"Because you don't pay and won't go. That's why."
"The deuce!" growled he between his teeth, "that is the finishing
stroke; it comes at a most unfortunate juncture. She is a fool," added
he aloud. "I shall go and talk to her to-morrow."
"She is, of course, just as much of a fool as I am; but why do you,
who are so intelligent, lie here doing nothing? How is it you never
seem to have money for anything now? You used to give lessons, I hear;
how is it you do nothing now?"
"I am engaged on something," returned Raskolnikoff dryly and half
reluctantly.
"On what?"
"Some work--"
"What sort of work?"
"Thinking," replied he gravely, after a short silence.
Nastasia was convulsed. She was of a merry disposition, but her
laughter was always noiseless, an internal convulsion which made her
actually writhe with pain. "And does your thinking bring you any
money?" asked she, as soon as she could manage to speak.
"Well! I can't give lessons when I have no boots to go out in?
Besides, I despise them."
"Take care lest you suffer for it."
"There is so little to be made by giving lessons! What can one do with
a few kopecks?" said he in an irritable tone, rather to himself than
the servant.
"So you wish to make your fortune at one stroke?"
He looked at her rather strangely, and was silent for a moment. "Yes,
my fortune," rejoined he impressively.
"Hush! you frighten me, you look terrible. Shall I go and fetch you a
roll?"
"Just as you like."
Later in the day, Raskolnikoff went out and wandered about the
streets. At last he sat down under a tree to rest, and fell into a
reverie. His limbs felt disjointed, and his mind was in darkness and
confusion. He placed his elbows on his knees and held his head with
his hands.
"God! Am I to stand beating in her skull with a hatchet or something,
wade in warm blood, break open the lock and rob and tremble, blood
flowing all around, and hide myself, with the hatchet? O God! is this
indeed possible, and must it be?" He trembled like a leaf as he said
this.
"What am I thinking of?" he cried in some astonishment. "I know well I
could not endure that with which I have been torturing myself. I saw
that clearly yesterday when I tried to rehearse it. Perfectly plain.
Then what am I questioning? Did I not say yesterday as I went up the
stairs how disgusting and mean and low it all was, and did not I run
away in terror?"
He stood up and looked all round, wondering how he got there, and
moved off toward the T---- bridge. He was pale and his eyes were hot,
and feebleness was in all his members, but he seemed to breathe
easier. He felt that he had thrown off the old time which had been so
oppressive; and in its place had come peace and light. "Lord!" he
prayed, "show me my way, that I may renounce these horrid thoughts of
mine!"
Going across the bridge, he quietly gazed on the Neva, and the clear
red sunset. He did not feel himself tired now, notwithstanding his
weakness, and the load which had lain upon his heart seemed to be
gone. Liberty! Liberty! he was free from those enchantments and all
their vile instigations. In later times when he recalled this period
of his existence, and all that happened to him in those days, minute
by minute and point by point, he recollected how each circumstance,
although in the main not very unusual, constantly appeared to his mind
as an evidence of the predetermination of his fate, so superstitious
was he. Especially he could never understand why he, weary and
harassed as he was, could not have returned home by the shortest
route, instead of across the Haymarket, which was quite out of the
way. Certainly, a dozen times before, he had reached his lodgings by
most circuitous routes, and never known through which streets he had
come. But why (he always asked) should such a really fateful meeting
have taken place in the market (through which there was no need to
go), and happen, too, at exactly such a time and at a moment of his
life when his mind was in the state it was, and the event, in these
circumstances, could only produce the most definite and decided effect
upon his fate? Surely he was the instrument of some purpose!
It was about nine o'clock as he stood in the Haymarket. All the
dealers had closed their establishments or cleared away their goods
and gone home. About this place, with its tattered population, its
dirty and nauseous courtyards and numerous alleys, Raskolnikoff dearly
loved to roam in his aimless wanderings. He attracted no notice there.
