Текст книги "Crime and Punishment"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

“Madam! Madam!” he exclaimed in an imposing voice. “This fact does not concern you! No one would dare accuse you of any intent or complicity, the less so since you discovered it yourself by turning her pockets out: consequently you suspected nothing. I'm quite, quite prepared to show pity if poverty, so to speak, was also what drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why is it, mademoiselle, that you did not want to confess? Fear of disgrace? The first step? Or perhaps you felt at a loss? It's understandable; it's quite understandable...But, in any case, how could you get yourself into such qualities! Gentlemen!” he addressed everyone present, “gentlemen! Pitying and, so to speak, commiserating, I am perhaps ready to forgive, even now, in spite of the personal insults I have received. May this present shame serve you, mademoiselle, as a lesson for the future,” he turned to Sonya, “the rest I shall let pass, and so be it, I have done. Enough!”

Pyotr Petrovich gave Raskolnikov a sidelong look. Their glances met. Raskolnikov's burning eyes were ready to reduce him to ashes. Katerina Ivanovna, meanwhile, seemed not even to be listening anymore; she was madly embracing and kissing Sonya. The children also took hold of Sonya from all sides with their little arms, and Polechka– though without quite understanding what was the matter—seemed all drowned in tears, choking back her sobs and hiding her pretty little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonya's shoulder.

“How vile!” a loud voice suddenly came from the doorway.

Pyotr Petrovich quickly turned around.

“What vileness!” Lebezyatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the eye.

Pyotr Petrovich even seemed to give a start. Everyone noticed it. (They remembered it afterwards.) Lebezyatnikov took a step into the room.

“And you dare hold me up as a witness?” he said, approaching Pyotr Petrovich.

“What do you mean, Andrei Semyonovich? What are you talking about?” Luzhin muttered.

“I mean that you are...a slanderer, that is what my words mean!” Lebezyatnikov said hotly, giving him a stern look with his weak-sighted eyes. He was terribly angry. Raskolnikov simply fastened his eyes on him, as though catching and weighing every word. Again there was another silence. Pyotr Petrovich was even almost at a loss, especially for the first moment.

“If it's me you are...” he began, stammering, “but what's the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?”

“I haven't lost my mind, and you are...a swindler! Ah, how vile of you! I kept listening, I kept listening on purpose, so as to understand it all, because, I must admit, even now it doesn't seem quite logical...But what you did it for, I cannot understand.”

“But what have I done? Will you stop talking in these nonsensical riddles? Or maybe you've been drinking?”

“Maybe you drink, you vile man, but not me! I never even touch vodka, because it's against my convictions! Imagine, he, he himself, with his own hands, gave that hundred-rouble bill to Sofya Semyo-novna—I saw it, I am a witness, I'll swear an oath to it! He, he did it!” Lebezyatnikov repeated, addressing one and all.

“Are you cracked or what, you milksop!” Luzhin shrieked. “She herself, in person, right in front of you—she herself, here and now, in front of everyone, confirmed that she received nothing but ten roubles from me. How, in that case, could I have given it to her?”

“I saw it, I saw it!” Lebezyatnikov exclaimed and insisted. “And though it's against my convictions, I'm ready to go this very minute and swear whatever oath you like in court, because I saw you slip it to her on the sly! Only, like a fool, I thought you were slipping it to her out of philanthropy! At the door, as you were saying good-bye to her, when she turned away and you were shaking her hand, with your other hand, your left hand, you put a piece of paper into her pocket on the sly. I saw it! I did!”

Luzhin went pale.

“What lies!” he exclaimed boldly. “And besides, how could you make out a piece of paper, when you were standing by the window? You imagined it...with your weak-sighted eyes. You're raving!”

“No, I didn't imagine it! I saw everything, everything, even though I was standing far away; and though it is indeed difficult to make out a piece of paper from the window—you're right about that—in this particular case I knew for certain that it was precisely a hundred-rouble note, because when you went to give Sofya Semyonovna the ten-rouble bill—I saw this myself—you took a hundred-rouble note from the table at the same time (I saw it because I was standing up close then, and since a certain idea immediately occurred to me, I didn't forget that you had the note in your hand). You folded it and kept it clutched in your hand all the time. Then I forgot about it for a while, but when you were getting up, you passed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped it; then I remembered again, because then the same idea came to me—namely, that you wanted to be philanthropic to her in secret from me. You can imagine how I began watching—and so I saw how you managed to slip it into her pocket. I saw it, I did, I'll swear an oath to it!”

