Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  'Let 'im sleep. He'll eat later.'

  'All right,' answered Razumikhin.

  They tiptoed out and shut the door. Another half hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and again fell supine, clutching his head . . .

  'Who is he? Who is this man from out of the ground? Where was he and what did he see? He saw everything, there's no doubt about that. So where was he standing, then, and from where was he watching? Why has he only come out now? And how could he see - how's that possible? . . . H'm . . . ,' continued Raskolnikov, growing cold and shuddering. 'Or what about the jewellery case that Mikolai found behind the door: how's that possible? Evidence? Miss the hundred-thousandth little mark and there you go: evidence the size of an Egyptian pyramid! A fly flew past - a fly saw! How's it all possible?'

  And suddenly, with a sense of loathing, he felt how weak he'd become, how physically weak.

  'I should have known it,' he thought with a bitter grin, 'and how did I dare - knowing how I am, sensing in advance how I'd be - take an axe and steep myself in blood? I simply must have known beforehand . . . Ha! But I did know beforehand!' he whispered in despair.

  Every now and again he paused, rooted to the spot by some thought:

  'No, those people are made differently. A true master, to whom everything is permitted, sacks Toulon, unleashes slaughter in Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, expends half a million lives marching on Moscow, then laughs it all off with a quip in Vilno;29 and he even has idols erected to him after his death - so everything really is permitted. Such people are made not of flesh but of bronze!'30

  A sudden, extraneous thought almost reduced him to laughter:

  'Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo31 - and a scraggy, horrid pen-pusher's widow, a hag, a moneylender with a red box beneath her bed; it's a bit much even for the likes of Porfiry Petrovich to digest! . . . Not to mention the rest of them! . . . Aesthetics will intervene: would a Napoleon really go crawling under the bed of some "old hag"! Please!'

  For minutes at a time he felt almost delirious, succumbing to a mood of feverish exaltation.

  'The hag's neither here nor there!' he thought impetuously. 'Maybe she's the mistake here - maybe it's not about her at all! She was only the sickness . . . I was in such a hurry to step right over . . . I didn't murder a person, I murdered a principle! Yes, I murdered the principle all right, but I didn't step over; I remained on this side . . . All I managed to do was kill. I didn't even manage that, as it turns out . . . Principle? What was Razumikhin, such a silly boy, berating the socialists for just now? Hardworking folk, trading folk; concerned with "general happiness" . . . No, I'm only given one life and that's my lot: I don't want to sit around waiting for "universal happiness". I want to live myself or else I'd rather not live at all. Well? I just didn't feel like walking past a hungry mother, gripping a rouble in my pocket and waiting for "universal happiness". As if to say: "Look at me carrying my little brick for universal happiness32 - so my heart is at peace." Ha-ha! Why did you have to leave me out, of all people? I've only got one life, after all, and I also want . . . Oh, I'm an aesthetic louse, that's all there is to it,' he suddenly added with a volley of laughter, like a madman. 'Yes, I really am a louse,' he went on, clutching at this thought with grim delight, rummaging around in it, toying and amusing himself with it, 'if for no other reason than because, firstly, here I am talking about it, secondly, because I've been bothering all-gracious Providence this whole month, summoning her as my witness to the fact that I set out on this venture not for my own carnal desires, but with a splendid and pleasing purpose in mind - ha-ha! Thirdly, because I intended to observe in my actions the highest possible degree of justice, to weigh and to measure, to tot it all up; of all the lice in the world I chose the most utterly useless and, having killed her, intended to take from her the precise amount I needed for the first step, no more and no less (so the rest really would have gone to the monastery, in accordance with her will - ha-ha!) . . . Because, because I'm a louse, pure and simple,' he added, gnashing his teeth, 'because I myself may be still fouler and more horrid than the louse I killed, and because I sensed in advance that this is what I would tell myself after the murder! Can any horror compare to it? So vulgar! So vile! . . . Oh, how I understand the "prophet", with his sword, on horseback. Allah commands, so obey, O "quivering" creature!33 How right the "prophet" is when he lines up a top-notch battery34 across the street and fires a salvo at the righteous and the guilty, without even deigning to explain himself! Submit, quivering creature, and - do not desire . . . for desiring is not your business! . . . Oh, never, never will I forgive the old hag!'