At the corner of K---- Lane were a dealer and his wife, who were
engaged in packing up their wares, consisting of tapes, handkerchiefs,
cotton, &c., preparatory to going home. They were lingering over their
work, and conversing with an acquaintance. This was Elizabeth
Ivanovna, or simple Elizabeth, as all called her, the younger sister
of the old woman, Alena Ivanovna, to whose rooms Raskolnikoff went the
day before for the purpose of pawning his watch to make his
_rehearsal_. He knew all about this Elizabeth, as she knew also a
little about him. She was a tall, awkward woman, about thirty-five
years of age, timid and quiet, indeed almost an idiot, and was a
regular slave to her sister, working for her day and night, trembling
before her and enduring even blows. She was evidently hesitating about
something, as she stood there with a bundle under her arm, and her
friends were pressing some subject rather warmly. When Raskolnikoff
recognized her he seemed struck with the greatest astonishment,
although there was nothing strange about such a meeting.
"You ought to decide yourself, Elizabeth Ivanovna," said the man.
"Come to-morrow at seven o'clock."
"To-morrow?" said Elizabeth slowly, as if undecided.
"She is frightened of Alena Ivanovna," cried the wife, a brisk little
woman. "You are like a little child, Elizabeth Ivanovna, and she's not
your own sister, but a stepsister. She has too much her own way."
"You say nothing to Alena Ivanovna," interrupted the man, "and come
without asking, that's the way to do it, and your sister can manage
herself."
"When shall I come?"
"At seven o'clock, to-morrow."
"Very well, I will come," said Elizabeth, slowly and reluctantly. She
then quitted them.
Raskolnikoff also went away, and stayed to hear no more. His original
amazement had changed gradually into a feeling of actual terror; a
chill ran down his back. He had learned unexpectedly and positively,
that, at seven o'clock the next evening, Elizabeth, the old woman's
sister, the only person living with her, would not be at home, and
that, therefore, the old woman, at seven o'clock to-morrow, _would be
there alone_. It needed but a few steps to reach his room. He went
along like one sentenced to death, with his reason clogged and numbed.
He felt that now all liberty of action and free will were gone, and
everything was irrevocably decided. A more convenient occasion than
was thus unexpectedly offered to him now would never arise, and he
might never learn again, beforehand, that, at a certain time on a
certain day, she, on whom he was to make the attempt, would be
entirely alone.
Raskolnikoff learned subsequently what induced the man and his wife to
invite Elizabeth to call on them. It was a very simple matter. A
foreign family, finding themselves in straitened circumstances, were
desirous of parting with various things, consisting for the most part
in articles of female attire. They were anxious, therefore, to meet
with a dealer in cast-off clothes, and this was one of Elizabeth's
callings. She had a large connection, because she was very honest and
always stuck to her price: there was no higgling to be done with her.
She was a woman of few words and very shy and reserved. But
Raskolnikoff was very superstitious, and traces of this remained in
him long after. In all the events of this period of his life he was
ever ready to detect something mysterious, and attribute every
circumstance to the presence of some particular influence upon his
destiny.
The previous winter, a fellow student, Pokoreff by name, on leaving
for Charkoff, had happened to communicate to him in conversation the
address of Alena Ivanovna, in case he should ever require to pawn
anything. For a long time he did not use it, as he was giving lessons,
and managed somehow to get along, but six weeks before this time he
had recollected the address. He had two things fit to pawn--an old
silver watch, formerly his father's; and a small gold ring with three
red stones, a souvenir from his sister on leaving home. He decided on
getting rid of the latter, and went to the old woman's. At the first
glance, and knowing nothing whatever of her personally, she inspired
him with an unaccountable loathing. He took her two notes, and on
leaving went into a poor _traktir_, or restaurant, and ordered some
tea. He sat down musing, and strange thoughts flitted across his mind
and became hatched in his brain. Close by, at another table, were
seated a student, whom he did not knew, and a young officer. They had
been playing billiards, and were now drinking tea. Suddenly
Raskolnikoff heard the student give the officer the address of Alena
Ivanovna, the widow of a professor, as one who lent money on pledges.
This alone struck Raskolnikoff as very peculiar. They were talking of
the same person he had just been to see. No doubt it was pure chance,
but, at the moment he was struggling against an impression he could
not overcome, this stranger's words came and gave extra force to it.
The student went on talking, and began to give his companion some
account of Alena Ivanovna.
