attentively. Although little was capable of passing in his mind,
he felt she would not talk thus to a man under arrest for a crime.
But then, the police?
"Is there anything you want? You stay here, I will bring it."
"No, I will go. I am going at once," murmured he, rising to his
feet.
"Very well."
She went out after the porter. As soon as she had disappeared, he
rushed to the light to look at his boot. Yes, there were spots,
but not very plain, all covered with mud. But who would
distinguish them? Nastasia could know nothing, thank heavens!
Then with trembling hand he tore open the notice, and began to
read. At last he understood; it was simply the usual notice to
report himself at the office of the district that day at half-past
nine o'clock.
"But why to-day?" cried he. "Lord, let it be over soon." He was
about to fall down on his knees to pray, when a fit of laughter
seized him. "I must trust to myself, not to prayers." He quickly
dressed himself. "Shall I put the boot on?" he thought, "better
throw it away, and hide all traces of it." Nevertheless he put it
on, only, however, to throw it off again with an expression of
horror. As, however, he recollected he had no other, a smile came
to his face, and he drew it on once more. Again his face changed
into deep despair, his limbs shook more and more. "This is not
from exertion," thought he, "it is fear." His head spun round and
round and his temples throbbed visibly.
On the stairs he recollected that all the things were in the hole
in the wall, and then where was his certificate of birth? He
stopped to think. But such despair, and, if it may be so called,
cynicism, took hold of him, that he simply shook his head and went
out. The sooner over, the better. Once again in the open air, he
encountered the same insufferable heat, the dust, and the people in
drink rolling about the streets. The sun caught him full in the
eyes and almost blinded him, while his head spun round and round,
as is usual in fever. On reaching the turning into the street he
had taken the day before, he glanced in great agitation in the
direction of the house, but immediately averted his eyes again.
"If they ask me, I should confess, perhaps," said he to himself, as
he turned away and made for the office. This was not far distant,
in a new house, on the fourth floor. As he entered the court, he
saw to the right of him a staircase, ascending which was a man
carrying some books. "It was evidently there." He did not think
of asking.
"I will go and fall on my knees and confess all," he murmured, and
began to ascend the narrow and very steep stairs. On every floor
the doors of the kitchens of the several apartments stood open to
the staircase, and emitted a suffocating, sickening odor. The
entrance to the office he was in search of was also wide open, and
he walked in. A number of persons were waiting in the anteroom.
The stench was simply intolerable, and was intensified by the smell
of fresh paint. Pausing a little, he decided to advance farther
into the small low room. He became impatient when he found no one
took any notice of him. In an inner room were seated a number of
clerks engaged in writing. He went up to one of these.
"What do you want?" Raskolnikoff showed him the notice.
"You are a student?" asked a clerk, glancing at the notice.
"Yes;--that is, I used to be."
The clerk glanced at him--without, however, any particular
curiosity. He was a man with unkempt hair and an expressionless
face.
"There is nothing to be learned from him, evidently," thought
Raskolnikoff.
"Step in there to the head clerk," said the man, pointing to a
farther room, which was quite full of people, among whom were two
ladies.
The assistant district officer, a man adorned with red whiskers
standing out on either side of his face, and with extremely small
features, looked up impatiently at Raskolnikoff, whose filthy
attire was by no means prepossessing. The latter returned his
glance calmly and straight in the face, and in such a manner as to
give the officer offense.
"What do you want here?" he cried, apparently surprised that such a
ragged beggar was not knocked down by his thunder-bearing glance.
"I am here because I was summoned," stammered Raskolnikoff.
"It is for the recovery of money lent," said the head clerk.
"Here!" and he threw a paper to Raskolnikoff, "Read!"
"Money? What money? It cannot be that," thought the young man,
and he trembled with joy. Everything became clear, and the load
fell off his shoulders.
"At what hour did you receive this, sir?" cried the lieutenant;
"you were told to come at nine o'clock, and now it is nearly
twelve!"
"I received it a quarter of an hour ago," loudly replied
Raskolnikoff, over his shoulder, suddenly angered, "and it is
sufficient to say that I am ill with a fever."
"Please not to bawl!"
"I did not bawl, but spoke plainly; it is you that bawl. I am a
student, and am not going to have you speak to me in that fashion."
The officer became enraged, and fumed so that only splutters flew
out of his mouth. He jumped up from his place. "Please keep
silence. You are in court. Don't be insolent."
