Section 31 of Crime and Punishment. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Konstantz Garnet. Part 5, Chapter 5. Librizechnikov looked perturbed. I've come to you, Sophia Semyonovna. He began. Excuse me. I thought I should find you. He said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly. That is, I didn't mean anything of that sort. But I just thought, Katerina Ivanovna has gone out of her mind. He blurted out suddenly, turning from Raskolnikov to Sonia. Sonia screamed. At least it seems so. But we don't know what to do, you see. She came back. She seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps beaten. So it seems at least. She had to run to your father's former chief. She didn't find him at home. He was dining at some other generals. Only fancy. She rushed off there to the other generals. And imagine, she was so persistent that she managed to get the chief to see her. Had him fetched out from dinner, it seems. You can imagine what happened. She was turned out, of course. But according to her own story, she abused him and threw something at him. One may well believe it.  I can't understand. Now she is telling everyone, including Amalia Ivanovna. But it's difficult to understand her. She's screaming and fleeing herself about. Oh, yes. She shouts that since everyone has abandoned her, she will take the children and go into the street with a barrel organ. And the children will sing and dance, and she too, and collect money, and will go every day under the general's window to let everyone see well-born children whose father was an official begging in the street. She keeps beating the children, and they're all crying. She's teaching Lida to sing My Village, the boy to dance. Polenka the same. She's tearing up all the clothes and making them little caps like actors. She means to carry a tin basin and make a tinkle instead of music. She won't listen to anything. Imagine the state of things. It's beyond anything. Libby Zetnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had hurt him almost breathless, snatched up her cloak and hat and ran out of the room, putting on her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her, and Libby Zetnikov came after him. She has certainly gone mad, he said to Raskolnikov as they went out into the street. I didn't want to frighten Sophia Semionovna, so I said it seemed like it, but there isn't a doubt of it. They say that in consumption the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain. It's a pity I know nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she wouldn't listen. Did you talk to her about the tubercles? Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn't have understood.  That's clear. Is it your conviction that he won't? Life would be too easy if it were so. Answered Raskolnikov. Excuse me, excuse me. Of course, it would be rather difficult for Katarina Ivanovna to understand. But do you know that in Paris they've been conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the insane, simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific man of standing, lately dead, believed in the possibility of such treatment. His idea was that there's nothing really wrong with the physical organism of the insane and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake, an error of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He gradually showed the madman his error and would you believe it, they say he was successful. But as he made use of douches, too, how far success was due to that treatment remains uncertain. So it seems at least. Raskolnikov had long ceased to listen. Reaching the house where he lived, he nodded to Libyzethnikov and went in at the gate. Libyzethnikov woke up with a start, looked about him and hurried on. Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the middle of it. Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow and stuttered paper, at the dust, at his sofa. From the yard came a loud, continuous knocking. Someone seemed to be hammering. He went to the window, rose on tiptoe and looked out into the yard for a long time with an air of absorbed attention. But the yard was empty and he could not see who was hammering. In the house on the left he saw some open windows. On the windowsills were pots of sickly-looking geranium. Linen was hung out of the windows. He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the sofa. Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone. Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia now that he had made her more miserable. Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison her life? Oh, the meanness of it! I will remain alone. He said resolutely. And she shall not come to the prison. Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile. That was a strange thought. Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia. He thought suddenly. He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging through his mind. All at once the door opened and Dunia came in. At first she stood still and looked at him from the doorway just as he had done at Sonia. Then she came in and sat down in the same place as yesterday on the chair facing him. He looked silently and almost vacantly at her. Don't be angry, brother. I've only come for a minute. Said Dunia. Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft. He saw that she too had come to him with love. Brother, now I know all. All! Dimitri Prokovich has explained and told me everything.  Dimitri Prokovich told me that there is no danger and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I don't think so and I fully understand how indignant you must be and that that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That's what I am afraid of.  I don't venture to judge you and forgive me for having blamed you for it. I feel that I too, if I had so great a trouble would keep away from everyone. I shall tell mother nothing of this but I shall talk about you continually and I shall tell her from you that you will come very soon. Don't worry about her. I will set her mind at rest. But don't you try her too much. Come once at least. Remember that she is your mother and now I have come simply to say Dunia began to get up that if you should need me or should need all my life or anything call me and I'll come. Goodbye. She turned abruptly and went towards the door. Donia! Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. That Razumikin, Dimitri Prokovich is a very good fellow. Dunia flashed slightly. Well? She asked, waiting a moment. He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love. Goodbye, Dunia. Dunia flashed crimson then suddenly she took alarm. But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting forever that you give me such a parting message? Never mind. Goodbye. He turned away and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked at him uneasily, and went out, troubled. No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant, the very last one, when he had longed to take her in his arms and say goodbye to her and even to tell her that he had not dared even to touch her hand. Afterward she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her and I will feel that I stole her kiss. And would she stand that test? He went on a few minutes later to himself. No, she wouldn't. Girls like that can't stand things, they never do. And he thought of Sonia. There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was fading. He took up his cap and went out. He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was, but all this continual anxiety and agony of mind could not but affect him. If he were not lying in high fever, it was perhaps just because this continual inner strain helped to keep him on his legs and in possession of his faculties. But this artificial excitement could not last long. He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it, but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it.  Towards evening this sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily.  You'll go to Donia as well as to Sonia. He muttered bitterly. He heard his name called. He looked around. And the girl was at Nikov, rushed up to him. Only fancy, I've been to your room looking for you.  Sophia sent me on off now and I have had a job to find them. She's rapping on a frying pan and making the children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the crossroads and in front of shops. There's a crowd of fools running after them. Come along. And Sonia? Raskolnikov asked anxiously, herring after Libyziatnikov. Simply frantic. That is, it's not Sophia Semyonovna's frantic, but Katarina Ivanovna. Though Sophia Semyonovna's frantic too. But Katarina Ivanovna is absolutely frantic.  