"She is well known," he said, "and always good for money. She is as
rich as a Jew, and can advance five thousand rubles at a moment's
notice; yet she will take in pledge objects worth as little as a
ruble. She is quite a providence to many of our fellows--but such an
old hag! I tell you what I would do. I would kill that damnable old
hag, and take all she is possessed of, without any qualm of
conscience," exclaimed the student excitedly. The officer laughed, but
Raskolnikoff shuddered. The words just uttered so strongly echoed his
own thoughts. "Let me put a serious question to you," resumed the
student, more and more excited. "I have hitherto been joking, but now
listen to this. On the one side here is a silly, flint-hearted,
evil-minded, sulky old woman, necessary to no one--on the contrary,
pernicious to all--and who does not know herself why she lives."
"Well?" said the officer.
"Hear me further. On the other hand, young fresh strength droops and
is lost for want of sustenance; this is the case with thousands
everywhere! A hundred, a thousand good deeds and enterprises could be
carried out and upheld with the money this old woman has bequeathed to
a monastery. A dozen families might be saved from hunger, want, ruin,
crime, and misery, and all with her money! Kill her, I say, take it
from her, and dedicate it to the service of humanity and the general
good! What is your opinion? Shall not one little crime be effaced and
atoned for by a thousand good deeds? For one useless life a thousand
lives saved from decay and death. One death, and a hundred beings
restored to existence! There's a calculation for you. What in
proportion is the life of this miserable old woman? No more than the
life of a flea, a beetle, nay, not even that, for she is pernicious.
She preys on other lives. She lately bit Elizabeth's finger, in a fit
of passion, and nearly bit it off!"
"Certainly she does not deserve to live," observed the officer, "but
nature----"
"Ah, my friend, nature has to be governed and guided, or we should be
drowned in prejudices. Without it there would never be one great man.
They say 'duty is conscience.' Now I have nothing to say against duty
and conscience, but let us see, how do we understand them? Let me put
another question to you. Listen."
"Stop a minute, I will give you one."
"Well?"
"After all you have said and declaimed, tell me--are you going to kill
the old woman _yourself_, or not?"
"Of course not. I only pointed out the inequality of things. As for
the deed----"
"Well, if you won't, it's my opinion that it would not be just to do
so! Come, let's have another game!"
Raskolnikoff was in the greatest agitation. Still, there was 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 hot-headed. 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, eying 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 be 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
falling. 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------
Footsteps resounded in the other room. He stopped short, frozen with
terror. But the noise having ceased, he was already imagining he had
been mistaken, when suddenly he distinctly heard a faint cry, or
rather a kind of feeble interrupted moan. At the end of a minute or
two, everything was again as silent as death. Raskolnikoff had seated
himself on the floor beside the trunk and was waiting, scarcely daring
to breathe; suddenly he bounded up, caught up the hatchet, and rushed
from the bedroom. In the center of the apartment, Elizabeth, a huge
bundle in her hands, stood gazing in a terror-stricken way at her dead
sister; white as a sheet, she did not seem to have the strength to
call out. On the sudden appearance of the murderer, she began to quake
in every limb, and nervous twitches passed over her face; she tried to
raise her arm, to open her mouth, but she was unable to utter the
least cry, and, slowly retreating, her gaze still riveted on
Raskolnikoff, she sought refuge in a corner. The poor woman drew back
in perfect silence, as though she had no breath left in her body. The
young man rushed upon her, brandishing the hatchet; the wretched
creature's lips assumed the doleful expression peculiar to quite young
children when, beginning to feel frightened of something, they gaze
fixedly at the object which has raised their alarm, and are on the
point of crying out. Terror had so completely stupefied this
unfortunate Elizabeth, that, though threatened by the hatchet, she did
not even think of protecting her face by holding her hands before her
head, with that mechanical gesture which the instinct of
self-preservation prompts on such occasions. She scarcely raised her
left arm, and extended it slowly in the direction of the murderer, as
thought to keep him off. The hatchet penetrated her skull, laying it
open from the upper part of the forehead to the crown. Elizabeth fell
down dead. No longer aware of what he did, Raskolnikoff took the
bundle from his victim's hand, then dropped it and ran to the
anteroom.
