بخش 06 - فصل 01

CHAPTER ONE

A STRANGE PERIOD BEGAN for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long afterwards, he believed that his mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, until the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for instance about the date of certain events. Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he learnt a great deal about himself from what other people told him. He had mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came upon him as a reaction to his previous terror and might be compared with the abnormal insensibility which is sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to escape from a full and clear understanding of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate consideration were particularly irritating to him. How glad he would have been to be free from some of his worries which, if he had neglected them, would have threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.

He was particularly worried about Svidrigailov, he might be said to be permanently thinking of Svidrigailov. From the time of Svidrigailov’s excessively menacing and unmistakable words in Sonia’s room at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna’s death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break down. But although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness, Raskolnikov was in no hurry to explain it. At times, finding himself in a solitary and remote part of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he suddenly thought of Svidrigailov. He recognized suddenly, clearly, and with dismay that he ought at once to come to an understanding with that man and to make what terms he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he actually imagined that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for Svidrigailov. Another time he woke up before daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes and could not at first understand how he had come there.

But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna’s death, he had two or three times met Svidrigailov in the building where Sonia lived, to which he had gone aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference to the vital subject, as though they had tacitly agreed not to speak of it for a period.

Katerina Ivanovna’s body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigailov was busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At their last meeting Svidrigailov informed Raskolnikov that he had made an arrangement, and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna’s children; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded in getting hold of certain people with whose help the three orphans could be at once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had given them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place orphans who have some kind of property than destitute ones. He said something too about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two to see Raskolnikov, mentioning that “he would like to consult with him, that there were things they must talk over . . . ” This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigailov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping his voice, asked: “But how is it, Rodion Romanovich; you don’t seem yourself? You look and you listen, but you don’t seem to understand. Cheer up! We’ll talk things over; I’m just sorry, I’ve so much of my own business and of other people’s to do. Ah, Rodion Romanovich,” he added suddenly, “what everyone needs is fresh air, fresh air . . . more than anything!” He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who were coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. On Svidrigailov’s orders it was sung twice a day, punctually. Svidrigailov went his way. Raskolnikov stood still for a moment, thought, and followed the priest into Sonia’s room. He stood at the door. They began to sing the service quietly, slowly and mournfully. From his childhood the thought of death and the presence of death had been something oppressive and mysteriously awful; and it was a long time since he had heard the requiem service. And there was something else here as well, too awful and disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the coffin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed, softly, and, as it were, timidly weeping.

“For the last two days she hasn’t said a word to me, she hasn’t glanced at me,” Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room; the incense rose in clouds; the priest read, “Give rest, oh Lord . . . ” Raskolnikov stayed throughout the service. As he blessed them and took his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov. It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.

Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude, he would have considered himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life there. But although he had almost always been by himself recently, he had never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town onto the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so he made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to go into restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy streets. There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he actually enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as though his conscience was smiting him. “Here I sit listening to singing, is that what I ought to be doing?” he thought. Yet he felt at once that that was not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was something requiring immediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly understand or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. “No, better have the struggle again! Better have Porfiry again . . . or Svidrigailov . . . Better have some challenge again . . . some attack. Yes, yes!” he thought. He went out of the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dunia and his mother suddenly reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning among some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over with fever; he walked home, and it was early morning when he arrived. After some hours’ sleep the fever left him, but he woke up late, at two o’clock in the afternoon.

He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna’s funeral had been fixed for that day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasia brought him some food; he ate and drank with appetite, almost with greediness. His head was fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He even felt a passing sense of amazement at his previous panic attacks.

The door opened and Razumikhin came in.

“Ah, he’s eating; then he’s not ill,” said Razumikhin. He took a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.

He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident annoyance, but without hurrying or raising his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed determination.

“Listen,” he began resolutely. “As far as I’m concerned, you can all go to hell, but from what I see, it’s clear to me that I can’t make head or tail of it; please don’t think I’ve come to ask you questions. I don’t want to know, damn it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I don’t think I’d stay to listen, I’d go away cursing. I have only come to find out once for all whether it’s a fact that you are mad? There is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit I’ve been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid, repulsive and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior to your mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you have; so you must be mad.” “When did you see them last?”

“Just now. Haven’t you seen them since then? What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I’ve been to see you three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to come to you; Avdotia Romanovna tried to prevent her; she wouldn’t hear a word. ‘If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look after him like his mother can?’ she said. We all came here together, we couldn’t let her come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came in, you weren’t here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said: ‘If he’s gone out, that is, if he is well, and has forgotten his mother, it’s humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.’ She returned home and took to her bed; now she is in a fever. ‘I see,’ she said, ‘that he has time for his girl.’ She means by your girl Sofia Semionovna, your betrothed or your mistress, I don’t know. I went at once to Sofia Semionovna’s because I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofia Semionovna getting them to try on mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologized, went away, and reported it all to Avdotia Romanovna. So that’s all nonsense and you haven’t got a girl; the most likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef as though you’d not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that goes, madmen eat too, but though you have not said a word to me yet . . . you are not mad! That I’d swear! Above all, you are not mad. So you can go to hell, all of you, because there’s some mystery, some secret about it, and I don’t intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I’ve just come to swear at you,” he finished, getting up, “to relieve my mind. And I know what to do now.” “What do you intend to do now?”

“What business is it of yours what I intend to do?”

“You are going out for a drinking bout.”

“How . . . how did you know?”

“Well, it’s pretty clear.”

Razumikhin paused for a minute.

“You’ve always been a very rational person and you’ve never been mad, never,” he observed suddenly with warmth. “You’re right: I shall drink. Goodbye!”

And he moved to go out.

“I was talking with my sister—the day before yesterday I think it was—about you, Razumikhin.”

“About me! But . . . where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?” Razumikhin stopped short and even turned a little pale.

His heart was throbbing slowly and violently.

“She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me.”

“She did!”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to her . . . I mean, about me?”

“I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn’t tell her you love her, because she knows that herself.”

“She knows that herself?”

“Well, it’s pretty clear. Wherever I go, whatever happens to me, you will remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your keeping, Razumikhin. I say this because I know quite well how you love her, and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too may love you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself, as you know best, whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not.” “Rodia! You see . . . well . . . Ah, damn it! But where do you intend to go? Of course, if it’s all a secret, never mind . . . But I . . . I shall find out the secret . . . and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense and that you’ve made it all up. Anyway you are a wonderful person, a wonderful person!” . . .

“That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was a very good decision of yours not to find out these secrets. Leave it to time, don’t worry about it. You’ll know it all in time when it’s all revealed. Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air. I intend to go to him directly to find out what he meant by that.” Razumikhin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent conclusion.

“He’s a political conspirator! He must be. And he’s on the eve of some desperate step, that’s certain. It can only be that! And . . . and Dunia knows,” he thought suddenly.

“So Avdotia Romanovna comes to see you,” he said, weighing each syllable, “and you’re going to see a man who says we need more air, and so of course that letter . . . that too must have something to do with it,” he concluded to himself.

“What letter?”

“She got a letter today. It upset her very much—very much indeed. Too much so. I started talking about you, she begged me not to. Then . . . then she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part . . . then she began warmly thanking me for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in.” “She got a letter?” Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.

“Yes, and you didn’t know? Hm . . . ”

They were both silent.

“Goodbye, Rodion. There was a time, my friend, when I . . . Never mind, goodbye. You see, there was a time … Well, goodbye! I must be off too. I am not going to drink. There’s no need now . . . That’s all stupid!”

He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away:

“Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry’s, that old woman? Do you know the murderer has been found, he has confessed and given the proofs. It’s one of those workmen, the painter, just imagine! Do you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, that whole scene of fighting and laughing with his companion on the stairs while the porter and the two witnesses were going up, he put on deliberately to disarm suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind that little dog had! It can hardly be credited; but it’s his own explanation, he has confessed it all. And what a fool I was about it! Well, he’s simply a genius of hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the lawyers—so there’s nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course, people like that are always possible. And the fact that he couldn’t keep up the character, but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a fool I was! I was frantically supporting them!” “Tell me, please, who did you hear that from, and why does it interest you so much?” Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation.

