in your theory. But if you're convinced that one mustn't listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one's pleasure, you'd better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man. There may still be time. I am speaking sincerely. Haven't you the money? I'll give you the fare. I'm not thinking of that at all, Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. I understand, but don't put yourself out. Don't discuss it if you don't want to. I understand the questions you are worrying over. Moral ones, aren't they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They're nothing to you now, ha-ha. You'll say you're still a man and a citizen. If so, you ought not to have gotten to the squirrel. There's no use taking up a job you're not fit for. Well, you'd better shoot yourself, or don't you want to?   But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see, that's a way to Sophie Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don't you believe me? Ask Apernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here's Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She's rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She's not in and won't be till late in the evening, probably. Well, come to my room. You wanted to come and see me, didn't you? Here we are. Madame Rasklich not at home. She is a woman who is always busy, an excellent woman, I assure you.  Now see, I take this five percent bond out of the bureau. See what a lot I've got of them still? This one will be turned into cash today. I mustn't waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I am going to the islands. Would you like a lift? I'll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse, you're tired of it? Come for a drive. I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind. We'll put down the hood. Sveta Galov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a word, he turned and walked back towards the hay market. If he had only turned round on his way, he might have seen Sveta Galov get out, not a hundred paces off, dismiss the cab, and walk along the pavement. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him away from Sveta Galov. Do you think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute that depraved sensualist and blackguard, he cried? Raskolnikov's judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily. There was something about Sveta Galov which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Sveta Galov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this. When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank as usual into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and began gazing at the water, and his sister was standing close by him. He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing her. Dunya had never met him like this on the street before, and was struck with dismay. She stood still and didn't know whether to call to him or not. Suddenly she saw Sveta Galov, coming quickly from the direction of the hay market. He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid Raskolnikov's seeing him. He had observed Dunya for some time and had been making signs to her. She fancied he was signaling to beg her not to speak to her brother, but to come to him. That was what Dunya did. She stole by her brother and went up to Sveta Galov. Let us make haste away, Sveta Galov whispered to her. I don't want Rodion Romanovich to know of our meeting. I must tell you I've been sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up, and I had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter to you and suspect something. It wasn't you who told him, of course, but if not you, who then? Well, we've turned the corner now, Dunya interrupted, and my brother won't see us. I have to tell you that I am going no further with you. Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street. In the first place, I can't say it in the street. Secondly, you must hear Sophie Semyonovna, too, and thirdly, I will show you some papers. Oh, well, if you won't agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very curious secret of your beloved brothers is entirely in my keeping. Dunya stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigalov with searching eyes. What are you afraid of, he observed quietly, that town is not the country, and even in the country you did me more harm than I did you. Have you prepared Sophie Semyonovna? No, I have not said a word to her, and am not quite certain whether she is at home now, but most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother today. She is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For the time I don't want to speak to anyone about it, and I half regret having spoken to you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it. That support of our house, he knows me very well. You see, he is bowing. He sees I am coming with a lady, and no doubt he has noticed your face already, and you will be glad of that, if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Sophie Semyonovna's room is next to mine. She lodges in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible? Thvidrigalov's lips were twisted in a condescending smile, but he was in no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing, and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loudly to cover his growing excitement. But Dunya did not notice the peculiar excitement. She was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened of him like a child, and that he was so terrible to her. Though I know that you are not a man of honor, I am not in the least afraid of you. With the way, she said with apparent composure, but her face was very pale. Thvidrigalov stopped at Sonya's room. Allow me to inquire whether she is at home. She is not. How unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she is gone out, it can only be to see a lady about the orphans.  I have been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sophie Semyonina does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, today, if you like. This is my flat. These are my two rooms. Madame Reslitch, my landlady, has the next room. Now look this way. I will show you my chief piece of evidence. This door from my bedroom leads into two perfectly empty rooms, which are to let. Here they are. You must look into them with some attention. Thvidrigalov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dunya was looking about her mistressfully, but saw nothing special in the furniture opposition of the rooms. Last there was something to observe. For instance, that Thvidrigalov's flat was exactly between two sets of almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from the passage, but through the landlady's two almost empty rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom, Thvidrigalov showed Dunya the two empty rooms that were to let. Dunya stopped in the doorway, not knowing what she was called to look upon. But Thvidrigalov hastened to explain. Look here at the second large room. Notice that door, it's locked. By the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it from my room, so as to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the door is Sophie Semyonovna's table. She sat there, talking to Rudion Romanovich. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two hours each time. And of course I was able to learn something. What do you think? You listened? Yes, I did. Now come back to my room. We can't sit down here. He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting room and offered her chair. She sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven feet from her. But probably there was the same glow in his eyes which had once frightened Dunya so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture. She evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. That desecluded position of Svidrigalov's lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at least were at home. But pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had another trouble in her heart incomparably greater than fear for herself. She was in great distress. Here is your letter, she said, laying it on the table. Can it be true what you write? You hint at the crime committed. You say by my brother. You hint at it too clearly. You dare not deny it now.   I know the story and why and how it was invented. You can't have no proofs. You promise to prove it. Speak.  