nothing extraordinary in this conversation; it was not the first
time he had heard, only in other forms and on other topics, such
ideas from the lips of the young and hotheaded. But why should he,
of all men, happen to overhear such a conversation and such ideas,
when the very same thoughts were being engendered in himself?--and
why precisely THEN, immediately on his becoming possessed of them
and on leaving the old woman? Strange, indeed, did this
coincidence appear to him. This idle conversation was destined to
have a fearful influence on his destiny, extending to the most
trifling incident and causing him to feel sure he was the
instrument of a fixed purpose.
On his return from the market, he flung himself upon his couch and
sat motionless for a whole hour. It became dark, he had no light,
but sat on. He could never afterwards recollect his thoughts at
the time. At last he felt cold, and a shiver ran through him. He
recognized with delight that he was sitting on his couch and could
lie down, and soon he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. He slept much
longer than usual, and his slumbers were undisturbed by dreams.
Nastasia, who came to his room the next morning at ten o'clock, had
great difficulty in awakening him. The servant brought him some
bread and, the same as the day before, what was left of her tea.
"Not up yet!" exclaimed she indignantly. "How can you sleep so
long?"
Raskolnikoff raised himself with an effort; his head ached; he got
upon his feet, took a few steps, and then dropped down again upon
the couch.
"What, again!" cried Nastasia, "but you must be ill then?" He did
not answer. "Would you like some tea?"
"By and by," he muttered painfully, after which he closed his eyes
and turned his face to the wall. Nastasia, standing over him,
remained watching him for a while.
"After all, he's perhaps ill," said she, before withdrawing. At
two o'clock she returned with some soup. Raskolnikoff was still
lying on the couch. He had not touched the tea. The servant
became angry and shook the lodger violently. "Whatever makes you
sleep thus?" scolded she, eyeing him contemptuously.
He sat up, but answered not a word, and remained with his eyes
fixed on the floor.
"Are you ill, or are you not?" asked Nastasia. This second
question met with no more answer than the first. "You should go
out," continued she, after a pause, "the fresh air would do you
good. You'll eat something, will you not?"
"By and by," answered he feebly. "Go away!" and he motioned her
off. She remained a moment longer, watching him with an air of
pity, and then left the room.
After a few minutes he raised his eyes, gave a long look at the tea
and soup, and then began to eat. He swallowed three or four
spoonfuls without the least appetite--almost mechanically. His
head felt better. When he had finished his light repast, he again
lay down on the couch, but he could not sleep and remained
motionless, flat on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow.
His reverie kept conjuring up strange scenes. At one time he was
in Africa, in Egypt, on some oasis, where palms were dotted about.
The caravans were at rest, the camels lay quietly, and the
travelers were eating their evening meal. They drank water direct
from the stream which ran murmuring close by. How refreshing was
the marvelously blue water, and how beautifully clear it looked as
it ran over many-colored stones and mingled with the golden
spangles of the sandy bottom! All at once he clearly heard the
hour chiming. He shuddered, raised his head, looked at the window
to calculate the time. He came to himself immediately and jumped
up, and, going on tiptoe, silently opened the door and stood
listening on the landing. His heart beat violently. But not a
sound came from the staircase. It seemed as though the house was
wrapped in sleep. He could not understand how he had been able to
sleep away the time as he had done, while nothing was prepared for
the enterprise. And yet it was, perhaps, six o'clock that had just
struck.
Then, he became excited as he felt what there was to be done, and
he endeavored with all his might to keep his thoughts from
wandering and concentrate his mind on his task. All the time his
heart thumped and beat until he could hardly draw breath. In the
first place it was necessary to make a loop and fasten to his coat.