"And so are you in court; and, besides bawling, you are smoking, so
you are wanting in politeness to the whole company." As he said
this, Raskolnikoff felt an inexpressible delight at his
maliciousness. The clerk looked up with a smile. The choleric
officer was clearly nonplused.
"That is not your business, sir," he cried at last, unnaturally
loud. "Make the necessary declaration. Show him, Alexander
Gregorivitch. Complaints have been made about you! You don't pay
your debts! You know how to fly the kite evidently!"
Raskolnikoff did not listen, but greedily seized the paper. He
read it through more than once, and could make nothing of it.
"What is this?" he asked of the clerk.
"It is a writ for recovery on a note of hand of yours. Please
write," said the clerk.
"Write what?" asked he rudely.
"As I dictate."
The clerk stood near and dictated to him the usual form of
declaration: that he was unable to pay, that he would not quit the
capital, dispose of his goods in any way, etc., etc.
"You cannot write, your pen is falling from your fingers," said the
clerk, and he looked him in the face. "Are you ill?"
"Yes, my head swims. Go on."
"That is all. Now sign it."
Raskolnikoff let fall the pen, and seemed as if about to rise and
go; but, instead of doing so, he laid both elbows on the table and
supported his head with his hands. A new idea formed in his mind:
to rise immediately, go straight to Nicodemus Thomich the ward
officer and tell him all that had occurred; then to accompany him
to his room, and show him all the things hidden away in the wall
behind the paper. His desire to do all this was of such strength
that he got up from the table to carry his design into execution.
"Reflect, reflect a moment!" ran in his head. "No, better not
think, get it off my shoulders." Suddenly he stood still as if
shot. Nicodemus Thomich was at this moment hotly discussing
something with Elia Petrovitch, the inspector of police, and the
words caught Raskolnikoff's anxious attention. He listened.
"It cannot be, they will both be released. In the first place, all
is contradictory. Consider. Why did they call the porter if it
were their work? To denounce themselves? Or out of cunning? Not
at all, that would be too much! Besides, did not the porter see
the student Pestriakoff at the very gate just as he came in, and he
stood there some time with three friends who had accompanied him.
And Koch: was he not below in the silversmith's for half an hour
before he went up to the old woman's? Now, consider."
"But see what contradictions arise! They say they knocked and
found the door closed; yet three minutes after, when they went back
with the porter, it was open."
"That's true. The murderer was inside, and had bolted the door,
and certainly he would have been captured had not Koch foolishly
run off to the porter. In the interval HE, no doubt, had time to
escape downstairs. Koch explains that, if he had remained, the man
would have leaped out and killed him. He wanted to have a Te Deum
sung. Ha, ha!"
"Did nobody see the murderer?"
"How could they? The house is a perfect Noah's ark," put in the
clerk, who had been listening.
"The thing is clear, very clear," said Nicodemus Thomich
decisively.
"Not at all! Not at all!" cried Elia Petrovitch, in reply.
Raskolnikoff took up his hat and made for the door, but he never
reached it. When he came to himself he found he was sitting on a
chair, supported on the right by some unknown man, while to his
left stood another, holding some yellow water in a yellow glass.
Nicodemus Thomich, standing before him, was looking at him fixedly.
Raskolnikoff rose.
"What is it? Are you ill?" asked the officer sharply.
"He could hardly hold the pen to sign his name," the clerk
explained, at the same time going back to his books.
"Have you been ill very long?" cried Elia Petrovitch from his
table; he had run to see the swoon and returned to his place.
"Since yesterday," murmured Raskolnikoff in reply.
"You went out yesterday?"
"I did."
"Ill?"
"Ill!"
"At what time?"
"Eight o'clock in the evening."
"Where did you go, allow me to ask?"
"In the streets."
"Concise and clear."
Raskolnikoff had replied sharply, in a broken voice, his face as
pale as a handkerchief, and with his black swollen eyes averted
from Elia Petrovitch's scrutinizing glance.
"He can hardly stand on his legs. Do you want to ask anything
more?" said Nicodemus Thomich.
"Nothing," replied Elia Petrovitch.
Nicodemus Thomich evidently wished to say more, but, turning to the
clerk, who in turn glanced expressively at him, the latter became
silent, all suddenly stopped speaking. It was strange.