He was more and more terrified, especially after this second murder,
entirely unpremeditated by him. He was in a hurry to be gone; had he
then been in a state to see things more clearly, had he only been able
to form an idea of the difficulties besetting his position, to see how
desperate, how hideous, how absurd it was, to understand how many
obstacles there still remained for him to surmount, perhaps even
crimes to commit, to escape from this house and return home, he would
most likely have withdrawn from the struggle, and have gone at once
and given himself up to justice; it was not cowardice which would have
prompted him to do so, but the horror of what he had done. This last
impression became more and more powerful every minute. Nothing in the
world could now have made him return to the trunk, nor even reënter
the room in which it lay. Little by little his mind became diverted by
other thoughts, and he lapsed into a kind of reverie; at times the
murderer seemed to forget his position, or rather the most important
part of it, and to concentrate his attention on trifles. After a
while, happening to glance in the kitchen, he observed a pail half
full of water, standing on a bench, and that gave him the idea of
washing his hands and the hatchet. The blood had made his hands
sticky. After plunging the blade of the hatchet in the water, he took
a small piece of soap which lay on the window sill, and commenced his
ablutions. When he had washed his hands, he set to cleaning the iron
part of his weapon; then he devoted three minutes to soaping the
wooden handle, which was also stained with blood.
After this he wiped it with a cloth which had been hung up to dry on a
line stretched across the kitchen. This done, he drew near the window
and carefully examined the hatchet for some minutes. The accusing
stains had disappeared, but the handle was still damp. Raskolnikoff
carefully hid the weapon under his coat by replacing it in the loop;
after which, he minutely inspected his clothes, that is to say so far
as the dim light of the kitchen allowed him to do so. He saw nothing
suspicious about the coat and trousers, but there were bloodstains on
the boots. He removed them with the aid of a damp rag. But these
precautions only half reassured him, for he knew that he could not see
properly and that certain stains had very likely escaped him. He stood
irresolute in the middle of the room, a prey to a somber, agonizing
thought, the thought that he was going mad, that at that moment he was
not in a fit state to come to a determination and to watch over his
security, that his way of going to work was probably not the one the
circumstances demanded. "Good heavens! I ought to go, to go away at
once!" murmured he, and he rushed to the anteroom where the greatest
terror he had yet experienced awaited him.
He stood stock-still, not daring to believe his eyes: the door of the
lodging, the outer door which opened on to the landing, the same one
at which he had rung a little while before and by which he had
entered, was open; up till then it had remained ajar, the old woman
had no doubt omitted to close it by way of precaution; it had been
neither locked nor bolted! But he had seen Elizabeth after that. How
was it that it had not occurred to him that she had come in by way of
the door? She could not have entered the lodging through the wall. He
shut the door and bolted it. "But no, that is not what I should do? I
must go away, go away." He drew back the bolt and, after opening the
door again, stood listening on the landing.
He stood thus a long while. Down below, probably at the street door,
two noisy voices were vociferating insults. "Who can those people be?"
He waited patiently. At last the noise ceased, the brawlers had taken
their departure. The young man was about to do the same, when a door
on the floor immediately below was noisily opened and some one went
downstairs, humming a tune. "Whatever are they all up to?" wondered
Raskolnikoff, and closing the door again he waited a while. At length
all became silent as before; but just as he was preparing to go down,
he suddenly became aware of a fresh sound, footsteps as yet far off,
at the bottom of the staircase; and he no sooner heard them than he
guessed the truth:--some one was coming _there_, to the old woman's on
the fourth floor. Whence came this presentiment? What was there so
particularly significant in the sound of these footsteps? They were
heavy, regular, and rather slow than hurried. _He_ has now reached the
first floor, he still continues to ascend. The sound is becoming
plainer and plainer. He pants as though with asthma at each step he
takes. He has commenced the third flight. He will soon be on the
fourth! And Raskolnikoff felt suddenly seized as with a general
paralysis, the same as happens when a person has the nightmare and
fancies himself pursued by enemies; they are on the point of catching
him, they will kill him, and yet he remains spellbound, unable to move
a limb.