They'll be taken to the police. You can fancy what an effect that will have. They're on the canal bank near the bridge now. Not far from Sophia Semyonovna's. Quite close. On the canal bank near the bridge and not to houses away from the one where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of people consisting principally of gutter children. The horse-broken voice of Katarina Ivanovna could be heard from the bridge and it certainly was a strange spectacle, likely to attract a street crowd. Katarina Ivanovna in her old dress with the green shawl, wearing a torn straw hat crushed in a hideous way on one side was really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her wasted, consumptive face looked more suffering than ever and indeed out of doors in the sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home. But her excitement did not flag and every moment her irritation grew more intense. She rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed them, told them before the crowd how to dance and what to sing began explaining to them why it was necessary and driven to desperation by their not understanding beat them. Then she would make a rush at the crowd. If she noticed any decently-dressed persons stopping to look, she immediately appealed to him to see what these children from a gentile, one may say, aristocratic house had been brought to. If she heard laughter or jeering in the crowd she would rush at once at the scoffers and began squabbling with them. Some people laughed, others shook their heads but everyone felt curious at the sight of the mad woman with the frightened children. The frying pan of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not there, at least Raskolnikov did not see it. But instead of wrapping on the pan Katarina Ivanovna began clapping her wasted hands when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polinka sing. She too joined in the singing but broke down at the second note with a fearful cough which made her curse in despair and even shed tears. What made her most furious was the weeping and terror of Kolya and Lida.  The boy had on a turban made of something red and white to look like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida. She simply had a red knitted cap or rather a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov decorated with a broken piece of white ostrich feather which had been Katarina Ivanovna's grandmothers and had been preserved as a family possession. Polinka was in her everyday dress. She looked intimate perplexity at her mother and kept at her side hiding her tears. She dimly realized her mother's condition and looked uneasily about her. She was terribly frightened of the street and the crowd. Sonia followed Katarina Ivanovna, weeping and besieging her to return home but Katarina Ivanovna was not to be persuaded. Leave off, Sonia.  She shouted, speaking fast, punting and coughing. You don't know what you ask.  I've told you before that I'm not coming back to that drunken German. Let everyone, let all Petersburg see the children begging in the streets. Though their father was an honorable man who served all his life in truth and fidelity and one may say died in the service. Katarina Ivanovna had by now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly believed it. Let that wretch of a general see it. And you are silly, Sonia. What have we to eat? Tell me that. We have worried you enough. I won't go on so. Ah, Rodion Romanovich, is that you? She cried, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to him. Explain to this silly girl, please, that nothing better could be done. Even organ grinders earn their living and everyone will see at once that we are different, that we are an honorable and bereaved family reduced to beggary and that general will lose his post, you'll see. We shall perform under his windows every day and if the Tsar drives by I'll follow my knees, put the children before me, show them to him and say, Defend us, father. He is the father of the fatherless. He is merciful. He'll protect us, you'll see. And that wretch of a general. Lida, teni voot doate. Kolja, you'll dance again. Why are you whimpering? Whimpering again. What are you afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what am I to do with them, Rodion Romanovich?  And she, almost crying herself, which did not stop her from uninterrupted rapid flow of talk, pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to go home and even said, hoping to work on her vanity, that it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets like an organ grinder, as she was intending to become the principal of a boarding school. A boarding school? A castle in the air? Cryed Katerina Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. No, Rodion Romanovich, that dream is over. All have forsaken us. And that general, you know, Rodion Romanovich, I threw an ink pot at him. It happened to be standing in the waiting room by the paper where you signed your name. I wrote my name, threw it at him, and ran away. Oh, the scoundrels! The scoundrels! But enough of them. Now I'll provide for the children myself. I won't bow down to anybody. She has had to bear enough for us. She pointed to Sonya. Polenka, how much have you got? Show me. What? Only two farthings? Oh, the mean wretches! They give us nothing. Only run after us, putting their tongues out. There! What is that blackhead laughing at? She pointed to a man in the crowd.  I have such a bother with him. What do you want, Polenka? Tell me in French. Parlez-moi français. Why, I've taught you. You know some phrases. Else how are you to show that you are of good family? Well, brought up children, and not at all like other organ-grinders. We aren't going to have a Punch and Judy show in the street, but to sing a gentile song. Ah, yes! What are we to sing? You keep putting me out, but we, you see, we are standing here, Rodion Romanovich, to find something to sing and get money. Something Korya can dance to, for as you can fancy, our performance is all impromptu. We must talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and then we shall go to Nevsky, where there are far more people of good society, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida knows my village only. Nothing but my village, and everyone sings that. We must sing something far more gentile. Well, have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only you'd help your mother. My memory's quite gone. Or I should've thought of something. We really can't sing Anousar. Ah, let's sing in French. Sons-sous, I have taught it to you. I have taught it to you. And it is in French. People will see at once that you are children of good family, and that will be much more touching. You might sing Ma Brux de Vontanguière. For that's quite a child's song, and his song is a lullaby in all the aristocratic houses. Ma Brux de Vontanguière, n'a sait qu'on reviendra. She began singing. But no, better sing Sons-sous. Now Kolya, your hands on your hips. Make haste. And you, Lida, keep turning the other way, and Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands. Sons-sous, Sons-sous, Pomote Notre-Ménage. Set your dress straight, Polenka. It slipped down on your shoulders. She observed panting from coughing. No, it's particularly necessary to behave nicely, and gentilly, that all may see that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the bodice should be cut longer, and made of two wits. It was your fault, Sonia, with your advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite deformed by it. Why, you're all crying again. What's the matter, stupid? Come, Kolya, begin. Make haste. Make haste.  Sons-sous, Sons-sous, a policeman again. What do you want? A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd, but at that moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat, a solid-looking official of about fifty, with a decoration on his neck, which delighted Katarina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman, approached, and without a word handed her a green, three-ruble note. His face wore a look of genuine sympathy. Katarina Ivanovna took it, and gave him a polite, even ceremonious bow. I thank you, honoured sir. She began loftily. The causes that have induced us. Take the money, Polenka. You see, there are generous and honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress. You see, honoured sir, these orphans of good family, I might even say of aristocratic connections, and that wretch of a general sat eating-grooves and stamped at my disturbing him. Your excellency, I said, protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband, Semyon Zaharovich, and on the very day of his death the basis of scoundrels slandered his only daughter. That policeman again. Protect me. She cried to the official. Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have only just run away from one of them. What do you want, fool? It's forbidden in the streets. You mustn't make a disturbance. It's your making a disturbance. It's just the same as if I were grinding an organ. What business is it of yours? You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven't got one, and in that way you collect a crowd. Where do you lodge? Get a licence. Wailed Katerina Ivanovna. I buried my husband today. What need of a licence? Calm yourself, madam. Calm yourself. Began the official. Come along. I will escort you. This is no place for you in the crowd.  Honoured sir. Honoured sir, you don't know. Screamed Katerina Ivanovna. We are going to Nevsky. Sonya. Sonya, where is she? She is crying too. What's the matter with you all? Kolja, Lida, where are you going? She cried suddenly in alarm.  Kolja, Lida, where are they off to? Kolja and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their mother's mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by the hand and ran off at the sight of the policemen who wanted to take them away somewhere. Weeping and wailing, poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was a piteous and unseemly spectacle as she ran, weeping and panting for breath. Sonya and Polenka rushed after them. Bring them back. Bring them back, Sonya.  Polenka, catch them. It's for your sakes. She stumbled as she ran and fell down. She's cut herself. She's bleeding. Oh, dear. Cried Sonya, bending over her. All ran up and crowded around, as Kolnikov and Liebizatnikov were the first at her side. The official too hastened up and behind him the policemen who muttered. Bother. With a gesture of impatience, feeling that the job was going to be a troublesome one. Pass on. Pass on. He said to the crowd that pressed forward. She's dying. Someone shouted. She's gone out of her mind. Said another. Lord have mercy upon us. Said a woman crossing herself.  They're being brought back. The elder ones got them. Ah, the naughty imps. When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had not cut herself against the stone, as Sonya thought, but that the blood that stained the pavement red was from her chest. I've seen that before. muttered the official to ask Kolnikov and Liebizatnikov. That's consumption. The blood flows and chokes the patient. I saw the same thing with a relative of my own not long ago. Nearly a pint of blood, all in a minute. What's to be done, though? She is dying. This way. This way. To my room. Sonya implored. I live here. See, that house, the second from here. Come to me. Make haste. She turned from one to the other. Sent for the doctor. Oh, dear. Thanks to the official's efforts this plan was adopted and the policeman even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonya's room almost unconscious and late on the bed. The blood was still flowing, but she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov, Liebizatnikov, and the official accompanied Sonya into the room and were followed by the policeman, who first drove back the crowd, which followed to the very door. Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lida, who were trembling and weeping. Several persons came in, too, from the Kapernaumov's room. The landlord, a lame one-night man of strange appearance with whiskers and hair that stood up like a brush. His wife, a woman with the everlastingly scared expression, and several open-mouthed children with wanderstruck faces. Among those Svidrigailov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked at him with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not having noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest were spoken of. The official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now for the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself. Meanwhile, Katarina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased for a time.  At last she asked to be raised. They set her up on the bed, supporting her on both sides. Where are the children? She said in a faint voice. You've brought them, Polenka? Oh, the sillies! Why did you run away? Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes, looking about her. So that's how you live, Sonia? Never once have I been in your room. She looked at her with a face of suffering. We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya, come here. Well, here they are, Sonia. Take them all. I hand them over to you. I've had enough. The ball is over. Lay me down. Let me die in peace. They laid her back on the pillow. What? The priest? I don't want him. You haven't got a ruble to spare. I have no sins. God must forgive me without that. He knows how I have suffered. And if he won't forgive me, I don't care. She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered, turned her eyes from side to side, recognized everyone for a minute, but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was harsh and difficult. There was a sort of rattle in her throat. I said to him, Your Excellency. She ejaculated, gasping after each word. That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah, Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips. Make haste. Glissé, glissé. Pas de basque. Tap with your heels. Be a graceful child. Du haste monten und pelen. What next? That's the thing to sing. Du haste schönsten Augen. Machen was vis-de-mer. What an idea! Was vis-de-mer. What things the fool impents. Ah, yes. In the heat of midday, In the valley of Dagestan. Ah, how I loved it. I loved that song to destruction, Polenka. Your father, you know, used to sing it when we were engaged. Oh, those days. Oh, that's the thing for us to sing. How does it go? I've forgotten. Remind me, how was it? She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly hoarse, broken voice, she began shrieking and gasping at every word with a look of growing terror. In the heat of midday, In the valley of Dagestan, With lead in my breast. La, la, la, la. Your ex, let's see. She wailed suddenly with a heart-rending scream and a flood of tears. Protect the orphans. You have been their father's guest. One may say aristocratic. She started regaining consciousness and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once recognized Sonja. Sonja, Sonja! She articulated softly and caressingly and no surprise to find her there. Sonja, darling, are you here too? They lifted her up again. Enough. It's over.  She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did not last long. Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back. Her mouth fell open. Her leg moved convulsively. She gave a deep, deep sigh and died.  Polenka threw herself at her mother's feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though Kolja and Lida did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling that it was something terrible. They put their hands on each other's little shoulders, stared straight at one another and both at once opened their mouth and began screaming. They were both still in their fancy dress, one in a turban, the other in the cup with the ostrich feather. And how did the certificate of merit come to be on the bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow, Raskolnikov saw it. He walked away to the window. Levizatnikov skipped up to him. She is dead, he said. Rodion Romanovich, I must have two words with you. said Svidrigailov, coming up to them. Levizatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew. Svidrigailov drew Raskolnikov further away. I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know it's a question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum and I will settle fifteen hundred rubles to be paid to each oncoming of age so that Sofya Semionovna need have no anxiety about them. And I will pull her out of the mud too for she is a good girl, isn't she? So tell Avdotya Romanovna that that is how I'm spending her ten thousand. What is your motive for such benevolence? Ask Raskolnikov. Ah, you sceptical person. Lev Svidrigailov. I told you I had no need of that money. Won't you admit that it's simply done from humanity? She wasn't a louse, you know. He pointed to the corner where the dead woman lay. Was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you'll agree, is Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked things, or is she to die? And if I didn't help them, Polenka would go the same way. He said this with an air of a sort of gay-winking slainess keeping his eyes fixed on Raskolnikov, who turned wide and cold hearing his own phrases spoken to Sonia. He quickly stepped back and looked wildly at Svidrigailov. How do you know? He whispered, hardly able to breathe. Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich's, the other side of the wall. Here is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted friend of mine. I am a neighbour. You? Yes. Continued Svidrigailov, shaking with laughter. I assured you on my Anna, Dear Rodion Romanovich, that you have interested me enormously. I told you we should become friends. I foretold it. Well, here we have. And you will see what an accommodating person I am. You'll see that you can get on with me. Part 6 Chapter 1 A strange period began for Raskolnikov. It was as though a fog had fallen upon him and dropped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so with intervals till the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for instance as to the date of certain events. Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he learned a great deal about himself from what other people told him. He had mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy which came upon him as a reaction from his previous terror and might be compared with abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to escape from a full and clear understanding of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate consideration were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would have been to be free from some cares, the fact of which would have threatened him with complete inevitable ruin. He was particularly worried about Svidrigailov. He might be sad to be permanently thinking of Svidrigailov. From the time of Svidrigailov's too menacing and unmistakable words in Sonyarum, at the moment of Katryna Ivanovna's death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break down. But although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness, Sonyakov was in no hurry for an explanation of it. At times finding himself in a solitary and remote part of the town in some wretched eating-house sitting alone lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he suddenly thought of Svidrigailov. He recognized suddenly, clearly and with dismay, that he ought at once to come to an understanding with that man and to make what terms he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he positively fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for Svidrigailov. Another time he woke up before daybreak, lying on the ground under some bushes and could not at first understand how he had come there. But during the two or three days after Katryna Ivanovna's death he had two or three times met Svidrigailov at Sonya's lodging, where he had gone aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference to the vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak of it for a time. Katryna Ivanovna's body was still lying in a coffin. Svidrigailov was busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonya too was very busy. At their last meeting Svidrigailov informed Raskolnikov that he had made an arrangement and a very satisfactory one for Katryna Ivanovna's children, that he had, through certain connections, committed in getting hold of certain personages by whose help the three orphans could be at once placed in very suitable institutions, that the money he had settled on them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place orphans with some property than destitute ones. He said something too about Sonya and promised to come himself in a day or two to see Raskolnikov, mentioning that he would like to consult with him that there were things they must talk over. This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigailov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping his voice asked, But how is it, Rodion Romanovich, you don't seem yourself. You look and you listen, but you don't seem to understand. Cheer up! We'll talk things over. I am only sorry. I have so much to do of my own business and other peoples. Ah, Rodion Romanovich. He added suddenly, What all men need is fresh air. Fresh air.  He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server who were coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. By Svidrigailov's orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigailov went his way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought and followed the priest into Sonia's room. He stood at the door. They began quietly, slowly and mournfully singing the service. From his childhood he thought of death and the presence of death had something oppressive and mysteriously awful and it was long since he had heard the requiem service and there was something else here as well too awful and disturbing. He looked at the children. They were all kneeling by the coffin. Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed softly and as it were timidly weeping. These last two days she hasn't said a word to me. She hasn't glanced at me. Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room. The incense rose in clouds. The priest read, Give rest, O Lord. Raskolnikov stayed all through the service. As he blessed them and took his leave the priest looked round strangely. After the service Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov. It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the fairest limit of self-abnegation. At least so he interpreted it. Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude he would have thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late he had never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town onto the high road. Once he had even reached a little wood. But the lonelier the place was the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did not frighten him but greatly annoyed him so that he made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. There he left easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he positively enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again as though his conscience smote him. Here I sit listening to singing. Is that what I ought to be doing? He thought. Yet he felt at once that he was not the only cause of this uneasiness. There was something requiring immediate decision but it was something he could not clearly understand or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. No. Better the struggle again. Better poor Afidi again. Or speedy Gailov. Better some challenge again. Some attack. Yes, yes. He thought. He went out of the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dunya and his mother suddenly reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning among some bushes in Krestovsky Island trembling all over with fever. He walked home and it was early morning when he arrived. After some hours sleep the fever left him but he woke up late two o'clock in the afternoon. He remembered that Katarina Ivanovna's funeral had been fixed for that day and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasia brought him some food he ate and drank with appetite almost with greediness. His head was fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks of panic. The door opened and Razumihin came in. Ah, he's eating. Then he's not ill. said Razumihin. He took a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov. He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident annoyance but without hurry or raising his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed determination. He began resolutely.  Only a monster or a madman would treat them as you have. So you must be mad. When did you see them last? Just now. Haven't you seen them since then? What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I've been to you three times already.   Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her. She wouldn't hear a word. If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look after him like his mother? We all came here together. We couldn't let her come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came in. You weren't here. She sat down and stayed ten minutes while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said if he's gone out, that is, and he has forgotten his mother, it's humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand at his door begging for kindness. She returned home and took to her bed. Now she is in fever. I see, she said, that he has time for his girl. She means by your girl, Sofia Semyonovna, you're betrothed to your mistress, I don't know. I went at once to Sofia Semyonovna's, for I wanted to know what was going on. I looked around. I saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofia Semyonovna trying them on morning dresses. No sign of you. I apologized, came away and reported of Dotya Romanovna. So that's all nonsense and you haven't got a girl. The most likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef as though you'd not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that goes, madmen eat too. But though you have said not a word to me yet, you are not mad. You are not mad. That I'd swear. Above all, you are not mad. So you may go to hell, all of you, for there's some mystery, some secret about it, and I don't intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I've simply come to swear at you. He finished getting up. To relieve my mind. And I know what to do now. What do you mean to do now? What business is it of yours what I mean to do? You're going in for a drinking bout? How? Why, it's pretty plain. Razumihin paused for a minute. You always have been a very rational person. And you've never been mad. Never. He observed suddenly with warmth. You're right. I shall drink. Goodbye. And he moved to go out. I was talking with my sister. The day before yesterday I think it was about you, Razumihin. About me? But where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?  