“What next? You ask me why it interests me! . . . Well, I heard it from Porfiry, among others . . . It was from him I heard almost everything about it.”

“From Porfiry?”

“From Porfiry.”

“What . . . what did he say?” Raskolnikov asked in dismay.

“He gave me a brilliant explanation of it. Psychologically, after his fashion.”

“He explained it? Explained it himself?”

“Yes, yes; goodbye. I’ll tell you all about it another time, but now I’m busy. There was a time when I imagined . . . But no matter, another time! . . . What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without wine. I am drunk, Rodia! Goodbye, I’m going. I’ll come again very soon.” He went out.

“He’s a political conspirator, there’s no doubt about it,” Razumikhin decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. “And he’s drawn his sister in; that’s entirely, entirely in keeping with Avdotia Romanovna’s character. There are meetings between them! . . . She hinted at it too . . . So many of her words . . . and hints . . . have implied that! And how else can this whole tangle be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking . . . Goodness, what was I thinking! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was his doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Foo! What a crude, nasty, vile idea on my part! Nikolai is a real godsend, for confessing . . . And how clear everything is now! His illness then, all his strange actions . . . before this, in the university, how pessimistic he used to be, how gloomy . . . But what’s the meaning now of that letter? There’s something in that, too, perhaps. Who was it from? I suspect . . . ! No, I must find out!” He thought of Dunia, realizing everything he had heard and his heart throbbed, and he suddenly broke into a run.

As soon as Razumikhin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window, walked from one corner to another, as though forgetting the smallness of his room, and sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to speak, renewed; again the struggle, so a means of escape had come.

“Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonizing. A lethargy had come upon him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolai at Porfiry’s he had been suffocating, penned in without any hope of escape. After Nikolai’s confession, on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his behavior and his last words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined beforehand; he had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed at the time with Sonia, he had agreed in his heart he could not go on living alone with such a thing on his mind!

“And Svidrigailov was a riddle . . . He worried him, that was true, but somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with Svidrigailov. Svidrigailov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry was a different matter.

“And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumikhin, had explained it psychologically. He had started bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to think that Porfiry should for a moment believe that Nikolai was guilty, after what had passed between them before Nikolai’s appearance, after that one-on-one interview, which could have only one explanation? (During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene with Porfiry; he could not bear to let his mind rest on it.) Such words, such gestures had passed between them, they had exchanged such glances, things had been said in such a tone and had reached such a pass, that Nikolai, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first gesture, could not have shaken his conviction.

“And to think that even Razumikhin had begun to suspect! The scene in the corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry . . . But what had induced the latter to receive him like that? What had been his aim in putting Razumikhin off with Nikolai? He must have some plan; there was some design, but what was it? It was true that a long time had passed since that morning—too long a time—and no sight or sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign . . . ” Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It was the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind, at least. “I must settle Svidrigailov,” he thought, “and as soon as possible; he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord.” And at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he might have killed either of those two—Porfiry or Svidrigailov. At least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now.

“We shall see, we shall see,” he repeated to himself.

But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porfiry himself in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a minute, but only for a minute. Strange to say, he was not very astonished to see Porfiry and was scarcely even afraid of him. He was simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard. “Perhaps this will mean the end? But how could Porfiry have approached so quietly, like a cat, so he would hear nothing? Could he have been listening at the door?” “You didn’t expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovich,” Porfiry explained, laughing. “I’ve been meaning to look in for a long time; I was passing by and thought—why not go in for five minutes! Are you going out? I won’t keep you long. Just let me have one cigarette.” “Sit down, Porfiry Petrovich, sit down.” Raskolnikov gave his visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have marveled at himself if he could have seen it.

The final moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.

Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a cigarette.

“Say something, say something,” seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov’s heart. “Come on, why aren’t you saying anything?”