Текст книги "Crime and Punishment"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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“So you still believe in the New Jerusalem?”

“I believe,” Raskolnikov answered firmly; saying this, as throughout his whole tirade, he looked at the ground, having picked out a certain spot on the carpet.

“And...and...and do you also believe in God? Excuse me for being so curious.”

“I believe,” Raskolnikov repeated, looking up at Porfiry.

“And...and do you believe in the raising of Lazarus?” <sup>[79]79
  See John 11:1-45. This is not the beggar Lazarus, but Lazarus the brother of Martha and Mary, whom Jesus raises from the dead. The theme of the raising of Lazarus, central to the novel, is here introduced from an unexpected quarter, and meets an unexpected response.


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“I be-believe. What do you need all this for?”

“You believe literally?”

“Literally.”

“I see, sir...just curious. Excuse me, sir. But, if I may say so– returning to the previous point—they aren't always punished; some, on the contrary...”

“Triumph in their own lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain in their own lifetime, and then . . .”

“Start doing their own punishing?”

“If necessary, and, in fact, almost always. Your observation, generally speaking, is quite witty.”

“Thank you, sir. But tell me this: how does one manage to distinguish these extraordinary ones from the ordinary? Are they somehow marked at birth, or what? What I'm getting at is that one could do with more accuracy here, more outward certainty, so to speak: excuse the natural uneasiness of a practical and law-abiding man, but wouldn't it be possible in this case, for example, to introduce some special clothing, the wearing of some insignia, or whatever?...Because, you must agree, if there is some sort of mix-up, and a person from one category imagines he belongs to the other category and starts 'removing all obstacles,' as you quite happily put it, well then . . .”

“Oh, it happens quite often! This observation is even wittier than your last one...”

“Thank you, sir . . .”

“Not at all, sir; but consider also that a mistake is possible only on the part of the first category, that is, the 'ordinary' people (as I have called them, perhaps rather unfortunately). In spite of their innate tendency to obedience, by some playfulness of nature that is not denied even to cows, quite a few of them like to imagine themselves progressive people, 'destroyers,' who are in on the 'new word,' and that in all sincerity, sir. And at the same time they quite often fail to notice the really newones, and even despise them as backward, shabby-minded people. But in my opinion there cannot be any significant danger here, and there is really nothing for you to be alarmed about, because they never go far. Of course, they ought to receive an occasional whipping, to remind them of their place when they get carried away, but no more than that; there isn't even any need for someone to whip them: they'll whip themselves, because they're so well behaved; some perform this service for each other, and some do it with their own hands...all the while imposing various public penances on themselves—the result is beautiful and edifying; in short, there's nothing for you to be alarmed about...Such a law exists.”

“Well, at least you've reassured me somewhat in that regard; but then there's this other worry: tell me, please, are there many of these people who have the right to put a knife into others—I mean, of these 'extraordinary' ones? I am ready to bow down, of course, but you'll agree, sir, it's a bit eerie if there are too many of them, eh?”

“Oh, don't worry about that either,” Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. “Generally, there are remarkably few people born who have a new thought, who are capable, if only slightly, of saying anything new—strangely few, in fact. One thing is clear, that the ordering of people's conception, all these categories and subdivisions, must be quite correctly and precisely determined by some law of nature. This law is as yet unknown, of course, but I believe that it exists and may one day be known. An enormous mass of people, of material, exists in the world only so that finally, through some effort, some as yet mysterious process, through some interbreeding of stocks and races, with great strain it may finally bring into the world, let's say, at least one somewhat independent man in a thousand. Perhaps one in ten thousand is born with a broader independence (I'm speaking approximately, graphically). With a still broader independence—one in a hundred thousand. Men of genius—one in millions; and great geniuses, the fulfillers of mankind—perhaps after the elapsing of many thousands of millions of people on earth. In short, I have not looked into the retort where all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law; it can be no accident.”

