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 at Raskolnikov.
"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, your excellency!"
"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. . . . someone 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.
"Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing,"
trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.
"Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?"
"Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive--the only one of the group.
"Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.
She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
"You're very nice looking yourself," she said.
"Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have you just come out of a hospital?"
"They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are."
"Go along with you!"
"I'll go, sweetie!"
And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.
"I say, sir," the girl shouted after him.
"What is it?"
She hesitated.
"I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice young man!"
Raskolnikov gave her what came first--fifteen copecks.
"Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!"
"What's your name?"
"Ask for Duclida."
"Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame. . . ."
Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature! . . . And vile is he who calls him vile for that," he added a moment later.
He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. "What if it is?" he thought.
"Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter.
"Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days, and I'll give you something."
"Yes, sir, here's to-day's. No vodka?"
The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them.
"Oh, damn . . . these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . another fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. . . . Ah, here it is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk.
"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 fifth 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 cause!/ 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 know 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.
"Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He talked sensibly but yet . . . I am a fool! As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid of." He struck his finger on his forehead. "What if . . . how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself. . . . Ach, what a blunder! I can't." And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.
Raskolnikov walked straight to X---- Bridge, stood in the middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.
"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!"
"A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her: she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the same woman's voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her--and here she's in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see yonder. . . ."
The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone mentioned the police station. . . . Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. "No, that's loathsome . . . water . . . it's not good enough," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will come of it," he added, "no use to wait. What about the police office . . . ? And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o'clock. . . ." He turned his back to the railing and looked about him.
"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out "to make an end of it all." Complete apathy had succeeded to it.
"Well, it's a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. "Anyway I'll make an end, for I want to. . . . But is it a way out? What does it matter! There'll be the square yard of space--ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah . . . damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don't care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one's head."
To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute's thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of /the/ house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since /that/ evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. "That wasn't so then," he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. "It's shut up and the door newly painted. So it's to let." Then the third storey and the fourth. "Here!" He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov's coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened.
"She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very early, all dressed up. 'Why are you preening and prinking?' says I. 'I am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way of going on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!"
"And what is a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority.
"A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the female. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies' fluffles, they're beyond anything you can fancy."
"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger cried enthusiastically, "except father and mother, there's everything!"
"Except them, there's everything to be found, my boy," the elder declared sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance.
"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.
Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction.
"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."
"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the porter."
"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no blood?"
"What blood?"
"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there."
"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.
"Who am I?"
"Yes."
"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you."
The workmen looked at him in amazement.
"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up," said the elder workman.
"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway.
At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers- by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them.
"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.
"Have you been to the police office?"
"I've just been there. What do you want?"
"Is it open?"
"Of course."
"Is the assistant there?"
"He was there for a time. What do you want?"
Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward.
"Which flat?"
"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he. 'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.' And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us."
The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street.
"Why have you been to the flat?"
"To look at it."
"What is there to look at?"
"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked in abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones:
"Come along."
"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going into /that/, what's in his mind, eh?"
"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered the workman.
"But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest--"Why are you hanging about?"
"You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"
"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.
"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. "Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!"
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked away.
"Strange man!" observed the workman.
"There are strange folks about nowadays," said the woman.
"You should have taken him to the police station all the same," said the man in the long coat.
"Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you won't get rid of him. . . . We know the sort!"
"Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him alone. . . . All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage. . . . A light gleamed in the middle of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and knew that it would all soon be over.