I don't believe you. Dunya said this, speaking hardly, and for an instant the color rushed to her face. If you don't believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms? Why have you come? Simply from curiosity. Don't torment me. Speak. Speak. There is no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought you would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not with you, nor anywhere near. I was on the lookout. It spirited of you. It proves you wanted to spare Radion Romanovich. But everything is divine in you. About your brother. What am I to say to you? You just seen him yourself. What did you think of him? Surely that's not the only thing you're building on. No. Not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive evenings to see Sophie Semyonovna. I have shown you where they sat. He made a full confession to her. He is a murderer.  He killed her sister too. A peddler woman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He murdered them to rob them, and he did rob them. He took money and various things. He told all this, word for word, to Sophie Semyonovna. The only person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word or deed in the murder. She was as horrified at it as you are now. Don't be anxious. She won't betray him. It cannot be, muttered Dunya with white lips. She gasped for breath. It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground.  He robbed her. That was the cause. He took money and things. It's true that by his own admission he made no use of the money or things, but hid them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he dared not make use of them. But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it? cried Dunya, and she jumped up from her chair. Why? You know him, and you have seen him. Can he be a thief? She seemed to be implorants with Regalov. She had entirely forgotten her fear. There are a thousand and millions of combinations and possibilities of Doty Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I have heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows? Very likely he thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing. Of course I should not have believed it myself if I had been told of it as you have, but I believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sophie Semyonovna too, but she didn't believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at last. What were the causes? It's a long story, Avdotia Romanovna. Here is how shall I tell you? A theory of a sort, the same one by which I, for instance, consider that a single misdeed is permissible if the principle aim is right, a solitary wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds. It's gallant too, of course, for a young man of gifts and overwinning pride to know that if he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole future would be differently shaped, and yet not to have that three thousand. Add to that nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sisters and mother's position too, above all vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too. I'm not blaming him, please don't think it, besides it's not my business. A special little theory came in too, a theory of a sort, dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the law does not apply or into their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material that is. It's all right as a theory, in theory common order. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is what affected him was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated at wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He seems to have fancied that he was a genius too, that is he was convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal, and is still suffering from the idea that he could make a theory but was incapable of boldly overstepping the law, and so is not a man of genius, and that's humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially. But remorse, you deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that? Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in the muddle now, not that he was ever in a very good order, Russians in general are broad in their ideas Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land, and exceedingly disposed to the fantastic, the chaotic. But it's a misfortune to be broad without special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on the subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why you used to reproach me with breath? Who knows, perhaps we were talking at the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There are no secret traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class of Avdotya Romanovna. At the best, someone will make them up somehow, for himself, out of books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the learned and all old forges, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man of society. You know my opinion in general, though. I never blame anyone. I do nothing at all. I persevere in that. But we've talked of this more than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my opinions. You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna. I know his theory. I read that article of his about man to whom all is permitted. Razumihin brought it to me. Mr. Razumihin, your brother's article in a magazine? Is there such an article? I didn't know. It must be interesting. But where are you going, Avdotya Romanovna? I want to see Sophie Semyonovna, Dunia articulated faintly. How do I get to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once. Perhaps she— Avdotya Romanovna couldn't finish. Her breath literally failed her. Sophie Semyonovna will not be back till night. At least I believe not. She was to have been back at once. But if not, then she will not be in till quite late. Ah! Then you're lying! I see! You were lying! Lying all the time! I don't believe you!  Almost fainting, she thanked on to a chair which Svyodrigalov made haste to give her. Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself. Here is some water. Drink a little. He sprinkled some water over her. Dunia shuddered and came to herself. It has acted violently, Svyodrigalov mattered to himself, frowning. Avdotya Romanovna, come yourself. Believe me, he has friends. We will save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money. I can get a ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Come yourself. He may become a great man yet. Well, how are you? How do you feel? Cruel man, to be able to jeered it. Let me go. Where are you going? To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in at that door, and now it's locked. When did you manage to lock it? We couldn't be shouting all over the flat on such a subject. I am far from jeering. It's simply that I am sick of talking like this. But how can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already being watched. They are already on his track. You will simply be giving him away. Wait a little. I saw him and was talking to him just now. He can still be saved. Wait a bit. Sit down. Let us think it over together. I asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you, and to consider it truly. But do sit down. How can you save him? Can he really be saved? Dune sat down. Svidrigalov sat down beside her.  He began with glowing eyes, almost in a whisper, and hardly able to utter the words for emotion. Dune drew back from him an alarm. He too was trembling all over. You, one word from you, and he is saved. I, I'll save him. I have money and friends. I'll send him away at once. I'll get a passport, two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends, capable people. If you like, I'll take a passport for you. For your mother. What do you want with Razumihin? I love you too. I love you beyond everything. Let me chase the hem of your dress. Let me, let me. The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, do that, and I'll do it. I'll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I'll do anything, anything. Don't, don't look at me like that. Do you know that you're killing me? He was almost beginning to rave. Something seemed suddenly to go to his head. Dune jumped up and rushed to the door. Open it, open it, she called, shaking the door. Open it, is there no one there? Swidergalov got up and came to himself. He still trembling lips, slowly broke into an angry mocking smile. There is no one at home. He said quietly and emphatically, the landlady has gone out, and it's a waste of time to shout like that. You're only exciting yourself uselessly. Where is the key? Open