Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  "What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. "Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?"

  Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile.

  "I know you have," he answered. "I've heard it. You looked for my sock… And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanovna's—you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand—it was quite clear, wasn't it?"

  "What a hot head he is!"

  "The explosive one?"

  "No, your friend Razumihin."

  "You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?"

  "We've just been… having a drink together… You talk about pouring it into me!"

  "By way of a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I am not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman…"

  "How do you know about it?"

  "Perhaps I know more about it than you do."

  "How strange you are… I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out."

  "Oh, do I seem strange to you?"

  "Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?"

  "Yes."

  "There's a lot about the fires."

  "No, I am not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am not reading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. "But confess now, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?"

  "I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question? Why do you keep on…?"

  "Listen, you are a man of culture and education?"

  "I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with some dignity.

  "Sixth class! Ah, my cock–sparrow! With your parting and your rings—you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended.

  "Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are still delirious."

  "I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock–sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?"

  "Yes, curious."

  "Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"

  "Well, what is it?"

  "You prick up your ears?"

  "How do you mean—'prick up my ears'?"

  "I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you… no, better 'I confess'… No, that's not right either; 'I make a deposition and you take it.' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching…" he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I was searching—and came here on purpose to do it—for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman," he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.

  "What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. "That's no business of mine! What of it?"

  "The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not heeding Zametov's explanation, "about whom you were talking in the police–office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?"

  "What do you mean? Understand… what?" Zametov brought out, almost alarmed.

  Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!

  "You are either mad, or…" began Zametov, and he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.

  "Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!"

  "Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it's all nonsense!"

  Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for some time.

  "Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold," said Zametov.

  "What! Tea? Oh, yes…" Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.

  "There have been a great many of these crimes lately," said Zametov. "Only the other day I read in the Moscow News that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets!"

  "Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you consider them criminals?" he added, smiling.

  "Of course they are criminals."

  "They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object—what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes—what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change the notes either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth thousand—he was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?"

  "That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that's quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can't stand things."

  "Can't stand that?"

  "Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it's their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to do it. Would you?"

  Raskolnikov had an intense desire again "to put his tongue out." Shivers kept running down his spine.

  "I should do it quite differently," Raskolnikov began. "This is how I would change the notes: I'd count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I'd set to the second thousand; I'd count that half–way through and then hold some fifty–rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again—to see whether it was a good one. 'I am afraid,' I would say, 'a relation of mine lost twenty–five roubles the other day through a false note,' and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, 'No, excuse me,' I would say, 'I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.' And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from the fift
h and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, 'Change them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back, 'No, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation. That's how I'd do it."

  "Foo! what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home—that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle—but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn't stand it. That was clear from the…"

  Raskolnikov seemed offended.

  "Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov.

  "Well, they will catch him."

  "Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You've a tough job! A great point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child can mislead you."

  "The fact is they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?"

  Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.

  "You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave in that case, too?" he asked with displeasure.

  "I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.

  "Very much?"

  "Very much!"

  "All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov's, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. "This is what I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone—there would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There'd be no trace."

  "You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.

  "And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly and—realised what he had done.

  Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile.

  "But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him.

  "Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?"

  "Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried hastily.

  "I've caught my cock–sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe less than ever?"

  "Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?"

  "You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police–office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there," he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?"

  "Thirty copecks," the latter replied, running up.

  "And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes and blue, twenty–five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You've cross–examined my landlady, I'll be bound… Well, that's enough! Assez causé! Till we meet again!"

  He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed.

  Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.

  "Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead," he decided.

  Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.

  "So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice—"you ran away from your bed! And here I've been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?"

  "It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly.

  "Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot!… What have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!"

  "Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.

  "Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do with you directly? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!"

  "Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm—"can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who… curses them, who feels them a burden in fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough to–day that you were torturing me, that I was… sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because it's continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God's sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!"

  He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had been with Luzhin.

  Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.

  "Well, go to hell then," he said gently and thoughtfully. "Stay," he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you've any little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in that! There isn't a sign of independent life in you! You are made of spermaceti ointment and you've lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don't believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!" he cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement—"hear me out! You kno
w I'm having a house–warming this evening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle there—I just ran in—to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation… you see, Rodya, I recognise you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool!—and if you weren't a fool you'd come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there's no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one… a cup of tea, company… Or you could lie on the sofa—any way you would be with us… Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?"

  "No."

  "R–rubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patience. "How do you know? You can't answer for yourself! You don't know anything about it… Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards… One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember, Potchinkov's house on the third storey…"

  "Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence."

  "Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat…"

  "I shall not come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov turned and walked away.

  "I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you if you don't! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you see him?"

  "Yes."

  "Talked to him?"

  "Yes."

  "What about? Confound you, don't tell me then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!"

  Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs.