О чем говорят каналы

– I'm not delirious... – Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. On his way up to Razumikhin, it hadn't occurred to him that he'd have to face him directly. But now, in a single moment, he realised—through bitter experience—that nothing in the world felt more unbearable at that instant than coming face to face with anyone at all. His whole body churned with bitterness. He almost choked with rage against himself, even as he crossed Razumikhin's doorstep. – Goodbye! – he suddenly said and headed for the door. – Wait, wait, you madman!

He was at home, in his tiny room, busy writing at that moment, and opened the door himself. They hadn't seen each other in about four months. Razumikhin was sitting in a tattered robe, wearing slippers on bare feet, dishevelled, unshaven, and unwashed. His face showed surprise. "What's this?" he shouted, scanning his friend from head to toe; then paused and whistled. "Surely it can't be this bad? Brother, you've outdone even us poor fellows," he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "But sit down, you must be tired!" And when the other collapsed onto the vinyl-covered Turkish sofa—worse even than his own—Razumikhin suddenly noticed that his guest was ill. "Hey, you're seriously sick, did you know that?" He reached to feel his pulse, but Raskolnikov yanked his hand away. "Don't," he said. "I came… the thing is… I've lost all my tutoring… I wanted to… well, anyway, I don't need tutoring at all..." "Listen, I think you're delirious," observed Razumikhin, watching him closely.

He suddenly stopped when he reached the embankment of the Malaya Neva on Vasilievsky Island, near the bridge. "He lives here, in this house," he thought. "Well, well, if it isn't Razumikhin's place I've come to! The very same thing again, just like last time... But it's rather curious: did I come here on purpose, or was I just walking and happened to drop by? No matter; I did say the other day... that I'd visit him the next day... well then, here I am! As if I can't possibly call on him now..." He climbed up to Razumikhin's flat on the fifth floor.

It's because I'm very ill, he decided gloomily at last—I've worn myself out, tortured myself, and don't even know what I'm doing anymore... Yesterday, the day before, all this time—I've been torturing myself. Once I get better, I'll stop torturing myself... But what if I never get better? God! How utterly sick I am of everything!... He kept walking without stopping. He desperately wanted to distract himself somehow, but didn't know what to do or how to begin. One new, overwhelming sensation was taking hold of him more and more with almost every passing minute: an endless, almost physical revulsion toward everything he encountered and everything around him—persistent, bitter, hateful. He found every passer-by disgusting—their faces, their walk, their movements repelled him. He felt like spitting at someone, or even biting them, it seemed, if anyone dared speak to him.

Yes, that's true; all of this is true. He had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him. When it was decided in the night to throw it into the water, the decision was made without hesitation or protest, as though it had to be so, as though it could not possibly be otherwise... Yes, he remembered it all, he knew it all; hadn't it been decided just yesterday, at the very moment when he was sitting over the chest, pulling out the cases from it... Yes, that's right!..

"Damn it all!" he suddenly thought in a fit of boundless rage. "Well, if it's begun, then let it begin! To hell with this new life! How utterly foolish it all is!... And how much lying and grovelling I've done today! How disgustingly I fawned and flattered that despicable Ilya Petrovich just now! But then again, nonsense—this too! I don't give a damn about any of them, or even that I grovelled and fawned! That's not it, not at all! Not the point at all!.." Suddenly, he stopped. A new, completely unexpected, and incredibly simple question struck him like a blow, leaving him bitterly astonished: "If all this was truly done deliberately and not like a fool, if you really had a definite and firm goal, then how is it that you haven't even looked into the purse yet, don't know what you've gained, for the sake of which you endured all this torment and deliberately went ahead with such a vile, disgusting, low act? Why, you were just about to throw the purse into the water, along with all the things you haven't even seen yet... What does this mean?"

He walked on, glancing around distractedly and bitterly. All his thoughts now revolved around one central point—something he himself felt was truly the core of everything—and he realised that now, just now, he was finally face to face with this central issue, for the very first time in these past two months.

Then he went out and headed towards the square. Again, a sharp, almost unbearable joy seized him for a moment, just as it had in the office earlier. "The ends are hidden! And who, who on earth would think to look under this stone? It may have been lying here since the house was built and could stay there just as long again. Even if they did find it—who would ever suspect me? It's over! There's no evidence!"—and he began to laugh. Yes, he remembered afterwards that he laughed a nervous, quiet, suppressed, endless laugh, and kept on laughing all the while he crossed the square. But when he stepped onto K. Boulevard, where three days earlier he had met that little girl, his laughter suddenly stopped. Other thoughts began crowding into his mind. It suddenly seemed terribly repulsive to him to pass by that bench where he had sat after the girl left, thinking everything over, and it would be terribly painful to meet again that moustached man to whom he had given a twenty-kopeck coin: "Damn him!"

He bent down to the stone, gripped its top firmly with both hands, strained all his strength, and turned it over. A small hollow had formed beneath it; immediately he began throwing everything from his pockets into it. The purse landed right on top, yet there was still space left in the hollow. Then he seized the stone again, rolled it back into its original position with one movement, and it fit just as before—perhaps slightly, barely higher. But he scraped earth around it and pressed it down with his foot at the edges. Nothing was noticeable.

Looking around once more, he had just slipped his hand into his pocket when, near the outer wall, between the gates and the gutter—where the space was barely an arsin wide—he noticed a large, uneven stone, weighing perhaps a pud and a half, lying right against the stonework of the street wall. On the other side of that wall was the street, with footpaths, and he could hear passers-by moving about—there were always plenty around—but no one could see him from the gate unless someone came in from the street, which certainly could happen. So he had to hurry.

There must have been some establishment here—perhaps a carriage repair shop, a locksmith's, or something similar—as coal dust darkened the ground almost right from the entrance. "Perfect place to drop it and walk away!" the thought suddenly struck him. Seeing no one in the yard, he stepped through the gate and immediately spotted, close by the entrance and set against the fence, a trough (such as is commonly placed in buildings housing factories, work gangs, cart drivers, and the like), and above the trough, written in chalk on the fence, the usual joke found in such places: "Cart parking strictly prohibited here." So much the better—no suspicion would arise if he just stepped in and paused here. "I can just dump it all together somewhere and leave!"

But he was not destined to reach the islands. Instead, something else happened: as he turned from V. Avenue onto the square, he suddenly noticed on the left a gateway leading into a courtyard enclosed by completely blank walls. Immediately to the right after entering the gate, stretching deep into the yard, ran the solid, unwhitened wall of a neighbouring four-storey building. On the left, running parallel to this blind wall and starting just inside the gate, was a wooden fence extending about twenty paces into the courtyard before turning sharply to the left. This was a secluded, fenced-off area filled with piles of construction material. Further in, tucked into a corner of the yard, a corner of a low, soot-stained stone shed peeked out from behind the fence—clearly part of some workshop.