He went to his pillow and took from among the linen he kept there
an old and dirty shirt and tore part of it into strips. He then
fastened a couple of these together, and, taking off his coat--a
stout cotton summer one--began to sew the loop inside, under the
left arm. His hands shook violently, but he accomplished his task
satisfactorily, and when he again put on his coat nothing was
visible. Needle and thread had been procured long ago, and lay on
the table in a piece of paper. The loop was provided for a
hatchet. It would never have done to have appeared in the streets
carrying a hatchet, and if he placed it under the coat, it would
have been necessary to hold it with his hands; but with the loop
all he had to do was to put the iron in it and it would hang of
itself under the coat, and with his hands in his pockets he could
keep it from shaking, and no one could suspect that he was carrying
anything. He had thought over all this about a fortnight before.
Having finished his task, Raskolnikoff inserted his finger in a
small crevice in the floor under his couch, and brought out the
PLEDGE with which he had been careful to provide himself. This
pledge was, however, only a sham--a thin smooth piece of wood about
the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case, which he had
found in a yard adjoining a carpenter's shop, and a thin piece of
iron of about the same size, which he had picked up in the street.
He fastened the two together firmly with thread, then proceeded to
wrap them up neatly in a piece of clean white paper, and tie the
parcel in such a manner that it would he difficult to undo it
again. This was all done in order to occupy the attention of the
old woman and to seize a favorable opportunity when she would be
busy with the knot. The piece of iron was simply added for weight,
in order that she might not immediately detect the fraud. He had
just finished, and had put the packet in his pocket, when in the
court below resounded the cry:
"Six o'clock struck long ago!"
"Long ago! Good heavens!"
He ran to the door, listened, seized his hat, and went down the
stairs cautiously and stealthily as a cat. He still had the most
important thing to do--to steal the hatchet out of the kitchen.
That a hatchet was the best instrument, he had long since decided.
He had an old garden knife, but on a knife--especially on his own
strength--he could not rely; he finally fixed on the hatchet. A
peculiarity was to be noticed in all these resolutions of his; the
more definitely they were settled, the more absurd and horrible
they immediately appeared to his eyes, and never, for a moment, did
he feel sure of the execution of his project. But even if every
question had been settled, every doubt cleared away, every
difficulty overcome, he would probably have renounced his design on
the instant, as something absurd, monstrous, and impossible. But
there were still a host of matters to arrange, of problems to
solve. As to procuring the hatchet, this trifle did not trouble
Raskolnikoff in the least, for nothing was easier. As a matter of
fact Nastasia was scarcely ever at home, especially of an evening.
She was constantly out gossiping with friends or tradespeople, and
that was the reason of her mistress's constant complaints. When
the time came, all he would have to do would be to quietly enter
the kitchen and take the hatchet, and then to replace it an hour
afterwards when all was over. But perhaps this would not be as
easy as he fancied. "Suppose," said the young man to himself,
"that when, in an hour's time, I come to replace the hatchet,
Nastasia should have come in. Now, in that case, I could naturally
not enter the kitchen until she had gone out again. But supposing
during this time she notices the absence of the hatchet, she will
grumble, perhaps kick up a shindy, and that will serve to denounce
me, or at least might do so!"
Before he had got to the bottom of the staircase, a trifling
circumstance came and upset all his plans. On reaching his
landlady's landing, he found the kitchen door wide open, as usual,
and he peeped in, in order to make sure that, in the absence of
Nastasia, her mistress was not there, and that the doors of the
other rooms were closed. But great was his annoyance to find
Nastasia there herself, engaged in hanging clothes on a line.
Perceiving the young man, she stopped and turned to him
inquiringly. He averted his eyes and went away without remark.
But the affair was done for. There was no hatchet, he was
frustrated entirely. He felt crushed, nay, humiliated, but a
feeling of brutal vindictiveness at his disappointment soon ensued,
and he continued down the stairs, smiling maliciously to himself.
He stood hesitating at the gate. To walk about the streets or to
go back were equally repugnant. "To think that I have missed such
a splendid opportunity!" he murmured as he stood aimlessly at the
entrance, leaning near the open door of the porter's lodge.
