"You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?" Pyotr Petrovitch
put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before
departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was
evidently anxious to make a favourable impression and his vanity overcame his prudence.
"Yes. You've heard of it?"
"Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood."
"Do you know the details?"
"I can't say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case– the whole
question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the
increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the
cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me as the strangest thing is
that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place
one hears of a student's robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people
of good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has
been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was
a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered from some
obscure motive of gain…. And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered
by some one of a higher class in society– for peasants don't pawn gold trinkets–
how are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?"
"There are many economic changes," put in Zossimov.
"How are we to explain it?" Razumihin caught him up. "It might be explained by
our inveterate unpracticality."
"How do you mean?"
"What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging
notes? 'Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to
get rich too.' I don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants
money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've grown used to having everything
ready-made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great
hour struck,* and every man showed himself in his true colours." –
* The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.– TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. –
"But morality? And so to speak, principles…"
"But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. "It's in accordance
with your theory!"
"In accordance with my theory?"
"Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows
that people may be killed…"
"Upon my word!" cried Luzhin.
"No, that's not so," put in Zossimov.
Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully.
"There's a measure in all things," Luzhin went on superciliously. "Economic ideas
are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose…"
"And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice
quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, "is it true that you told your
fiancee… within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most… was that
she was a beggar… because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you
may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?"
"Upon my word," Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion,
"to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report
which has reached you, or rather let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation
in truth, and I… suspect who… in a word… this arrow… in a word, your mamma… She
seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat highflown
and romantic way of thinking…. But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she
would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way…. And indeed… indeed…"
"I tell you what," cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing
his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, "I tell you what."
"What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence
lasted for some seconds.
"Why, if ever again… you dare to mention a single word… about my mother… I shall
send you flying downstairs!"
"What's the matter with you?" cried Razumihin.
"So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let me tell you,
sir," he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing
hard, "at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained
here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and
a connection, but you… never after this…"
"I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov.
"So much the worse…"
"Go to hell!"
But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between
the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing
at any one, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making
signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level
of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even
the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received.
"How could you– how could you!" Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity.
"Let me alone– let me alone all of you!" Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. "Will
you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of any
one, any one now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!"
"Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.
"But we can't leave him like this!"
"Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought
a minute and ran to overtake him.
"It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. "He mustn't
"What's the matter with him?"
"If only he could get some favourable shock, that's what would do it! At first
he was better…. You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing
on him…. I am very much afraid so; he must have!"
"Perhaps it's that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather
he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just
before his illness…."
"Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed,
he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point
on which he seems excited– that's the murder?"
"Yes, yes," Razumihin agreed, "I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened.
It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted."
"Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you something afterwards.
He interests me very much! In half an hour I'll go and see him again…. There'll
be no inflammation though."
"Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through
Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she
"Won't you have some tea now?" she asked.
"Later! I am sleepy! Leave me."
He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out. CHAPTERSIX Chapter Six
BUT AS SOON as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which
Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again and began dressing.
Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm; not a trace
of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was
the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite;
a firm purpose was evident in them. "To-day, to-day," he muttered to himself. He
understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave
him strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down
in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money
lying on the table, and after a moment's thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five
roubles. He took also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin
on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs
and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to
him, blowing up the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed
of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street.
It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before,
but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy;
a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale
and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one
thought only "that all this must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that
he would not return home without it, because he would not go on living like that."
How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want
to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he
felt was that everything must be changed "one way or another," he repeated with
desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination.
From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market. A dark-haired
young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general
shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of
fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline,
a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby.
In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing,
she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three
listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke
off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come
on," and both moved on to the next shop.
"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing
idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner
seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject– "I like it on cold, dark, damp
autumn evenings– they must be damp– when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly
faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind–
you know what I mean? and the street lamps shine through it…"
"I don't know…. Excuse me…" muttered the stranger, frightened by the question
and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street.
Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market,
where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there
now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow
in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler's shop.
"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"
"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing superciliously
"What's his name?"
"What he was christened."
"Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"
The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me,
"Is that a tavern at the top there?"
"Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-room and you'll find princesses
there too…. La-la!"
Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants.
He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an
unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants
took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought
a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V.
He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from
the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about
this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so.
Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block
of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating-houses; women were continually
running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they
gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive
establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing,
the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd
of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on
the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette,
was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his
way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another,
and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng
of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton
dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen;
almost all had blackened eyes.
He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the
saloon below…. Some one could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time
with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing
a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance
and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement. –