At last it occurred to him that it would be better to go somewhere along the Neva. There would be fewer people, he would be less noticeable, and in any case it would be more convenient—above all, farther from this place. He suddenly wondered: how was it that for a full half-hour he had wandered in distress and anxiety, through dangerous spots, without thinking of this earlier? No wonder he had wasted half an hour on a reckless act, since it had already been decided once before—in a dream, in delirium! He was becoming extremely absent-minded and forgetful, and he knew it. He must act quickly! He headed towards the Neva along V— Prospect. But on the way, another thought suddenly struck him: "Why go to the Neva? Why use the water? Wouldn't it be better to go very far away—perhaps again to the Islands—and bury everything in a lonely spot in the forest, under a bush? Maybe even mark the tree?" Though he felt unable to think clearly and rationally at that moment, the idea seemed unquestionably right to him.

He had been wandering along the embankment of the Ekaterininsky Canal for about half an hour, perhaps even longer, glancing repeatedly at the steps leading down into the water where they had met. But carrying out his intention was out of the question: either rafts were moored right at the steps with washerwomen scrubbing clothes, or boats were tied up, and everywhere people swarmed about. From every direction—along the embankments, from all sides—it would be clearly visible, noticeable: suspicious, that someone had deliberately come down, stopped, and thrown something into the water. What if the cases didn't sink but floated instead? Of course, they would. Everyone would see it. As it was, people kept staring at him as they passed by, eyeing him up and down as though they had nothing better to do than watch him. "Why is this happening? Or maybe it's just my imagination," he thought.

He put everything into different pockets—into his coat and the remaining right pocket of his trousers—trying to make it as inconspicuous as possible. He took the purse along with the other items. Then he left the room, this time leaving the door wide open behind him. He walked quickly and firmly, though he felt utterly broken, his senses remained clear. He feared pursuit, feared that within half an hour, perhaps even a quarter, instructions might already be issued to track him down. So, at all costs, he had to hide the evidence before it was too late. He needed to act while he still had some strength left and could think straight... But where to go? This had been decided long ago: "Throw everything into a ditch, let the ends vanish into water, and finish it all." That's what he had resolved during the feverish night, in those moments when, as he recalled, he had several times tried to get up and go—“quickly, quickly, and throw it all away.” But now, throwing it away proved extremely difficult.

He rushed to the corner, thrust his hand beneath the wallpaper, and began pulling out items, stuffing them into his pockets. There were eight pieces in all: two small boxes containing earrings or something similar—he didn't examine them closely; then four small cases made of cordovan leather. One chain was simply wrapped in newspaper. Something else was also wrapped in newspaper—seemed like a medal.

– Nothing at all! – Ilya Petrovich said in a rather peculiar tone. Nikodim Fomich was about to add something further, but glancing at the clerk, who was also staring at him very intently, he fell silent. Suddenly everyone fell quiet. It was strange. – Well then, very well, – concluded Ilya Petrovich, – we are not detaining you. Raskolnikov went out. He could still hear a lively conversation beginning behind him, in which the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomich stood out most clearly… Outside on the street, he fully came to his senses. "A search, a search—they’re going to search right now!" he kept repeating to himself as he hurried along. "Robbers! They suspect me!" The earlier fear gripped him entirely once more, from head to toe. II "But what if the search already happened? What if I walk in and find them right there?" And here was his room. Empty—no one there, no one had been. Not even Nastasya had touched anything. But, my God! How could he have left all those things in that hole earlier?

– Since yesterday… – Rascolnikov mumbled in reply. – Did you go out of the courtyard yesterday? – I did. – Were you unwell? – Yes, unwell. – At what time? – At eight in the evening. – And where to, if I may ask? – Along the street. – Short and clear. Raskolnikov answered sharply, in abrupt sentences, his face pale as a sheet, his black inflamed eyes fixed without flinching on Ilya Petrovich’s gaze. – He can barely stand on his feet, and you still… – Nekhodim Fomich began to say.<|im_end|>

– Where can one possibly see anything? This house is like Noah's Ark, – remarked the clerk, listening in from his seat. – It's obvious, it's clear as daylight! – insisted Nikodim Fomich heatedly. – No, the matter is far from clear, – insisted Ilya Petrovich. Raskolnikov picked up his hat and headed towards the door, but he never made it all the way… When he came to, he found himself sitting on a chair, supported on his right by a man, while another man stood to his left holding a yellow glass filled with pale liquid, and Nikodim Fomich was standing in front of him, staring intently. He rose from the chair. – Are you unwell? – asked Nikodim Fomich rather sharply. – Even when they signed their names, their hands could barely move the pen, – remarked the clerk, settling back into his seat and returning to his papers. – How long have you been feeling unwell? – shouted Ilya Petrovich from his desk, shuffling through documents. Of course, he had examined the patient closely during the fainting spell, but had immediately turned away once the man regained consciousness.

– The point is: the murderer must have been sitting there inside and had bolted the door from within. He would've been caught red-handed, if only Koch hadn't lost his head and gone off himself to fetch the watchman. It was precisely during that interval that the killer managed to slip down the stairs and sneak past them somehow. Now Koch is crossing himself with both hands: "If only I'd stayed there," he says, "he'd have jumped out and killed me with the axe." Wants to hold a thanksgiving service in Russian, heh-heh!.. – But did anyone actually see the murderer?

– It can't be that both will go free! First of all, everything contradicts that. Think for yourself: why would they call the watchman if it were their doing? To confess against themselves? Or as a trick? No, that would be far too cunning! And finally, the student Pestrjakov was seen right at the gate by both watchmen and a towns-woman at the very moment he entered. He came with three friends and parted from them just at the gate, and he asked the watchmen about renting a room—right in front of his friends. Now, would a man in such a state of mind go around asking about room rentals? As for Koch, he sat downstairs with the goldsmith for half an hour before going up, and left him exactly a quarter to eight, heading upstairs to the old woman. Now just think it over... – But excuse me, how could such a contradiction happen with them? They themselves say they knocked and the door was locked, but three minutes later, when they came back with the watchman, the door was open?

Raskolnikov handed back the pen, but instead of standing up and leaving, he propped both elbows on the table and pressed his hands tightly to his head. It felt as though a nail were being driven into his temple. A strange thought suddenly struck him: to get up right now, walk over to Nikodim Fomich, and tell him everything about yesterday—every last detail—then go with them to the apartment and show them the things hidden in the corner, in the hole. The urge was so strong that he actually rose from his seat to carry it out. "Shouldn't I think it over for just a minute?" flashed through his mind. "No, better not think at all—just get it off my chest!" But suddenly he froze in his place: Nikodim Fomich was speaking heatedly to Ilya Petrovich, and he caught the words:

The clerk began dictating to him the standard form of acknowledgment used in such cases—namely, that he could not pay at present, promised to settle by such-and-such a date (sometime), would not leave the city, and would neither sell nor give away his property, and so on. “You can't write properly—your pen is slipping from your hands,” observed the clerk, eyeing Raskolnikov with curiosity. “Are you unwell?” “Yes… my head is spinning… go on!” “That's all—just sign here.” The clerk took the paper and turned to assist others.

And what was most agonizing was that it was more a feeling than a thought, more a direct sensation—the most painful sensation he had ever known in all his life.

It was not the meanness of his emotional outburst before Ilya Petrovich, nor the petty triumph of the officers over him, that had so suddenly turned his heart upside down. Oh, what did he care now for his own baseness, for all those ambitions, officers, German women, claims, offices and so on and so forth? Even if he had been sentenced to be burned alive at that very moment, he would not have stirred, nor would he likely have listened carefully to the verdict. Something entirely unfamiliar, new, sudden, and unprecedented was happening within him. It was not so much that he understood it, but he felt it clearly, with his entire being—a feeling that he could never again have anything in common with these people in the police station, not even if they were his own brothers and sisters, rather than mere constables. He had never before experienced such a strange and terrible sensation.

Raskolnikov felt that the clerk had begun to treat him more carelessly and contemptuously after his confession. But strangely enough, he suddenly found he no longer cared a bit for anyone's opinion—this change had come over him in an instant, in a single moment. Had he paused to reflect, he would certainly have been astonished at how he could have spoken to them so just a minute ago, even thrusting his feelings upon them? And where had those feelings come from? On the contrary, now, even if the room were suddenly filled not with police officers but with his closest friends, he knew he would not have a single human word for them—so suddenly had his heart grown empty. A dark sense of painful, endless isolation and alienation had now clearly made itself known to his soul.

– All these sensitive details, my good sir, are of no concern to us, – snapped Ilya Petrovich rudely. – You must simply give your statement and a written undertaking. Whether you happened to be in love or involved in tragic affairs – we have absolutely no interest in that. – Now really… that's harsh… – muttered Nikodim Fomich, sitting down at the table and beginning to sign the papers. He felt somewhat ashamed. – Just write this down, – said the clerk to Raskolnikov. – What should I write? – the latter asked in an unusually coarse manner. – I'll dictate it to you.

What am I supposed to say now?

– But please, just let me explain, partly, what actually happened… and in turn… though I agree with you, it's quite unnecessary to go into details… but this girl passed away from typhus about a year ago. I continued staying as a tenant, and when the landlady moved to her present flat, she spoke to me… very kindly, I must say… expressing complete trust in me, and all that… but asked if I wouldn’t mind giving her a promissory note for one hundred and fifteen rupees, the exact amount she claimed I owed her. Allow me to point out: she specifically said that as soon as I gave her this document, she would extend me credit again freely, and that never, never—those were her exact words—would she use this note against me, as long as I eventually paid on my own. And now, when I’ve lost my tutoring jobs and have nothing to eat, she’s moved to recover the amount.

– You don't need to go into such personal details at all, my good sir, and besides, there's no time for it, – Ilya Petrovich interrupted rudely and triumphantly, but Raskolnikov stopped him eagerly, though he suddenly found it extremely difficult to speak.

– Allow me, allow me, I quite agree with you, but let me also explain – interjected Raskolnikov, addressing not the clerk but still turning to Nikodim Fomich, though making every effort to include Ilya Petrovich as well, who stubbornly pretended to be busy shuffling through papers and disdainfully ignored him – let me just clarify my own position. I’ve been living with her for about three years now, ever since I arrived from the provinces, and earlier… well, earlier, in fact, why shouldn’t I admit it myself, right from the start I gave a promise – verbal, entirely informal – that I would marry her daughter. The girl… well, I even liked her… though I wasn’t in love… in short, youth, that is, what I mean is, the landlady extended me quite a lot of credit then, and I led rather a careless sort of life…

– And what kind of r-r-regiment was it! – exclaimed Ilya Petrovich, quite pleased that his pride had been so pleasantly tickled, though still trying to maintain a stern tone. Suddenly, Raskolnikov felt an urge to say something exceptionally agreeable to all of them. – Why, really, Captain, – he began quite smoothly, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomich, – just consider my position… I'm even ready to apologise to them if I've failed in any way on my part. I’m a poor and sick student, burdened (he actually said "burdened") by poverty. I was a student, but now I can't afford to continue, though I shall receive money… My mother and sister are in the – province. They will send me funds, and then I… will pay. My landlady is a kind woman, but she's grown so angry that I've lost my tutoring jobs and haven't paid her for four months, she won't even send me meals anymore… And I don't understand at all what this promissory note is about! Now she's demanding payment based on this loan document—what can I possibly pay her with, just think for yourselves! – But that's got nothing to do with us… – the clerk was about to say again…

– Poverty is no crime, my friend, well yes, indeed! But you see, he was like gunpowder—couldn't bear an insult. You must have somehow offended him, and lost your temper yourself too – continued Nikodim Fomich, kindly addressing Raskolnikov – but you were quite mistaken: he was the most good-hearted, peace-loving man you could meet, but like gunpowder—oh yes, gunpowder! Flared up, boiled over, burned out—and it's all gone! And nothing left but the gold of his heart! In the regiment, they used to call him 'Lieutenant Gunpowder'…

– Again the thunder, the lightning, a whirlwind, a storm! – Nикodim Fomich said kindly and amiably to Ilya Petrovich – once more your heart is stirred, boiling over again! I could hear it from the staircase. – Oh really! – Ilya Petrovich replied with noble nonchalance (and not just "really", but more like "Oh-h, wha-at?!"), moving towards another table with some papers, dramatically twitching his shoulder with every step—where the foot went, the shoulder followed. – Look here, sir: this gentleman, a writer, or rather a student—formerly a student—who refuses to pay his dues, has issued promissory notes, won't vacate his room, and constant complaints keep pouring in; yet he dares to take offence because I lit a cigarette in his presence! They behave disgracefully themselves, and yet, sir, please have a look at him now—here he stands in his most charming appearance!

With fussy politeness, Luiza Ivanovna began bobbing her curtsies in all directions, and while curtsying, shuffled all the way to the door; but in the doorway, she bumped backwards with her rear end into a distinguished officer—fresh-faced, with magnificent, thick, fair whiskers. It was none other than Nikodim Fomich, the local police inspector. Luiza Ivanovna quickly dropped into another deep curtsy, almost touching the floor, then, with rapid little steps, hopping slightly, darted out of the office.

"...So here's my final word for you, respected Ivanovna, and this is truly the last time," continued the officer. "If there's one more scandal in your respectable establishment, I'll put you straight on the *zugsundar*, as they say in high style. Heard that? A writer, an author, took five whole roubles from a 'respectable house' just for holding onto someone's coat-tail! Look at these authors!—" He shot a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. "The other day in a tavern, same story—he had his meal but refused to pay: 'I'll write a satire about you for this,' says he. On a steamer last week, another one insulted in the vilest terms a respectable family of a privy councillor—his wife and daughter. Just recently, one was kicked out of a confectioner's shop, got into a scuffle. That's what your authors, writers, students, and loudmouths are like... pah! And off you go! I'll come by myself to see you... then watch out! Got it?"

– A writer, is he? – Yes, sir, Captain, and what kind of lowly guest would that be, sir, coming into a respectable household... – There, there, enough! I've told you already, haven't I? I've already told you... – Ilya Petrovich! – the clerk said meaningfully once again. The lieutenant glanced at him quickly; the clerk gave a slight nod.

– No noise, no fight at my place, sir, Captain, – she suddenly babbled like peas spilling, with a strong German accent but fluent Russian – and no scandal at all, but they came drunk, and I'll tell everything, Captain, I'm not to blame… I run a respectable house, Captain, very respectable, Captain, and always, always I myself never wanted any scandal. But they came drunk, and then asked for three more bottles, and then one put his feet up and started playing piano with his feet – very bad for a respectable house, Captain, he was ruining the whole piano, and had no manners at all, I said so. Then he took a bottle and began poking everyone from behind with it. So I quickly called the watchman, and Karl came, but he grabbed Karl and hit his eye, and gave Henriette a black eye too, and slapped me on the cheek five times! And this is so undelicate in a respectable house, Captain, and I screamed. Then he opened the window and stood there at the window squealing like a little pig – disgraceful! How can anyone squeal out the window into the street like a little pig – shameful! Tsk-tsk-tsk! And Karl pulled him back from behind by his coat-tails, and, true, Captain, his coat was torn then. And then he shouted that I must pay him fifteen roubles damages! But I myself, Captain, gave him five roubles for his coat. And he was such an ungentlemanly guest, Captain, causing all this scandal! I'll bring great disgrace upon you, I said, because I can write all about you in every newspaper!

As for the lady in fine attire, she initially trembled in fear at the thunder and lightning; but strange as it was, the more numerous and forceful the insults became, the more pleasant her expression grew, and the more charming her smile towards the furious officer. She shuffled on the spot, constantly curtsying, eagerly waiting for a chance to put in her own word—and she got her chance at last.

– You, you wretched, shameless woman! – he suddenly bellowed at the top of his voice (the mourning woman had already stepped out) – What happened last night at your place again, eh? More disgrace, drunken brawling all over the street! Fighting and drinking again? Is that what you want – straight into the straitjacket? I’ve already told you, warned you ten times already – the eleventh time, I swear, I won’t let it pass! And yet here you go again, again – you disgraceful, shameless hussy! The paper dropped from Raskolnikov’s hands, and he stared wildly at the plump lady being so rudely scolded; but soon he grasped what was going on, and at once the whole scene began to amuse him greatly. He listened with delight, so much so that he felt like bursting into laughter, loud, uncontrollable laughter… His nerves were jumping with excitement. – Ilya Petrovich! – the clerk began cautiously, but stopped short, waiting for the right moment, knowing well from experience that an enraged officer couldn’t be restrained except by physical force.

The lieutenant, still shaken by the disrespect shown to him, still burning with anger, and clearly eager to uphold his wounded pride, unleashed his full fury upon the unfortunate "buxom lady," who had been staring at him with the silliest of smiles ever since he entered.

The clerk looked at him with a condescending smile, mingled with pity and a touch of triumph, as one might at a newcomer just caught in the crossfire: "Well, how do you feel now?" But what did a mere loan letter, what did debt collection matter to him now? Was it even worth a moment's worry, a moment's attention? He stood there, reading, listening, answering, even asking questions—but all mechanically. The instinct of self-preservation, the deliverance from crushing danger—this alone filled his entire being at that instant, without foresight, without analysis, without thoughts of the future, without doubt or questioning. It was a moment of full, immediate, purely animal joy. But at that very instant, something like thunder and lightning burst in the office.

– It’s not our concern. We have received for recovery a defaulted and legally protested promissory note for one hundred and fifteen rupees, issued by you nine months ago to the widow of a collegiate assessor, Mrs. Zarnitsyna, and now transferred via payment to the honourable Mr. Chebarov. Hence, we request your response. – But she’s my landlady? – Well, what of it, that she’s your landlady?

– It's about the money being claimed from you as per the promissory note—recovery proceedings. You must either pay the full amount with all charges, interest, and other dues, or submit a written statement stating when you can pay, along with an undertaking not to leave the capital city until payment is made, and not to sell or hide your property. The creditor has the right to seize and sell your property, and take legal action against you as per the law. – But I… I don't owe anything to anyone!

– And you’re present too – he exclaimed, Rascolnikov, – and besides shouting, you’re smoking a cigarette, so you’re showing contempt for all of us. Having said this, Rascolnikov felt an indescribable satisfaction. The clerk was watching them with a smile. The agitated officer was clearly bewildered. – That’s none of your business! – the officer cried at last, unnaturally loud, – but you just submit the statement they’re asking from you. Show it to him, Alexander Grigorievich. Complaints against you! You don’t pay your dues! Look at this noble falcon who’s suddenly swooped in! But Rascolnikov was no longer listening; he eagerly grabbed the paper, eager to quickly find the answers. He read it once, then again, but could not understand. – What is this? – he asked the clerk.

—I'm not shouting at all, I'm speaking quite calmly, but you're the one shouting at me. I'm a student, and I won't allow anyone to raise their voice at me. The assistant became so enraged that for a moment he couldn't utter a word—only spittle flew from his lips. He jumped up from his seat. —You will be silent! You are in official presence. No insolence here, sir!

– What do you want? – he shouted, clearly surprised that such a ragged fellow didn’t shrink back under his lightning-like stare. – They summoned me… by notice… – Rascolnikov somehow managed to reply. – It’s about the recovery of money from them, from – the clerk hurried to say, looking up from his papers. – Here it is! – and he flung a notebook at Rascolnikov, pointing to the place – read it! “Money? What money? – Rascolnikov thought – But… so it’s definitely not about that!” And he shivered with relief. Suddenly, unutterably, everything felt light. All the weight dropped from his shoulders. – At what time were you told to come, my good man? – the sub-inspector cried, growing more and more offended for some unknown reason – you were told nine o’clock, and now it’s almost twelve! – The notice was brought to me only a quarter of an hour ago – Rascolnikov answered loudly and over his shoulder, suddenly and unexpectedly angry himself, even finding a certain pleasure in it. – It’s enough that I came at all, sick as I am with fever. – Don’t you raise your voice!

Raskolnikov, carelessly, had stared at him too directly and for too long, which even offended the officer.

The mourning lady finally finished and began to rise. Suddenly, with a certain amount of noise and quite briskly, a young officer entered, swinging his shoulders with exaggerated flair at every step. He tossed his cap with a cockade onto the table and sat down in a chair. The plump lady gave a little jump upon seeing him and began curtseying with unusual enthusiasm, but the officer paid her not the slightest attention, so she didn't dare sit down again in his presence. He was a lieutenant, an assistant to the district inspector, with reddish moustaches sticking out horizontally on either side and very fine facial features that expressed nothing particularly remarkable, except a certain boldness. He glanced sideways and somewhat resentfully at Raskolnikov: his clothes were far too shabby, and despite his humility, his bearing still did not match his attire.

– Louise Ivanovna, do sit down, – he said to the flamboyantly dressed, deep crimson-clad lady, who kept standing as though not daring to sit, though a chair stood right beside her. – Ich danke, – she said, and quietly, with a rustle of silk, settled onto the chair. Her light-blue dress, trimmed with white lace, billowed out around her like a balloon, taking up almost half the room. The air filled with perfume. Clearly, the lady felt uneasy about occupying so much space and filling the room with her scent, though she smiled nervously and boldly at the same time, yet with evident discomfort.

He felt an intense turmoil within himself. He was afraid he might lose control. He tried to fix his mind on something, to think about anything—something completely unrelated—but it just wouldn't work. The clerk, however, intrigued him greatly: he kept trying to read something from his face, to figure him out. The young man looked about twenty-two, with a dark, expressive face that seemed older than his years. He was fashionably dressed like a dandy, with hair neatly parted at the back, combed and pomaded, wearing numerous rings on his clean, brush-polished fingers and gold chains across his waistcoat. He even exchanged a couple of words in French with a foreigner who had been there earlier—and did so quite impressively.

He entered this room—the fourth one in order—cramped and packed with people, somewhat better dressed than those in the earlier rooms. Among the visitors were two women. One, dressed in mourning and plainly clothed, sat at a table opposite the clerk, writing something under his dictation. The other woman, very plump and with a deep red, blotchy complexion, a noticeable figure and overdressed to an extreme degree, with a brooch on her chest as large as a teacup saucer, stood aside, waiting for something. Raskolnikov handed his notice to the clerk, who glanced at it briefly, said, "Wait," and went back to attending to the woman in mourning. He breathed more freely. "It's probably nothing!" Gradually, he began to regain his composure, urging himself with all his strength to stay calm and keep his senses. "Some foolishness, some trivial carelessness, and I might give myself away completely! Hm... it's a pity there's no air in here," he added, "it's so stuffy... my head is spinning even more... and my mind too..."

– Are you a student? – the clerk asked, glancing at the summons. – Yes, a former student. The clerk looked him over, however, without any curiosity. He was a particularly dishevelled man with a fixed, vacant stare. “He’s useless; I won’t get anything out of him because he doesn’t care,” thought Raskolnikov. – Go over there, to the clerk’s room, – said the clerk, pointing forward with his finger towards the last room.

The staircase was narrow, steep, and filthy, smeared with garbage. All the kitchens from every flat across the four floors opened onto this staircase and remained so for nearly the whole day, creating terrible stuffiness. Up and down moved sweepers with ledgers tucked under their arms, peons, and various people of both sexes—visitors. The office door itself stood wide open. He entered and stopped in the passage. Several men stood about here, waiting. The air was extremely suffocating, and, worse, his nose was hit by the sickening smell of fresh paint—newly applied with stale linseed oil—still not dried in the freshly painted rooms. After waiting a while, he decided to move further into the next room. The rooms were all tiny and low-ceilinged. A terrible impatience drove him forward. No one took notice of him. In the second room, clerks were seated writing—dressed perhaps slightly better than he, but still an odd-looking lot. He approached one of them. "What do you want?" He showed the summons from the office.

"I'll go in, fall to my knees, and tell everything..." – he thought, stepping onto the fourth floor.

The heat on the street was unbearable again; not a drop of rain for days. Dust, bricks, and lime once more; the stench from small shops and liquor stalls; drunken men every few minutes, Finnish hawkers, and broken-down cab drivers. The sun flashed sharply into his eyes, making it painful to look, and his head began to spin—common for someone feverish stepping suddenly into bright sunlight on a scorching day. Reaching the turn onto the street, he glanced with painful anxiety towards the house… then quickly looked away. "If anyone asks, I might just tell them," he thought, as he approached the office. The office was about a quarter of a mile away. It had just moved to a new location, into a new building, on the fourth floor. He had briefly seen the old office once, but that was a very long time ago. Entering through the gate, he saw a man coming down the stairs to the right, holding a notebook. "A watchman—so the office must be here." He began climbing upstairs without asking anyone for directions. He didn't want to ask questions of anyone about anything.

On the staircase, he remembered leaving all his things behind in that wallpapered hole—“and now, most likely, they’ll search the place on purpose while I’m gone”—and at the thought, he paused. But such despair and, if one could say so, such cynicism of doom suddenly overtook him that he simply waved it off and carried on. “Only let it end quickly!..”