但是她刚一出去，他立刻就起来了，用门钩扣上房门，解开拉祖米欣不久前拿来、又重新包起来的那包衣服，动手穿了起来。怪事：似乎他突然变得十分镇静了；既不像不久前那样精神错乱，胡言乱语，也不像最近这段时间那样失魂落魄，惊恐万分。这是一种奇怪的、突然到来的镇静的最初瞬间。他的动作毫无差错，目的明确，表现出他有某种坚定的意图。“今天，就在今天！……”他喃喃地自言自语。不过他明白，他还很虚弱，但极度的精神紧张，使他变得镇静和下定决心的精神紧张，给了他力量和自信；不过他希望不至于跌倒在街上。他全身都换上了新衣服，看了看放在桌子上的钱，想了想，把钱都装进了衣袋。一共是二十五卢布。他又拿了那几个五戈比的铜币，那是拉祖米欣拿去买衣服的十个卢布找回的零钱。然后他轻轻取下门钩，从屋里出来，走下楼梯，朝大敞着的厨房门里面张了一眼：娜斯塔西娅背对着他站着，弯下腰，正在吹女房东的茶炊。她什么也没听到。而且谁能想到他会出去呢？不一会儿，他已经到了街上。
已经八点钟了，红日西沉。仍然那么闷热；然而他还是贪婪地吸了一口这恶臭难闻、尘土飞扬、被城市污染了的空气。他的头微微眩晕起来；他那双发红的眼睛里和白中透黄，十分消瘦的脸上，却显示出某种奇怪的旺盛精力。他不知道，也没想过要到哪里去；他只知道一点：“这一切必须在今天结束，一下子结束它，立刻；否则他决不回家，因为他不愿这样活下去。”怎么结束？用什么办法结束？他一点儿也不知道，也不愿去想它。他驱除了这个想法，这个想法在折磨他。他只是感觉到，而且知道，必须让一切都发生变化，不是这样变，就是那样变，“不管怎么变都行”，他怀着绝望的、执拗的自信和决心反复说。
由于以前养成的习惯，他顺着从前散步时通常走的那条路径直往干草广场走去。还不到干草广场，在一家小铺门前，马路上站着一个身背手摇风琴的黑发年轻流浪乐师，正在摇着一首十分动人的抒情歌曲。他是为站在他前面人行道上的一个姑娘伴奏，她约摸有十四、五岁，打扮得像一位小姐，穿一条钟式裙，肩上披着披肩，戴着手套，头上戴一顶插着火红色羽毛的草帽；这些东西都破旧了。她用街头卖唱的声音演唱那首抒情歌曲，声音发抖，然而相当悦耳和富有感染力，期待着小铺子里会有人丢给她两个戈比。拉斯科利尼科夫停下来，站在两三个听众身边，听了一会儿，掏出一枚五戈比的铜币，放到姑娘的手里。她正唱到最动人的高音上，突然停住不唱了，歌声猝然中断，她用尖锐的声音向摇琴的乐师喊了一声“够了！”于是两人慢慢往前、往另一家小铺子走去。
“您爱听街头卖唱吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然问一个和他一起站在摇手摇风琴的乐师身旁的过路行人，那人已不算年轻了，看样子像是个游手好闲的人。那人奇怪地看了他一眼，吃了一惊。“我爱听，”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说，不过看他的神情，却仿佛根本不是在谈街头卖唱，“在寒冷、陰暗、潮湿的秋天晚上，一定要在潮湿的晚上，行人的脸色都白得发青，面带病容，这时候我爱听在手摇风琴伴奏下唱歌；或者是在没有风，潮湿的雪直接从天上飘落的时候，那就更好了，您明白吗？透过雪花，煤气路灯①闪闪烁烁……”
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①十九世纪六十年代彼得堡市中心区装上了煤气路灯，其余地区是煤油路灯。
“我不明白……对不起……”那位先生含糊不清地说，拉斯科利尼科夫的问题和奇怪的神情吓坏了他，他走到马路对面去了。
拉斯科利尼科夫一直朝前走，来到干草广场的一个拐角上，那天跟莉扎薇塔谈话的那个小市民和他老婆就是在这儿摆摊做生意的；但是这会儿他们不在这儿。认出这个地方以后，他站住了，往四下里看了看，问一个正在面粉店门口打呵欠、身穿红衬衣的年轻小伙子：