Raskolnikoff went out. As he descended the stairs he could hear an
animated discussion had broken out, and above all, the
interrogative voice of Nicodemus Thomich. In the street he came to
himself.
"Search, search! they are going to search!" he cried. "The
scoundrels, they suspect me!" The old dread seized him again, from
head to foot.
Here was the room. All was quiet, and no one had, apparently,
disturbed it--not even Nastasia. But, heavens! how could he have
left all those things where they were? He rushed to the corner,
pushed his hands behind the paper, took out the things, and thrust
them in his pockets. There were eight articles in all: two little
boxes with earrings or something of that description, then four
little morocco cases; a chain wrapped up in paper, and something
else done up in a common piece of newspaper--possibly a decoration.
Raskolnikoff distributed these, together with the purse, about his
person, in order to make them less noticeable, and quitted the room
again. All the time he had left the door wide open. He went away
hurriedly, fearing pursuit. Perhaps in a few minutes orders would
be issued to hunt him down, so he must hide all traces of his theft
at once; and he would do so while he had strength and reason left
him. But where should he go?
This had been long decided. Throw the lot in the canal and the
matter would be at an end! So he had resolved in that night of
delirium, when he cried out, "Quick, quick! throw all away!" But
this was not so easy. He wandered to the quays of the Catherine
Canal, and lingered there for half an hour. Here a washing raft
lay where he had thought of sinking his spoil, or there boats were
moored, and everywhere people swarmed. Then, again, would the
cases sink? Would they not rather float? No, this would not do.
He would go to the Neva; there would be fewer people there and more
room, and it would be more convenient. He recognized that he had
been wandering about for fully half an hour, and in dangerous
places. He must make haste. He made his way to the river, but
soon came to another standstill. Why in the Neva? Why in the
water at all? Better some solitary place in a wood, or under some
bushes. Dig a hole and bury them! He felt he was not in a
condition to deliberate clearly and soundly, but this idea appeared
the best.
This idea also, however, was not destined to be realized, and
another took its place. As he passed the V---- Prospect, he
suddenly noticed on the left an entrance into a court, which was
surrounded entirely by high walls. On the right, a long way up the
court, rose the side of a huge four-storied building. To the left,
parallel with the walls of the house, and commencing immediately at
the gate, there ran a wooden hoarding of about twenty paces down
the court. Then came a space where a lot of rubbish was deposited;
while farther down, at the bottom of the court, was a shed,
apparently part of some workshop, possibly that of a carpenter or
coach builder. Everything appeared as black as coal dust. Here
was the very place, he thought; and, after looking round, went up
the court. Behind the door he espied a large unworked stone,
weighing about fifty pounds, which lay close up against the
hoarding. No one could see him where he stood; he was entirely
free from observation. He bent down to the stone, managed to turn
it over after considerable effort, and found underneath a small
cavity. He threw in the cases, and then the purse on the top of
all. The stone was not perceptibly higher when he had replaced it,
and little traces of its having been moved could be noticed. So he
pressed some earth against the edges with his foot, and made off.
He laughed for joy when again in the street. All traces were gone,
and who would think of looking there? And if they were found who
would suspect him? All proofs were gone, and he laughed again.
Yes, he recollected afterwards how he laughed--a long, nervous,
lingering laugh, lasting all the time he was in that street.
He reached home toward evening, perhaps at about eight o'clock--
how, and by what particular way he never recollected--but, speedily
undressing, he lay down on the couch, trembling like a beaten
horse, and, drawing his overcoat over him, he fell immediately into
a deep sleep. He awoke in a high fever and delirious. Some days
later he came to himself, rose and went out. It was eight o'clock,
and the sun had disappeared. The heat was as intolerable as
before, but he inhaled the dusty, fetid, infected town air with
greediness. And now his head began to spin round, and a wild
expression of energy crept into his inflamed eyes and pale, meager,
wan face. He did not know, did not even think, what he was going
to do; he only knew that all was to be finished "to-day," at one
blow, immediately, or he would never return home, because he had no
desire to live thus. How to finish? By what means? No matter
how, and he did not want to think. He drove away any thoughts
which disturbed him, and only clung to the necessity of ending all,
"no matter how," said he, with desperate self-confidence and
decision. By force of habit he took his old walk, and set out in
the direction of the Haymarket. Farther on, he came on a young man
who was grinding some very feeling ballads upon a barrel organ.