When did this ever happen? I’ve never had any dealings with the police on my own! And why today of all days? – he thought in agonising confusion. – Lord, let it happen quickly! He almost dropped to his knees to pray, but even he laughed – not at prayer, but at himself. He quickly began to dress. “If I’m doomed, then so be it! Must put on the sock!” – it suddenly occurred to him, “otherwise it’ll get more smeared in dust and the traces will vanish.” But no sooner had he put it on than he immediately tore it off in disgust and horror. He pulled it off, but realising there was no other, picked it up again and put it on once more – and laughed again. “All this is conditional, everything is relative, all just formalities,” – he thought fleetingly, only on the edge of his mind, while his whole body trembled – “I actually put it on! I’ve ended up putting it on!” The laughter, however, quickly turned into despair. “No, I can’t handle it…” – it flashed through his mind. His legs were shaking. “From fear,” – he muttered to himself. His head spun and ached from the heat. “It’s a trick! They want to lure me in with cleverness and suddenly catch me off guard,” – he continued inwardly, stepping onto the staircase. “The worst part is I’m almost delirious… I might blurt out some silly lie…”

She left with the caretaker. Immediately, he rushed to the light to examine the stocking's toe and fringe: "There are stains, but not very noticeable; everything is soiled, worn and faded. Anyone who doesn't know beforehand won't see a thing. Nastasya couldn't possibly have noticed anything from a distance—thank God!" Then, with trembling hands, he opened the summons and began to read. He read it for a long time before finally understanding. It was an ordinary notice from the local precinct, summoning him to appear today at half-past nine in the office of the district inspector.

– Look at the rags he’s gathered and sleeps with them like they’re some treasure… – Nastasya burst into her usual nervous, shrill laughter. Instantly, he shoved everything under his overcoat and stared at her intently. Though he could barely think clearly at that moment, he sensed people wouldn’t treat someone this way when coming to arrest him. “But… could it be the police?” – Want some tea? Should I bring you some? There’s still a little left… – No… I’ll go now: I’ll leave right away – he mumbled, getting to his feet. – You won’t even make it down the stairs, will you? – I’ll go… – Suit yourself.

He looked: in his right hand were cut pieces of fringe, a sock, and scraps of a torn pocket. He had slept just like that. Later, when he thought it over, he recalled that even as he half-woke in the feverish heat, he had clutched all these things tightly, tightly in his fist, and fallen asleep again.

Nastasya gave him a strange look. He stared defiantly and desperately at the watchman, who silently handed him a folded grey piece of paper sealed with bottle wax. – Summons, from the office, – the man muttered as he passed over the note. – What office? – To the police, of course. That's what 'office' means. – To the police? Why? – How would I know? They're calling you—just go. – He eyed him closely, glanced around, and turned to leave. – You’re really unwell, aren’t you? – Nastasya remarked, having watched him intently. The watchman, too, briefly turned back. – Fever since yesterday, – she added. He didn’t reply, just held the paper in his hands without opening it. – Oh, don’t even get up, – Nastasya went on, softened by pity as she saw him swinging his legs off the sofa. – If you’re sick, stay put—nothing’ll burn. What’s that you’re holding?

He jumped up and sat on the sofa. His heart was pounding so hard it began to ache. 'Who locks with a hook these days?' Nastasya argued. 'Look at him, locking himself in now! Scared someone might carry him off? Open up, for heaven's sake, wake up!' 'What do they want? Why the watchman? They already know everything. Should I resist or open up? Let it be...' He stood up, leaned forward, and slid the bolt open. His room was so small he could reach the latch without getting up from bed. Sure enough, there stood the watchman and Nastasya.

He gathered it all in his hand and stood there in the middle of the room. "In the stove? But they'll search the stove first. Burn it? But what with? Not even a match! No, better go out somewhere and throw it all away. Yes! Better get rid of it!" he repeated, sinking back onto the sofa, "Right now, this very minute, without delay!" But instead, his head drooped again onto the pillow; once more an unbearable chill froze him through; again he dragged the overcoat over himself. For a long time—several hours—there kept flickering through his mind, in fits and starts, the thought: "If only I could go out right now, without waiting, and throw it all away—out of sight, as quickly, as quickly as possible!" Several times he started up from the sofa, meaning to get up, but he couldn't. Finally, a loud knocking at the door woke him completely. "Open up, are you alive or not? Sleeping all day like a dog!" cried Nastasya, pounding at the door with her fist. "All day long, like a dog you snore—well, you are a dog! Open up, will you! It's eleven already." "Maybe he isn't even at home!" said a man's voice. "Blimey! That's the caretaker's voice... What does he want?"

At that very moment, a ray of sunlight fell on his left boot: on the tip of the sock, which was sticking out, there seemed to be marks. He kicked off the boot—"Indeed, marks! The very tip of the sock is soaked with blood." He must have carelessly stepped into that puddle back then. "But what to do now? Where to hide this sock, this fringe, this pocket?"

A strange thought suddenly struck him: perhaps his whole clothes were covered in blood; perhaps there were many stains, but he simply couldn't see or notice them because his mind had weakened, become fragmented—his senses clouded. Suddenly, he remembered the purse had blood on it. "Ah! So then there must be blood in my pocket too, because I shoved the wet purse straight into it!" In a flash, he turned out the pocket—and there it was: marks, stains on the lining! "So then, I haven't quite lost my reason after all; there's still sense and memory, since I caught myself and figured it out!" he thought triumphantly, breathing deeply and joyfully from his entire chest. "It's just the weakness from fever, a momentary delirium." And he tore out the entire lining from the left pocket of his trousers.

Not more than five minutes later he jumped up again and instantly, in a frenzy, rushed towards his clothes. "How could I possibly fall asleep again when nothing has been done! Yes, yes—there it is! The noose under my armpit—I haven't taken it off yet! I forgot, I forgot something so crucial! Such evidence!" He tore off the noose and quickly began ripping it into pieces, stuffing them beneath the pillow among the linen. "Fragments of torn cloth won't arouse any suspicion—no, no, they won't!" he repeated, standing in the middle of the room, scanning the floor and every corner with strained, aching attention, checking if he'd forgotten anything else. The dread that everything—his memory, even basic reasoning—was slipping away from him began tormenting him unbearably. "What—could it already be starting? Could this punishment have already begun? There, there—yes, yes!" Indeed, the frayed trimmings he had cut from his trousers still lay scattered right in the middle of the floor, waiting for anyone to see! "What is happening to me!" he cried out again, utterly lost.

True, he hadn't counted on any belongings—had expected only money—and so hadn't prepared a hiding place in advance. "But now, now what am I glad about?" he thought. "Is this how one hides things? Indeed, my reason is leaving me!" Exhausted, he sat down on the sofa, and at once an unbearable chill began shaking him again. Mechanically, he pulled over himself the old winter overcoat that lay nearby on a chair—his former student coat, warm but nearly in rags—and sleep and delirium once more overcame him together. He drifted into unconsciousness.