One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently. She came here by herself, sat there, and talked to me. She did? Yes. What did you say to her? I mean about me. I told her you were a very good, honest and industrious man. I didn't tell her you love her because she knows that herself. Well, it's pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me, you would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your keeping, Razumihin. I say this because I know quite well how you love her and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too may love you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself as you know best whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not. Rudya, you see, well, ah, damn it. But where do you mean to go? Of course, if it's all a secret.  Anyway, you are a capital fellow, a capital fellow. That was just what I wanted to add. Only you're interrupted. That that was a very good decision of yours, not to find out these secrets. Leave it to time. Don't worry about it. You'll know it all in time when it must be. Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant by that. Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent conclusion. He's a political conspirator. He must be. And he's on the eve of some desperate step. That's certain. It can only be that. And... And Dunya knows. He thought suddenly. So, of Dotyur Romanovna comes to see you. He said, weighing his syllable. And you're going to see a man who says we need more air. And so of course that letter. That too must have something to do with it. What letter? She got a letter today. It upset her very much. Very much indeed. Too much so. I began speaking of you. She begged me not to. Then... Then she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part. Then she began warmly thanking me for something. Then she went to her room and locked herself in. Razkolnikov asked thoughtfully. Yes. And you didn't know? Huh. They were both silent. Goodbye, Rogin. There was a time, brother, when I... Never mind. Goodbye. You see... There was a time... Well, goodbye. I must be off too. I'm not going to drink. There's no need now. That's all stuff. He hurried out. But when he had almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again and said, looking away. Oh, by the way! Do you remember that murder, you know, Porfiris, the old woman? Do you know the murderer has been found? He has confessed and given the proofs? It's one of those very workmen. The painter! Only fancy. Do you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it? All that scene of fighting and laughing with his companions on the stairs while the porter and the two witnesses were going up, he got up on purpose to disarm the suspicion. The cunning! The presence of mind of the young dog. One can hardly credit it. But it's his own explanation. He has confessed it all.  Well, he's simply a genius of hypocrisy and resourcefulness and disarming the suspicions of the lawyers. So there's nothing much to wonder at, I suppose. Of course, people like that are always possible. And the fact that he couldn't keep up the character but confessed makes him easier to believe in.  I was frantic on their side. Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that? And why does it interest you so? Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation. But next you ask me why it interests me? Well, I heard it from Porfiry among others. It was from him I heard almost all about it. From Porfiry? From Porfiry. What do you say? Raskolnikov asked in dismay. He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, after his fashion. He explained it? Explained it himself? Yes, yes. Goodbye, I'll tell you about it another time. But now I'm busy. There was a time when I fancied. But no matter, another time. What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without wine. I am drunk, Rodya. Goodbye, I'm going. I'll come again very soon. He went out. He's a political conspirator. There's not a doubt about it. It doesn't mean he decided as he slowly descended the stairs. And he's drawn his sister in. That's quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna's character. There are interviews between them. She hinted at it too. So many of her words and hints bear that meaning. And how else can all this tangle be explained? And I was almost thinking. Oh, good heavens, what I thought. Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him. It was his doing under the lamp in the corridor that day. Poof! What a crude, nasty vile idea on my part. Nikolai is a brick for confessing. And how clear it all is now. His illness then, all his strange actions. Before this, in the university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy. But what's the meaning now of that letter? There's something in that too, perhaps. Who was it from? I suspect. No, I must find out. He thought of Dunya, realizing all he had heard and his heart throbbed as he suddenly broke into a run. As soon as Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window, walked into one corner and then into another, as though forgetting the smallness of his room, and sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to speak, renewed, again the struggle, so a means of escape had come. Yes, a means of escape had come. It had been too stifling, too cramping. The burden had been too agonizing. A lethargy had come upon him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolai at Porphyris, he had been suffocating, panned in without hope of escape. After Nikolai's confession, on that very day, had come the scene with Sonia. His behavior and his last words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined beforehand. He had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally, and he had agreed at the time with Sonia. He had agreed in his heart he could not go on living alone with such a thing on his mind. And Svidrigailov was a riddle. He worried him. That was true, but somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with Svidrigailov. Svidrigailov, too, might be a means of escape, but Porphyri was a different matter. And so Porphyri himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it psychologically. He had begun bringing in his dense psychology again. Porphyri? But to think that Porphyri should for one moment believe that Nikolai was guilty after what had passed between them before Nikolai's appearance after that tetetet interview, which could only have one explanation. During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene with Porphyri. He could not bear to let his mind rest on it. Such words, such gestures had passed between them. They had exchanged such glances. Things had been said in such a tone and had reached such a pass that Nikolai, whom Porphyri had seen through at the first word, at the first gesture, could not have shaken his conviction. And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect, the scene in the corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to Porphyri. But what had induced the latter to receive him like that? What had been his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolai? He must have some plan. There was some design. But what was it? It was true that a long time had passed since that morning, too long a time, and no sight nor sound of Porphyri. Well, that was a bad sign. Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It was the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind at least. I must settle, Svidrigailov. He thought. And as soon as possible. He, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord. And at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he might have killed either of those two, Porphyri or Svidrigailov. At least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now. We shall see. We shall see. He repeated to himself. But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porphyri himself in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was then founded for a minute, but only for one minute. Strange to say, he was not very much astonished at seeing Porphyri and scarcely afraid of him. He was simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard. Perhaps this will mean the end. But how could Porphyri have approached so quietly, like a cat, so that he had heard nothing? Could he have been listening at the door? You didn't expect a visitor, Adion Romanovich. Porphyri explained laughing. I've been meaning to look in a long time. I was passing by and thought, why not go in for five minutes? Are you going out? I won't keep you long. Just let me have one cigarette. Sit down, Porphyri Petrovich. Sit down. Raskolnikov gave his visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have marveled at himself if he could see it. The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained, so a man will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last he feels no fear. Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porphyri and looked at him without flinching.  Speak. Speak. Seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov's heart. Come, why don't you speak? End of Part 6, Chapter 1. Section 33 of Crime and Punishment. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translated by Konstantz Garnet. Part 6, Chapter 2. Ah, these cigarettes. Porphyri Petrovich ejaculated at last, having lighted one. They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I can't give them up. I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and a difficulty in breathing.  I went lately to Dr. Boon. He always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He positively laughed, looking at me. He sounded me. Tobacco's bad for you, he said. Your lungs are affected. But how am I to give it up? What is there to take its place? I don't drink. That's the mischief that I don't. Everything is relative, Frodenomanovich. Everything is relative. Why is playing his professional tricks again? Raskolnikov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him then. I came to see you the day before yesterday in the evening. You didn't know? Porphyri Petrovich went on, looking round the room. I came into this very room. I was passing by, just as I did today, and I thought I'd return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open. I looked round, waited, and went out without leaving my name with your servant.  Raskolnikov's face grew more and more gloomy. Porphyri seemed to guess his state of mind. I've come to have it out with you, Radeon Romanovich, my dear fellow. I owe you an explanation and must give it to you. He continued with a slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov's knee. But almost at the same instant, a serious and care-worn look came into his face. To his surprise, Raskolnikov saw a touch of sadness in it.  A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Radeon Romanovich. Our first interview, too, was a strange one. But then, and one thing after another, this is the point. I have perhaps acted unfairly to you. I feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged and your knees were shaking, and so were mine. And you know, our behaviour was unseemly, even un-gentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all in any case gentlemen, that must be understood. Do you remember what we came to? And it was quite indecorous. What is he up to? What does he take me for? Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on Porfiri. I've decided openness is better between us. Porfiri Petrovich went on, turning his head away, and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim, and as though disdaining his former wiles. Yes, such suspicions and such things cannot continue for long. Nikolai put a stop to it, or I don't know what we might not have come to. That damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room. Can you realize that? You know that, of course, and I am aware that he came to you afterwards. But what you supposed, then, was not true. I had not sent for any one. I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I hadn't. What shall I say to you? It had all come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely sent for the porters, if you notice them, as you went out, I dare say. An idea flashed upon me. I was firmly convinced at the time you see Radion Romanovich. Come, I thought, even if I let one thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of something else. I shan't lose what I want anyway. You are nervously irritable, Radion Romanovich, by temperament. It's out of proportion with other qualities of your heart and character, which I flatter myself, I have to some extent, divined. Of course I did reflect, even then, that it does not always happen that a man gets up and blurs out his whole story. It does happen sometimes if you make a man lose all patience, though even then it's rare. I was capable of realizing that, if I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon is something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not merely psychological. For if a man is guilty, you must be able to get something substantial out of him. One may reckon upon most surprising results indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Radion Romanovich, on your temperament above all things. I had great hopes of you at that time. But what are you driving at now? Raskolnikov mattered at last, asking the question without thinking. What is he talking about? He wondered, destructedly. Does he really take me to be innocent? What am I driving at? I've come to explain myself. I consider it my duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole misunderstanding arose. I've caused you a great deal of suffering, Radion Romanovich. I am not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate but who is proud, imperious and above all impatient to have to bear such treatment. I regard you in any case as a man of noble character and not without elements of magnanimity, though I don't agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you this first, frankly and quite sincerely, for above all I don't want to deceive you. When I made your acquaintance I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from the first and indeed you've no reason to like me. You may think what you like, but I desire now to do all I can to efface that impression and to show that I am a man of heart and conscience. I speak sincerely. Porfiry Petrovich made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent began to make him uneasy. It's scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail. Porfiry Petrovich went on. Indeed I could scarcely attempt it to begin with there were rumours. Through whom, how and when those rumours came to me and how they affected you I need not go into. My suspicions were aroused by a complete accident which might just as easily not have happened. What was it? I believe there is no need to go into that either. Those rumours and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I admit it openly. For one may as well make a clean breast of it. I was the first to pitch on you. The old woman's notes on the pledges and the rest of it, that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred. I happened too to hear of the scene at the office from a man who described it capitalily unconsciously reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another I didn't manage my dear fellow. How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can't make a horse. A hundred suspicions don't make a proof as the English proverb says but that's only from the rational point of view. You can't help being partial for after all a lawyer is only human. I thought too of your article in that journal. Do you remember? On your first visit we talked of it.  I repeat, Radionna Manos, you are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong and earnest and had felt a great deal I recognized long before. I too have felt the same so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights with a throbbing heart in ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm and that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is dangerous. I jeered at you then but let me tell you that as a literary amateur I am awfully fond of such first essays full of the heat of youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic but there is a transparent sincerity, a youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It's a gloomy article but that's what's fine in it. I read your article and put it aside thinking as I did so that man won't go the common way. Well, I ask you, after that as a preliminary how could I help being carried away by what followed? Oh dear, I am not saying anything, I am not making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there in it? I reflected. There is nothing in it. That is really nothing and perhaps absolutely nothing and it's not at all the thing for the prosecutor to let himself be carried away by notions. Here I have Nikolai on my hands with actual evidence against him. You may think what you like of it but it's evidence. He brings in his psychology too. One has to consider him too for it's a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you? That you may understand and not blame my malicious behavior on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you. Do you suppose I didn't come to search your room at the time? I did, I did. I was here when you were lying ill in bed, not officially not in my own person but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first suspicion but umsonst. I thought to myself now that man will come, will come of himself and quickly too if he is guilty he is sure to come. Another man wouldn't but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to excite you so we purposely spread rumors that he might discuss the case with you and Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zaminatov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think of blurting out in the restaurant, I killed her. It was too daring, too reckless. I thought so myself if he is guilty he will be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought at the time.  