PART VI

<h2><a id="link2H_PART6"/>
  PART VI
</h2>

<h2><a id="link2HCH0032"/>
  CHAPTER I
</h2>
<p>
  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 after, he believed that his mind had
  been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till
  the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about
  many things at that time, for instance as to 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 from his previous terror and might be compared with the
  abnormal insensibility, 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 irksome to him. How glad he would have
  been to be free from some cares, the neglect of which would have
  threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.
</p>
<p>
  He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlov, he might be said to be
  permanently thinking of Svidrigaïlov. From the time of Svidrigaïlov’s too
  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 for an explanation of 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 Svidrigaïlov. He recognised 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 positively
  fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for
  Svidrigaïlov. 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.
</p>
<p>
  But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna’s death, he had
  two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at Sonia’s lodging, where he had gone
  aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference
  to the vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak of
  it for a time.
</p>
<p>
  Katerina Ivanovna’s body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigaïlov was
  busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At
  their last meeting Svidrigaïlov 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 personages by whose help the three orphans could be at
  once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had settled
  on them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place
  orphans with some 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....”
 </p>
<p>
  This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigaïlov
  looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping
  his voice, asked: “But how is it, Rodion Romanovitch; 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 am only sorry, I’ve so much to do of my own
  business and other people’s. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch,” he added suddenly,
  “what all men need is fresh air, fresh air... more than anything!”
 </p>
<p>
  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. By
  Svidrigaïlov’s orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigaïlov
  went his way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the
  priest into Sonia’s room. He stood at the door. They began quietly, slowly
  and mournfully singing the service. From his childhood the thought of
  death and the presence of death had something oppressive and mysteriously
  awful; and it was long 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.
</p>
<p>
  “These 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 all through 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.
</p>
<p>
  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 thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life
  there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late, he had
  never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town on to
  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 that he made
  haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter
  restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. 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 positively
  enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as
  though his conscience smote 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 the struggle
  again! Better Porfiry again... or Svidrigaïlov.... Better 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 Dounia 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, two o’clock in the afternoon.
</p>
<p>
  He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna’s funeral had been fixed for that
  day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasya 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 wonder at his previous attacks of panic.
</p>
<p>
  The door opened and Razumihin came in.
</p>
<p>
  “Ah, he’s eating, then he’s not ill,” said Razumihin. He took a chair and
  sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.
</p>
<p>
  He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident
  annoyance, but without hurry or raising his voice. He looked as though he
  had some special fixed determination.
</p>
<p>
  “Listen,” he began resolutely. “As far as I am concerned, you may 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, hang it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I
  shouldn’t stay to listen, I should 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.”
 </p>
<p>
  “When did you see them last?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Just now. Haven’t you seen them since then? What have you been doing with
  yourself? Tell me, please. I’ve been to you three times already. Your
  mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to
  come to you; Avdotya 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?’ 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 <i>his girl</i>.’ She means by <i>your girl</i> Sofya Semyonovna,
  your betrothed or your mistress, I don’t know. I went at once to Sofya
  Semyonovna’s, for I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I
  saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying them on
  mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologised, came away, and reported to
  Avdotya 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 may go to
  hell, all of you, for there’s some mystery, some secret about it, and I
  don’t intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I’ve simply come to
  swear at you,” he finished, getting up, “to relieve my mind. And I know
  what to do now.”
 </p>
<p>
  “What do you mean to do now?”
 </p>
<p>
  “What business is it of yours what I mean to do?”
 </p>
<p>
  “You are going in for a drinking bout.”
 </p>
<p>
  “How... how did you know?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Why, it’s pretty plain.”
 </p>
<p>
  Razumihin paused for a minute.
</p>
<p>
  “You always have been a very rational person and you’ve never been mad,
  never,” he observed suddenly with warmth. “You’re right: I shall drink.
  Good-bye!”
 </p>
<p>
  And he moved to go out.
</p>
<p>
  “I was talking with my sister—the day before yesterday, I think it
  was—about you, Razumihin.”
 </p>
<p>
  “About me! But... where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?”
   Razumihin stopped short and even turned a little pale.
</p>
<p>
  One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently.
</p>
<p>
  “She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me.”
 </p>
<p>
  “She did!”
 </p>
<p>
  “Yes.”
 </p>
<p>
  “What did you say to her... I mean, about me?”
 </p>
<p>
  “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.”
 </p>
<p>
  “She knows that herself?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Well, it’s pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me,
  you would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your
  keeping, Razumihin. 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.”