Lebezyatnikov was almost breathless. Various exclamations began coming from all sides, mostly indicating surprise, but some of the exclamations also took on a menacing tone. Everyone pressed towards Pyotr Petrovich. Katerina Ivanovna rushed to Lebezyatnikov.

“Andrei Semyonovich! I was mistaken about you! Defend her! You alone are on her side! She's an orphan; God has sent you! Andrei Semyonovich, you dear, sweet man!”

And Katerina Ivanovna, almost unconscious of what she was doing, threw herself on her knees before him.

“Hogwash!” screamed Luzhin, enraged to the point of fury. “You're pouring out hogwash, sir! 'I forgot, I remembered, I forgot'– what is all that! You mean I slipped it to her on purpose? Why? With what aim? What do I have in common with this . . .”

“Why? That I myself don't understand, but it's certain that I'm telling a true fact! I'm so far from being mistaken—you loathsome, criminal man—that I remember precisely how a question occurred to me at once in this connection, precisely as I was thanking you and shaking your hand. Precisely why did you put it into her pocket on the sly? That is, precisely why on the sly? Could it be simply because you wanted to conceal it from me, knowing that I hold opposite convictions and negate private philanthropy, which cures nothing radically? And so I decided that you were indeed ashamed to give away such a chunk in front of me, and besides, I thought, maybe he wants to give her a surprise, to astonish her when she finds a full hundred roubles in her pocket. (Because some philanthropists like very much to smear their philanthropies around like that, I know.) Then I also thought you might want to test her—that is, to see if she'd come and thank you when she found it. Then, that you wanted to avoid her gratitude, and that—how does it go?—that the right hand, or whatever, shouldn't know...something like that, in short <sup>[121]121
  See Matthew 6:3: "But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth . . ."


[Закрыть]</sup> ...Well, and so many other thoughts came to my mind then that I decided to think it all over later, but still considered it indelicate to reveal to you that I knew the secret. Again, however, still another question immediately came to my mind: that Sofya Semyonovna, for all I knew, might lose the money before she noticed it, which is why I decided to come here, to call her aside, and inform her that a hundred roubles had been put in her pocket. But on the way I stopped first to see the Kobylyatnikov ladies and give them The General Conclusion of the Positive Method,and especially to recommend an article by Piederit (and, incidentally, one by Wagner as well); <sup>[122]122
  The General Conclusion of the Positive Methodwas a collection of articles on various scientific subjects, mainly physiology and psychology, translated from German into Russian and published in 1866. Piederit was a German medical writer; Adolf Wagner, a follower of Quételet, was a proponent of "moral statistics" (see Part One, note 33).


[Закрыть]</sup> then I came here and found a whole scene going on! How, then, how could I have all these thoughts and arguments if I hadn't actually seen you put the hundred roubles in her pocket?” When Andrei Semyonovich finished his verbose argument, with such a logical conclusion at the close of the speech, he was terribly tired and sweat was even running down his face. Alas, he did not know how to explain himself properly even in Russian (though he knew no other language), so that he somehow immediately became all exhausted, and even seemed to have grown thinner after his forensic exploit. Nevertheless, his speech produced an extraordinary effect. He had spoken with such ardor, with such conviction, that everyone seemed to believe him. Pyotr Perrovich felt things were going badly.

“What do I care if some foolish questions came into your head?” he cried out. “That is no proof, sir! You may have raved it all up in a dream, that's all! And I tell you that you are lying, sir! Lying and slandering because of some grudge against me, and, namely, because you're angry at my disagreeing with your freethinking and godless social proposals, that's what, sir!”

But this dodge proved useless to Pyotr Petrovich. On the contrary, murmuring was heard on all sides.

“Ah, so you're off on that track now!” cried Lebezyatnikov. “Lies! Call the police, and I'll swear an oath to it! The one thing I can't understand is why he risked such a base act! Oh, you vile, pathetic man!”

“I can explain why he risked such an act, and if need be I'll swear an oath to it myself!” Raskolnikov spoke finally in a firm voice, stepping forward.

He appeared firm and calm. It somehow became clear to everyone at a glance that he really knew what it was all about and that the denouement had arrived.

