"i don't believe it, i can't believe it!" repeated razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute raskolnikov's arguments.

they were by now approaching bakaleyev's lodgings, where pulcheria alexandrovna and dounia had been expecting them a long while. razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about /it/.

"don't believe it, then!" answered raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile. "you were noticing nothing as usual, but i was weighing every word."

"you are suspicious. that is why you weighed their words . . . h'm . . . certainly, i agree, porfiry's tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch zametov! . . . you are right, there was something about him--but why? why?"

"he has changed his mind since last night."

"quite the contrary! if they had that brainless idea, they would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you afterwards. . . . but it was all impudent and careless."

"if they had had facts--i mean, real facts--or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides). but they have no facts, not one. it is all mirage--all ambiguous. simply a floating idea. so they try to throw me out by impudence. and perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in his vexation--or perhaps he has some plan . . . he seems an intelligent man. perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. they have a psychology of their own, brother. but it is loathsome explaining it all. stop!"

"and it's insulting, insulting! i understand you. but . . . since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last--i am glad) i will own now frankly that i noticed it in them long ago, this idea. of course the merest hint only--an insinuation--but why an insinuation even? how dare they? what foundation have they? if only you knew how furious i have been. think only! simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the i.o.u. presented by tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach--he might well have a fainting fit! and that, that is what they found it all on! damn them! i understand how annoying it is, but in your place, rodya, i would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. i'd hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so i'd put an end to it. damn them! don't be downhearted. it's a shame!"

"he really has put it well, though," raskolnikov thought.

"damn them? but the cross-examination again, to-morrow?" he said with bitterness. "must i really enter into explanations with them? i feel vexed as it is, that i condescended to speak to zametov yesterday in the restaurant. . . ."

"damn it! i will go myself to porfiry. i will squeeze it out of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! and as for zametov . . ."

"at last he sees through him!" thought raskolnikov.

"stay!" cried razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. "stay! you were wrong. i have thought it out. you are wrong! how was that a trap? you say that the question about the workmen was a trap. but if you had done /that/, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat . . . and the workmen? on the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. who would own it against himself?"

"if i had done /that thing/, i should certainly have said that i had seen the workmen and the flat," raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and obvious disgust.

"but why speak against yourself?"

"because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. if a man is ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can't be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance and put them in another light. porfiry might well reckon that i should be sure to answer so, and say i had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation."

"but he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o'clock. and so he would have caught you over a detail."

"yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that i should not have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before."

"but how could you forget it?"

"nothing easier. it is in just such stupid things clever people are most easily caught. the more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. the more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. porfiry is not such a fool as you think. . . ."

"he is a knave then, if that is so!"

raskolnikov could not help laughing. but at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from necessity.

"i am getting a relish for certain aspects!" he thought to himself. but almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. his uneasiness kept on increasing. they had just reached the entrance to bakaleyev's.

"go in alone!" said raskolnikov suddenly. "i will be back directly."

"where are you going? why, we are just here."

"i can't help it. . . . i will come in half an hour. tell them."

"say what you like, i will come with you."

"you, too, want to torture me!" he screamed, with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that razumihin's 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 bakaleyev's, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman's 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.

"here he is himself," 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.

"what is it?" 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.

"what is it?" cried raskolnikov.

"why, 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. it's funny."

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.

"you were inquiring for me . . . of the porter?" raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.

the man made no answer; he didn't even look at him. again they were both silent.

"why do you . . . come and ask for me . . . and say nothing. . . . what's the meaning of it?"

raskolnikov's 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.

"murderer!" 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.

"what do you mean . . . what is. . . . who is a murderer?" muttered raskolnikov hardly audibly.

"/you/ are a murderer," the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into raskolnikov's 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 mind--faces 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 nastasya's whisper:

"don't disturb him! let him sleep. he can have his dinner later."

"quite so," 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.

"who is he? who is that man who sprang out of the earth? where was he, what did he see? he has seen it all, that's 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 . . ." continued raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, "and the jewel case nikolay found behind the door--was 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?" he felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. "i ought to have known it," he thought with a bitter smile. "and 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!" he whispered in despair. at times he came to a standstill at some thought.

"no, 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!"