Suddenly he started--something in the dark room attracted his eye.
He looked quietly around. No one was near. He descended the two
steps on tiptoe, and called for the porter. There was no reply,
and he rushed headlong to the hatchet (it was a hatchet), secured
it where it lay among some wood, and hurriedly fastened it to the
loop as he made his way out into the street. No one saw him!
"There's more of the devil in this than my design," he said smiling
to himself. The occurrence gave him fresh courage.
He went away quietly in order not to excite any suspicion, and
walked along the street with his eyes studiously fixed on the
ground, avoiding the faces of the passers-by. Suddenly he
recollected his hat. "Good heavens! the day before yesterday I had
money, and not to have thought of that! I could so easily have
bought a cap!" and he began cursing himself. Glancing casually in
a shop, he saw it was ten minutes past seven. He had yet a long
way to go, as he was making a circuit, not wishing to walk direct
to the house. He kept off, as much as he was able, all thought of
his mission, and on the way reflected upon possible improvements of
the public grounds, upon the desirability of fountains, and why
people lived where there were neither parks nor fountains, but only
mud, lime, and bricks, emitting horrid exhalations and every
conceivable foulness. This reminded him of his own walks about the
Cyennaza, and he came to himself.
"How true it is that persons being led to execution interest
themselves in anything that strikes them on the way!" was the
thought that came into his head; but it passed away like lightning
to be succeeded by some other. "Here we are--there is the gate."
It struck half-past seven as he stood near the house.
To his delight, he passed in without observation. As if on
purpose, at the very same moment a load of hay was going in, and it
completely screened him. On the other side of the load, a dispute
or brawl was evidently taking place, and he gained the old woman's
staircase in a second. Recovering his breath and pressing his hand
to his beating heart, he commenced the ascent, though first feeling
for the hatchet and arranging it. Every minute he stopped to
listen. The stairs were quite deserted, and every door was closed.
No one met him. On the second floor, indeed, the door of an empty
lodging was wide open; some painters were working there, but they
did not look up. He stopped a moment to think, and then continued
the ascent: "No doubt it would be better if they were not there,
but fortunately there are two more floors above them." At last he
reached the fourth floor, and Alena Ivanovna's door; the lodging
facing it was unoccupied. The lodging on the third floor, just
beneath the old woman's, was also apparently empty. The card that
used to be on the door had gone; the lodgers had, no doubt, moved.
Raskolnikoff was stifling. He stood hesitating a moment: "Had I
not better go away?" But without answering the question, he waited
and listened. Not a sound issued from the old woman's apartments.
The staircase was filled with the same silence. After listening
for a long time, the young man cast a last glance around, and again
felt his hatchet. "Do I not look too pale?" thought he. "Do I not
appear too agitated? She is mistrustful. I should do well to wait
a little, to give my emotion time to calm down."
But instead of becoming quieter, his heart throbbed more violently.
He could stand it no longer, and, raising his hand toward the bell
rope, he pulled it toward him. After waiting half a minute, he
rang again--this time a little louder. No answer. To ring like a
deaf man would have been useless, stupid even. The old woman was
certainly at home; but, suspicious by nature, she was likely to be
so all the more then, as she happened to be alone. Raskolnikoff
knew something of Alena Ivanovna's habits. He therefore placed his
ear to the door. Had the circumstances amid which he was placed
strangely developed his power of hearing, which, in general, is
difficult to admit, or was the sound really easily perceptible?
Anyhow, he suddenly became aware that a hand was being cautiously
placed on the lock, and that a dress rustled against the door.
Some one inside was going through exactly the same movements as he
on the landing. Some one, standing up against the lock, was
listening while trying to hide her presence, and had probably her
ear also against the door.