the door at once. At once, baseman. I have lost the key and cannot find it. This is an outrage, cried Dune turning pale as death. She rushed to the furthest corner where she made haste to barricade herself with a little table. She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched every movement he made. Swidergalov remained standing at the other end of the room, facing her. He was positively composed, at least in appearance, but his face was pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face. You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case, you may be sure I have taken measures. Sophie Semyonovna is not at home. The Kapernaumovs are far away. There are five locked doors between. I am at least twice as strong as you are, and I have nothing to fear besides. For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing actually to betray your brother. Besides, no one would believe you. How should a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So that, even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing. It's very difficult to prove an assault of Avdotya Romanovna. Scoundrel, whispered to me indignantly. As you like, but observe, I was only speaking by way of a general proposition. It's my personal conviction that you are perfectly right. Violence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse, even if you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think about it.   I will wait here. Svidrigalov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dunya. She had not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination. Besides she knew him. She pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it, and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigalov jumped up. Aha! So that's it, is it? He cried, surprised, but smiling maliciously. Well, that completely alters the aspect of affairs. You've made things wonderfully easier for me Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr. Zumihin? Why? It's my revolver, an old friend. And how I've hunted for it. The shooting lessons I've given you in the country have not been thrown away. It's not your revolver. It belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed rich.  I took it when I began to suspect what you were capable of.  She was frantic. But your brother, I ask from curiosity, said Svidrigalov, still standing where he was. Inform, if you want to, don't steer, don't come near, I'll shoot. You poisoned your wife, I know. Or murder yourself. She held the revolver ready. Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna? You did. You hinted at yourself. You talked to me of poison. I knew you went to get it. You had it in your readiness. It was your doing. It must have been your doing. Scoundrel. Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake. You would have been the cause. You are lying. I hated you always, always. Oh-ho, Avdotiramanovna, you seem to have forgotten how you softened to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember that moonlight night when the nightingale was singing? That's a lie. There was a flash of fury in doing his eyes. It's a lie, and a libel. A lie? Well, if you like, it's a lie. I made it up. Women ought not to be reminded of such things, he smiled. I know you will shoot, you pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away. Dunya raised the revolver, and deadly pale gazed at him, measuring the distance and awaiting the first movement on his part.  He had never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him, and there was a pink of anguish in his heart. He took a step forward, and a shot ran out. The bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and laughed softly. There was pastami. She aimed straight at my head. What's this, blood? He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just grazed the skin. Dunya lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigalov, not so much in terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what she was doing and what was going on. Well, you missed. Far again, I'll wait, said Svidrigalov softly, still smiling but gloomily. If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize you before you caulk again. Dunya started, quickly caulked the pistol, and again raised it. Let me be, she cried in despair. I swear I'll shoot again.  Well, at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don't, then his eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dunya shot again, it missed fire. You haven't loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge there. Get it ready, I'll wait. He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, sad eyes. Dunya saw that he would sooner die than let her go.  Suddenly she flung away the revolver. He's dropped it, said Svidragalov with surprise, and he drew deep breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart. Perhaps not only the fear of death, indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which he couldn't himself have defined. He went to Dunya and gently put his arm around her waist. She did not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with supple and eyes. He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a sound. Let me go, Dunya implored. Svidragalov shuddered. Her voice now was quite different. Then, you don't love me? He asked softly. Dunya shook her head. And you can't? Never, he whispered in despair, never. Dunya followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of Svidragalov. He looked at her with an undescribable gaze. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window, and stood facing it. Another moment passed. Here is a key. He took it out of the left pocket of his coat, and laid it on the table behind him, without turning or looking at Dunya. Take it, make haste. He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dunya went up to the table to take the key. Make haste, make haste, repeated Svidragalov, still without turning or moving. There seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that, make haste. Dunya understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it quickly, and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she ran out on the canal bank in the direction of Exbridge. Svidragalov remained three minutes standing at the window. At last he slowly turned, looked about him, and passed his hand over his forehead. A strange smile contorted his face. A pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand. He looked angrily at it. Then wetted a towel and washed his temple. The revolver, which Dunya had flown away, lay near the door and suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He thought a little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat, and went out. Part 6, Chapter 5, Recording by Ksenia Samohvalova, Ksiushy. by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnet, Part 6, Chapter 6. He spent that evening tilting a clock going from one low haunt to another. Katya too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain villain and tyrant began kissing Katya. Svidragalov treated Katya and the organ grinder and some singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the other to the right.  There was one lanky three-year-old pine tree and three wishes in the garden, besides a vauxhall, which was in reality a drinking bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round it. A choice of rich singers and a drinking but exceedingly depressed German clown from Monique for red nose entertained the public. The clerks quarreled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent. Svidragalov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon belonging to the vauxhall. It was mist and their fear began to seem troublesome. Svidragalov paid for the spoon, got up and walked out of the garden. It was about six o'clock. He had not drank a drop of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than anything. It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm clouds came over the sky about ten o'clock. There was a clap of thunder and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five. Wrenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the burrow, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the idea. Took up his hat and went out of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home. She was not alone. The four caperno-mouthed children were with her. She was giving them tea. She received Friedrich Galov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror. Friedrich