Well I kept expecting you and so it was you came. My heart was fairly throbbing. Ah! Now why need you have come? Your laughter too. As you came in do you remember? I saw it all plain as daylight. But if I hadn't expected you so specially I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You see what influence a mood has? Mr. Razumihin then. Ah! That stone, that stone under which the things were hidden. I seem to see it somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden you told Zaminatov and afterwards you repeated that in my office. And when we began picking your article to pieces how you explained it. One could take every word of yours in two senses as though there were another meaning hidden. So in this way, Rodion Romanovich, I reached the furthest limit knocking my head against the post. I pulled myself up asking myself what I was about. After all I said you can take it all in another sense if you like and it's more natural so indeed. I couldn't help admitting it was more natural. I was bothered. No I'd better get hold of some little fact I said. So when I heard of the bell ringing I held my breath and was all in a trauma. Here is my little fact thought I and I didn't think it over I simply wouldn't. I would have given a thousand rubles at that minute to have seen you with my own eyes when you walked a hundred paces beside that walkman after he had called you murderer to your face and you did not dare to ask him a question all the way. And then what about your trembling? What about your bell ringing in your illness, in semi delirium? And so Rodion Romanovich, can you wonder that I played such pranks on you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to have sent you by Jove and if Nikolai had not parted us, do you remember Nikolai at that time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt. And how I met him, I didn't believe in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself and how could I? Even afterwards when you had gone and he began making very very plausible answers on certain points so that I was surprised at him myself even then I didn't believe his story. You see what it is to be as firm as a rock? No, thought I. Morgenfru. What has Nikolai got to do with it?  His voice failed him and he broke off. He had been listening in indescribable agitation as this man who had seen through and through him went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for something more definite and conclusive. Mr. Razimekin. cried Porfiry Petrovich, seeming glad of a question from Raskolnikov who had till then been silent. But I had to put Mr. Razimekin off. Two is company, three is none. Mr. Razimekin is not the right man. Besides he is an outsider.  To return to Nikolai would you like to know what sort of a type he is? How I understand him that is? To begin with he is still a child and not exactly a coward but something by way of an artist. Really don't laugh at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to influence. He has a heart and is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances. He tells stories they say so that people come from other villages to hear him. He attends school too and laughs till he cries if you hold up a finger to him. He will drink himself senseless not as a regular vice but at times when people treat him like a child. And he stole too then without knowing himself for how can it be stealing if one picks it up? And do you know he is an old believer or rather a dissenter? There have been wanderers in his family and he was for two years in his village under the spiritual guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all this from Nikolai and from his fellow villagers and what's more he wanted to run into the wilderness. He was full of fervour, played at night, read the old books, the true ones and read himself crazy. Petersburg had a great effect upon him especially the women and the wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him and used to go and see him and how this business came upon him. Well, he was frightened. He tried to hang himself. He ran away. How can one get over the idea of Russian legal proceedings? The very word trial frightened some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good. Well, in prison it seems he remembered the venerable elder. The Bible too made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodjara Manovich? The force of the word suffering among some of these people. It's not a question of suffering for someone's benefit but simply one must suffer if they suffer at the hands of their authorities so much the better. In my time there was a very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on the stove at night and he read himself crazy and so crazy do you know that one day, apropos of nothing he seized a brick and flung it to the governor though he had done him no harm and the way he threw it too aimed at a yard at one side on purpose for fear of hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an officer with a weapon so he took his suffering. So I suspect now that Nikolai wants to take his suffering or something of the sort. I know it for certain from facts indeed. Only he doesn't know that I know. What? You don't admit that there are such fantastic people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influencing him especially since he tried to hang himself but he'll come and tell me all himself. You think he'll hold out? Wait a bit. He'll take his words back. I'm waiting from hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolai and am studying him in detail. And what do you think? He answered me very plausibly on some points. He obviously had collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is simply at sea, nothing and doesn't even suspect that he doesn't know. No, Rodion Romanovich, Nikolai doesn't come in. This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of today when the heart of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood renews, when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but resolution of a special kind who resolved to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him and murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn't take the money and what he did managed to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while the battered at the door and wrung the bell. No! He had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious to recall the bell ringing. He wanted to feel the cold shiver over again. Well, that we grant, was through illness, but consider this, he is a murderer, but looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others, poses as injured innocence. No! That's not the work of a Nicolai my dear Adion Romanovich. All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he had been stabbed. Then who then is the murderer? He asked in a breathless voice unable to restrain himself. Porfiry Petrovich sang back in his chair as though he were amazed at the question. Who is the murderer? He repeated as though unable to believe his ears.  He added almost in a whisper in a voice of genuine conviction. Raskolnikov leaped from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively. Your lip is twitching just as it did before. Porfiry Petrovich observed almost sympathetically. You've been misunderstanding me, I think, Radion Romanovich? He added after a brief pause. That's why you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with you. But I, who murdered her?  No, it was you, you, Radion Romanovich, and no one else. Porfiry whispered sternly with conviction. They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly waiting. Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry. You're at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich. Your old method again.  Oh, stop that. What does that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether you confess it or not is nothing to me now. For myself I am convinced without it. If so, what did you come for? Raskolnikov asked irritably. I ask you the same question again. If you consider me guilty, why don't you take me to prison? Oh, that's your question. I will answer you point for point. In the first place to arrest you so directly is not to my interest. How so? If you are convinced you are... Ah, what if I am convinced? That's only my dream for the time. Why should I put you in safety? You know that's it since you asked me to do it.  