“What, are you two joking or something?” Razumikhin cried out at last. “Addling each other's brains, aren't you? Sitting there and poking fun at each other! Are you serious, Rodya?”

Raskolnikov silently raised his pale, almost sad face to him, and did not answer. And how strange this quiet and sad face seemed to Razumikhin next to the undisguised, intrusive, annoying, and impolitesarcasm of Porfiry.

“Well, brother, if it's really serious, then...You're right, of course, in saying that it's nothing new, and resembles everything we've read and heard a hundred times over; but what is indeed originalin it all—and, to my horror, is really yours alone—is that you do finally permit bloodshed in all conscienceand, if I may say so, even with such fanaticism...So this is the main point of your article. This permission to shed blood in all conscienceis...is to my mind more horrible than if bloodshed were officially, legally permitted . . .”

“Quite right, it's more horrible,” Porfiry echoed.

“No, you got carried away somehow! It's a mistake. I'll read it...You got carried away! You can't think like that...I'll read it.”

“That's not all in the article; it's only hinted at,” said Raskolnikov.

“Right, right, sir,” Porfiry could not sit still. “It has now become almost clear to me how you choose to look at crime, sir, but... excuse my importunity (I'm bothering you so much; I'm quite ashamed!)– you see, sir, you have reassured me greatly concerning cases of a mistaken mixing of the two categories, but...I keep being bothered by various practical cases! Now, what if some man, or youth, imagines himself a Lycurgus or a Muhammad—a future one, to be sure—and goes and starts removing all obstacles to that end...We're faced with a long campaign, and for this campaign we need money...and so he starts providing himself for the campaign...you know what I mean?”

Zamyotov suddenly snorted from his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.

“I have to agree,” he answered calmly, “that such cases must indeed occur. The vain and silly in particular fall for such bait; young men particularly.”

“So you see, sir. Well, and what then, sir?”

“Then nothing,” Raskolnikov smiled. “It's not my fault. That's how it is and always will be. Now, he just said” (he nodded towards Razu-mikhin) “that I permit the shedding of blood. What of it? Society is all too well provided with banishments, prisons, court investigators, hard labor camps—why worry? Go and catch your thief! ... ”

“And what if we do catch him?”

“Serves him right.”

“You're logical, after all. Well, sir, and what about his conscience?”

“But what business is that of yours?”

“But just out of humaneness, sir.”

“Whoever has one can suffer, if he acknowledges his error. It's a punishment for him—on top of hard labor.”

“Well, and those who are the true geniuses—the ones who are granted the right to put a knife into others,” Razumikhin asked, frowning, “they ought not to suffer at all, even for the blood they've shed?”

“Why this word ought?There's neither permission nor prohibition here. Let him suffer, if he pities his victim...Suffering and pain are always obligatory for a broad consciousness and a deep heart. Truly great men, I think, must feel great sorrow in this world,” he suddenly added pensively, not even in the tone of the conversation.

He raised his eyes, gave them all a thoughtful look, smiled, and took his cap. He was too calm, compared with when he had first come, and he felt it. Everyone rose.

“Well, sir, curse me if you like, be angry if you like, but I cannot help myself,” Porfiry Petrovich rounded off again. “Allow me one more little question (I really am bothering you, sir!); I would like to introduce just one little idea, simply so as not to forget, sir...”

“Very well, tell me your little idea,” Raskolnikov stood expectantly before him, pale and serious.

“Now then, sir...I really don't know how best to express it...it's such a playful idea...a psychological idea...Now then, sir, it really cannot be—heh, heh, heh!—that when you were writing your little article you did not regard yourself—say, just the tiniest bit—as one of the 'extraordinary' people, as saying a new word—in your sense, I mean...Isn't that so, sir?”

“It's quite possible,” Raskolnikov replied disdainfully.

Razumikhin stirred.

“And if so, sir, can it be that you yourself would venture—say, in view of certain worldly failures and constraints, or somehow for the furtherance of all mankind—to step over the obstacle?...well, for instance, to kill and rob? . . .”