Galov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen. I'm maybe going to America, Sophia Semyonova, said Friedrich Galov, and as I'm probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some arrangements. Well, did you see the lady today? I know what she said to you. You need not tell me. Sonia made a movement and blushed. Those people have their own way of doing things. As your sisters and brother, they are really provided for, and the money assigned to them I have put into safekeeping and have received acknowledgments. You have to take charge of the receipts in case anything happens. Here, take them. Well now, that's settled. Here are three five percent bonds to the value of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for yourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it. Whatever you hear, you will need the money for to go on living in the old way, Sophia Semyonova, is bad. And besides, there is no need for it now. I am so much in debt to you, and so are the children and my stepmother, said Sonia hurriedly. And if I've said so little, please don't consider. That's enough. That's enough. But as for the money, Okady Ivanovich, I'm very grateful to you, but I don't need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don't think me in grateful, if you are so charitable, that money, it's for you, for you, Sophia Semyonova, and please don't waste words over it. I haven't time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovich has two alternatives, a bullet in the brain or Siberia. Sonia looked widely at him and started. I know all about it from himself and I'm not a gossip. I won't tell anyone. It was a good advice when you told him to give himself up and confess. It will be much better for him. Well if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him. That's so, isn't it? And if so, you will need money. You will need it for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so headlessly, Sophia Semyonova? It was Katerina Ivanovna's debt and not yours, so you are thought not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can't get through the world like that. If you ever questions about me, tomorrow the day after you will be asked, don't say anything about my coming to see you now and don't show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well now goodbye, he got up. My greetings to Rodion Romanovich. By the way, you'd better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumine's keeping. You know Mr. Razumine? Of course you do. He's not a bad fellow. Take it to him tomorrow or when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully. Sophia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svirigalov. She longed to speak to ask a question, but for the first moment she did not dare and did not know how to begin. How can you be going now, in such a rain? Why? Be starting for America and be stopped by rain. Haha, goodbye Sanya Semyonova, my dear. Live and live long and you'll be of use to others. By the way, tell Mr. Razumine I sent my greetings to him. Tell him Arkady Ivanovich's Svirigalov sends his greetings, be sure to. He went out, leaving Sanya in a state of wondering, anxiety and vague apprehension. It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at 20 post 11, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the parents of his betrothed lived in Furz Street in Vasilevsky Island, knocked some time before he was admitted. And his visit at first caused great perturbation, but Svirigalov could be very fascinating when he liked it. So that the first and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svirigalov had probably had so much to drink and did not know what he was doing, vanished immediately. The decrepit father was built into Svirigalov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if she were obliged to a certain something, for instance, when Svirigalov would like to have the wedding, she would begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there. And only by degrees brought the conversation round to the Furz Street. On other occasions, this had of course been very impressive. But this time Arkady Ivanovich seemed particularly impatient and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, for he had been informed to begin with that she had already gone to bed. The girl, of course, appeared. Svirigalov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought her 15,000 rubles and begged her to accept them as a present from him, as he had long been intending to make her the strifling present before their wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate departure and the absolutes in necessity of visiting them for that purpose, empowering Rang at midnight, was not made clear. But it all went off very well. Even the inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers.  Forty felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mama, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their doubts, concluding that Svirigalov was a great man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great wealth, and there was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through wrath, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric and all these people of high society didn't think of what was said of them and didn't stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that for Dostoyam the cook had not left the kitchen, and above all, not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Restlich, and so on and so on. They sat up, whispering till two o'clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful. Svirigalov, meanwhile, exactly at night, crossed the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the little never. For look of special interest, even enquiry, but he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water. He turned and went towards wide prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had noticed passing through the street lately that there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large. And its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken. The hotel was so conspicuous in that god-forsaken place that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were lights in the windows and signs of life within. Went in and asked a red fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latest scanning, Sridrigalov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a closed and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor under the stairs. There was no other. All were occupied. The red fellow looked inquiringly. Is there tea? Asked Sridrigalov. Yes, sir. What else is there? Veal, vodka savouries. Bring me tea and veal. And you want nothing else? He asked with a parent's surprise. Nothing. Nothing. The ragman went away completely disillusioned. It must be a nice place for Sridrigalov. How was it that I didn't know it? I expect I'll look as if I came from a café Chantant and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed here. He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room so low-pitched that Sridrigalov could only just stand up in it. He had one window, the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and thus that the pattern was indistinguishable. Thoughts the general color, yellow, could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling. Thought the room was not an attic, but just under the stairs. Sridrigalov sat down the candle, sat down on the bed, and sank into thought. But a strange, persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracts his attention. The murmur had not ceased from the moment he entered the room. He listened. Someone was abrading and almost carefully scolding, but he heard only one voice. Sridrigalov got up, shed the light with his hand, and at once he saw light through a crack in the wall. He went up and peed through. The room, which was somehow larger than his, had two occupants. One of them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the pose of a narrator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to preserve his balance, and smitting himself on the breast.  He declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter, and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only the finger of providence sees it all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in the chair, and had the ear of a man who was dreadfully to sneeze, but can't. He sometimes turned sheepishly before his eyes on the speaker. It obviously had not the slightest idea what he was talking about, and scarcely heard him. A candle was burning down on the table. There were wine glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Sridrigalov turned away, indifferently, and sat down on the bed. The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him again whether he didn't want anything more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew. Sridrigalov went haste to drink a glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. He took off his coat, and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. It would have been better to be well for the occasion, he thought with a smile. The room was closed. The candle burned dimly. The wind was roaring outside. He heard a mile scratching in the corner, and the room smelled of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of reverie. One thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his imagination on something. It must be a garden under the window, he thought. There's a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark. They give one a horrid feeling. He remembered how he had disliked it when he had passed Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge of the Little Never, and he felt cold again, as he had wind standing there. I never have liked water, he thought, even in a landscape. And he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea. Surely now, all these questions of taste and comfort are thought not to matter. But I've become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place, for such an occasion. I was thought to have gone into Petrovsky Park. I suppose it seemed dark, cold, haha. As thought I was seeking pleasant sensations. By the way, why haven't I put out the candle? He blew it out. They've gone to bed next door, he thought. Not seeing the light at the crack. Well now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up. It's dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won't come. I suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on Dunya, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust it to resume his keeping. I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov's guest, to tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is. He's gone through a good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time, when he's got over his nonsense. But now he's too eager for life. These young men are contemptible on that point. But hang the fellow, let him please himself, it's nothing to do with me. He could not get to sleep. By degrees, Dunya's image rose before him, and a shadow ran over him. No, I must give up all that now, he thought, rousing himself. I must think of something else, it's queer and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone. I never particularly desired to avenge myself even. That's a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never liked quarreling either, and never lost my temper. That's a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too, damnation. But who knows, perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow. He grounds his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dunya's image rose before him. Just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him. So that he might have seized her twice over, and she would not have lifted a hand to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he felt a pank at his heart. I, damnation, these thoughts again, I must put it away. He was dozing off, the feverish shiver had seized, when suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started, Uh, hang it, I believe it's a mouse, he thought. That's the veal I left on the table. He felt perfectly inclined to pull off the blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking with feverish chill, he bent down to examine the bed, there was nothing. He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and throw in zigzags without leaving the bed. Slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly dotted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. It trembled nervously and woke up, the room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in blanket as before. The wind was howling under the window, how disgusting he fought with annoyance. He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. It's better not to sleep at all, he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however. Without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think, but one image rose after another. Incurrent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness, perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window, and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic.  A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers. Were flower beds going round the house? The porch, left in climbers, were surrounded with beds of roses, a light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants and china pots. He noticed particularly in the window's nosegaze of tender, white, heavily fragrant noses bending over the bright, green, thick, long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up to the stairs and came into a large, high-drawing room, and again everywhere, at the windows, the doors on the balcony, and on the balcony itself were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly cut, fragrant hay. The windows were open, a fresh, cool light's air came into the room. The birds were chirping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick, white frill. Wreaths of flowers surrounded on all sides. Among the flowers lay a gull in a white Muslim dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as thought carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet. There was a wreath of rose on her head.  Svetogalov knew that gull. There was no holly image, no burning candle beside the coffin, no sound of prayers. The gull had drawn herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken, and she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appailed and amazed her childish soul. It had smushed that angel purity with an emerald disgrace, and torn from her a lost cream of despair, and heeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled. Svetogalov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the window. He thought for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed fiercely into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt as thought were frost. Under the window there must have been something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There too probably there were tea tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes. It was a dark as in the cellar, so that it could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svetogalov, bending down with elbows on the window sill, gazed for five minutes into the darkness. The boom of a cannon, followed by a second wind, resounding in the darkness of the night. Ah, the signal. The river is overflowing, he thought. By morning it will be swirling down the street by the lower parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to the output stories. What time is it now? And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly struck free. Ah, it will be lighting an hour. Why wait? I will go out at once straight to the park. I will choose a great bush there, drenched with rain, so that as soon as one's shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one's head. He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat, and his hat and went out, carrying the candle, into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. It's the best minute. I couldn't choose a better. He walked for some time through a long, narrow corridor without finding anyone and was just going to call out. When suddenly in the dark corner, between an old cupboard and the door, he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw little girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes as wet as a soaking house flannel.  