  His hair was damp with sweat, his trembling lips caked, his gaze riveted to the ceiling.

  'Mother, sister, how I loved them! So why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them. I physically hate them. I can't bear to have them near me . . . I went up to Mother earlier and kissed her, I remember . . . Embracing her, thinking that if she found out . . . would I really tell her? Wouldn't put it past me . . . H'm! She must be just like me,' he added, making an effort to think, as if struggling in the grip of delirium. 'Oh, how I hate the hag now! I expect I'd murder her all over again if she came to! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she have to turn up? . . . Strange, though - why do I almost never think of her, as if I'd never murdered her? . . . Lizaveta! Sonya! Poor things, meek, meek-eyed . . . So sweet! . . . Why don't they cry? Why don't they groan? . . . Always giving . . . and their meek, quiet gaze . . . Sonya, Sonya! Quiet Sonya!'

  Oblivion came over him; it seemed strange to him that he couldn't remember how he'd ended up in the street. It was already late evening. The dusk was gathering, the full moon shone ever more brightly, but somehow it felt even more stifling than usual. People thronged the streets; craftsmen and employees were making their way home; others were out for a walk; it smelled of mortar, dust, stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, sad and preoccupied. He clearly recalled that he'd left home with the intention of doing something and doing it quickly, but what that was he couldn't remember. Suddenly he stopped and caught sight of a man on the opposite side of the street, on the pavement, standing there, waving to him. He crossed the street towards him, but the man suddenly turned and walked off as if nothing had happened, with his head down and without turning round or giving any sign of having called him over. 'Well maybe he didn't?' thought Raskolnikov, but set off after him all the same. When he was only ten paces away, he suddenly recognized him - and took fright; it was the tradesman from before, with the same dressing gown and the same hunch. Raskolnikov kept his distance; his heart was pounding; they turned into a lane - and still the man did not look round. 'Does he know I'm following him?' Raskolnikov wondered. The tradesman entered the gates of a big building. Raskolnikov hurried up to the gates and stared: would he glance back? Would he call him? And, indeed, after walking right through the archway and coming out into the yard, the man suddenly turned round and seemed to wave to him once more. Raskolnikov immediately followed him into the yard, but the tradesman was no longer there. So he must have taken the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. And indeed, someone's measured, unhurried footsteps could still be heard from two flights up. Strange: the staircase was somehow familiar! There was the window on the first floor - moonlight streamed through it, sadly and mysteriously - and here was the second floor. Ha! The very same apartment the workmen had been decorating . . . How had he not recognized the place straight away? The footsteps of the man walking ahead of him died away: 'So he must have stopped or found somewhere to hide.' Here was the third floor. Should he carry on? Such silence . . . almost frightening . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and disturbed him. God, how dark! The tradesman was surely hiding in some corner or other. Ah! The apartment was wide open to the stairs. He thought for a moment, and went in. The entrance hall was very dark and empty; not a soul, as though everything had been taken out. Softly-softly, on tiptoe, he went through to the living room: the entire space was flooded in bright moonlight. Nothing h
ad changed: the chairs, the mirror, the yellow couch, the little pictures in their frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon stared through the windows. 'The silence comes from the moon,' thought Raskolnikov, 'and the moon must be posing a riddle.' He stood and waited for a long while, and the quieter the moon, the louder the pounding of his heart, until it even began to hurt. Silence. Suddenly, a short dry crack, like the snapping of a twig, then everything went dead once more. A fly, waking up, suddenly hit a pane in full flight and began buzzing plaintively. At that very same moment, in the corner, between the small cupboard and the window, he noticed what seemed to be a lady's velvet coat hanging on the wall. 'What's that coat doing here?' he wondered. 'Wasn't here before . . .' He stole up to it and sensed there might be someone hiding behind it. He carefully moved the coat to one side with his hand and saw a chair, and on the chair in the corner was the old hag, all curled up with her head bowed down, making it impossible for him to see her face, but it was her. He stood over her. 'She's afraid!' he thought, gently freeing the axe from the loop and striking the old woman on the crown, once, twice. How strange: she didn't even twitch from the blows, as if she were made of wood. Frightened, he bent down and looked closer: but she, too, just bent her head down further. So he bent all the way to the floor and looked up from there into her face, looked up and went as numb as a corpse: the old woman was sitting there laughing - yes, she was almost bursting with soft, inaudible laughter, doing all she could to keep him from hearing. Suddenly he had the impression that the bedroom door had opened a fraction and that laughs and whispers were coming from there as well. He was seized with rage: he began hitting the old woman on the head as hard as he could, but with each blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder still, while the hag simply rocked with mirth. He wanted to run, but the entrance hall was already packed with people, the doors on the staircase were wide open, and on the landing and all the way down the stairs there was nothing but people, a row of heads, all watching - but biding their time in silence . . . His heart clenched, and his legs were rooted to the spot . . . He wanted to scream - and woke up.