And he somehow suddenly winked at him again with his left eye and laughed inaudibly—exactly as earlier.

“If I did, I would certainly not tell you,” Raskolnikov answered with defiant, haughty disdain.

“No, sir, it's just that I'm interested, properly speaking, in understanding your article, in a literary sense only, sir . . .”

“Pah, how obvious and insolent!” Raskolnikov thought in disgust.

“Allow me to observe,” he answered dryly, “that I do not consider myself a Muhammad or a Napoleon... or any such person whatsoever, and am consequently unable, not being them, to give you a satisfactory explanation of how I would act.”

“But, my goodness, who in our Russia nowadays doesn't consider himself a Napoleon?” Porfiry suddenly pronounced with horrible familiarity. There was something particularly clear this time even in the tone of his voice.

“Might it not have been some future Napoleon who bumped off our Alyona Ivanovna with an axe last week?” Zamyotov suddenly blurted out from his corner.

Raskolnikov was silent, looking firmly and fixedly at Porfiry. Razumikhin frowned gloomily. He seemed to have begun noticing something even earlier. He looked wrathfully around him. A moment of gloomy silence passed. Raskolnikov turned to leave.

“Leaving already!” Porfiry said kindly, holding out his hand with extreme affability. “I'm very, very glad to have made your acquaintance. And concerning your request, do not be in any doubt. Simply write as I told you. Or, best of all, come to my office yourself...one of these days...tomorrow, even. I'll be there around eleven o'clock for certain. We can settle everything...and talk...Since you were one of the last to be there,you might be able to tell us something . . .” he added, with a most good-natured air.

“You want to question me officially, with all the trimmings?” Raskolnikov asked sharply.

“What for, sir? There's no need of that as yet. You misunderstand me. You see, I never let an opportunity go by, and...and I've already talked with all the other pawners...taken evidence from some...and since you're the last one...Oh, yes, by the way!” he exclaimed, suddenly happy about something, “by the way, I've just remembered—what's the matter with me! . . .” He turned to Razu-mikhin. “You were carping at me all the time about this Nikolashka...well, I know, I know myself that the lad is clear,” he turned back to Raskolnikov, “but there was no help for it; we had to bother Mitka as well...The thing is, sir, the whole point is: going up the stairs that time...excuse me, you were there before eight, sir?”

“Before eight,” Raskolnikov answered, at the same time with an unpleasant feeling that he need not have said it.

“So, passing by on the stairs before eight o'clock, did you at least notice two workers in the open apartment—remember?—on the second floor? Or at least one of them? They were painting, didn't you see? This is very, very important for them! ... ”

“Painters? No, I didn't see . . .” Raskolnikov answered slowly, as if rummaging through his memories, at the same time straining his whole being and frozen with anguish trying to guess where precisely the trap lay, and how not to overlook something. “No, I didn't see, and I didn't notice any open apartment either...but on the fourth floor” (he was now in full possession of the trap and was triumphant) “I do remember there was an official moving out of the apartment. . . opposite Alyona Ivanovna's...yes...that I remember clearly...soldiers carrying out some sofa and pressing me against the wall...but painters—no, I don't remember any painters being there...and I don't think there was any open apartment anywhere. No, there wasn't . . .”

“But what's the matter with you!” Razumikhin exclaimed suddenly, as if coming to his senses and figuring things out. “The painters were working on the day of the crime itself, and he was there two days earlier! Why ask him?”

“Pah! I got it all mixed up!” Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. “Devil take it, my mind stumbles all over itself with this case!” he said to Raskolnikov, as if in apology. “It's so important for us to find out if anyone saw them in the apartment between seven and eight, that I fancied just now you also might be able to tell us...I got it totally mixed up!”

“Well, so you ought to be more careful,” Razumikhin observed morosely.

These last words were spoken in the entryway. Porfiry Petrovich saw them right to the door, with extreme affability. They both came out to the street gloomy and sullen, and did not say a word for a few steps. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath . . .

VI

...I don't believe it! I can't believe it!” the puzzled Razumikhin repeated, trying his best to refute Raskolnikov's arguments. They were already approaching Bakaleev's rooming house, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dunya had long been expecting them. In the heat of the conversation, Razumikhin kept stopping every moment, embarrassed and excited by the mere fact that they were talking openly about thatfor the first time.

“Don't, then!” Raskolnikov replied, with a cold and careless smile. “You noticed nothing, as is usual with you, but I weighed every word.”

“You're insecure, that's why...Hm...I must admit Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and that scoundrel Zamyotov especially! ...  You're right, there was something in him—but why? Why?”

“Changed his mind overnight.”

“But it's the opposite, the opposite! If they did have such a brainless idea, they'd try their best to conceal it and keep their cards hidden, so as to catch you later...But now—it was so insolent and reckless!”

“If they had any facts—real facts, that is—or somewhat well-founded suspicions at least, then they would indeed try to conceal their game, in hopes of bigger winnings (but then they would have made a search long ago!). They have no facts, however, not a one—it's all a mirage, all double-ended, just a fleeting idea—so they're using insolence to try to throw me off. Maybe he's angry himself that there are no facts, and his irritation broke through. Or maybe he has something in mind...It seems he's an intelligent man...Maybe he wanted to frighten me with his knowing...There's psychology for you, brother...But enough! It's disgusting to explain it all!”

“And insulting, insulting! I understand you! But...since we've started talking openly now (and it's excellent that we're talking openly; I'm glad!)—I will now confess to you straight out that I've noticed it in them for some time, this idea, all along; in the tiniest sense, naturally; a creeping suspicion—but why even a creeping one! How dare they! Where, where are its roots hidden? If you knew how furious I was! What, just because a poor student, crippled by poverty and hypochondria, on the verge of a cruel illness and delirium, which may already have begun in him (note that!), insecure, vain, conscious of his worth, who for six months has sat in his corner seeing no one, in rags, in boots without soles, is standing there in front of some local cops, suffering their abuse; and here there's an unexpected debt shoved in his nose, an overdue promissory note from the court councillor Chebarov, rancid paint, thirty degrees Reaumur, <sup>[80]80
  A temperature of 30° on the Reaumur scale is the equivalent of 1oo°F or 80°C.


[Закрыть]</sup> a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, a story about the murder of a person he'd visited the day before—and all this on an empty stomach! How could anyone not faint! And to base everything on that, on that! Devil take it! I know it's annoying, but in your place, Rodka, I'd burst out laughing in their faces; or, better—I'd spit in their mugs, and lay it on thick, and deal out a couple of dozen whacks all around—wisely, as it should always be done—and that would be the end of it. Spit on them! Cheer up! For shame!”

“He explained it well, however,” Raskolnikov thought.

“Spit on them? And tomorrow another interrogation!” he said bitterly. “Should I really get into explanations with them? I'm already annoyed that I stooped to Zamyotov yesterday in the tavern...”

“Devil take it! I'll go to Porfiry myself! And I'll pin him down as a relative;let him lay it all out to the roots! As for Zamyotov . . .”

“He's finally figured it out!” thought Raskolnikov.

“Wait!” cried Razumikhin, suddenly seizing him by the shoulder. “Wait! You're all wrong! I've just thought it over: you're all wrong! Look, what sort of ruse was it? You say the question about the workmen was a ruse? Get what I'm saying: if you had done that,would you let on that you'd seen the apartment being painted...and the workmen? On the contrary: you didn't see anything, even if you did! Who's going to come out against himself?”

“If I had done that thing,I would certainly say I had seen both the apartment and the workmen,” Raskolnikov went on answering reluctantly and with obvious loathing.

“But why speak against oneself?”

“Because only peasants or the most inexperienced novices deny everything outright and all down the line. A man with even a bit of development and experience will certainly try to admit as far as possible all the external and unavoidable facts; only he'll seek other reasons for them, he'll work in some feature of his own, a special and unexpected one, that will give them an entirely different meaning and present them in a different light. Porfiry could precisely count on my being certain to answer that way, on my being certain to say I'd seen them, for the sake of plausibility, and working in something to explain it . . .”