“It's all perfectly clear to me now,” Raskolnikov went on, addressing Lebezyatnikov directly. “From the very beginning of this scene, I suspected there was some nasty hoax in it; I began suspecting it on account of certain particular circumstances, known only to myself, which I will presently explain to everyone: they are the crux of the matter! And you, Andrei Semyonovich, with your invaluable evidence, have finally made it all clear to me. I ask all of you, all of you, to listen carefully: this gentleman” (he pointed to Luzhin) “recently became engaged to a certain girl—namely, to my sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov. But, having come to Petersburg, at our first meeting, the day before yesterday, he quarreled with me, and I threw him out of my place, for which there are witnesses. The man is very angry...I was not aware the day before yesterday that he was staying in your room, Andrei Semyonovich, and that consequently, on the same day that we quarreled—the day before yesterday, that is—he was a witness to my giving some money, as a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov, to his wife, Katerina Ivanovna, for the funeral. He immediately wrote a note to my mother and informed her that I had given all my money not to Katerina Ivanovna, but to Sofya Semyonovna, and along with that made references in the meanest terms about...about Sofya Semyonovna's character—that is, he hinted at the character of my relations with Sofya Semyonovna. All this, you understand, with the aim of making me quarrel with my mother and sister, by suggesting to them that I was squandering their last money, which they had sent to help me, for ignoble purposes. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister, and in his presence, I re-established the truth, proving that I had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral, and not to Sofya Semyonovna, and that the day before yesterday I was not yet even acquainted with Sofya Semyonovna and had never set eyes on her. I also added that he, Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, for all his virtues, was not worth the little finger of Sofya Semyonovna, of whom he spoke so badly. And to his question, whether I would sit Sofya Semyonovna next to my sister, I answered that I had already done so that same day. Angry that my mother and sister did not want to quarrel with me over his calumny, he became more unpardonably rude to them with every word. A final break ensued, and he was thrown out of the house. All this took place yesterday evening. Here I ask you to pay particular attention: suppose he now managed to prove that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief; then, first of all, he would prove to my sister and mother that he was almost right in his suspicions; that he was justly angry with me for putting my sister and Sofya Semyonovna on the same level; that in attacking me he was thereby also defending and protecting the honor of my sister, and his bride. In short, by means of all this he might even make me quarrel with my family again, and could certainly hope to win back their favor. I say nothing of his revenge on me personally, since he has reasons to suppose that Sofya Semyonovna's honor and happiness are very dear to me. That was the whole of his calculation! That is how I understand this business! That is the reason for it, and there can be no other!”

Thus, or almost thus, Raskolnikov ended his speech, interrupted frequently by exclamations from the public, who listened, however, very attentively. But in spite of all the interruptions, he spoke sharply, calmly, precisely, clearly, firmly. His sharp voice, his convinced tone and stern face produced an extraordinary effect on everyone.

“Right, right, that's right!” Lebezyatnikov confirmed delightedly.

“It must be right, because he precisely asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyonovna came to our room, whether you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna's guests. He called me over to the window for that, and asked me quietly. That means he wanted to be sure you were here! It's right, it's all right!”

Luzhin was silent and only smiled contemptuously. He was very pale, however. He seemed to be pondering how he might wriggle out of it. He would perhaps have been glad to drop it all and leave, but at the present moment that was almost impossible; it would have amounted to a direct admission that the accusations being hurled at him were true and that he had indeed slandered Sofya Semyonovna. Besides, the public, who were a bit drunk to begin with, were much too excited. The supply man, though he had not understood it all, shouted more than anyone, and suggested certain measures quite unpleasant for Luzhin. But there were some who were not drunk; people came and gathered from all the rooms. The three little Poles were all terribly angry, and ceaselessly shouted “Panie lajdak!” <sup>[123]123
  "Sir, you are a scoundrel!" (Polish).