  He drew deep breaths - but how strange! It was as if the dream still continued: the door was wide open, and there was a complete stranger standing on the threshold, studying him closely.

  Raskolnikov hadn't fully opened his eyes yet, and instantly closed them again. He lay prone, without stirring. 'Am I still dreaming?' he wondered, and again raised his eyelids a fraction: the stranger was standing on the same spot, still staring at him. Suddenly he stepped warily over the threshold, closed the door carefully behind him, walked over to the table, waited for a minute or so - his eyes fixed on him throughout - and softly, noiselessly sat down on the chair beside the couch. He placed his hat on its side, on the floor, and leant with both hands on his cane, resting his chin on his hands. Clearly, he was prepared to wait a very long time. Insofar as could be seen through blinking eyelids, this man was no longer young, solidly built and with a thick, light beard that was all but white . . .

  Some ten minutes passed. Though it was still light, evening was closing in. In the room there was complete silence. No sounds even from the stairs. Only the buzzing and knocking of some big fly as it struck the pane in mid-flight. Eventually it became unbearable: Raskolnikov suddenly raised himself and sat up on the couch.

  'Well, go on: what do you want?'

  'Just as I thought: you weren't sleeping, merely pretending,' came the stranger's peculiar reply and easy laugh. 'Allow me to introduce myself: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov . . .'

  PART FOUR

  I

  'Am I really still dreaming?' Raskolnikov wondered once more. Warily and mistrustfully, he examined his unexpected guest.

  'Svidrigailov? Nonsense! Impossible!' he finally said out loud, bewildered.

  The guest seemed not in the least surprised by this exclamation.

  'Two reasons bring me here: in the first place, I was keen to meet you in person, having heard a great deal about you, for some time now, from a most intriguing and favourable source; secondly, I cherish the hope that you will not shrink from assisting me in a venture that bears directly on the interests of your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna. Without your approval, she may very well refuse to allow me anywhere near her now, owing to a certain prejudice, but with your assistance I may, on the contrary, reckon . . .'

  'You reckon wrongly,' interrupted Raskolnikov.

  'They arrived only yesterday, did they not, sir?'

  Raskolnikov did not reply.

  'I know it was yesterday. I only arrived two days ago myself. Well, sir, here's what I'll say to you on this score, Rodion Romanovich. I see no need to explain myself, but permit me to ask: what is there about all this, really, that is so very criminal on my part, if we leave all prejudices to one side and take a sensible view of things?'

  Raskolnikov continued to study him in silence.

  'The fact, sir, that I persecuted a defenceless girl in my own home and "insulted her with my beastly propositions"? (I'm getting ahead of myself!) But suppose for a moment that I, too, am a man, et nihil humanum1..., in short, that I, too, am apt to be tempted and to fall in love (such things, of course, are beyond our control), then everything may be explained in the most natural way. The only question is this: am I a monster or myself a victim? What's that? A victim? Well, in proposing that my dear objet make off with me to America or to Switzerland, I may have been nurturing the most respectful feelings, and even intending to arrange our reciprocal happiness! . . . Is not reason the servant of passion? I dare say I came out of it even worse, for pity's sake!'

