Crime and Punishment (Penguin) by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Author:Fyodor Dostoevsky [Dostoevsky, Fyodor]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

II

It was almost eight already; both men were in a hurry to get over to Bakaleyev’s rooms before Luzhin arrived.

‘So who was that?’ asked Razumikhin as soon as they were outside.

‘Svidrigailov, the landowner at whose home my sister was insulted while employed as their governess. Pestered with his attentions, she left, chased out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. The same Marfa Petrovna who later begged her forgiveness and has now suddenly died. It was her we were talking about earlier. I don’t know why, but I’m very scared of this man. He arrived straight after his wife’s funeral. He’s very strange and he’s set on something… It’s as if he knows something… Dunya must be protected from him… that’s what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?’

‘Protected! What could he ever do to her, to Avdotya Romanovna? Well, I’m grateful to you, Rodya, for speaking to me like this… We’ll protect her, no fear! . . . Where does he live?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why didn’t you ask? What a pity! Never mind, I’ll find out!’

‘Did you see him?’ asked Raskolnikov after a pause.

‘Yes, I took good note of him.’

‘You’re sure you saw him? Saw him clearly?’ Raskolnikov persisted.

‘I’m sure. I remember him so clearly I could pick him out in a crowd – I have a memory for faces.’

They were silent again.

‘H’m… just as well… ,’ muttered Raskolnikov. ‘Because, you know… the thought occurred to me… and I still can’t help feeling… that this might be a fantasy.’

‘Meaning? I don’t quite follow.’

‘Here you all are,’ Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, ‘saying I’m mad. Well, just now I had the impression that perhaps I really am insane and what I saw was only a phantom!’

‘What are you on about?’

‘Who knows? Maybe I really am mad, and maybe everything that’s happened during all these days was just my imagination…’

‘Oh, Rodya! They’ve upset you again! . . . But what did he say? What was he after?’

Raskolnikov didn’t reply. Razumikhin thought for a moment.

‘Well, then, here’s my report,’ he began. ‘I called by, you were sleeping. Then we had lunch, then I went to see Porfiry. Zametov’s still there. I wanted to broach the subject and couldn’t. I just couldn’t get going. It’s as if they don’t understand and can’t understand, but they’re not in the slightest embarrassed. I led Porfiry over to the window, but again – nothing doing; he looks away, I look away. Finally, I lifted my fist to his face and said I’d beat him to a pulp, in the family spirit. He just looked at me. I spat, walked out, and that’s that. All very stupid. Not a word between me and Zametov. But listen: I thought I’d botched it all up, but going down the stairs a certain thought occurred to me – or rather, hit me: why are the two of us going to so much trouble? If you were in danger or anything of the kind, then fine. But why should

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