[Закрыть]</sup> at him, muttering some other Polish threats in addition. Sonya had listened with strained attention, but also as if not understanding it all, as if coming out of a swoon. She simply would not take her eyes from Raskolnikov, feeling that he was her whole defense. Katerina Ivanovna was breathing hoarsely and with difficulty, and seemed terribly exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood there most stupidly of all, her mouth hanging open, grasping nothing whatsoever. She saw only that Pyotr Petrovich had somehow been caught. Raskolnikov asked to speak again, but this time he was not given a chance to finish: everyone was shouting and crowding around Luzhin with threats and curses. Yet Pyotr Petrovich did not turn coward. Seeing that the case of Sonya's accusation was utterly lost, he resorted to outright insolence.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, excuse me; don't crowd, let me pass!” he said, making his way through the throng. “And kindly stop your threatening; I assure you nothing will come of it, you won't do anything, I'm not to be intimidated, quite the opposite, gentlemen, it is you who will have to answer for using force to cover up a criminal case. The thief has been more than exposed, and I shall pursue it, sirs. The courts are not so blind...or drunk; they will not believe two notorious atheists, agitators, and freethinkers, accusing me out of personal vengeance, which they, in their foolishness, admit themselves...So, sirs, excuse me!”

“Be so good as to move out, and don't leave a trace of yourself behind in my room! It's all over between us! When I think how I turned myself inside out explaining things to him...for two whole weeks! . . .”

“But I told you myself that I was vacating today, Andrei Semyonovich, and it was you who were trying to keep me here; now I shall only add that you are a fool, sir. I hope you may find a cure for your wits, and your weak-sighted eyes. Excuse me, gentlemen!”

He pushed his way through; but the supply man did not want to let him off so easily, just with abuse: he snatched a glass from the table, hauled off, and hurled it at Pyotr Petrovich; but the glass flew straight at Amalia Ivanovna. She shrieked, and the supply man, who had lost his balance as he swung, went crashing to the floor under the table. Pyotr Petrovich returned to his room, and half an hour later was no longer in the house. Sonya, timid by nature, had known even before that it was easier to ruin her than anyone else, and that whoever wanted to could offend her almost with impunity. But even so, until that very moment she had always thought it somehow possible to avoid disaster—by prudence, meekness, submissiveness to one and all. The disillusionment was too much for her. She was capable, of course, of enduring everything, even this, with patience and almost without a murmur. But for the first moment it was too much for her. In spite of her triumph and vindication—when the initial fear and the initial stupor had passed, when she had grasped and understood everything clearly—the feeling of helplessness and offense painfully wrung her heart. She became hysterical. Finally, unable to bear it, she rushed out of the room and ran home. This was almost immediately after Luzhin left. Amalia Ivanovna, when she was hit by the glass, amid the loud laughter of all those present, also could no longer bear this hangover from someone else's spree. With a shriek, she flung herself wildly at Katerina Ivanovna, whom she blamed for everything.

“Facate the apartment! At vonce! March!” And with these words she began seizing anything of Katerina Ivanovna's she could lay her hands on and throwing it to the floor. Nearly dead to begin with, all but in a faint, breathless, pale, Katerina Ivanovna jumped up from the bed (on which she had fallen in exhaustion) and rushed at Amalia Ivanovna. But the struggle was too unequal; she was pushed away like a feather.

“What! As if that godless slander weren't enough—this creature is at me, too! What! I'm driven from my apartment on the day of my husband's funeral, after my bread and salt, thrown out into the street, with the orphans! But where can I go?” the poor woman screamed, sobbing and gasping. “Lord!” she suddenly cried, her eyes flashing, “is there really no justice? Who else are you going to protect if not us orphans? Ah, no, we shall see! There is justice and truth in the world, there is, I'll find it! Just wait, you godless creature! Polechka, stay with the children; I'll be right back! Wait for me, even in the street! We'll see whether there's truth in the world!”

And throwing over her head the same green flannel shawl that the late Marmeladov had mentioned in his story, Katerina Ivanovna pushed her way through the disorderly and drunken crowd of tenants who still crowded the room, and ran shouting and weeping out into the street—with the vague purpose of finding justice somewhere, at once, immediately, and whatever the cost. Terrified, Polechka hid with the children in the corner, on the trunk, where, embracing the two little ones and trembling all over, she began waiting for her mother's return. Amalia Ivanovna rushed about the room, shrieked, wailed, flung everything she came upon to the floor, in a great rage. The tenants were all bawling without rhyme or reason—some finished saying whatever they could about the just-occurred incident; others quarreled and swore; still others began singing songs . . .

“And now it's also time for me to go!” thought Raskolnikov. “Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we'll see what you have to say now!”

And he set out for Sonya's place.