In order to avoid all idea of mystery, the young man purposely
moved about rather noisily, and muttered something half aloud; then
he rang a third time, but gently and coolly, without allowing the
bell to betray the least sign of impatience. Raskolnikoff never
forgot this moment of his life. When, in after days, he thought
over it, he could never understand how he had been able to display
such cunning, especially at a time when emotion was now and again
depriving him of the free use of his intellectual and physical
faculties. After a short while he heard the bolt withdrawn.
The door, as before, was opened a little, and again the two eyes,
with mistrustful glance, peeped out of the dark. Then Raskolnikoff
lost his presence of mind and made a serious mistake. Fearing that
the old woman would take alarm at finding they were alone, and
knowing that his appearance would not reassure her, he took hold of
the door and pulled it toward him in order to prevent her shutting
it again if she should be thus minded. Seeing this, she held on to
the lock, so that he almost drew her together with the door on to
the staircase. She recovered herself, and stood to prevent his
entrance, speechless with fright.
"Good evening, Alena Ivanovna," he commenced, trying to speak with
unconcern, but his voice did not obey him, and he faltered and
trembled, "Good evening, I have brought you something, but we had
better go into the light." He pushed past her and entered the room
uninvited. The old woman followed and found her tongue.
"What is it you want? Who are you?" she commenced.
"Pardon me, Alena Ivanovna, your old acquaintance Raskolnikoff. I
have brought a pledge, as I promised the other day," and he held
out the packet to her.
The old woman was about to examine it, when she raised her eyes and
looked straight into those of the visitor who had entered so
unceremoniously. She examined him attentively, distrustfully, for
a minute. Raskolnikoff fancied there was a gleam of mockery in her
look as if she guessed all. He felt he was changing color, and
that if she kept her glance upon him much longer without saying a
word he would be obliged to run away.
"Why are you looking at me thus?" he said at last in anger. "Will
you take it or not? or shall I take it elsewhere? I have no time
to waste." He did not intend to say this, but the words came out.
The tone seemed to quiet her suspicions.
"Why were you so impatient, batuchka? What is it?" she asked,
glancing at the pledge.
"The silver cigarette case of which I spoke the other day."
She held out her hand. "But why are you so pale, why do your hands
shake? What is the matter with you, batuchka?"
"Fever," replied he abruptly. "You would be pale too if you had
nothing to eat." He could hardly speak the words and felt his
strength failing. But there was some plausibility in his reply;
and the old woman took the pledge.
"What is it?" she asked once more, weighing it in her hand and
looking straight at her visitor.
"Cigarette case, silver, look at it."
"It doesn't feel as though it were silver. Oh! what a dreadful
knot!"
She began to untie the packet and turned to the light (all the
windows were closed in spite of the heat). Her back was turned
toward Raskolnikoff, and for a few seconds she paid no further
attention to him. He opened his coat, freed the hatchet from the
loop, but did not yet take it from its hiding place; he held it
with his right hand beneath the garment. His limbs were weak, each
moment they grew more numbed and stiff. He feared his fingers
would relax their hold of the hatchet. Then his head turned giddy.
"What is this you bring me?" cried Alena Ivanovna, turning to him
in a rage.
There was not a moment to lose now. He pulled out the hatchet,
raised it with both hands, and let it descend without force, almost
mechanically, on the old woman's head. But directly he had struck
the blow his strength returned. According to her usual habit,
Alena Ivanovna was bareheaded. Her scanty gray locks, greasy with
oil, were gathered in one thin plait, which was fixed to the back
of her neck by means of a piece of horn comb. The hatchet struck
her just on the sinciput, and this was partly owing to her small
stature. She scarcely uttered a faint cry and collapsed at once
all in a heap on the floor; she was dead.
The murderer laid his hatchet down and at once began to search the
corpse, taking the greatest precaution not to get stained with the
blood; he remembered seeing Alena Ivanovna, on the occasion of his
last visit, take her keys from the right-hand pocket of her dress.