“不是有个市民在这个拐角上做生意吗，跟一个女人，跟他老婆一起，不是吗？”
“各式各样的人都在做生意，”小伙子傲慢地打量着拉斯科利尼科夫，回答说。
“他叫什么名字？”
“受洗礼的时候给他取了个什么名字，就叫什么名字。”
“你是不是扎拉斯基人？哪个省的？”
小伙子又瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫。
“大人，我们那儿不是省，是县，我兄弟出门去了，我待在家里，所以我不知道……清您原谅，大人，多多包涵。”
“上面是个小饭馆吗？”
“是个小饭馆，有弹子台；还有漂亮女人……好极了！”
拉斯科利尼科夫穿过广场。那边拐角上密密麻麻站着一群人，全都是乡下人。他挤进人最多的地方，看看那些人的脸。不知为什么，他很想跟所有人说话儿。但是乡下人都不答理他，大家都东一伙西一簇地挤在一起，互相小声交谈着，乱哄哄的，不知在谈什么。他站了一会儿，想了想，就往右转弯，在人行道上朝B大街那个方向走去。过了广场，他走进了一条小胡同……
以前他也常经过这条很短的小胡同，胡同拐一个弯，从广场通往花园街。最近一段时间，每当他心里烦闷的时候，总是很想到这一带来溜达溜达，“好让心里更加烦闷”。现在他进了这条胡同，什么也不去想。这儿有一幢大房子，整幢房子里都是小酒馆和其他饮食店；从这些酒馆、饭店里不断跑出一些穿得像去“邻居家串门儿”的女人——不包头巾，只穿一件连衫裙。她们在人行道上两三个地方，主要是在底层入口处旁，成群地挤在一起，从入口走下两级台阶，就可以进入各种娱乐场所。这时从其中一个娱乐场所里正传出一阵阵喧闹声，在街上都听得清清楚楚：吉他声丁丁东东，有人在唱歌，笑语喧哗，十分快活。一大群女人挤在门口；有的坐在台阶上，另一些坐在人行道上，还有一些站在那里闲扯。旁边有个喝醉了的士兵，嘴里叼着支香烟，高声骂着街，在马路上闲荡，看来是想去什么地方，可是到底要去哪里，却想不起来了。一个衣衫褴褛的人正和另一个衣衫褴褛的人对骂，一个烂醉如泥的醉汉横躺在街道上。拉斯科利尼科夫在那一大群女人身旁站了下来。她们用嘶哑的声音交谈着；她们都穿着印花布连衫裙和山羊皮的皮鞋，都没包头巾。有一些已经四十多岁了，不过也有十六、七岁的，几乎个个的眼睛都被打伤了。
不知为什么，下边的歌声和喧闹声引起了他的注意……可以听到，那里，在一阵阵哈哈大笑和尖叫声中，在尖细的假噪唱出的雄壮歌曲和吉他的伴奏下，有人正用鞋后跟打着拍子，拼命跳舞。他全神贯注、陰郁而若有所思地听着，在门口弯下腰来，从人行道上好奇地往穿堂里面张望。
你呀，我漂亮的岗警呀，
你别无缘无故地打我呀！——
歌手尖细的歌声婉转动人。拉斯科利尼科夫很想听清唱的是什么歌，似乎全部问题都在于此了。
“是不是要进去呢？”他想。“他们在哈哈大笑。因为喝醉了。怎么，我要不要也喝它个一醉方休呢？”
“不进去吗，亲爱的老爷？”女人中有一个用相当响亮、还没有完全嘶哑的声音问。她还年轻，甚至不难看，——是这群女人中唯一的一个。
“瞧，你真漂亮啊！”他稍稍直起腰来，看了看她，回答说。
她嫣然一笑；她很爱听恭维话。
“您也挺漂亮啊，”她说。
“您多瘦啊！”另一个女人声音低沉地说，“刚从医院出来吗？”
“好像都是将军的女儿，不过都是翘鼻子！”突然一个微带醉意的乡下人走过来，插嘴说，他穿一件厚呢上衣，敞着怀，丑脸上带着狡猾的笑容。“瞧，好快活啊！”
“既然来了，就进去吧！”
“是要进去！很高兴进去！”
他跌跌撞撞地下去了。
拉斯科利尼科夫又往前走去。
“喂，老爷！”那女人在后面喊了一声。
“什么事？”
她感到不好意思了。
“亲爱的老爷，我永远高兴陪您玩几个钟头，可这会儿不知怎的在您面前却鼓不起勇气来。可爱的先生，请给我六个戈比，买杯酒喝！”
拉斯科利尼科夫随手掏出几个铜币：三枚五戈比的铜币。
“啊，您这位老爷心肠多好啊！”
“您叫什么？”
“您就问杜克莉达吧。”