The stranger was now ascending the fourth flight. Raskolnikoff, who
until then had been riveted to the landing with fright, was at length
able to shake off his torpor, and hastily reentered the apartment,
closing the door behind him. Then he bolted it, being careful to make
as little noise as possible. Instinct rather than reason prompted him
to do this. When he had finished, he remained close to the door,
listening, scarcely daring to breathe. The visitor was now on the
landing. Only the thickness of the door separated the two men. The
unknown was in the same position toward Raskolnikoff as the latter had
been a little while before toward the old woman. The visitor stood
panting for some little time. "He must be stout and big," thought the
young man as he clasped the hatchet firmly in his hand. It was all
like a dream to him. The visitor gave a violent pull at the bell. He
immediately fancied he heard something move inside. He listened
attentively during a few seconds, then he gave another ring and again
waited; suddenly losing patience, he began to shake the door handle
with all his might. Raskolnikoff watched with terror the bolt
trembling in the socket, expecting to see it shoot back at any moment,
so violent were the jerks given to the door. It occurred to him to
hold the bolt in its place with his hand, but the _man_ might have
found it out. His head was turning quite dizzy again. "I shall betray
myself!" thought he; but he suddenly recovered his presence of mind as
the unknown broke the silence.
"Are they both asleep, or has some one strangled them? The
thrice-confounded creatures!" growled the visitor in a guttural voice.
"Hi! Alena Ivanovna, you old sorceress! Elizabeth Ivanovna, you
indescribable beauty!--open! Oh! the witches! can they be asleep?"
In his exasperation he rang ten times running, and as loud as he
possibly could. This man was evidently not a stranger there, and was
in the habit of being obeyed. At the same moment some light and rapid
footsteps resounded on the staircase. It was another person coming to
the fourth floor. Raskolnikoff was not at first aware of the
newcomer's arrival.
"Is it possible that there's no one at home?" said the latter in a
loud and hearty tone of voice, addressing the first visitor who was
still tugging at the bell pull. "Good day, Koch!"
"Judging by his voice, he must be quite a young man," immediately
thought Raskolnikoff.
"The devil only knows! I've almost smashed the lock," replied Koch.
"But how is it you know me?"
"What a question! The day before yesterday I played you at billiards,
at Gambrinus's, and won three games right off."
"Ah!"
"So they're not at home? That's strange. I might almost say it's
ridiculous. Where can the old woman have gone? I want to speak with
her."
"And I too, _batuchka_, I want to speak with her."
"Well, what's to be done? I suppose we must go back to whence we came.
I wanted to borrow some money of her!" exclaimed the young man.
"Of course we must go back again; but why then did she make an
appointment? She herself, the old witch, told me to come at this hour.
And it's a long way to where I live. Where the deuce can she be? I
don't understand it. She never stirs from one year's end to the other,
the old witch; she quite rots in the place, her legs have always got
something the matter with them, and now all on a sudden she goes
gallivanting about!"
"Suppose we question the porter?"
"What for?"
"To find out where she's gone and when she will be back."
"Hum!--the deuce!--question!--but she never goes anywhere." And he
again tugged at the door handle. "The devil take her! there's nothing
to be done but to go."
"Wait!" suddenly exclaimed the young man, "look!--do you notice how
the door resists when we pull it?"
"Well, what then?"
"Why, that shows that it's not locked, but bolted! Hark how it
clinks!"
"Well?"
"Don't you understand? That shows that one of them must be at home. If
both were out, they would have locked the door after them, and not
have bolted it inside. Listen, don't you hear the noise it makes?
Well, to bolt one's door, one must be at home, you understand.
Therefore it follows that they are at home, only for some reason or
other they don't open the door!"
"Why, yes, you're right!" exclaimed the astonished Koch. "So they're
there, are they?" And he again shook the door violently.
"Stay!" resumed the young man, "don't pull like that. There's
something peculiar about this. You've rung, you've pulled at the door
with all your might, and they haven't answered you; therefore, they've
either both fainted away, or----"
"What?"
"This is what we had better do: have the porter up, so that he may
find out what's the matter."
"That's not a bad idea!"