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 bed--it's a nice hash for porfiry petrovitch to digest! how can they digest it! it's too inartistic. "a napoleon creep under an old woman's bed! ugh, how loathsome!"

at moments he felt he was raving. he sank into a state of feverish excitement. "the old woman is of no consequence," he thought, hotly and incoherently. "the 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 didn't kill a human being, but a principle! i killed the principle, but i didn't overstep, i stopped on this side. . . . i was only capable of killing. and it seems i wasn't even capable of that . . . principle? why was that fool razumihin abusing the socialists? they are industrious, commercial people; 'the happiness of all' is their case. no, life is only given to me once and i shall never have it again; i don't want to wait for 'the happiness of all.' i want to live myself, or else better not live at all. i simply couldn't pass by my mother starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while i waited for the 'happiness of all.' 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 aesthetic louse and nothing more," he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. "yes, i am certainly a louse," he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive pleasure. "in 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 object-- ha-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," he added, grinding his teeth, "is 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 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed: allah commands and 'trembling' creation must obey! the 'prophet' 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! it's for you to obey, trembling creation, and not /to have desires/, for that's not for you! . . . i shall never, never forgive the old woman!"

his hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

"mother, sister--how i loved them! why do i hate them now? yes, i hate them, i feel a physical hatred for them, i can't 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? that's just what i might do. . . . /she/ must be the same as i am," he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. "ah, how i hate the old woman now! i feel i should kill her again if she came to life! poor lizaveta! why did she come in? . . . it's strange though, why is it i scarcely ever think of her, as though i hadn't killed her? lizaveta! sonia! poor gentle things, with gentle eyes. . . . dear women! why don't they weep? why don't they moan? they give up everything . . . their eyes are soft and gentle. . . . sonia, sonia! gentle sonia!"

he lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't remember how he got into the street. it was late evening. the twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air. there were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water. raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. he crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. "stay, did he really beckon?" raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. when he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. "does he know i am following him?" thought raskolnikov. the man went into the gateway of a big house. raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. in the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. he must have gone up the first staircase. raskolnikov rushed after him. he heard slow measured steps two flights above. the staircase seemed strangely familiar. he reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he reached the second floor. bah! this is the flat where the painters were at work . . . but how was it he did not recognise it at once? the steps of the man above had died away. "so he must have stopped or hidden somewhere." he reached the third storey, should he go on? there was a stillness that was dreadful. . . . but he went on. the sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. how dark it was! the man must be hiding in some corner here. ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in. it was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded with moonlight. everything there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. a huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. "it's the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought raskolnikov. he stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. and still the same hush. suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. a fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. at that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. "why is that cloak here?" he thought, "it wasn't there before. . . ." he went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. he cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn't see her face; but it was she. he stood over her. "she is afraid," he thought. he stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. but strange to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. he was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. he bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. he was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. he was rushing away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move. . . . he tried to scream and woke up.

he drew a deep breath--but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.

raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. he lay on his back without stirring.

"is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him.

he stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. it was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. as far as raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard.

ten minutes passed. it was still light, but beginning to get dusk. there was complete stillness in the room. not a sound came from the stairs. only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. it was unbearable at last. raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.

"come, tell me what you want."

"i knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. "arkady ivanovitch svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself. . . ."

“……我不相信！我不能相信！”感到困惑不解的拉祖米欣反复说，竭力想驳倒拉斯科利尼科夫说的理由。他们已经走到了巴卡列耶夫的旅馆，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜和杜尼娅早就在那儿等着他们了。他们热烈地谈论着，拉祖米欣不时在路上停下来，单单是因为他们还是头一次明确地谈起这一点，这就使他感到既惶惑，又十分激动了。

“你不相信好了！”拉斯科利尼科夫漫不经心地冷笑着，回答说，“你一向是什么也觉察不到，我可是把每句话都掂量过了。”

“你神经过敏，所以才去掂量……嗯哼……真的，我同意，波尔菲里说话的语气相当奇怪，尤其是那个坏蛋扎苗托夫！……你说得对，他心里是有什么想法，——不过为什么呢？为什么呢？”

“一夜之间他改变了看法。”

“不过恰恰相反，恰恰相反！如果他们有这个愚蠢想法的话，他们准会竭力隐瞒着它，把自己的牌藏起来，才好在以后逮住你……可现在——这是无耻和粗心大意！”