“But he'd tell you immediately that there were no workmen there two days before, and that you had therefore been there precisely on the day of the murder, between seven and eight. He'd throw you off with nothing!”

“But that's what he was counting on, that I wouldn't have time to figure it out and would precisely hasten to answer more plausibly, forgetting that the workmen couldn't have been there two days before.”

“But how could one forget that?”

“What could be easier! It's with such nothings that clever people are thrown off most easily. The cleverer the man, the less he suspects that he can be thrown off with the simplest thing. It's precisely the simplest thing that will throw off the cleverest man. Porfiry isn't as stupid as you think...”

“In that case he's a scoundrel!”

Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the same moment it struck him as strange that he had become so animated and had so willingly uttered this last explanation, when he had kept up the whole previous conversation with sullen loathing, obviously for some purpose, out of necessity.

“I'm beginning to relish certain points!” he thought to himself.

But at almost the same moment he began suddenly to be somehow uneasy, as if struck by an unexpected and alarming thought. His unease kept growing. They had already reached the entrance to Bakaleev's rooming house.

“Go alone,” Raskolnikov said suddenly, “I'll be back right away.”

“Where are you going? We're already here!”

“I must, I must...something to do...I'll be back in half an hour...Tell them.”

“As you wish; I'll follow you!”

“So you want to torment me, too!” he cried out, with such bitter irritation, with such despair in his eyes,that Razumikhin dropped his hands. He stood for a while on the steps and watched glumly as Raskolnikov strode off quickly in the direction of his own lane. Finally, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, and swearing on the spot that he would squeeze Porfiry out like a lemon that very day, he went upstairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, alarmed by then at their long absence.

By the time Raskolnikov reached his house, his temples were damp with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He hastily climbed the stairs, walked into his unlocked apartment, and immediately put the door on the hook. Then he rushed fearfully and madly to the corner, to the same hole in the wallpaper where the things had lain, thrust his hand into it, and for several minutes felt around in it carefully, going over every cranny and every crease in the wallpaper. Finding nothing, he stood up and drew a deep breath. Just as he was coming to Bakaleev's steps, he had suddenly imagined that something, some chain, a cufflink, or even a scrap of the paper they had been wrapped in, with a mark on it in the old woman's hand, might somehow have slipped down and lost itself in a crack, afterwards to confront him suddenly as unexpected and irrefutable evidence.

He stood as if pensively, and a strange, humiliated, half-senseless smile wandered over his lips. Finally he took his cap and walked quietly out of the room. His thoughts were confused. Pensively, he went down to the gateway.

“Why, here's the man himself!” a loud voice exclaimed. He raised his head.

The caretaker was standing by the door of his closet, pointing him out to some short man, a tradesman by the look of it, who was wearing something like a smock over his waistcoat, and from a distance very much resembled a woman. His head hung down in its greasy cap, and he was as if all hunched over. His flabby, wrinkled face told more than fifty years; his small, swollen eyes had a sullen, stern, and displeased look.

“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, coming up to the caretaker.

The tradesman gave him a sidelong look, examining him closely, attentively, unhurriedly; then he turned slowly and, without saying a word, walked out the gate to the street.

“But what is it!” Raskolnikov cried.

“Just somebody asking if a student lived here—he gave your name– and who you rent from. You came down right then, I pointed you out, and he left. How about that!”

The caretaker, too, was somewhat perplexed, but not very, and after thinking a moment longer, he turned and slouched back to his closet.

Raskolnikov rushed after the tradesman and caught sight of him at once, going along the other side of the street at the same steady and unhurried pace, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if pondering something. He soon overtook him, but walked behind him for a while; finally he drew abreast of him and stole a glance at his face from the side. The man noticed him at once, quickly looked him over, then dropped his eyes again, and thus they walked on for about a minute, side by side, neither one saying a word.

“You were asking for me...at the caretaker's?” Raskolnikov said at last, but somehow very softly.

The tradesman made no reply and did not even look. Again there was silence.

“But why do you...come asking...and say nothing...what does it mean?” Raskolnikov's voice was faltering, and the words somehow did not want to come out clearly.

This time the tradesman raised his eyes and gave Raskolnikov an ominous, gloomy look.

“Murderer!” he said suddenly, in a soft but clear and distinct voice.

Raskolnikov was walking beside him. His legs suddenly became terribly weak, a chill ran down his spine, and it was as if his heart stood still for a moment; then all at once it began pounding as if it had jumped off the hook. They walked on thus for about a hundred steps, side by side, and again in complete silence.

The tradesman did not look at him.

“What do you...what...who is a murderer?” Raskolnikov muttered, barely audibly.

“Youare a murderer,” the man replied even more distinctly and imposingly, smiling as if with some hateful triumph, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and deadened eyes. Just then they came to an intersection. The tradesman turned down the street to the left and walked on without looking back. Raskolnikov remained on the spot and gazed after him for a long time. He saw him turn around, after he had gone fifty steps or so, and look at him standing there motionlessly on the same spot. It was impossible to see, but Raskolnikov fancied that the man once again smiled his coldly hateful and triumphant smile.

With slow, weakened steps, with trembling knees and as if terribly cold, Raskolnikov returned and went upstairs to his closet. He took off his cap, put it on the table, and stood motionlessly beside it for about ten minutes. Then, powerless, he lay down on the sofa and painfully, with a weak moan, stretched out on it; his eyes were closed. He lay that way for about half an hour.

He was not thinking of anything. There were just some thoughts, or scraps of thoughts, images without order or connection—the faces of people he had seen as a child, or had met only once somewhere, and whom he would never even have remembered; the belfry of the V–y Church; the billiard table in some tavern, an officer by the billiard table, the smell of cigars in a basement tobacco shop, a pothouse, a back stairway, completely dark, all slopped with swill and strewn with eggshells, and from somewhere the sound of Sunday bells ringing...One thing followed another, spinning like a whirlwind. Some he even liked, and he clung to them, but they would die out, and generally something weighed on him inside, but not very much. At times he even felt good...The slight chill would not go away, but that, too, felt almost good.

He heard Razumikhin's hurrying steps and his voice, closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep. Razumikhin opened the door and for a while stood as if hesitating in the doorway. Then he stepped quietly into the room and cautiously approached the sofa. Nastasya could be heard whispering:

“Don't rile him; let him get some sleep; he can eat later.”

“Right you are,” answered Razumikhin.

They both went out cautiously and closed the door. Another half hour or so passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and heaved himself over on his back again, his arms flung behind his head . . .

“Who is he? Who is this man who came from under the ground? Where was he and what did he see? He saw everything, there's no doubt of it. But where was he standing then, where was he watching from? Why did he come from under the floor only now? And how could he have seen—how is it possible?...Hm . . .” Raskolnikov went on, turning cold and shuddering, “and the case that Nikolai found behind the door—how was that possible? Evidence? One little thing in a hundred thousand overlooked—and here's evidence as big as an Egyptian pyramid! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible this way?”

And he suddenly felt with loathing how weak he had become, physically weak.

“I should have known,” he thought, with a bitter smile, “and how, knowing myself, anticipatingmyself, did I dare take an axe and bloody my hands! I had to have known beforehand...Eh! but I did know beforehand! . . .” he whispered in despair.

At times he stopped still at some thought.