They both started downstairs.
"Stop! you stay here; I'll fetch the porter."
"Why stay here?"
"Well, one never knows what might happen----"
"All right."
"You see, I might also pass for an examining magistrate! There's
something very peculiar about all this, that's evident, e-vi-dent!"
said the young man excitedly, and he hastily made his way down the
stairs.
Left alone, Koch rang again, but gently this time; then, with a
thoughtful air, he began to play with the door handle, turning it
first one way, then the other, so as to make sure the door was only
bolted. After this, with a great deal of puffing and blowing, he
stooped down to look through the keyhole, but the key was in the lock,
and turned in such a way that one could not see through. Standing up
on the other side of the door, Raskolnikoff still held the hatchet in
his hands. He was almost in a state of delirium and was preparing to
attack the two men the moment they forced an entrance. More than once,
on hearing them knocking and planning together, he had felt inclined
to put an end to the matter there and then by calling out to them. At
times he experienced a desire to abuse and defy them, while awaiting
their irruption. "The sooner it's over the better!" he kept thinking.
"The devil take them!" The time passed; still no one came. Koch was
beginning to lose patience. "The devil take them!" he muttered again,
and, tired of waiting, he relinquished his watch to go and find the
young man. By degrees the sound of his heavy boots echoing on the
stairs ceased to be heard.
"Heavens! What shall I do?"
Raskolnikoff drew back the bolt and opened the door a few inches.
Reassured by the silence which reigned in the house, and, moreover,
scarcely in a fit state at the time to reflect on what he did, he went
out on to the landing, shut the door behind him as securely as he
could and turned to go downstairs. He had already descended several
steps when suddenly a great uproar arose from one of the floors below.
Where could he hide? Concealment was impossible, so he hastened
upstairs again.
"Hi there! hang it! stop!"
He who uttered these cries had just burst out of one of the lodgings,
and was rushing down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him,
yelling the while: "Dmitri! Dmitri! Dmitri! May the devil take the
fool!"
The rest died away in the distance; the man who was uttering these
cries had already left the house far behind. All was once more silent;
but scarcely was this alarm over than a fresh one succeeded it:
several individuals talking together in a loud tone of voice were
noisily coming up the stairs. There were three or four of them.
Raskolnikoff recognized the young man's sonorous accents. "It is
they!" No longer hoping to escape them, he advanced boldly to meet
them: "Let happen what will!" said he to himself: "if they stop me,
all is over; if they let me pass, all is over just the same: they will
remember passing me on the stairs." They were about to encounter him,
only one flight separated them--when suddenly he felt himself saved! A
few steps from him, to the right, there was an empty lodging with the
door wide open, it was that same one on the second floor where he had
seen the painters working, but, by a happy chance, they had just left
it. It was they, no doubt, who a few minutes before had gone off,
uttering those shouts. The paint on the floors was quite fresh, the
workmen had left their things in the middle of the room: a small tub,
some paint in an earthenware crock, and a big brush. In the twinkling
of an eye, Raskolnikoff glided into the deserted apartment and hid
himself as best he could up against the wall. It was none too soon:
his pursuers were already on the landing; they did not stop there,
however, but went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly among
themselves. After waiting till they had got some distance off, he left
the room on tiptoe and hurried down as fast as his legs would carry
him. No one on the stairs! No one either at the street door! He
stepped briskly outside, and, once in the street, turned to the left.
He knew very well, he knew without a doubt, that they who were seeking
him were at that moment in the old woman's lodging, and were amazed to
find that the door, which a little while before had been shut so
securely, was now open. "They're examining the corpses," thought he;
"it won't take them a minute to come to the conclusion that the
murderer managed to hide himself from them as they went up the stairs;
perhaps they may even have a suspicion that he stowed himself away in
the empty lodging on the second floor while they were hurrying to the
upper part of the house." But, in spite of these reflections, he did
not dare to increase his pace, though he still had a hundred steps or
so to go before reaching the first turning. "Suppose I slipped into
some doorway, in some out-of-the-way street, and waited there a few
minutes? No, that would never do! I might throw my hatchet away
somewhere? or take a cab? No good! no good!" At last he reached a
narrow lane; he entered it more dead than alive. There, he was almost
in safety, and he knew it: in such a place, suspicion could hardly be
fixed upon him; while, on the other hand, it was easier for him to
avoid notice by mingling with the crowd. But all these agonizing
events had so enfeebled him that he could scarcely keep on his legs.
