Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donât realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (book club recommendations TXT) đ
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Book online «Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (book club recommendations TXT) đ». Author Fyodor Dostoyevsky
âOh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is there that the box came from the old woman?â
âThatâs been proved,â said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning. âKoch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that it was his.â
âThatâs bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about that?â
âNobody did see him,â Razumihin answered with vexation. âThatâs the worst of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on their way upstairs, though, indeed, their evidence could not have been worth much. They said they saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going on in it, but they took no special notice and could not remember whether there actually were men at work in it.â
âHm!... So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating one another and laughing. That constitutes a strong presumption, but... How do you explain the facts yourself?â
âHow do I explain them? What is there to explain? Itâs clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and the jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those ear-rings. The murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the murderer popped out and ran down, too; for he had no other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestryakov and the porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had just run out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others were going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing, and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was no one in the entry; possibly he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have dropped the ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and did not notice he dropped them, because he had other things to think of. The jewel-case is a conclusive proof that he did stand there.... Thatâs how I explain it.â
âToo clever! No, my boy, youâre too clever. That beats everything.â
âBut, why, why?â
âWhy, because everything fits too well... itâs too melodramatic.â
âA-ach!â Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and a personage came in who was a stranger to all present.
This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikovâs low and narrow âcabin.â With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this âcabinâ by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:
âRodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?â
Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him.
âHere he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?â
This familiar âwhat do you wantâ seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again.
âThis is Raskolnikov,â mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunterâs case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back.
Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said âThis is Raskolnikovâ he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated:
âYes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?â
The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:
âPyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?â
But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.
âIs it possible that you can up to the present have received no information?â asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.
In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhinâs face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.
âI had presumed and calculated,â he faltered, âthat a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago...â
âI say, why are you standing in the doorway?â Razumihin interrupted suddenly. âIf youâve something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Hereâs a chair, thread your way in!â
He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to âthread his way in.â The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he
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