Now and then she saw those children do when they have been crying a long time, but all beginning to be comforted. The child's face was pale and tired. She was numb with cold. How can she have come here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night. He began questioning her. The child suddenly became animated, chatted away in her baby language, something about mommy and that mommy would beat her and about some cup that she had woken. The child chatted on without stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and frightened her. That the child had broken a cup of her mother's and was so frightened that she had run away the evening before. Had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp. The darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms and went back to his room, sat her on the bed and began addressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in the puddle all night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once, then he sank into dreary, musing again. What for let you trouble myself? He decided suddenly with an oppressive feeling of annoyance. What are you see? In vexation he took up the candle to go and look for the ragged attendant again and made case to go away. Then the child, he fought as he opened the door. But he turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly. She had got warm under the blanket and her pearl cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. It's a flush of fever, foot's Friedrich I love. It was like the flush from drinking, as what she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and glowing. But what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering. As thought the lids were opening and a slight crafty eye peeped out with an unchallenged wink. As thought the little girl were not asleep but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered. As thought she was trying to control them. But now she quite gave up all the effort. Now it was a grin. A broad grin. There was something shameless. Provocative in that quite unchallenged face. It was the privacy. It was the face of a harlot. The shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes open wide. They turned a glowing shameless glance upon him. They laughed. Invited him. There was something infinitely hideous and shocking that laughed. In those eyes. In such nastiness in the face of a child. What? At a five-year-old, Sridrigalov murdered in a genuine horror. What does it mean? And now she turned to him.   But at that moment he woke up. He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not been lighted and daylight was streaming in at the windows. I've had nightmares all night. He got up angrily. Feeling utterly shattered, his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself. He got up, put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down. Took a notebook out of his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large letters. Reading him over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flyers woke up and sat on the untouched view, which was still on the table. He stared at them and at last with his free hand began trying to catch one. He tried so he was tired but could not catch it. At last, realizing that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started. Got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later, he was in the street. A thick, milky mist hung over the town. Sidi Galov walked over the slippery dirty, wooden pavement towards the little never. He was picturing the waters of the little never swallowing in the night. Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees, the ambushes and at last the bush. He began ill-humoredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cab man or passer by in the street.  The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he began to shiver. From time to time, he came across shop signs and read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a great coat lay faced downwards, dead drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A higher tower stood up on the left. Ba, he shouted, here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway. He almost smiled at this new fort and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against him, wrapped in a grey soldier's coat with a copper chills helmet on his head. He casted rows in different glances at Spridrigalov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so thoroughly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both Spridrigalov and Chills stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. A ploset struck at Chills as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word. What do you want here? He said without moving or changing his position. Nothing, brother. Good morning, answered Spridrigalov. This isn't the place. I'm going to terrain parts, brother. To terrain parts? To America. America. Spridrigalov took out the revolver and cocked it. A Chills read his eyebrows. I say, this is not the place for such jokes. Why shouldn't it be the place? Because it isn't. Well, brother. I don't mind that. It's a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America. He put the revolver to his right temple. You can do it here. It's not a place, cried the Chills, rousing himself. His eyes growing bigger and bigger. Spridrigalov pulled the trigger. End of Part 6, Chapter 6 The same day, about seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother's and sister's lodging, the lodging in Bakaleev's house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back. His decision was taken. Besides, it doesn't matter. They still know nothing, he thought. And they are used to thinking of me as eccentric. He was appallingly dressed. His clothes, torn and dirty, soaked with the night's rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway, he had reached a decision. He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Donya was not at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise. Then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room. Here you are! she began, faltering with joy.  I am laughing, not crying. Did you think I was crying? No.  I've been like that ever since your father's death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy. You must be tired. I see you are. Ah! How muddy you are! I was in the rain yesterday, mother. Reskalnikov began. No, no. Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted. You thought I was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to. Don't be anxious. I understand. I understand it all. Now I've learned the ways here, and truly I see for myself that they are better. I've made up my mind once for all. How could I understand your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching, so it's not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking about. But, my goodness, why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time, rodia. Dmitri Prokovich brought it to me. Directly I saw it. I cried out to myself, there, foolish one. I thought, that's what he is busy about. That's the solution of the mystery. Learned people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now. Thinking them over and I worry him and upset him. I read it, my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand, but that's only natural. How should I? Show me, mother. Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. In Congress, as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and bittersweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he sees himself in print. Besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger. But, however foolish I may be, rodia, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leading, if not the leading man, in the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad. You don't know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius? And donya, donya, was all but believing it. What do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines, the first time poems, I've got the manuscript and will show you, the second time a whole novel. I begged him to let me copy it out. And how we prayed that they should be taken. They weren't. I was breaking my heart, rodia, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living, but now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don't care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters. Donya's not at home, mother? No, rodya, I often don't see her. She leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokovich comes to see me. It's so good of him, and he always talks about you. He loves you and respects to you, my dear. I don't say that donya is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways, and I have mine. She seems to have got some secrets of late, and I never have any secrets from you two. Of course I am sure that donya has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me. But I don't know what it will all lead to. You've made me so happy by coming now, rodya, but she has missed you by going out. When she comes in I'll tell her your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all this time? You mustn't spoil me, rodya, you know. Come when you can, but if you can't it doesn't matter. I can wait. I shall know anyway that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write. I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you've come now to comfort your mother. I see that. Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. Here I am again. Don't mind my foolishness. My goodness. Why am I sitting here? She cried, jumping up. There is coffee, and I don't offer you any. That's the selfishness of old age. I'll get it at once. Mother, don't trouble. I am going at once. I haven't come for that. Please, listen to me. Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly. Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are told about me, will you always love me as you do now? He asked suddenly, from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words, and not weighing them. Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn't believe anyone. I should refuse to listen. I've come to assure you that I've always loved you, and I am glad that we are alone. Even glad Donya is out. He went on with the same impulse. I have come to tell you that, though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn't care about you, was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you. Well, that's enough. I thought I must do this and begin with this. Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently. I don't know what is wrong with you, Rodya, she said at last. I've been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you, and now I see that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that's why you are miserable. I've foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking about it. I keep thinking about it, and lie awake at nights.  I caught something, but I couldn't make it out. I felt all the morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting something, and now it has come, Rodya. Rodya, where are you going?  Yes. That's what I thought.  She loves you, she loves you dearly, and Sofia Seminovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her, as a daughter even. Dmitri Prokofievich will help us to go together, but where are you going? Good-bye, mother. What to-day? She cried as though losing him for ever. I can't stay, I must go now. And can't I come with you? No. But kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will reach him. Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That's right, that's right. Oh God, what are we doing? Yes, he was glad. He was very glad that there was no one there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time, after all those awful months, his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet, and both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him this time. For some days she had realized that something awful was happening to her son, and that now some terrible minute had come for him. Ratya, my darling, my firstborn! She said, sobbing, you are just as when you were little.  When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply by being with us, and when I buried your father, how often we wept together at his grave and embraced as now. And if I had been crying lately, it's that my mother's heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw you that evening, I remember as soon as we arrived here, I guessed simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and today when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Ratya, Ratya, you are not going away today? No. You'll come again. Yes. I'll come.  I don't dare to question you. I know I mustn't only say two words to me. Is it far where you are going? Very far. What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you? What God sends. Only pray for me. Raskolnikov went to the door, pushed him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked with terror. Enough, mother! said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come. Not for ever. It's not yet for ever. You'll come. You'll come to-morrow? I will. I will. Goodbye. He tore himself away at last. It was a warm, fresh, bright evening. It had cleared up in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings. He made haste. He wanted to finish all before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the stairs, he noticed that Nastasia rushed from the Samovar to watch him intently. Can anyone have come to see me? he wondered. He had a disgusted vision of porphyry. But opening his door he saw Donya. She was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the sofa in dismay and stood up, facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew. Am I to come in? Or go away? He asked, uncertainly. I've been all day with Sofia Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come there. Raskolnikov went into the room and sank, exhausted, on a chair. I feel weak, Donya. I'm very tired. And I should have liked at this moment to be able to control myself. He glanced at her, mistrustfully. Where were you all night? I don't remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind once for all. And several times I walked by the Neva. I remember that I wanted to end it all there. But I couldn't make up my mind. He whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again. Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofia Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life. Thank God! Thank God! Raskolnikov smiled bitterly. I haven't faith, but I have just been weeping in mother's arms. I haven't faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don't know how it is, Donya. I don't understand it. Have you been at mother's? Have you told her? Cried Donya, horror-stricken. Surely you haven't done that! No, I didn't tell her. In words. But she understood a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don't know why I did go. I am a contemptible person, Donya. A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering? You are, aren't you? Yes. I am going. At once. Yes. To escape the disgrace I thought of drowning myself, Donya, As I looked into the water I thought that if I had considered myself strong till now I'd better not be afraid of disgrace, he said, hurrying on. It's pride, Donya. Pride, Rudya. There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes. He seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud. You don't think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water? He asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile. Oh, Rudya, hush! cried Donya bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor. Donya stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up. It's late. It's time to go. I'm going at once to give myself up, but I don't know why I am going to give myself up. Big tears fell down her cheeks. You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me? You doubted it? She threw her arms round him. Aren't you half-expiating your crime by facing the suffering? She cried, holding him close and kissing him. What crime, he cried in sudden fury, that I killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman of use to no one! Killing her was atonement for forty sins.  Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it, and I am not thinking of expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it on all sides? A crime! A crime! Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It's simply because I am contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too for my advantage, as that porphyry suggested. Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood! cried Donya in despair. Which all men shed, he put in almost frantically, which flows and is always flowed in streams which is spilt like champagne and for which men are crowned in the capital and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it.   