“如果他们有了事实，也就是确凿的证据，或者哪怕是只有多少有点儿根据的怀疑，那么他们当真会把他们玩弄的把戏掩盖起来，以期获得更大的胜利（那样的话，他们早就会去搜查了！）。可是他们没有证据，一点儿证据也没有，——一切都是虚幻的，一切都模棱两可，只不过是一个虚无缥缈的想法，——所以他们才竭力想用这种厚颜无耻的方式来把我搞糊涂。也许，因为没有证据，他自己也很生气，心中恼怒，于是就脱口而出了。不过也许是有什么意图……他好像是个聪明人……也许他是故意装作知道的样子，这样来吓唬我……老兄，这也有他自己的某种心理……不过，要解释这一切，让人感到厌恶。别谈了！”

“而且是侮辱性的，侮辱性的！我理解你！不过……因为现在我们已经明确地谈起这个问题（这很好，我们终于明确地谈起来了，我很高兴！）——那么现在我坦率地向你承认，我早就发觉他们有这个想法了，当然，在整个这段时间里，这只是一个勉强可以察觉的想法，还不敢公然说出来，不过即使不敢公然说出来吧，可这到底是为什么呢！他们怎么敢？他们这样想的根据在哪里，在哪里呢？要是你能知道我感到多么气愤就好了！怎么：就因为是个穷大学生，因为他被贫穷和忧郁折磨得精神极不正常，在他神智不清、害了重病的头一天，也许已经开始神智不清了（请记住这一点！），他多疑，自尊心很强，知道自己的长处，六个月来躲在自己屋里，没和任何人见过面，身上的衣服破破烂烂，靴子也掉了鞋掌，——站在那些卑鄙的警察局长面前，受尽他们的侮辱；而这时又突然面对一笔意想不到的债务，七等文官切巴罗夫交来的一张逾期不还的借据，再加上油漆的臭味，列氏1三十度的高温，空气沉闷，屋里一大堆人，又在谈论一件凶杀案，而头天晚上他刚到被杀害的老太婆那儿去过，这一切加在一起——可他还没吃饭，饥肠辘辘！这怎么会不昏倒呢！就是根据这个，他们的全部根据就是这些东西！见鬼！我明白，这让人感到愤慨，不过，要叫我处在你的地位上，罗季卡，我就会对着他们大家哈哈大笑，或者最好是啐一口浓痰，吐在他们脸上，越浓越好，还要左右开弓，扇他们二十记耳光，这样做很有道理，得经常这样教训教训他们，打过了，就算完了。别睬他们！精神振作起来！他们这样做太可耻了！”

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1法国物理学家列奥缪尔设计的温度计，冰点为零度，沸点为八十度。列氏三十度等于摄氏三十七·五度。

“不过，这一切他说得真好，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。

“别睬他们！可明天又要审问了！”他苦恼地说，“难道我得去向他们解释吗？就连昨天我在小饭馆里竟有失身分地和扎苗托夫说话……我都感到懊悔了。”

“见鬼！我去找波尔菲里！我要以亲戚的方式向他施加压力；叫他把心里的想法全都坦白地说出来。至于扎苗托夫……”

“他终于领悟了！”拉斯科利尼科夫想。

“等等！”拉祖米欣突然一把抓住他的肩膀，高声叫喊起来，“等等！你说得不对！我再三考虑，认为你说错了！唉，这算什么圈套？你说，问起那两个工人，就是圈套吗？你好好想想看：如果这是你干的，你会不会说漏了嘴，说你看到过在油漆房间……看到过那两个工人？恰恰相反：即使看到过，你也会说，什么都没看见！谁会承认对自己不利的事呢？”

“如果那事是我干的，那么我准会说，我看到过那两个工人和那套房子，”拉斯科利尼科夫不乐意地，而且显然是怀着厌恶的心情继续回答。

“为什么要说对自己不利的话呢？”

“因为只有乡下人或者是最没有经验的新手，才会在审讯时矢口抵赖。稍为成熟和多少有点儿经验的人，一定尽可能承认那些表面上的和无法隐瞒的事实；不过他会寻找别的理由来说明这些事实，硬给这些事实加上某种独特的、意想不到的特点，使它们具有不同的意义，给人造成不同的印象。波尔菲里可能正是这样估计的，认为我一定会这样回答，一定会说，看到过，而为了说得合情合理，同时又一定会作某种解释……”