Near the man, on the footpath, was a young girl of about fifteen
years of age, fashionably dressed, with crinoline, mantle, and
gloves, and a straw hat trimmed with gaudy feathers, but all old
and terribly worn out, who, in a loud and cracked though not
altogether unpleasing voice, was singing before a shop in
expectation of a couple of kopecks. Raskolnikoff stopped and
joined one or two listeners, took out a five-kopeck piece, and gave
it to the girl. The latter at once stopped on a very high note
which she had just reached, and cried to the man, "Come along," and
both immediately moved on to another place.
"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikoff to a middle-aged man
standing near him. The latter looked at him in surprise, but
smiled. "I love it," continued Raskolnikoff, "especially when they
sing to the organ on a cold, dark, gray winter's evening, when all
the passers-by seem to have pale, green, sickly-looking faces--when
the snow is falling like a sleet, straight down and with no wind,
you know, and while the lamps shine on it all."
"I don't know. Excuse me," said the man, frightened at the
question and Raskolnikoff's strange appearance, and hastily
withdrawing to the other side of the street.
Raskolnikoff went on, and came to the place in the Hay-market where
he had met the trader and his wife and Elizabeth. No one was there
at the moment. He stopped, and turned to a young fellow, in a red
shirt, who was gaping at the entrance to a flour shop.
"A man trades here at this corner, with his wife, eh?"
"Everyone trades here," replied the lad, scanning his questioner
from head to foot.
"What is he called?"
"What he was christened."
"But you belong to Zaraisk, don't you? To what Government?"
The boy stared at Raskolnikoff. "We have no governor, your
highness, but districts. I stay at home, and know nothing about
it, but my brother does; so pardon me, your most mighty highness."
"Is that an eating house there?"
"That's a dram shop; they have a billiard table."
"There are newspapers here?" asked he, as he entered a room--one of
a suite--rather empty. Two or three persons sat with tea before
them, while in a farther room a group of men were seated, drinking
champagne. Raskolnikoff thought he recognized Zametoff among them,
but be could not be sure. "Never mind, if it is!" he muttered.
"Brandy, sir?" asked the waiter.
"No, tea; and bring me some newspapers--for about the last five
days. I'll give you a drink."
The papers and the tea appeared. Raskolnikoff sat and searched,
and, at last, found what he wanted. "Ah, here it is!" he cried, as
he began to read. The words danced before his eyes, but he read
greedily to the end, and turned to others for later intelligence.
His hands trembled with impatience, and the sheets shook again.
Suddenly some one sat down near him. He looked up, and there was
Zametoff--that same Zametoff, with his rings and chain, his oiled
locks and fancy waistcoat and unclean linen. He seemed pleased,
and his tanned face, a little inflamed by the champagne, wore a
smile.
"Ah! you here?" he commenced, in a tone as if he had known
Raskolnikoff for an age. "Why Razoumikhin told me yesterday that
you were lying unconscious. How strange! Then I was at your
place--"
Raskolnikoff laid down the paper and turned to Zametoff. On his
lips was a slight provoking smile. "I know you were," he replied,
"I heard so. You searched for my boot. To what agreeable places
you resort. Who gives you champagne to drink?"
"We were drinking together. What do you mean?"
"Nothing, dear boy, nothing," said Raskolnikoff, with a smile and
slapping Zametoff on the shoulders. "I am not in earnest, but
simply in fun, as your workman said, when he wrestled with Dmitri,
you know, in that murder case."
"Do you know about that?"
"Yes, and perhaps more than you do."
"You are very peculiar. It is a pity you came out. You are ill."
"Do I seem strange?"
"Yes; what are you reading?"
"The paper."
"There are a number of fires."
"I am not reading about them." He looked curiously at Zametoff,
and a malicious smile distorted his lips. "No, fires are not in my
line," he added, winking at Zametoff. "Now, I should like to know,
sweet youth, what it signifies to you what I read?"
"Nothing at all. I only asked. Perhaps I--"
"Listen. You are a cultivated man--a literary man, are you not?"
"I was in the sixth class at college," Zametoff answered, with a
certain amount of dignity.
"The sixth! Oh, my fine fellow! With rings and a chain--a rich
man! You are a dear boy," and Raskolnikoff gave a short, nervous
laugh, right in the face of Zametoff. The latter was very much
taken aback, and, if not offended, seemed a good deal surprised.