IV

Raskolnikov had been an energetic and spirited advocate of Sonya against Luzhin, even though he was burdened with so much horror and suffering in his own soul. But having suffered so much that morning, he was as if glad of the chance to change his impressions, which were becoming unbearable—to say nothing of all that was personal and heartfelt in his desire to defend Sonya. Besides, the meeting he now faced with Sonya had been on his mind, and troubled him terribly, especially at moments: he hadto tell her who killed Lizaveta, and foresaw a terrible torment for himself, which he tried, as it were, to wave away. And therefore, when he exclaimed, as he was leaving Katerina Ivanovna's: “Well, what are you going to say now, Sofya Semyonovna?” he was evidently still in some externally aroused state of high spirits and defiance from his recent triumph over Luzhin. But a strange thing happened to him. When he reached Kapernaumov's apartment, he felt suddenly powerless and afraid. Thoughtful, he stood outside the door with a strange question: “Need I tell her who killed Lizaveta?” The question was strange because he suddenly felt at the same time that it was impossible not only not to tell her, but even to put the moment off, however briefly. He did not yet know why it was impossible; he only feltit, and the tormenting awareness of his powerlessness before necessity almost crushed him. In order not to reason and suffer any longer, he quickly opened the door and looked at Sonya from the threshold. She was sitting with her elbows resting on the table, her face buried in her hands, but when she saw Raskolnikov, she hurriedly rose and went to meet him, as if she had been waiting for him.

“What would have happened to me without you!” she said quickly, coming up to him in the middle of the room. Obviously it was just this that she was in a hurry to say to him. This was why she had been waiting for him.

Raskolnikov walked over to the table and sat down on the chair from which she had just risen. She stood in front of him, two steps away, exactly as the day before.

“Well, Sonya?” he said, and suddenly felt that his voice was trembling. “So the whole matter indeed rested on your 'social position and its accompanying habits.' Did you understand that just now?”

Suffering showed on her face.

“Only don't talk to me like you did yesterday,” she interrupted him. “Please, don't start. There's enough pain as it is . . .”

She smiled hurriedly, for fear he might not like her reproach.

“It was stupid of me to leave. What's going on there now? I was about to go back, but kept thinking...you might come.”

He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was throwing them out of the apartment, and that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere “in search of truth.”

“Ah, my God!” Sonya heaved herself up. “Let's go quickly . . .”

And she seized her cape.

“It's the same thing eternally!” Raskolnikov cried out in vexation. “All you ever think about is them! Stay with me a little.”

“But...Katerina Ivanovna?”

“Katerina Ivanovna certainly won't do without you; she'll come here herself, since she ran away from the house,” he added peevishly. “If she doesn't find you here, you'll be blamed for it . . .”

In painful indecision, Sonya sat down on a chair. Raskolnikov was silent, looking at the ground and thinking something over.

“Suppose Luzhin didn't want to do it this time,” he began, without glancing at Sonya. “Well, but if he had wanted to, or if it had somehow entered into his calculations, he'd have locked you up in prison, if Lebezyatnikov and I hadn't happened to be there. Eh?”

“Yes,” she said in a weak voice. “Yes!” she repeated, distracted and alarmed.

“And I really might have happened not to be there! And as for Lebezyatnikov, he turned up quite accidentally.”

Sonya was silent.

“Well, and what if it had been prison? What then? Remember what I said yesterday?”

Again she did not reply. He waited.

“And I thought you'd cry out again: 'Ah, stop, don't say it!' “ Raskolnikov laughed, but somehow with a strain. “What now, still silent?” he asked after a moment. “We've got to talk about something! I, namely, would be interested in finding out how you would now resolve a certain 'question,' as Lebezyatnikov says.” (It seemed he was beginning to get confused.) “No, really, I'm serious. Imagine to yourself, Sonya, that you knew all of Luzhin's intentions beforehand, knew (I mean, for certain) that as a result of them Katerina Ivanovna would perish altogether, and the children as well, and with you thrown in (just so, thrown in,since you consider yourself nothing). Polechka, too...because she'll go the same way. Well, so, if all this was suddenly given to you to decide: is it for him or for them to go on living; that is, should Luzhin live and commit abominations, or should Katerina Ivanovna die? How would you decide which of them was to die? That's what I'm asking.”

Sonya looked at him worriedly: she could detect something peculiar in this uncertain speech, approaching its object from afar.

“I had a feeling you were going to ask something like that,” she said, looking at him searchingly.