“不过他会立刻对你说，两天以前那两个工人不可能在那里，可见你正是在发生凶杀案的那一天晚上七点多钟去过那儿。单是这样一件并不重要的小事，就会使你上当受骗！”

“而他就正是这么盘算的，认为我一定来不及好好考虑，准会急忙作出较为真实的回答，却忘了，两天前工人们是不可能在那里的。”

“这怎么会忘了呢？”

“最容易了！狡猾的人最容易在这种无关重要的小事上犯错误。一个人越是狡猾，就越是想不到别人会让他在一件普通的小事上上当受骗。正是得用最普通的小事才能让最狡猾的人上当受骗。波尔菲里完全不像你想得那么傻……”

“他这么做，就是个卑鄙的家伙！”

拉斯科利尼科夫不禁笑了起来。但同时他又觉得，作最后这番解释的时候，他那种兴奋和乐于解释的心情是很奇怪的，然而在此以前，他和人谈话的时候，却是怀着忧郁的厌恶心情，显然是为了达到什么目的，不得不说。

“我对某几点发生兴趣了！”他暗自想。

可是几乎就在那一瞬间，不知为什么他又突然感到不安起来，仿佛有一个出乎意外和令人忧虑的想法使他吃了一惊。他心中的不安增强了。他们已经来到了巴卡列耶夫旅馆的入口。

“你一个人进去吧，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，“我这就回来。”

“你去哪儿？我们已经到了！”

“我需要，一定得去；我有事……过半个钟头回来……你去跟她们说一声。”

“随你的便，我跟你一道去！”

“怎么，你也想折磨我吗！”他突然高声叫嚷，目光中流露出那样痛苦的愤怒和绝望的神情，使拉祖米欣感到毫无办法了。有一会儿工夫，拉祖米欣站在台阶上，陰郁地望着他朝他住的那条胡同的方向大步走去。最后，他咬紧了牙，攥紧拳头，发誓今天就去找波尔菲里，像挤柠檬样把他挤干，于是上楼去安慰因为他们久久不来、已经感到焦急不安的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜。

拉斯科利尼科夫来到他住的那幢房子的时候，他的两鬓已经汗湿，呼吸也感到困难了。他急忙上楼，走进自己那间没有上锁的房间，立刻扣上门钩。然后惊恐地、发疯似地冲到墙角落墙纸后面藏过东西的那个窟窿那里，把手伸进去，很仔细地在窟窿里摸了好几分钟，把墙纸上的每个皱褶，每个隐蔽的地方都一一检查了一遍。他什么也没找到，这才站起来，深深地舒了一口气。刚才已经走近巴卡列耶夫旅馆的台阶的时候，他突然想到，不知有件什么东西，一条表链、一个领扣，或者甚至是老太婆亲手做过记号的一张包东西的纸，当时可能不知怎么掉出来，掉进哪儿的一条裂缝里，以后却突然作为一件意想不到和无法反驳的物证，摆在他的面前。

他站在那儿，仿佛陷入沉思，一丝奇怪的、屈辱的、几乎毫无意义的微笑掠过他的嘴角。最后他拿起制帽，轻轻地走出房门。他心乱如麻。他若有所思地下楼，来到了大门口。

“那不就是他吗！”一个响亮的声音叫喊道；他抬起了头。

管院子的站在自己的小屋门口，正在向一个身材不高的人直指着他，看样子那人像是个小市民，身上穿的衣服仿佛是件长袍，还穿着背心，远远看上去，很像个女人。他戴一顶油污的制帽，低着头，好像是个驼背。看他那皮肤松弛、布满皱纹的脸，估计他有五十多岁；他那双浮肿的眼睛神情陰郁而又严厉，好像很不满意的样子。

“有什么事？”拉斯科利尼科夫走到管院子的人跟前，问。

那个小市民皱着眉头、斜着眼睛瞟了他一眼，不慌不忙凝神把他仔细打量了一番；随后转过身去，一言不发，就走出大门，到街上去了。

“这是怎么回事！”拉斯科利尼科夫大声喊。

“刚刚有个人问，这儿是不是住着个大学生，并且说出了您的名字，还说出您住在谁的房子里。这时候您下来了，我就指给他看，可他却走了。您瞧，就是这么回事。”