Great drops of perspiration streamed down his face; his neck was quite
wet. "I think you've had your fill!" shouted some one who took him for
a drunken man as he reached the canal bank.
He no longer knew what he was doing; the farther he went, the more
obscure became his ideas. However, when he found himself on the quay,
he became frightened at seeing so few people there, and, fearing that
he might be noticed on so deserted a spot, he returned to the lane.
Though he had hardly the strength to put one leg before the other, he
nevertheless took the longest way to reach his home. He had scarcely
recovered his presence of mind even when he crossed the threshold; at
least the thought of the hatchet never came to him until he was on the
stairs. Yet the question he had to solve was a most serious one: it
consisted in returning the hatchet to the place he had taken it from,
and in doing so without attracting the least attention. Had he been
more capable of considering his position, he would certainly have
understood that, instead of replacing the hatchet, it would be far
safer to get rid of it by throwing it into the yard of some other
house.
Nevertheless he met with no mishap. The door of the porter's lodge was
closed, though not locked; to all appearance, therefore, the porter
was at home. But Raskolnikoff had so thoroughly lost all faculty of
preparing any kind of plan, that he walked straight to the door and
opened it. If the porter had asked him: "What do you want?" perhaps he
would simply have handed him the hatchet. But, the same as on the
previous occasion, the porter was absent, and this gave the young man
every facility to replace the hatchet under the bench, exactly where
he had found it. Then he went upstairs and reached his room without
meeting a soul; the door of his landlady's apartments was shut. Once
home again, he threw himself on his couch just as he was. He did not
sleep, but lay in a sort of semiconsciousness. If anybody had then
appeared before him, he would have sprung up and cried out. His head
was swimming with a host of vague thoughts: do what he could, he was
unable to follow the thread of one of them.
Raskolnikoff lay on the couch a very long while. At times he seemed to
rouse from this half sleep, and then he noticed that the night was
very far advanced, but still it never entered his head to rise. Soon
it began to brighten into day, and the dawn found him in a state of
stupefaction, lying motionless on his back. A desperate clamor, and
sounds of brawls from the streets below, rose to his ears. These
awakened him thoroughly, although he heard them every morning early at
the same hour. "Ah! two o'clock, drinking is over," and he started up
as though some one had pulled him off the couch. "What! two o'clock
already?" He sat on the edge of the couch and then recollected
everything, in an instant it all came back! At first he thought he was
going out of his mind, a strange chill pervaded his frame, but the
cold arose from the fever which had seized upon him during his sleep.
He shivered until his teeth chattered, and all his limbs fairly shook.
He went to the door, opened it, and listened; all was silent in the
house. With astonishment he turned and looked round the room. How
could he have come home the night before, not bolted the door, and
thrown himself on the couch just as he was, not only not undressed,
but with his hat on? There it lay in the middle of the floor where it
had rolled. "If anyone came in, what would he think? That I am drunk,
of course."
He went to the window--it was pretty light--and looked himself all
over from head to foot, to see if there were any stains on his
clothes. But he could not rely upon that sort of inspection; so, still
shivering, he undressed and examined his clothes again, looking
everywhere with the greatest care. To make quite sure, he went over
them three times. He discovered nothing but a few drops of clotted
blood on the ends of his trousers which were very much frayed. He took
a big clasp-knife and cut off the frayed edges. Suddenly he remembered
that the purse and the things he had abstracted from the old woman's
chest, were still in his pockets! He had never thought of taking them
out and hiding them! indeed, it had never crossed his mind that they
were in his pockets while examining his clothes! Was it possible? In a
second he emptied all out on to the table in a heap. Then, turning his
pockets inside out to make sure there was nothing left in them, he
carried the things to a corner of the room. Just there, the paper was
hanging loose from the wall; he bent down and commenced to stuff all
the things into a hole behind the paper. "There, it's all out of
sight!" thought he gleefully, as he stood gazing stupidly at the spot
where the paper bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he began to
shudder from terror. "Good heavens!" murmured he in despair, "what is
the matter with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide anything?"