“No, those people are made differently; the true master,to whom all is permitted, sacks Toulon, makes a slaughterhouse of Paris, forgetsan army in Egypt, expendshalf a million men in a Moscow campaign, and gets off with a pun in Vilno; and when he dies they set up monuments to him—and thus everythingis permitted. <sup>[81]81
  Raskolnikov mentally lists the steps in Napoleon's career. Napoleon (1760-1821) first distinguished himself as an artillery captain in the battle of Toulon in the south of France (1793). In 1795 he used his artillery to suppress a royalist uprising in Paris. After an unfortunate campaign in the Middle Fast, in August 1799 he abandoned his army in Egypt and hastily returned alone to Paris to seize power (the remnants of the army were finally repatriated only two years later). In his disastrous Russian campaign of 1812, he lost all but a few thousand of his 500,000-man army, and most of his artillery. The "pun in Vilno" refers to Napoleon's remark after leaving Russia: "Du sublime au ridicule, il n'y a qu'un pas"("From the sublime to the ridiculous is only one step"), quoted by Victor Hugo in the preface to his historical drama Cromwell(1827).


[Закрыть]</sup> No, obviously such men are made not of flesh but of bronze!”

All at once a sudden, extraneous thought almost made him laugh:

“Napoleon, pyramids, Waterloo—and a scrawny, vile registrar's widow, a little old crone, a moneylender with a red trunk under her bed—well, how is Porfiry Petrovich, for instance, going to digest that! ... It's not for them to digest! ... Aesthetics will prevent them: would Napoleon, say, be found crawling under some 'little old crone's' bed! Eh, but what rot! . . .”

There were moments when he felt he was almost raving; he would fall into a feverishly ecstatic mood.

“The little old crone is nonsense!” he thought, ardently and impetuously. “The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she's not the point! The old woman was merely a sickness...I was in a hurry to step over...it wasn't a human being I killed, it was a principle! So I killed the principle, but I didn't step over, I stayed on this side...All I managed to do was kill. And I didn't even manage that, as it turns out...A principle? Why was that little fool Razumikhin abusing the socialists today? They're hardworking, commercial people, concerned with 'universal happiness'...No, life is given to me only once, and never will be again—I don't want to sit waiting for universal happiness. I want to live myself; otherwise it's better not to live at all. And so? I just didn't want to pass by my hungry mother, clutching my rouble in my pocket, while waiting for 'universal happiness.' To say, 'I'm carrying a little brick for universal happiness, and so there's a feeling of peace in my heart.' <sup>[82]82
  The phrase, almost a quotation, appears in the writings of Victor Considérant (1808-93), a French Utopian socialist thinker, follower of Fourier.


[Закрыть]</sup> Ha, ha! But why did you leave me out? I have only one life; I, too, want...Eh, an aesthetic louse is what I am, and nothing more,” he added, suddenly bursting into laughter like a madman. “Yes, I really am a louse,” he went on, gloatingly seizing upon the thought, rummaging in it, playing and amusing himself with it, “if only because, first, I'm now reasoning about being a louse; second, because I've been troubling all-good Providence for a whole month, calling it to witness that I was undertaking it not to satisfy my own flesh and lust, but with a splendid and agreeable goal in mind—ha, ha! Third, because I resolved to observe all possible justice in carrying it out, weight, measure, arithmetic: I chose the most useless louse of all and, having killed her, decided to take from her exactly as much as I needed for the first step, no more and no less (and the rest would thus simply go to the monastery, according to her will—ha, ha!)...And ultimately, ultimately I am a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “because I myself am perhaps even more vile and nasty than the louse I killed, and I had anticipatedbeforehand that I would tell myself so afterI killed her. Can anything compare with such horror! Oh, triteness! Oh, meanness! ... Oh, how well I understand the 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed. Allah commands—obey, 'trembling' creature! <sup>[83]83
  The expression "trembling creature," from the Koran, also appears in Pushkin's cycle of poems Imitations of the Koran(1824), where Dostoevsky may have found it.


[Закрыть]</sup> He's right, the 'prophet' is right when he sets up a first-rate battery across a street somewhere and blasts away at the innocent and the guilty, without even stooping to explain himself! Obey, trembling creature and– forget your wishes,because—that's none of your business! ... Oh, nothing, nothing will make me forgive the old crone!”