管院子的也觉得有点儿莫名其妙，不过并不是十分惊讶，又稍想了一下，就转身回到自己的小屋里去了。

拉斯科利尼科夫跟在小市民后面，出去追他，立刻看到他正在街道对面走着，仍然不慌不忙，步伐均匀，眼睛盯着地下，仿佛在思考什么。拉斯科利尼科夫不久就追上了他，不过有一会儿只是跟在他后面，最后走上前去，和他并排走着，从侧面看了看他的脸。小市民立刻看到了他，很快打量了他一下，可是又低下眼睛，他们就这样并排走着，一言不发。

“您跟管院子的……打听我了？”最后拉斯科利尼科夫说，可是不知为什么，声音很低。

小市民什么也不回答，连看也不看他一眼。两人又不说话了。

“您是怎么回事……来打听我……又不说话……这是什么意思？”拉斯科利尼科夫的声音中断了，不知为什么不愿把话说明白。

这一次小市民抬起眼来，用恶狠狠的、陰郁的目光瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫。

“杀人凶手！”他突然轻轻地说，然而说得十分明确、清楚……

拉斯科利尼科夫在他身旁走着。他的腿突然发软了，背上一阵发冷，有一瞬间心也仿佛停止了跳动；随后又突然怦怦地狂跳起来，好像完全失去了控制。他们就这样并肩走了百来步，又是完全默默不语。

小市民不看着他。

“您说什么……什么……谁是杀人凶手？”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地说，声音勉强才能听到。

“你是杀人凶手，”那人说，每个音节都说得更加清楚，也说得更加庄严有力了，而脸上仿佛露出充满敌意的、洋洋得意的微笑，又对着拉斯科利尼科夫苍白的脸和目光呆滞的眼睛直瞅了一眼。这时两人来到了十字路口。小市民往左转弯，头也不回地走到一条街道上去了。拉斯科利尼科夫却站在原地，好长时间望着他的背影。他看到那人已经走出五十来步以后，回过头来望了望他，他仍然一直站在原地，一动不动。从远处不可能看清楚，可是拉斯科利尼科夫好像觉得，这一次那人又冷冷地、十分憎恨地、洋洋得意地对他笑了笑。

拉斯科利尼科夫双膝簌簌发抖，仿佛冷得要命，有气无力地慢慢转身回去，上楼回到了自己那间小屋。他摘下帽子，把它放到桌子上，一动不动地在桌边站了约摸十分钟的样子。随后浑身无力地躺到沙发上，虚弱地轻轻哼着，伸直了身子；

他的眼睛闭着。就这样躺了大约半个小时。

他什么也不想。就这样，一些想法，或者是某些思想的片断，一些杂乱无章、互不相干的模糊印象飞速掠过他的脑海：一些还是他在童年时看见过的人的脸，或者是在什么地方只见过一次，从来也没再想起过的人的脸；b教堂的钟楼、一家小饭馆里的台球台，有个军官在打台球，地下室里一家烟草铺里的雪茄烟味，一家小酒馆，后门的一条楼梯，楼梯很暗，上面泼满污水，撒满蛋壳，不知从什么地方传来了星期天的钟声……这些东西不停地变换着，像旋风般旋转着。有些东西他甚至很喜欢，想要抓住它们，但是它们却渐渐消失了，他心里感到压抑，不过不是很厉害。有时甚至觉得这很好。轻微的寒颤尚未消失，这也几乎让他感到舒适。

他听到了拉祖米欣匆匆的脚步声以及他说话的声音，闭上眼，假装睡着了。拉祖米欣打开房门，有一会儿工夫站在门口，似乎犹豫不决。随后他轻轻走进屋里，小心翼翼地走到沙发前。听到娜斯塔西娅低声说：

“别碰他，让他睡够了；以后他才想吃东西。”

“真的，”拉祖米欣回答。

他们两人小心翼翼地走出去，掩上了房门。又过了半个钟头的样子。拉斯科利尼科夫睁开眼，把双手垫在头底下，仰面躺着……

“他是谁？这个从地底下钻出来的人是谁？那时候他在哪儿，看到过什么？他什么都看到了，这是毫无疑问的。当时他站在哪儿，是从哪里观看的？为什么只是到现在他才从地底下钻出来？他怎么能看得见呢，——难道这可能吗？……嗯哼……”拉斯科利尼科夫继续想，身上一阵阵发冷，一直在发抖，“还有尼古拉在门后拾到的那个小盒子：难道这也是可能的吗？物证吗？只要稍有疏忽，就会造成埃及金字塔那么大的罪证！有一只苍蝇飞过，它看到了！难道这可能吗？”