He was in full possession of his intellect; he felt neither giddy
nor dazed, but his hands continued to shake. Later on, he
recollected that he had been very prudent, very attentive, that he
had taken every care not to soil himself. It did not take him long
to find the keys; the same as the other day, they were all together
on a steel ring. Having secured. them, Raskolnikoff at once
passed into the bedroom. It was a very small apartment; on one
side was a large glass case full of holy images, on the other a
great bed looking very clean with its quilted-silk patchwork
coverlet. The third wall was occupied by a chest of drawers.
Strange to say, the young man had no sooner attempted to open them,
he had no sooner commenced to try the keys, than a kind of shudder
ran through his frame. Again the idea came to him to give up his
task and go away, but this weakness only lasted a second: it was
now too late to draw back.
He was even smiling at having for a moment entertained such a
thought, when he was suddenly seized with a terrible anxiety:
suppose the old woman were still alive, suppose she recovered
consciousness. Leaving at once the keys and the drawers, he
hastened to the corpse, seized the hatchet, and prepared to strike
another blow at his victim, but he found there was no necessity to
do so. Alena Ivanovna was dead beyond all doubt. Leaning over her
again to examine her closer, Raskolnikoff saw that the skull was
shattered. He was about to touch her with his fingers, but drew
back, as it was quite unnecessary. There was a pool of blood upon
the floor. Suddenly noticing a bit of cord round the old woman's
neck, the young man gave it a tug, but the gory stuff was strong,
and did not break. The murderer then tried to remove it by drawing
it down the body. But this second attempt was no more successful
than the first, the cord encountered some obstacle and became
fixed. Burning with impatience, Raskolnikoff brandished the
hatchet, ready to strike the corpse and sever the confounded string
at the same blow. However, he could not make up his mind to
proceed with such brutality. At last, after trying for two
minutes, and staining his hands with blood, he succeeded in
severing the cord with the blade of the hatchet without further
disfiguring the dead body. As he had imagined, there was a purse
suspended to the old woman's neck. Besides this there was also a
small enameled medal and two crosses, one of cypress wood, the
other of brass. The greasy purse, a little chamois-leather bag,
was as full as it could hold. Raskolnikoff thrust it in his pocket
without examining the contents. He then threw the crosses on his
victim's breast, and hastily returned to the bedroom, taking the
hatchet with him.
His impatience was now intense, he seized the keys, and again set
to work. But all his attempts to open the drawers were unavailing,
and this was not so much owing to the shaking of his hands as to
his continual misconceptions. He could see, for instance, that a
certain key would not fit the lock, and yet he continued to try and
insert it. All on a sudden he recalled a conjecture he had formed
on the occasion of his preceding visit: the big key with the
toothed wards, which was attached to the ring with the smaller
ones, probably belonged, not to the drawers, but to some box in
which the old woman, no doubt, hoarded up her valuables. Without
further troubling about the drawers, he at once looked under the
bed, aware that old women are in the habit of hiding their
treasures in such places. And there indeed was a trunk with
rounded lid, covered with red morocco and studded with steel nails.
Raskolnikoff was able to insert the key in the lock without the
least difficulty. When he opened the box he perceived a hareskin
cloak trimmed with red lying on a white sheet; beneath the fur was
a silk dress, and then a shawl, the rest of the contents appeared
to be nothing but rags. The young man commenced by wiping his
bloodstained hands on the red trimming. "It will not show so much
on red." Then he suddenly seemed to change his mind: "Heavens! am
I going mad?" thought he with fright.
But scarcely had he touched these clothes than a gold watch rolled
from under the fur. He then overhauled everything in the box.
Among the rags were various gold trinkets, which had all probably
been pledged with the old woman: bracelets, chains, earrings, scarf
pins, &c. Some were in their cases, while the others were tied up
with tape in pieces of newspaper folded in two. Raskolnikoff did
not hesitate, he laid hands on these jewels, and stowed them away
in the pockets of his coat and trousers, without opening the cases
or untying the packets; but he was soon interrupted in his work--