  'That's hardly the point,' interrupted a disgusted Raskolnikov. 'You're simply repugnant, whether or not you're right, which is why people don't want to have anything to do with you and send you packing - so get out!'

  Svidrigailov suddenly roared with laughter.

  'Well I never . . . You're not easily flummoxed, are you?' he said with the most candid laugh. 'I had half a mind to trick you, but no, you put your finger on the nub right away!'

  'You're still trying to trick me now.'

  'Well, what of it? What of it?' repeated Svidrigailov, laughing without inhibition. 'Is this not, as they say, bonne guerre?2 Such tricks are entirely permissible! . . . You rather interrupted me, though, and I'll say it again: there would have been no unpleasantness at all, were it not for the incident in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . .'

  'Oh yes, Marfa Petrovna - another of your victims, I'm told,' Raskolnikov rudely interrupted.

  'So you've heard about that as well? Difficult not to, I suppose . . . Regarding your comment - well, I don't know how best to put it, although my personal conscience on this score is entirely untroubled. That is, you really mustn't think I have anything to fear: everything was done by the book and with complete precision. The medical investigation revealed the cause of death to be a stroke brought on by bathing straight after a heavy meal and the consumption of nigh on a bottle of wine, and there was little else it could have revealed . . . No sir, here's what I found myself thinking about for a while, especially en route, in the train: might I have done anything to facilitate this whole . . . misfortune - in a moral sense, through being irritable or something like that? But I concluded that this, too, was positively impossible.'

  Raskolnikov laughed.

  'A fine way of worrying!'

  'Why are you laughing? Consider this: I only struck her twice with a little whip; it didn't even leave any marks . . . Now please don't think me a cynic; I know perfectly well how beastly this was of me, etcetera, etcetera; but I also know full well that Marfa Petrovna probably welcomed this "enthusiasm" of mine. The story about your dear sister had been flogged to death. This was already the third day Marfa Petrovna had had to spend at home; she could hardly show up in town empty-handed and she'd already bored everyone to tears with that letter of hers (you heard about how she went round reading it?). Then, all of a sudden, out of a clear blue sky, these two whippings!
Harness the carriage, quick! . . . I won't even mention the fact that there are times when women find it very, very pleasurable to be insulted, for all their apparent indignation. That goes for everyone, actually; humankind in general is terribly fond of being insulted, have you noticed? But it's particularly true of women. One might even say it's their sole amusement.'

  At one point Raskolnikov was on the verge of getting up and walking out. But a certain curiosity, even a kind of forethought, held him back for a moment.

  'Are you fond of fighting?' he asked absently.

  'Not particularly, no,' came Svidrigailov's calm reply. 'In fact, Marfa Petrovna and I hardly ever fought. We lived in great harmony and she was always perfectly satisfied with me. As for the whip, throughout our entire seven years together I used it no more than twice (if we exclude a third, highly ambiguous occasion): the first was two months after our wedding, straight after we'd arrived in the country, and now this very recent incident. And I dare say you thought me a monster, a reactionary, a serf-driver? Heh-heh . . . By the way, do you happen to recall, Rodion Romanovich, how a few years ago, back in the days of beneficent free speech, a certain nobleman - I've forgotten his surname! - was shamed in every town and journal for giving that German lass a good thrashing in a railway carriage? That was the same year, I believe, of "The Scandal of The Age"3 (you know, the Egyptian Nights, that public reading, remember? Those black eyes! O, where are you, golden days of our youth?). Well, sir, here's what I think: towards the gentleman who gave the German lass a thrashing I feel not one whit of sympathy, because, after all, there's . . . well, no cause for sympathy! But I must also mention that one occasionally comes across "German lasses" who lead one on to such an extent that, it seems to me, there is not a single apostle of progress who could vouch entirely for his own behaviour. Nobody considered the topic from this perspective at the time, yet it is precisely this perspective that is truly humane. Yes indeed, sir!'