 </p>
<p>
  “Rodya! You see... well.... Ach, damn it! But where do you mean 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 capital fellow, a capital
  fellow!...”
 </p>
<p>
  “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 must be.
  Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air,
  fresh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant by
  that.”
 </p>
<p>
  Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent
  conclusion.
</p>
<p>
  “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 Dounia
  knows,” he thought suddenly.
</p>
<p>
  “So Avdotya 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.
</p>
<p>
  “What letter?”
 </p>
<p>
  “She got a letter to-day. It upset her very much—very much indeed.
  Too much so. I began speaking of 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.”
 </p>
<p>
  “She got a letter?” Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
  “Yes, and you didn’t know? hm...”
 </p>
<p>
  They were both silent.
</p>
<p>
  “Good-bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I.... Never mind,
  good-bye. You see, there was a time.... Well, good-bye! I must be off too.
  I am not going to drink. There’s no need now.... That’s all stuff!”
 </p>
<p>
  He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he
  suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away:
</p>
<p>
  “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 very workmen, the painter, only fancy! Do
  you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, all that scene of
  fighting and laughing with his companions on the stairs while the porter
  and the two witnesses were going up, he got up on purpose to disarm
  suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind of the young dog! One can
  hardly credit it; 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 frantic on their side!”
 </p>
<p>
  “Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that, and why does it interest
  you so?” Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation.
</p>
<p>
  “What next? You ask me why it interests me!... Well, I heard it from
  Porfiry, among others... It was from him I heard almost all about it.”
 </p>
<p>
  “From Porfiry?”
 </p>
<p>
  “From Porfiry.”
 </p>
<p>
  “What... what did he say?” Raskolnikov asked in dismay.
</p>
<p>
  “He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, after his
  fashion.”
 </p>
<p>
  “He explained it? Explained it himself?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Yes, yes; good-bye. I’ll tell you all about it another time, but now I’m
  busy. There was a time when I fancied... But no matter, another time!...
  What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without
  wine. I am drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I’m going. I’ll come again very soon.”
 </p>
<p>
  He went out.
</p>
<p>
  “He’s a political conspirator, there’s not a doubt about it,” Razumihin
  decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. “And he’s drawn his sister in;
  that’s quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna’s character. There
  are interviews between them!... She hinted at it too... So many of her
  words.... and hints... bear that meaning! And how else can all this tangle
  be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking... Good heavens, what I
  thought! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was his
  doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Pfoo! What a crude, nasty,
  vile idea on my part! Nikolay is a brick, for confessing.... And how clear
  it all is now! His illness then, all his strange actions... before this,
  in the university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy.... But what’s the
  meaning now of that letter? There’s something in that, too, perhaps. Whom
  was it from? I suspect...! No, I must find out!”
 </p>
<p>
  He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and his heart throbbed,
  and he suddenly broke into a run.
</p>
<p>
  As soon as Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window,
  walked into one corner and then into 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.
</p>
<p>
  “Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping,
  the burden had been too agonising. A lethargy had come upon him at times.
  From the moment of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry’s he had been
  suffocating, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay’s confession,
  on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his behaviour 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!
</p>
<p>
  “And Svidrigaïlov 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
  Svidrigaïlov. Svidrigaïlov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry
  was a different matter.
</p>
<p>
  “And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it <i>psychologically</i>.
  He had begun bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to
  think that Porfiry should for one moment believe that Nikolay was guilty,
  after what had passed between them before Nikolay’s appearance, after that
  tête-à-tête interview, which could have only <i>one</i> 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
  Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first
  gesture, could not have shaken his conviction.
</p>
<p>
  “And to think that even Razumihin 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 object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? 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 nor sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign....”
 </p>
<p>
  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 Svidrigaïlov,” 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 Svidrigaïlov. At
  least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now.
</p>
<p>
  “We shall see, we shall see,” he repeated to himself.
</p>
<p>
  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 one minute. Strange to say, he was not very
  much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely 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 that he had heard nothing? Could he have been listening at the
  door?”
 </p>
<p>
  “You didn’t expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch,” Porfiry explained,
  laughing. “I’ve been meaning to look in 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.”
 </p>
<p>
  “Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down.” Raskolnikov gave his visitor a
  seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have
  marvelled at himself, if he could have seen it.
</p>
<p>
  The last 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.
</p>
<p>
  Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him
  without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a
  cigarette.
</p>
<p>
  “Speak, speak,” seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov’s heart.
  “Come, why don’t you speak?”
 </p>