“Well, so you did; all the same, how is one to decide?”

“Why do you ask about what cannot be?” Sonya said with loathing.

“So it's better for Luzhin to live and commit abominations! You don't dare to decide even in this?”

“But I cannot know divine Providence...And why do you ask what cannot be asked? Why such empty questions? How could it come about that it should depend on my decision? And who put me here to judge who is to live and who is not to live?”

“Once divine Providence gets mixed up in it, there's nothing to be done,” Raskolnikov growled sullenly.

“You'd better say straight out what you want!” Sonya cried with suffering. “You're leading up to something again...Can it be that you came only to torment me?”

She could not help herself and suddenly began weeping bitterly. He looked at her in gloomy anguish. About five minutes passed.

“Yes, you're right, Sonya,” he said at last, softly. He had changed suddenly; his affectedly insolent and powerlessly challenging tone had disappeared. Even his voice became suddenly weaker. “I told you yesterday that I would not come to ask forgiveness, and now I've begun by almost asking forgiveness...I was speaking about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake...I was seeking forgiveness, Sonya . . .”

He tried to smile, but this pale smile told of something powerless and incomplete. He bent his head and covered his face with his hands.

And suddenly a strange, unexpected feeling of corrosive hatred for Sonya came over his heart. As if surprised and frightened by this feeling, he suddenly raised his head and looked at her intently, but he met her anxious and painfully caring eyes fixed upon him; here was love; his hatred vanished like a phantom. That was not it; he had mistaken one feeling for another. All it meant was that the momenthad come.

Again he covered his face with his hands and bent his head. Suddenly he turned pale, got up from the chair, looked at Sonya, and, without saying anything, went mechanically and sat on her bed.

This moment, as it felt to him, was terribly like the one when he had stood behind the old woman, having already freed the axe from its loop, and realized that “there was not another moment to lose.”

“What's the matter?” Sonya asked, becoming terribly timid.

He could not utter a word. This was not the way, this was not at all the way he had intended to announceit, and he himself did not understand what was happening with him now. She quietly went over, sat down on the bed beside him, and waited, without taking her eyes from him. Her heart was pounding and sinking. It became unbearable: he turned his deathly pale face to her; he twisted his lips powerlessly in an effort to utter something. Horror swept over Sonya's heart.

“What's the matter with you?” she repeated, moving slightly away from him.

“Nothing, Sonya. Don't be afraid...Nonsense! Really, if you stop and think, it's—nonsense,” he muttered, with the look of a man lost in delirium. “Only why did I come to torment you?” he suddenly added, looking at her. “Really, why? That's what I keep asking myself, Sonya...”

Perhaps he had asked himself this question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke quite powerlessly, hardly aware of himself, and feeling a ceaseless trembling all over.

“Oh, how tormented you are!” she said with suffering, peering at him.

“It's all nonsense! ... Listen, Sonya” (suddenly, for some reason, he gave a pale and powerless smile, which lasted about two seconds), “do you remember what I wanted to tell you yesterday?”

Sonya waited uneasily.

“I said, as I was leaving, that I was perhaps saying good-bye to you forever, but that if I came today, I'd tell you...who killed Lizaveta.”

She suddenly began trembling all over.

“So, you see, I've come to tell you.”

“Then, yesterday, you really . . .” she whispered with difficulty. “But how do you know?” she added quickly, as if suddenly coming to her senses.

Sonya began breathing with difficulty. Her face was becoming paler and paler.

“I know.”

She was silent for a minute or so.

“What, has hebeen found?” she asked timidly.

“No, he hasn't.”

“Then how do you know about it?”she asked again, barely audibly, and again after almost a minute's silence.

He turned to her and looked at her very, very intently.

“Guess,” he said, with his former twisted and powerless smile.

It was as if a shudder ran through her whole body.

“But you...I... why do you...frighten me so?” she said, smiling like a child.

“I must be a great friend of his...since I know,” Raskolnikov went on, still looking relentlessly in her face, as if he were no longer able to take his eyes away. “This Lizaveta...he didn't want to kill her...He killed her...accidentally...He wanted to kill the old woman...when she was alone...and he went there...And then Lizaveta came in...Then he...killed her, too.”

Another terrible minute passed. They both went on looking at each other.

“So you can't guess?” he suddenly asked, feeling as if he were throwing himself from a bell-tower.