“不，怎么能这样呢，”突然那群女人里有一个对着杜克莉达摇摇头，说。“我真不知道，怎么能这样跟人家要钱！要是我的话，我会臊得找个地缝钻进去……”
拉斯科利尼科夫好奇地望望那个说话的女人。这是个有麻子的女人，三十来岁，脸上给打得青一块紫一块的，上嘴唇也有点肿了。她安详而又严肃地说，责备杜克莉达。
“我是在哪儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫边往前走，边想，“我是在哪儿看到过，一个被判处死刑的人，在临刑前一小时说过，或者是想过，如果他必须在高高的悬崖绝壁上活着，而且是在仅能立足的那么狭窄的一小块地方站着，——四周却是万丈深渊，一片汪洋，永久的黑暗，永久的孤独，永不停息的狂风暴雨，——而且要终生站在这块只有一俄尺见方的地方，站一千年，永远站在那里，——他也宁愿这样活着，而不愿马上去死！①只要能活着，活着，活着！不管怎样活着，——只要活着就好！……多么正确的真理！人是卑鄙的！谁要是为此把人叫作卑鄙的东西，那么他也是卑鄙的，”过了一会儿，他又补上一句。
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①见雨果的《巴黎圣母院》。这里不是引用原文。
他走到了另一条街上。“噢，‘水晶宫’！不久前拉祖米欣谈到过‘水晶宫’。不过我到底想干什么？对了，看报！……
佐西莫夫说，在报上看到过……”
“有报纸吗？”他走进一家宽敞的、甚至颇为整洁的饭店，问道，这家饭店有好几间房间，不过相当空。有两三个顾客在喝茶，稍远一点儿的一间屋里坐着一伙人，一共有四个，在喝香槟，拉斯科利尼科夫觉得，好像扎苗托夫也在他们中间。
不过，从远处看，看不清楚。
“管他去！”他想。
“要伏特加吗？”跑堂的问。
“给来杯茶。你再给我拿几份报纸来，旧的，从五天前一直到今天的，都要，我给你几个酒钱。”
“知道了。这是今天的报纸。要伏特加吗？”
旧报纸和茶都拿来了。拉斯科利尼科夫坐下，翻着找起来：“伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——阿茨蒂克人——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔——巴尔托拉——马西莫——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔①……呸，见鬼！啊，这儿是新闻：一个女人摔下楼梯——一市民因酗酒丧生——沙区发生火灾——彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾②——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——马西莫……哦，在这里了……”
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①拉斯科利尼科夫看的是报纸上的广告。伊兹列尔是彼得堡郊外“矿泉”花园的主人，当时城里人都喜欢去“矿家”花园散步。一八六五年有两个侏儒到达彼得堡，一个叫马西莫，一个叫巴尔托拉，据说他们是墨西哥一个已经绝灭的土著民族阿茨蒂克人的后裔。当时报纸上广泛报道了这两个侏儒到达彼得堡的消息。
②彼得堡区与市中心区之间隔着涅瓦河。十九世纪六十年代那里都是木头房子，一八六五年夏季炎热，那里经常发生火灾。
他终于找到了他要找的，于是看起来了；一行行的字在他眼中跳动，然而他还是看完了所有“消息”，并贪婪地在以后几期报纸上寻找最新的补充报道。他翻报纸的时候，由于焦急慌乱，手在发抖。突然有人坐到他这张桌子这儿来，坐到了他的身边。他一看，是扎苗托夫，就是那个扎苗托夫，还是那个样子，戴着好几个镶宝石的戒指，挂看表链，搽过油的乌黑的鬈发梳成分头，穿一件很考究的坎肩，常礼服却穿旧了，衬衫也不是新的。他心情愉快，甚至是十分愉快而又温和地微笑着。因为喝了香槟，他那黝黑的脸稍有点儿红晕。