他突然怀着极端厌恶的心情感觉到，他是多么虚弱无力，的确虚弱得厉害。

“我应该知道这一点，”他苦笑着想，“我怎么敢，我了解自己，我有预感，可是我怎么竟敢拿起斧头，用血沾污我的双手呢。我应该事先就知道……唉！我不是事先就知道了吗！

……”他绝望地喃喃低语。

有时他脑子里只有一个想法，呆呆地只想着某一点：

“不，那些人不是这种材料做成的；可以为所欲为的真正统治者，在土伦击溃敌军，在巴黎进行大屠杀，忘记留在埃及的一支部队，在进军莫斯科的远征中白白牺牲五十万人的生命，在维尔纳说了一句语意双关的俏皮话，就这样敷衍了事；他死后，人们却把他奉为偶像1，——可见他能为所欲为。不，看来这些人不是血肉之躯，而是青铜铸就的！”

突然出现的另一个想法几乎使他大笑起来：

“一边是拿破仑，金字塔2，滑铁卢3，另一边是一个可恶的十四等文官太太，一个瘦弱干瘪的小老太婆，一个床底下放着个红箱子、放高利贷的老太婆，——这二者相提并论，即使是波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇吧，他怎么会容忍呢！……他岂能容忍！……美学不容许这样，他会说：‘拿破仑会钻到‘老太婆’的床底下去！唉！废话！……’”

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1指拿破仑。一七九三年十二月十七日拿破仑在法国南部的土伦击溃了敌军；一七九五年十月十三日拿破仑血腥镇压了巴黎的保皇党起义；一七九九年十月拿破仑为了夺取政权，把一支军队丢在埃及，偷偷地回到巴黎；一八一二年拿破仑在俄国被击败后，曾在波兰的维尔纳说过这么一句话：“从伟大到可笑只有一步之差，让后人去评判吧。”

2一七九八年法军与埃及统治者的军队在埃及亚历山大港附近距金字塔不远的地方作战。战争开始时，拿破仑对士兵们说：“四十个世纪正从这些金字塔上看着我们！”

3一八一五年六月十八日拿破仑在比利时的滑铁卢村附近与英普联军作战，大败；拿破仑被流放到非洲的英属圣赫勒拿岛。

有时他觉得自己好像在说胡话：他陷入了热病发作时的状态，心情兴奋极了。

“老太婆算什么！”他紧张地、感情冲动地想，“老太婆，看来这也是个错误，问题不在于她！老太婆只不过是一种病……我想尽快跨越过去……我杀死的不是人，而是原则！原则嘛，倒是让我给杀了，可是跨越嘛，却没跨越过去，我仍然留在了这边……我只会杀。结果发现，就连杀也不会……原则？不久前拉祖米欣这个傻瓜为什么在骂社会主义者？他们是勤劳的人和做买卖的人；他们在为‘公共的幸福’工作……不，生命只给了我一次，以后永远不会再给我了：我不愿等待‘普遍幸福’。我自己也想活着，不然，最好还是不要再活下去了。怎么？我只不过是不愿攥紧自己口袋里的一个卢布，坐等‘普遍幸福’的到来，而看不见自己的母亲在挨饿。说什么‘我正在为普遍的幸福添砖加瓦，因此我感到心安理得。’哈——哈！你们为什么让我溜掉呢？要知道，我总共只能活一次，我也想……唉，从美学的观点来看，我是一只虱子，仅此而已，”他补充说，突然像疯子样哈哈大笑起来。