Indeed, he had not reckoned on such spoil, he had only thought of
taking the old woman's money; so he was not prepared with a hiding
place for the jewels. "I have no cause to rejoice now," thought he.
"Is that the way to hide anything? I must really be losing my senses!"
He sunk on the couch again exhausted; another fit of intolerable
shivering seized him, and he mechanically pulled his old student's
cloak over him for warmth, as he fell into a delirious sleep. He lost
all consciousness of himself. Not more than five minutes had elapsed
before he woke up in intense excitement, and bent over his clothes in
the deepest anguish. "How could I go to sleep again when nothing is
done! For I have done nothing, the loop is still where I sewed it. I
forgot all about that! What a convincing proof it would have been." He
ripped it off and tore it into shreds which he placed among his
underlinen under the pillow. "These rags cannot awaken any suspicions,
I fancy; at least, so it seems to me," repeated he, standing up in the
middle of the room, and, with an attempt rendered all the more painful
by the effort it cost him, he looked all round, trying to make sure he
had forgotten nothing. He suffered cruelly from this conviction, that
everything, even memory, even the most elementary prudence, was
abandoning him.
"Can this be the punishment already beginning? Indeed! indeed! it is!"
And indeed the frayed edges he had cut from the bottom of his trousers
were lying on the floor, in the middle of the room, exposed to the
view of the first comer. "But what can I be thinking of?" exclaimed he
in utter bewilderment. Then a strange idea came into his head; he
thought that perhaps all his clothes were saturated in blood, and that
he could not see this because his senses were gone and his perception
of things lost. Then he recollected that there would be traces on the
purse, and his pockets would be wet with blood. It was so. "I am
bereft of my reason, I know not what I am doing. Bah! not at all!--it
is only weakness, delirium. I shall soon be better." He tore at the
lining. At this moment the rays of the morning streamed in and shone
on his left boot. There were plain traces, and all the point was
covered. "I must have stepped in that pool. What shall I do now? Boot,
lining, rags, where shall they go?" He rolled them up and stood
thinking in the middle of the room. "Ah, the stove. Yes, burn them.
No, I cannot, I have no match. Better throw them away. Yes, yes, that
is the thing," said he, again sitting on the couch. "At once, and
without delay too, quick." But, instead, his head fell back upon the
pillow, and chilly shiverings again came over him. He covered himself
with his cloak and slept again. It appeared hours to him, and many a
time in his sleep he tried to rise to hasten to throw away his bundle,
but he could not, he seemed chained to the bed. At last he awoke, as
he heard a loud knock at his door.
"Eh, open, will you?" cried Nastasia. "Don't lie there like a dog.
It's eleven o'clock."
"Perhaps he is not in," said a man's voice.
"The porter's voice. What does he want?" Raskolnikoff rose, and sat on
the couch listening. His heart throbbed violently. "Who has bolted the
door then?" exclaimed the servant. "Open, will you?"
"All must be discovered?" He rose a little and undid the bolt, and
fell back again on his bed. There stood the porter and Nastasia. The
servant looked strangely at Raskolnikoff, while he fixed a despairing
glance upon the porter.
"Here is a notice for you from the office," said the latter.
"What office?"
"The police office."
"What for?"
"I don't know. You are summoned there, go." The porter looked
anxiously at the lodger, and turned to leave. Raskolnikoff made no
observation, and held the paper unopened in his hand.
"There, stay where you are," said Nastasia, seeing him fall back on
the couch. "If you are ill, do not go. What is that in your hand?"
He looked down; in his right hand were clutched the pieces of frayed
cloth, his boot, and the lining of his pocket. He had evidently fallen
asleep with them as they were; indeed he recollected how, thinking
deeply about them, he had dozed away.
"The idea of taking a lot of rags to bed and hugging them to you like
a treasure!" laughed the servant in her sickly manner.
In a second he hid all under his coat and looked at her 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
boarding 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 "today," 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.