"Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?"
"I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole
preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet.
"And… and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity."
"I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.
"And… do you believe in Lazarus' rising from the dead?"
"I… I do. Why do you ask all this?"
"You believe it literally?"
"You don't say so…. I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to
the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the contrary…"
"Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and
"They begin executing other people?"
"If it's necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty."
"Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people
from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be
more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical
law-abiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn't
they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and
a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to 'eliminate
obstacles,' as you so happily expressed it, then…"
"Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other."
"No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category,
that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite
of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of
nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced
people, 'destroyers,' and to push themselves into the 'new movement,' and this quite
sincerely. Meanwhile the really new people are very often unobserved by them, or
even despised as reactionaries of grovelling tendencies. But I don't think there
is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they never
go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their
fancy run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even
this isn't necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious:
some perform this service for one another and others chastise themselves with their
own hands…. They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves with
a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you've nothing to be uneasy about…. It's
a law of nature."
"Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but there's
another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right
to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course,
but you must admit it's alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?"
"Oh, you needn't worry about that either," Raskolnikov went on in the same tone.
"People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something new,
are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear,
that the appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with
unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present,
but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of
mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some
mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into
the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence.
One in ten thousand perhaps– I speak roughly, approximately– is born with some independence,
and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius
is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth
perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the retort
in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law,
it cannot be a matter of chance."
"Why, are you both joking?" Razumihin cried at last. "There you sit, making fun
of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?"
Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the
unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and discourteous sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange
to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face.
"Well, brother, if you are really serious… You are right, of course, in saying
that it's not new, that it's like what we've read and heard a thousand times already;
but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror,
is that you sanction bloodshed in the name of conscience, and, excuse my saying
so, with such fanaticism…. That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that
sanction of bloodshed by conscience is to my mind… more terrible than the official,
legal sanction of bloodshed…."
"You are quite right, it is more terrible," Porfiry agreed.
"Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You
can't think that! I shall read it."
"All that is not in the article, there's only a hint of it," said Raskolnikov.
"Yes, yes." Porfiry couldn't sit still. "Your attitude to crime is pretty clear
to me now, but… excuse me for my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying
you like this), you see, you've removed my anxiety as to the two grades' getting
mixed, but… there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What
if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet– a future one of
course– and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles…. He has some great enterprise
before him and needs money for it… and tries to get it… do you see?"
Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his
eyes to him.
"I must admit," he went on calmly, "that such cases certainly must arise. The
vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially."
"Yes, you see. Well then?"
"What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that's not my fault. So it is and
so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction
bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators,
penal servitude. There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief."
"And what if we do catch him?"
"Then he gets what he deserves."
"You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?"
"Why do you care about that?"
"Simply from humanity."
"If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment–
as well as the prison."
"But the real geniuses," asked Razumihin frowning, "those who have the right
to murder? Oughtn't they to suffer at all even for the blood they've shed?"
"Why the word ought? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will
suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for
a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have
great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation.
He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He
was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Every
one got up.
"Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry Petrovitch began
again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling
you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget
"Very good, tell me your little notion," Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and
grave before him.
"Well, you see… I really don't know how to express it properly…. It's a playful,
psychological idea…. When you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have
helped, he-he, fancying yourself… just a little, an 'extraordinary' man, uttering
a new word in your sense…. That's so, isn't it?"
"Quite possibly," Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.
Razumihin made a movement.
"And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship
or for some service to humanity– to overstep obstacles?… For instance, to rob and
And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as before.
"If I did I certainly should not tell you," Raskolnikov answered with defiant
and haughty contempt.
"No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point
"Foo, how obvious and insolent that is," Raskolnikov thought with repulsion.
"Allow me to observe," he answered dryly, "that I don't consider myself a Mahomet
or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot
tell you how I should act."
"Oh, come, don't we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?" Porfiry Petrovitch
said with alarming familiarity.
Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice.
"Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last
week?" Zametov blurted out from the corner.
Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry. Razumihin
was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked
angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go.
"Are you going already?" Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive
politeness. "Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no
uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me there yourself
in a day or two… to-morrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain.
We'll arrange it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be there, you might
perhaps be able to tell us something," he added with a most good-natured expression.
"You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov asked sharply.
"Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose
no opportunity, you see, and… I've talked with all who had pledges…. I obtained
evidence from some of them, and you are the last…. Yes, by the way," he cried, seemingly
suddenly delighted, "I just remember, what was I thinking of?" he turned to Razumihin,
"you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay… of course, I know, I know very
well," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the fellow is innocent, but what is one to
do? We had to trouble Dmitri too…. This is the point, this is all: when you went
up the stairs it was past seven, wasn't it?"
"Yes," answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment
he spoke that he need not have said it.
"Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see in a flat
that stood open on a second storey, do you remember, two workmen or at least one
of them? They were painting there, didn't you notice them? It's very, very important
"Painters? No, I didn't see them," Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking
his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning
with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to
overlook anything. "No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like
that open…. But on the fourth storey" (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant)
"I remember now that some one was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna's….
I remember… I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they
squeezed me against the wall. But painters… no, I don't remember that there were
any painters, and I don't think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn't."
"What do you mean?" Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and
realised. "Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he
was there three days before? What are you asking?"
"Foo! I have muddled it!" Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. "Deuce take
it! This business is turning my brain!" he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically.
"It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether any one had seen them
between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us
something…. I quite muddled it."
"Then you should be more careful," Razumihin observed grimly.
The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them to the
door with excessive politeness.
They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did
not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath. CHAPTERSIX Chapter Six
"I DON'T BELIEVE it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity
to refute Raskolnikov's arguments.
They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna
and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the
way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were
for the first time speaking openly about it.
"Don't believe it, then!" answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile.
"You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word."
"You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words… h'm… certainly, I agree,
Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov!… You are
right, there was something about him– but why? Why?"