“对，我当真是一只虱子，”他接着想，幸灾乐祸地与这个想法纠缠不休，细细地分析它，玩弄它，拿它来取乐，“单就这一点来说，我就是一只虱子，因为第一，现在我认为我是只虱子；第二，因为整整一个月来，我一直在打搅仁慈的上帝，请他作证，说是，我这么做不是为了自己肉体上的享受和满足自己的婬欲，而是有一个让人感到高兴的崇高目的，——哈——哈！第三，因为我决定在实行我的计划的时候，要遵循尽可能公平合理的原则，注意份量和分寸，还做了精确的计算：在所有虱子中挑了一只最没有用处的，杀死了它以后，决定只从她那儿拿走为实现第一步所必须的那么多钱，不多拿，也不少拿（那么剩的钱就可以按照她的遗嘱捐给修道院了，哈——哈！）……因此我彻头彻尾是一只虱子，”他咬牙切齿地补上一句，“因此，也许我本人比那只给杀死的虱子更卑鄙，更可恶，而且我事先就已经预感到，在我杀了她以后，我准会对自己这么说！难道还有什么能与这样的恐惧相比吗！噢，下流！噢，卑鄙！……噢，我对‘先知’是怎么理解的，他骑着马，手持马刀：安拉吩咐，服从吧，‘发抖的’畜生！‘先知’说得对，说得对，当他拦街筑起威—力—强—大的炮垒，炮轰那些无辜的和有罪的人们的时候，连解释都不解释一下！服从吧，发抖的畜生，而且，不要期望什么，因为这不是你的事！……噢，无论如何，无论如何我决不宽恕那个老太婆！”

他的头发都被汗湿透了，发抖的嘴唇干裂了，呆滞的目光死死地盯着天花板。

“母亲，妹妹，以前我多么爱她们啊！为什么现在我恨她们呢？是的，现在我恨她们，肉体上能感觉到憎恨她们，她们待在我身边，我就受不了……不久前我走近前去，吻了吻母亲，我记得……我拥抱她，心里却在想，如果她知道了，那么……难道那时我会告诉她吗？我倒是会这么做的……嗯哼！她也应该像我一样，”他补上一句，同时在努力思索着，似乎在和控制了他的昏迷状态搏斗。“噢，现在我多么憎恨那个老太婆！看来，如果她活过来的话，我准会再一次杀死她！可怜的莉扎薇塔！她为什么偏偏在这时候进来呢！……不过，奇怪，为什么我几乎没去想她，就像我没有杀死她似的？莉扎薇塔？索尼娅！两个可怜的、温顺的女人，都有一双温顺的眼睛……两个可爱的女人！……她们为什么不哭？她们为什么不呻吟呢？……她们献出一切……看人的时候神情是那么温顺，温和……索尼娅，索尼娅！温顺的索尼娅！……”