After emptying everything, even turning his pockets inside out to make sure nothing remained, he carried the whole pile into a corner. There, in the very corner, down low, the wallpaper had come loose from the wall in one spot: immediately he began stuffing everything into this gap, under the paper. "It fits! All out of sight—and the purse too!" he thought joyfully, standing up and staring dully at the corner, at the bulging gap now even more pronounced. Suddenly, he shuddered in horror: "My God," he whispered in despair, "what's happening to me? Is this hidden? Is this how one hides things?"

For a moment he thought he would go mad. A dreadful chill seized him; but the chill was also from the fever that had long been gripping him, even in his sleep. Now, suddenly, such a shivering fit struck him that his teeth nearly jumped out and his whole body began to tremble violently. He opened the door and started listening: the entire house was fast asleep. He looked around himself and the room with astonishment and could not understand: how was it that yesterday, upon entering, he hadn't latched the door and had flung himself onto the sofa—without even undressing, and still wearing his hat? It had slipped off and lay right there on the floor near the pillow. "If someone had come in, what would they have thought? That I was drunk, but..." He rushed to the window. There was enough light, and quickly he began examining himself from head to toe, checking all his clothes—was there any trace? But it was impossible to do it calmly; trembling with chill, he stripped off all his clothes and began inspecting them again. He turned every stitch and scrap inside out, and, distrusting himself, repeated the search three times. Nothing seemed to be there—no trace at all. Only on the fringe at the bottom of his trousers, where the fabric had unravelled and hung loose, were thick stains of dried blood. He grabbed his large folding knife and cut off the fringe. Nothing else, it seemed. Suddenly he remembered the purse and other items he had pulled from the old woman's chest—everything was still in his pockets! Until now, he hadn't even thought of removing and hiding them! Not even now, while inspecting his clothes, had he recalled them! What was this? In a flash, he began pulling them out and throwing them onto the table.

He lay like this for a very long time. Occasionally, it seemed as though he woke up, and in those moments he noticed it was already deep into the night, though the thought of getting up never occurred to him. Finally, he realised it was daylight. He was lying flat on his back on the cot, still dazed from his recent stupor. From outside the window, he sharply heard the terrible, desperate cries from the street—cries he had grown used to hearing every night beneath his window around three o’clock. It was these very shouts that had woken him now. "Ah, the drunkards are leaving the taverns again," he thought, "three o’clock—" and suddenly he jumped up, as if yanked from the cot. "What! Three o’clock already?" He sat up on the cot—and at once remembered everything! In an instant, like a flash, it all came back to him.

But everything turned out all right. The door to the lodge was ajar, though not locked, so it was most likely the caretaker was at home. But by then he had already lost the ability to think clearly and simply walked straight up to the lodge and pushed the door open. If the caretaker had asked him, "What do you want?"—he might have simply handed over the axe right then. But again, the caretaker was not there, and he managed to put the axe back in its place under the bench, even covering it with a log as before. He met no one, not a single soul, on his way back to his room; his landlady's door was locked. Once inside, he threw himself onto the sofa just as he was. He wasn't asleep, but in a stupor. Had anyone entered his room at that moment, he would have jumped up screaming. Fragments and scraps of thoughts swarmed in his mind, but he couldn't grasp a single one, nor could he focus on any, no matter how hard he tried... Part Two I

He walked into the gateway of his house without being fully aware of what he was doing; he had already started climbing the stairs when he suddenly remembered about the axe. Now, he had a very important task: to put it back as quietly and unnoticed as possible. Of course, he was no longer in a state to think clearly whether it might have been far better not to return the axe at all, but instead to leave it somewhere else later, perhaps in a courtyard belonging to someone else.

At last, the lane appeared; he turned into it, half-dead. Now he was halfway safe and he knew it: less suspicion here, and the place was crowded—people bustled about, and he blended in like a grain of sand. But all these torments had so weakened him that he could barely move. Sweat dripped from him; his neck was soaked. "Look at the drunkard!" someone shouted as he stepped onto the canal embankment. He had little awareness of himself now; each step made his memory worse. Yet he did remember that, suddenly, upon reaching the canal, he grew afraid—there were too few people, he stood out more—and he nearly turned back toward the lane. Though almost collapsing, he still took a long detour and reached home from an entirely different direction.

He knew it very well, he knew it perfectly well, that at this very moment they were already inside the apartment, that they had been greatly surprised to find it unlocked when just before it had been locked, that they were already looking at the bodies, and that not more than a minute would pass before they realised and fully understood that the murderer had been here only moments ago and had managed to hide somewhere, slip past them, or run away; they might even guess that he had been sitting in the empty flat while they went upstairs. And yet, under no circumstances could he quicken his pace, though there were still a hundred steps to the first turning. "Should I perhaps slip into some gateway and wait on an unfamiliar staircase? No, disaster! Or should I throw the axe somewhere? Take a cab? Disaster! Disaster!"

In utter despair, he walked straight towards them: come what may! If they stopped him, all was lost; if they let him pass, it was lost anyway—they would remember. They were drawing close; only the staircase now separated them—when suddenly, salvation! A few steps away to his right, a flat stood empty, door wide open—the very flat on the second floor where workmen had been painting, and who, as if on purpose, had now gone out. They, no doubt, were the ones who had rushed out earlier with such shouting. The floors had just been painted; in the middle of the room stood a small pot and a broken tile with paint and brush. In an instant, he slipped through the open doorway and crouched behind the wall. And it came just in time—they were already on the landing. Then they turned upwards and passed by, going to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, stepped out on tiptoe, and ran downstairs. No one on the staircase! No one at the gateway either. Quickly he passed through the arch and turned left onto the street.

Someone screamed and rushed out from a flat downstairs, not so much running as tumbling down the stairs, shouting at the top of his voice: – Mitya! Mitya! Mitya! Mitya! Mitya! Devil take you! The cry ended in a shrill shriek; the last sounds came from the courtyard; all fell silent. But at that very moment several people, speaking loudly and rapidly, began noisily climbing up the stairs. There were three or four of them. He heard the clear voice of a young man. "They're here!"

Raskolnikov stood clutching the axe. He was like a man delirious. He was even ready to fight them when they came in. As they knocked and talked outside, it occurred to him more than once to end it all at once and shout at them from behind the door. At times he felt like shouting abuse at them, taunting them until they opened up. "Just get it over with!" flashed through his mind. — Damn him, though... Time passed—minute after minute—nobody came. Koch stirred. — Damn it! — he suddenly cried in impatience, abandoning his post and hurrying downstairs, his boots clattering on the steps. The footsteps faded. — Good Lord, what should I do! Raskolnikov unfastened the latch, opened the door slightly—no sound. Then, without even thinking clearly, he stepped out, closed the door as tightly as he could behind him, and rushed downstairs. He had gone down three flights when suddenly a loud noise arose below—where could he go? There was no place to hide. He turned back, started running up again towards the apartment. — Hey, devil! Hold him!