"How strange you are!" said Zametoff seriously. "You have the
fever still on you; you are raving!"
"Am I, my fine fellow--am I strange? Yes, but I am very
interesting to you, am I not?"
"Interesting?"
"Yes. You ask me what I am reading, what I am looking for; then I
am looking through a number of papers. Suspicious, isn't it?
Well, I will explain to you, or rather confess--no, not that
exactly. I will give testimony, and you shall take it down--that's
it. So then, I swear that I was reading, and came here on
purpose"--Raskolnikoff blinked his eyes and paused--"to read an
account of the murder of the old woman." He finished almost in a
whisper, eagerly watching Zametoff's face. The latter returned his
glances without flinching. And it appeared strange to Zametoff
that a full minute seemed to pass as they kept fixedly staring at
each other in this manner.
"Oh, so that's what you have been reading?" Zametoff at last cried
impatiently. "What is there in that?"
"She is the same woman," continued Raskolnikoff, still in a
whisper, and taking no notice of Zametoff's remark, "the very same
woman you were talking about when I swooned in your office. You
recollect--you surely recollect?"
"Recollect what?" said Zametoff, almost alarmed.
The serious expression on Raskolnikoff's face altered in an
instant, and he again commenced his nervous laugh, and laughed as
if he were quite unable to contain himself. There had recurred to
his mind, with fearful clearness, the moment when he stood at the
door with the hatchet in his hand. There he was, holding the bolt,
and they were tugging and thumping away at the door. Oh, how he
itched to shriek at them, open the door, thrust out his tongue at
them, and frighten them away, and then laugh, "Ah, ah, ah, ah!"
"You are insane, or else--" said Zametoff, and then paused as if a
new thought had suddenly struck him.
"Or what, or what? Now what? Tell me!"
"Nonsense!" said Zametoff to himself, "it can't be." Both became
silent. After this unexpected and fitful outburst of laughter,
Raskolnikoff had become lost in thought and looked very sad. He
leaned on the table with his elbows, buried his head in his hands,
and seemed to have quite forgotten Zametoff. The silence continued
a long time. "You do not drink your tea; it is getting cold," said
the latter, at last.
"What? Tea? Yes!" Raskolnikoff snatched at his glass, put a
piece of bread in his mouth, and then, after looking at Zametoff,
seemingly recollected and roused himself. His face at once resumed
its previous smile, and he continued to sip his tea.
"What a number of rogues there are about," Zametoff said. "I read
not long ago, in the Moscow papers, that they had captured a whole
gang of forgers in that city. Quite a colony."
"That's old news. I read it a month ago," replied Raskolnikoff in
a careless manner. "And you call such as these rogues?" he added,
smiling.
"Why not?"
"Rogues indeed! Why, they are only children and babies. Fifty
banded together for such purposes! Is it possible? Three would be
quite sufficient, and then they should be sure of one another--not
babble over their cups. The babies! Then to hire unreliable
people to change the notes at the money changers', persons whose
hands tremble as they receive the rubles. On such their lives
depend! Far better to strangle yourself! The man goes in,
receives the change, counts some over, the last portion he takes on
faith, stuffs all in his pocket, rushes away and the murder is out.
All is lost by one foolish man. Is it not ridiculous?"
"That his hands should shake?" replied Zametoff. "No; that is
quite likely. Yours would not, I suppose? I could not endure it,
though. For a paltry reward of a hundred rubles to go on such a
mission! And where? Into a banker's office with forged notes! I
should certainly lose my head. Would not you?"
Raskolnikoff felt again a strong impulse to make a face at him. A
shiver ran down his back. "You would not catch me acting so
foolishly," he commenced. "This is how I should do. I should
count over the first thousand very carefully, perhaps four times,
right to the end, carefully examine each note, and then only pass
to the second thousand, count these as far as the middle of the
bundle, take out a note, hold it to the light, turn it over, then
hold it to the light again, and say, 'I fear this is a bad note,'
and then begin to relate some story about a lost note. Then there
would be a third thousand to count. Not yet, please, there is a
mistake in the second thousand. No, it is correct. And so I
should proceed until I had received all. At last I should turn to
go, open the door, but, no, pardon me! I should return, ask some
question, receive some explanation, and there it is all done."