他迷迷糊糊地睡着了；他觉得奇怪，他竟记不起，怎么会来到了街上。已经是晚上，时间很晚了，暮色越来越浓，一轮满月越来越亮；但不知为什么，空气却特别闷热。人们成群结队地在街上走着；有一股石灰味、尘土味和死水的臭味。拉斯科利尼科夫在街上走着，神情陰郁，满腹忧虑：他清清楚楚记得，他从家里出来，是有个什么意图的，得去做一件什么事情，而且要赶快去做，可到底要做什么，他却忘了。突然他站住了，看到街道对面人行道上站着一个人，正在向他招手。他穿过街道，朝那人走去，但是这个人突然若无其事地转身就走，低下头去，既不回头，也不表示曾经招手叫过他。“唉，算了，他是不是招呼过我呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫想，可是却追了上去。还没走了十步，他突然认出了那个人，不由得大吃一惊：原来这就是刚刚遇到的那个小市民，还是穿着那样一件长袍，还是那样有点儿驼背。拉斯科利尼科夫远远地跟着他；心在怦怦地跳；他们折进一条胡同，那个人一直没有回过头来。“他知道我跟着他吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫想。那个小市民走进一幢大房子的大门里去了。拉斯科利尼科夫赶快走到大门前，张望起来：那人是不是会回过头来，会不会叫他呢？真的，那个人穿过门洞，已经进了院子，突然回过头来，又好像向他招了招手。拉斯科利尼科夫立刻穿过门洞，但是那个小市民已经不在院子里了。这么说，他准是立刻上第一道楼梯了。拉斯科利尼科夫跑过去追他。真的，楼上，隔着两层楼梯，还能听到均匀的、不慌不忙的脚步声。奇怪，这楼梯好像很熟！瞧，那就是一楼上的窗子：月光忧郁而神秘地透过玻璃照射进来；瞧，这就是二楼。啊！这就是那两个工人在里面油漆的那套房子……他怎么没有立刻就认出来呢？在前面走的那个人的脚步声消失了： “这么说，他站下来了，要么是在什么地方躲起来了。”这儿是三楼，要不要再往上走呢？那里多静啊，甚至让人害怕……不过他还是上去了。他自己的脚步声让他感到害怕，心慌。天哪，多么暗啊！那个小市民准是藏在这儿的哪个角落里。啊！房门朝楼梯大敞着；他想了想，走了进去。前室里很暗，空荡荡的，一个人也没有，好像东西都搬走了；他踮着脚尖轻轻地走进客厅：整个房间里明晃晃地洒满了月光；这里一切都和从前一样：几把椅子，一面镜子，一张黄色的长沙发，还有几幅镶着画框的画。一轮像铜盘样又大又圆的火红的月亮径直照到窗子上。“这是由于月亮的关系，才显得这么静，”拉斯科利尼科夫想，“大概现在它正在出一个谜语，让人去猜。”他站在那儿等着，等了好久，月亮越静，他的心就越是跳得厉害，甚至都跳得痛起来了。一直寂静无声。突然听到一声转瞬即逝的干裂的声音，仿佛折断了一根松明，一切又静下来了。一只醒来的苍蝇飞着猛一下子撞到玻璃上，好像抱怨似地嗡嗡地叫起来。就在这时，他看出，墙角落里，一个小橱和窗户之间，似乎一件肥大的女大衣挂在墙上。“这儿为什么挂着件大衣？”他想， “以前这儿没有大衣呀……”他悄悄走近前去，这才猜到，大衣后面仿佛躲着一个人。他小心翼翼地用一只手掀开大衣，看到那儿放着一把椅子，这把放在角落里的椅子上坐着一个老太婆，佝偻着身子，低着头，所以他怎么也看不清她的脸，不过，这是她。他在她面前站了一会儿：“她害怕了！”他心想，悄悄地从环扣上取下斧头，抡起斧头朝她的头顶猛砍下去，一下，又一下。可是奇怪：砍了两下，她连动都不动，好像是木头做的。他觉得害怕了，弯下腰去，凑近一些，仔细看看；可是她把头往下低得更厉害了。于是他俯下身子，完全俯到地板上，从底下看了看她的脸，他一看，立刻吓呆了：老太婆正坐在那儿笑呢，——她止不住地笑着，笑声很轻很轻，几乎听不见，而且她竭力忍着，不让他听到她在笑。突然，他好像觉得，卧室的门稍稍开了一条缝，那里似乎也有人在笑，在窃窃私语。他简直要发疯了：使出全身的力气，猛砍老太婆的脑袋，但是斧头每砍一下，卧室里的笑声和喃喃低语的声音也越来越响，听得越来越清楚了，老太婆更是哈哈大笑，笑得浑身抖个不停。他转身就跑，但穿堂里已经挤满了人，楼梯上一扇扇房门全都大敞四开，楼梯平台上，楼梯上，以及下面——到处站满了人，到处人头攒动，大家都在看，——可是都在躲躲藏藏，都在等着，一声不响！……他的心缩紧了，两只脚一动也不能动，好像在地上扎了根……他想高声大喊，于是醒了。

他很吃力地喘了口气，——可是奇怪，梦境仿佛仍然在继续：他的房门大开着，门口站着一个完全陌生的人，正在凝神细细地打量他。

拉斯科利尼科夫还没完全睁开眼，就又立刻把眼闭上了。他抑面躺着，一动不动。“这是不是还在作梦呢，”他想，又让人看不出来地微微抬起睫毛，看了一眼。那个陌生人还站在那儿，仍然在细细打量他。突然，他小心翼翼地跨过门坎，谨慎地随手掩上房门，走到桌前，等了约摸一分钟光景，——在这段时间里一直目不转睛地瞅着他，——于是轻轻地，一点儿响声也没有，坐到沙发旁边的一把椅子上；他把帽子就放在身旁的地板上，双手撑着手杖，下巴搁在手上。看得出来，他是装作要长久等下去的样子。透过不停眨动的睫毛尽可能细看，隐约看出，这个人已经不算年轻，身体健壮，留着一部浓密的大胡子，胡子颜色很淡，几乎是白的……

约摸过了十来分钟。天还亮着，但暮色已经降临。屋里一片寂静。就连楼梯上也听不到一点声音。只有一只大苍蝇嗡嗡叫着，飞着撞到窗户玻璃上。最后，这让人感到无法忍受了：拉斯科利尼科夫突然欠起身来，坐到沙发上。

“喂，您说吧，您有什么事？”

“我就知道您没睡，只不过装作睡着了的样子，”陌生人奇怪地回答，平静地大笑起来。“请允许我自我介绍：阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇·斯维德里盖洛夫……”