You saw me with you? I simply took you to be drunk and you were drunk too? Well, what could I answer especially if the story is a more likely one than his? For there is nothing but psychology to support his evidence.  While you hit the mark exactly for the Raskol is an inveterate drunkard and notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly several times already that that psychology can be taken in two ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far believable and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you. And though I shall put you in prison and indeed have come quite contrary to etiquette to inform you of it beforehand yet I tell you frankly also contrary to etiquette that it won't be to my advantage. Well secondly, I've come to you because Yes, yes Secondly because as I told you just now I consider I owe you an explanation. I don't want you to look upon me as a monster. As I have a genuine liking for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I've come to you with a direct and open proposition that you should surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to my advantage too for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part or not? Raskolnikov thought a minute.  Yet now you've gone on mathematics. Well, what have you mistaken yourself now? No, Radion Romanovich, I'm not mistaken. I have a little fact and even then Providence scented me. What little fact? I won't tell you what, Radion Romanovich and in any case I haven't the right to put it off any longer I must arrest you. So, think it over. It makes no difference to me now and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Radion Romanovich. Raskolnikov smiled malignantly. That's not simply ridiculous, it's positively shameless. Why, even if I were guilty, which I don't admit, what reason should I have to confess when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison? Ah, Radion Romanovich, don't put too much faith in words. Perhaps prison will not be altogether a restful place. That's only theory and my theory and what authority am I for you? Perhaps, too, even now I am hiding something from you. I can't lay bare everything. And how can you ask what advantage? Don't you know how it would lessen your sentence? You would be confessing at a moment when another man has taken the crime on himself and so has muddled the whole case. Consider that. I swear before God that I will so arrange that confession shall come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all the psychological points of a suspicion against you so that your crime will appear to have been something like an aberration for in truth it was an aberration. I am an honest man, Radion Romanovich, and will keep my word. Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again, but his smile was sad and gentle. No, he said, apparently abandoning all attempts to keep up appearances with Porfiry. It's not worth it. I don't care about lessening the sentence. That's just what I was afraid of. Porfiry cried warmly and as it seemed involuntarily. That's just what I fear that you wouldn't care about the mitigation of sentence. Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him. Ah, don't disdain life. Porfiry went on. You have a great deal of it still before you. How can you say you don't want a mitigation of sentence?  A great deal of what lies before me? Of life? What sort of prophet are you? Do you know much about it? Seek and you shall find. This may be God's means for bringing you to him. And it's not forever. The bondage... The time will be shortened. Laugh, Raskolnikov. Why, is it the bourgeois this grace you're afraid of? It may be that you are afraid of it without knowing it because you are young. But anyway, you shouldn't be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing. Ah, hang it! Raskolnikov whispered with loathing as though he did not want to speak aloud. He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in evident despair. Hang it, if you like. You've lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering you, but how long has your life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original. It turned out something base. That's true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base. At least you didn't deceive yourself for long. You went straight to the furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts their entrails out if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer. Maybe Nikolai is right in wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe in it, but don't be overwise. Fling yourself straight into life without deliberation. Don't be afraid. The flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before you. I know that you take all my words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of use some time. That's why I speak. It's as well that you only kill the old woman. If you'd invented another theory, you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something, but keep a good heart and have less fear. Are you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfill the demands of justice. I know that you don't believe it, but indeed life will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need now is fresh air. Fresh air. Fresh air! Raskolnikov positively started. But who are you? What prophet are you? From the height of what majestic calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom? Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that's all. A man perhaps of coming and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day is over. But you are a different matter. There is life waiting for you.  Come, what does it matter that you will pass into another class of men? It's not comfort you regret with your heart. What of it, that perhaps you will see you for so long? It's not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and know we'll see you. The sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you smiling again?  I bet you are imagining that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am. Perhaps you'd better not believe my word. Perhaps you'd better never believe it altogether. I made that way, I confess it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself. I think how far I am a base sort of man and how far I am honest. When do you mean to arrest me? Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It's more in your interest, believe me. What if I should run away? Ask Traskolnikov with a strange smile. No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away. A fashionable dissenter would run away. The flunky of another man's thought. For you've only to show him the end of your little finger, and he'll be ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you've seized to believe in your theory already. What will you run away with? And what will you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you run away, you'd come back to yourself. You can't get on without us. And if I put you in prison, say you've been there a month or two or three, remember my word, you'll confess of yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand that you are coming with a confession. I'm convinced that you will decide to take your suffering. You don't believe my words now, but you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rydion Romanovich, is a great thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I know all the same. Don't laugh at it. There is an idea in suffering, Nikolai is right.  Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich also rose. Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine if only we don't have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to fresh in the air. He too took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich, please don't take up the notion that I have confessed to you today. Raskolnikov pronounced with silent insistence.  But I have admitted nothing. Remember that. Oh, I know that. I'll remember. Look at him. He is trembling. Don't be uneasy, my dear fellow. Have it your own way. Walk about a bit. You won't be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request to make of you. Drop in his voice. It's an awkward one, but important. If anything were to happen, though indeed I don't believe in it and think you're quite incapable of it, yet in case you were taken during these 40 or 50 hours with the notion of putting an end to the business in some other way in some fantastic fashion laying hands on yourself, it's an absurd proposition but you must forgive me for it. Do leave a brief but precise note, only two lines and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come till we meet. Good thoughts and sound decisions to you. Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room. End of Part 6, Chapter 2