Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best selling autobiographies .txt) đ
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
- Performer: 0140449132
Book online «Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best selling autobiographies .txt) đ». Author Fyodor Dostoyevsky
âGo in alone!â said Raskolnikov suddenly. âI will be back directly.â
âWhere are you going? Why, we are just here.â
âI canât help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them.â
âSay what you like, I will come with you.â
âYou, too, want to torture me!â he screamed, with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihinâs hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence.
When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyevâs, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old womanâs handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.
He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway.
âHere he is himself,â shouted a loud voice.
He raised his head.
The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.
âWhat is it?â Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word.
âWhat is it?â cried Raskolnikov.
âWhy, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he went away. Itâs funny.â
The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word.
âYou were inquiring for me... of the porter?â Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.
The man made no answer; he didnât even look at him. Again they were both silent.
âWhy do you... come and ask for me... and say nothing.... Whatâs the meaning of it?â
Raskolnikovâs voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly.
The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov.
âMurderer!â he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.
Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
The man did not look at him.
âWhat do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?â muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
âYou are a murderer,â the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikovâs pale face and stricken eyes.
They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.
With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mindâfaces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere.... The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant.... The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation.
He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasyaâs whisper:
âDonât disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.â
âQuite so,â answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head.
âWho is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, thatâs clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...â continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, âand the jewel case Nikolay found behind the doorâwas that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?â He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. âI ought to have known it,â he thought with a bitter smile. âAnd how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did know!â he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.
âNo, those men are not made so. The real Master to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so all is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of bronze!â
One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bedâitâs a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it! Itâs too inartistic. âA Napoleon creep under an old womanâs bed! Ugh, how loathsome!â
At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. âThe old woman is of no consequence,â he thought, hotly and incoherently. âThe old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! The old woman was only an illness.... I was in a hurry to overstep.... I didnât kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didnât overstep, I stopped on this side.... I was only capable of killing. And it seems I wasnât even capable of that... Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; âthe happiness of allâ is their case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I donât want to wait for âthe happiness of all.â I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldnât pass by my mother starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the âhappiness of all.â I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want.... Ech, I am an ĂŠsthetic louse and nothing more,â he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. âYes, I am certainly a louse,â he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive pleasure. âIn the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble objectâha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse,â he added, grinding his teeth, âis that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and I felt beforehand that I should tell myself so after killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the âprophetâ with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and âtremblingâ creation must obey! The âprophetâ is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! Itâs for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have desires, for thatâs not for you!... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!â
His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
âMother, sisterâhow I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I canât bear them near me.... I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.... To embrace her and think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? Thatâs just what I might do.... She must be the same as I am,â he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. âAh, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to
Comments (0)