“怎么！您在这儿？”他困惑不解地说，那说话的语气，就好像他们是老相识似的，“昨天拉祖米欣还对我说，您一直昏迷不醒。这真奇怪！要知道，我去过您那儿……”
拉斯科利尼科夫知道他准会过来。他把报纸放到一边，转过脸来，面对着扎苗托夫。他嘴唇上挂着冷笑，在这冷笑中流露出一种前所未有的、恼怒的不耐烦神情。
“这我知道，知道您去过，”他回答，“听说过。您找过一只袜子……您知道吗，拉祖米欣非常喜欢您，他说，您和他一道到拉维扎·伊万诺芙娜那儿去过，谈起她的时候，您竭力向火药桶中尉使眼色，可他就是不明白您的意思，您记得吗？怎么会不明白呢——事情是明摆着的……不是吗？”
“他可真是个爱惹事生非的人！”
“火药桶吗？”
“不，您的朋友，拉祖米欣……”
“您过得挺不错啊，扎苗托夫先生；到最快活的地方来，不用花钱！刚才是谁给您斟的香槟？”
“我们……喝了两杯……又给斟上了吗？！”
“这是酬劳嘛！您拥有一切呀！”拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。
“没关系，心地善良的孩子，没关系！”他拍了拍扎苗托夫的肩膀，又补上一句，“我可不是故意惹您生气，‘而是因为我们要好，闹着玩儿’，老太婆的那个案子里，您那个工人用拳头捶米季卡的时候，也是这么说的。”
“可您是怎么知道的？”
“我嘛，也许比您知道得还多。”
“您这人真有点儿怪……大概，还病得很厉害。您不该出来……”
“您觉得我怪吗？”
“是的。怎么，您在看报？”
“是在看报。”
“有许多关于火灾的消息。”
“不，我不是在看火灾的消息，”这时他神秘地看了看扎苗托夫；嘲讽的微笑使他的嘴唇变了形。“不，我不是看火灾的消息，”他对扎苗托夫眨眨眼，接着说。“您承认吧，可爱的青年人，您很想知道我在看什么消息，是吧？”
“根本不想知道；我只不过这么问问。难道不能问吗？您怎么总是……”
“喂，您是个受过教育、有文化的人，是吧？”
“我读过中学六年级，”扎苗托夫神情有点儿庄重地说。
“六年级！唉，你呀，我的小宝贝儿！梳着分头，戴着镶宝石的戒指——是个有钱的人！嘿，一个多可爱的小孩子呀！”这时拉斯科利尼科夫对着扎苗托夫的脸神经质地狂笑起来。扎苗托夫急忙躲开了，倒不是因为觉得受了侮辱，而是大吃一惊。
“嘿，您多怪啊！”扎苗托夫神情十分严肃地又说了一遍。
“我觉得，您一直还在说胡话。”
“我说胡话？你胡扯，小宝贝儿！……那么，我很怪吗？
您觉得我很有意思，是吗？有点儿异常？”
“有点儿异常。”
“是不是谈谈，我在看什么，找什么？瞧，我叫他们拿来了这么多报纸！可疑，是吗？”
“好，您请说吧。”
“耳朵竖起来了吗？”
“竖起来，这是什么意思？”
“等以后再告诉您，竖起来是什么意思，而现在，我最亲爱的朋友，我向您声明……不，最好是：‘供认’……不，这也不对：‘我招供，您审问’——这就对了！那么我招供，我看的是，我关心的是……我找的是……我寻找的是……”拉斯科利尼科夫眯缝起眼来，等待着，“我寻找的是——而且就是为此才到这儿来的——谋杀那个老太婆、那个官太太的消息，”最后，他几乎把自己的脸紧凑到扎苗托夫的脸上，低声耳语似地说。扎苗托夫凝神注视着他，一动不动，也没把自己的脸躲开。后来扎苗托夫觉得，最奇怪的是，他们之间的沉默足足持续了一分钟，足足有一分钟，他们俩就这样互相对视着。
“您看这些消息，那又怎样呢？”扎苗托夫困惑不解而且不耐烦地高声说。“这关我什么事！这是什么意思？”
“就是那个老太婆，”拉斯科利尼科夫还是那样悄悄地接下去说，对扎苗托夫的高声叫喊丝毫不动声色，“就是那个老太婆，您记得吗，你们在办公室里谈论起她来的时候，我昏倒了。怎么，现在您明白了吗？”
“这是什么意思？什么……‘您明白了吗’？”扎苗托夫几乎是惊慌地问。
拉斯科利