By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position to take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison, but I couldn't carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that's what's the matter. And yet I won't look at it as you do, if I had succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I'm trapped. But that's not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying? Ah, it's not picturesque, not aesthetically attractive. I fail to understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honourable. The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotency. I've never, never recognized this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I've never, never been stronger and more convinced than now. The colour had rushed into his pale, exhausted face, but as he uttered his last explanation he happened to meet Donya's eyes, and he saw such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had, anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the cause. Donya, darling, if I am guilty forgive me, though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty. Good-bye. We won't dispute. It's time. High time to go. Don't follow me. I beseech you. I have somewhere else to go. But you go at once and sit with Mother. I entreat you to. It's my last request of you. Don't leave her at all. I left her in a state of anxiety that she is not fit to bear.  Be with her. Razumihin will be with you. I've been talking to him. Don't cry about me. I'll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall someday make a name. I won't disgrace you. You will see. I'll still show. Now, good-bye for the present. He concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange expression in Donya's eyes at his last words and promises. Why are you crying? Don't cry. Don't cry. We are not parting forever. Ah, yes. Wait a minute. I'd forgotten. He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it, and took from between the pages a little watercolor portrait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady's daughter, who had died of fever. That strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate, expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait, and gave it to Donya. I used to talk a great deal about it to her. Only to her, he said thoughtfully. To her heart I confided much of what has since been so hideously realized. Don't be uneasy, he returned to Donya.  The great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in two. He cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. Everything, everything! And am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer. What's the object of these senseless sufferings? Shall I know any better what they are for when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy and weak as an old man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day. At last they both went out. It was hard for Donya, but she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned, and for the last time their eyes met. But noticing that she was looking at him she fashioned her away with impatience and even vexation and turned the corner abruptly. I am wicked, I see that," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Donya. But why are they so fond of me if I don't deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had never loved any one. Nothing of all this would have happened. But I wonder, shall I, in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a criminal? Yes, that's it, that's it, that's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want.  But try to get me off and they'd be wild with righteous indignation.  He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass that he could be humbled before all of them indiscriminately, humbled by conviction. And yet why not? It must be so.  Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so? It was the hundredth time, perhaps, that he had asked himself that question since the previous evening. But still he went. End of Part 6 Chapter 7 Recording by Michael Robinson, Carbondale, Illinois


How's it going everybody? Dato Doi here with another Dragon Ball FighterZ video. In this video we're going to be talking a little bit more about Merged Zamasu, a character coming to Dragon Ball FighterZ in the very near future. And we're going to be covering everything we know about the characters so far and the information that we have coming very soon. But we'll cover that near the end of the video. For now let's start by going over these newly released HD photos for the character. Up first we have these three pictures which I believe all three of them are related to his level 3. Don't get me wrong this first one could be his cinematic intro, but I don't really buy into that due to the little bit of energy we see right here. As you can see right here it does look like the same color as the energy seen in this photo. And then in this third photo we have what the move will probably look like after the initial cinematic just crashing down on Trunks holding him in that particular spot. Not sure if the move is an actual single target hit or if it picks the opponent up a little bit. As you can see Trunks is lifted off the ground here. So that may be something to look into when Merged Zamasu eventually comes out. For those of you that haven't watched Dragon Ball Super or you're either watching the English dub and haven't caught up to this point yet, this is what Lightning of Absolution looks like in this show. As you can see they did recreate it pretty well, but I feel like with Dragon Ball Fighters at this point that's kind of a given. So yes my personal opinion that this is going to be his level 3. It's of proper scaling and it looks awesome enough to be a level 3 cinematic for this game. But let me know your opinions in the comments down below. As for his other supers we do have the Holy Light Grenade which is probably going to be his level 1. Here's a picture of the first part of the attack and a picture of the second part of the attack. Now the only thing that makes me think that Lightning of Absolution is in the level 3 is just how good this Holy Light Grenade technique looks. I mean this second picture looks extremely cinematic so I'd be surprised if they didn't incorporate maybe like a two bar spending program or something or maybe you can charge it up with a certain amount of bar. There's really no reason for me to think that. It's just that the move looks very cinematic for what I would say is a level 1. Up next in terms of supers or maybe even a special attack we have Zamasu's blades of judgment. All we have for that is just this one picture here but it looks super cool in this photo and I really like the lighting effects they gave it and the stance Zamasu is in. Probably going to be a super but again I wouldn't be surprised if this is just a special attack as Zamasu is listed as having double S range. So Zamasu could be the first zoner in this game if of course his projectiles stop super dashing so that's something to consider. And after that we have probably the biggest picture for me because we can see what Zamasu's in-game eight-way movement system looks like. So Zamasu's the only character who can enter this float-like stance and once he's in this stance he can go all eight directions. For people newer to fighting games this is basically it makes the character extremely fast. They can become an extremely efficient zoner and it can also lead to characters with eight-way dashes having extremely technical combos so all of that's very good reason to be excited for this stance. Hopefully they make it very good they make it fast enough to be usable and then for our final picture we just have Zamasu doing an overhead kick. It doesn't look like anything too special no reason to assume that this is anything more than just an air normal but at the very least it is good to know that he's going to be playing by the in-game systems already so we don't have to learn too much. And with that last picture out of the way that was all of the new pictures we have gotten so far but that's not the end of the merged Zamasu news because it's been confirmed that we will be receiving a Zamasu trailer on the 25th of this month so that is tomorrow if you're watching this on YouTube and and two days from now if you're watching this on Patreon and really that's insane we could be looking at some gameplay of Zamasu we could be getting an actual full-fledged trailer I don't think any of that's confirmed yet but at the very least we're going to be receiving a lot of new news on Zamasu so make sure you subscribe to the channel if you want to stay updated on that. Make sure you let me know down in the comments what your thoughts on all of these pictures for Zamasu are are you hyped about receiving more news from them on the 25th like I am and you know what make sure to let me know who your favorite Dragon Ball Super character is because for me it's absolutely few Zamasu. While you're down there if you enjoy this channel and like the video make sure to leave a like and subscribe I'm Dato Duia and I'll see you in the next video.