Koch remained, quietly jingled the bell once more—it gave a single faint tinkle—then, quietly, as if pondering and examining, began to move the door handle, pulling and lowering it gently to make sure once again that it was fastened by a single latch. Then, puffing, he bent down to peer through the keyhole; but from inside, the key was still in the lock, so nothing could be seen.

– How can you not understand? Someone must be inside! If they had all gone out, the door would have been locked from the outside with a key, not bolted from within. But here – can't you hear the bolt rattling? To fasten the bolt from inside, someone must be at home, don't you see? So they're inside, but not opening up! – Blimey! By Jove, you're right! – cried the astonished Koch. – Then what on earth are they doing in there? – And he began furiously yanking the door. – Wait! – shouted the young man again. – Don't pull it! Something's definitely wrong here... You rang, you pulled – no answer. So either both of them have fainted, or... – Or what? – This: let's go get the chowkidar. Let him wake them up himself. – Good thinking! – Both started downstairs. – Wait! You stay here, I'll run down and fetch the chowkidar. – Why should I stay? – Well, who knows what might happen? – Hmm... alright then. – I'm training to be a judicial officer, you know! Clearly, obviously, something's wrong here! – the young man cried excitedly, and dashed down the staircase.

– Hmm… damn… to ask… But she never goes out anyway… – and he jerked the door handle once again. – Damn it, no choice, better go! – Wait! – suddenly cried the young man. – Look, see how the door gives way when you pull it? – Well? – That means it's not locked, but bolted – hooked from inside! Can't you hear how the bolt is rattling? – Well?

– Is there really nobody in? – the newcomer called out loudly and cheerfully, addressing the first visitor who was still pulling the bell. – Hello, Koch! "He must be quite young, judging by his voice," thought Raskolnikov suddenly. – Devil knows – I nearly broke the lock, – answered Koch. – But how d'you know me, if I may ask? – Well, just three days ago, at 'Gambrinus', I won three games straight off you at billiards! – Ah… yes! – So they're not in? That's strange. Actually, it's awfully silly. Where on earth could the old woman have gone? I have some business. – Me too, my good man, I have business! – Well, what can we do? Back we go, then. Ugh! Just when I was hoping to get some money! – cried the young man. – Back we must go, but what's the point? She herself, that witch, told me to come at this hour. Now I've had to come all this way out of my way. And where the devil could she have gone? She sits cooped up all year, moping about, her legs aching – and suddenly goes for a stroll? – Shouldn't we ask the caretaker? – What? – Where she's gone and when she'll be back?

– What, are they asleep or has someone choked them already? Damn it! – he roared like a barrel. – Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, beauty beyond words! Open up! Ugh, damn it, are they sleeping or what? Furious, he yanked the bell pull with all his strength, ten times in a row. Clearly, this was a man used to authority and familiar with the house. Just then, light, hurried footsteps were suddenly heard on the stairs nearby. Someone else was coming up. At first, Raskolnikov didn't even notice.

The visitor rested heavily a couple of times. "Fat and bulky, most likely," thought Raskolnikov, gripping the axe in his hand. Indeed, it all seemed like a dream. The stranger grabbed the bell-pull and rang firmly. The moment the tinny jingle of the bell sounded, it suddenly seemed to Raskolnikov as though something stirred inside the room. For several seconds he even listened intently. The stranger rang again, waited a little longer, and then, impatiently, tugged forcefully at the door handle. Raskolnikov watched in horror as the latch hook trembled in its hinge, and he waited with dull dread for it to snap out at any moment. Indeed, it seemed possible—the pull was so violent. He thought of holding the latch with his hand, but feared the man might hear. His head seemed to start spinning again. "I'll collapse!" flashed through his mind—when suddenly the stranger spoke, and he instantly came to his senses.

And finally, just as the visitor began climbing up to the fourth floor, the man suddenly sprang to life, swiftly and deftly slipping back from the porch into the apartment and quietly closing the door behind him. Then he grabbed the latch and, silently, without a sound, fixed it into place. Instinct guided him. Once done, he crouched down, holding his breath, right there by the door. The uninvited guest had now reached the doorway too. They stood facing each other, separated by the door, just as he had stood earlier with the old woman, when the door divided them and he had listened intently.

Those footsteps were heard from far away, right at the foot of the staircase, yet he clearly remembered that from the very first sound he had somehow suspected they were definitely coming to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Was it because the sounds were somehow special, significant? The steps were heavy, steady, unhurried. Already passing the first floor, now climbing higher—every moment growing louder and clearer! The heavy breathing of the climber could now be heard. Now approaching the third floor… Coming here! And suddenly it seemed to him that he had turned to stone, just as in a dream when you imagine someone chasing you, drawing near, about to kill, yet you’re rooted to the spot, unable to move even a hand.

He listened for a long while. Somewhere far below, probably near the gates, two voices were shouting loudly and shrilly, arguing and abusing each other. "What are they up to?" He waited patiently. Finally, everything abruptly fell silent, as if cut off; they had gone their separate ways. He was just about to step out when suddenly, one floor below, a door banged open onto the staircase, and someone began descending while humming a tune. "How terribly noisy people are!" the thought flashed through his mind. He quietly closed the door behind him and waited again. At last, all was still—no soul around. He had just taken a step onto the stairs when once more he heard the sound of new footsteps approaching.

He stood there, staring, unable to believe his eyes: the door—the outer door from the hallway to the staircase, the very one through which he had rung and entered earlier—was wide open, even a full palm ajar. No lock, no bolt. It had been like this all the time, throughout everything! The old woman hadn’t locked it after him—perhaps out of habit, or caution. But good lord! He had seen Lizaveta later, hadn’t he? How could he, how on earth could he have failed to realise that she must have come in from somewhere? She couldn’t have come through the wall! He rushed to the door and slid the bolt into place. "No, no, still not right! Must go, must leave…" He took the bolt off again, opened the door, and stood listening towards the staircase.

I must run, run away!" he muttered, and rushed into the front room. But there, an agony awaited him such as he had certainly never experienced before.

Then he wiped everything with laundry that was hanging on a rope strung across the kitchen, and afterwards examined the axe closely in the window light. No visible stains remained, only the handle was still damp. Carefully, he slipped the axe back into the loop under his coat. Then, by the dim light of the gloomy kitchen, he inspected his coat, trousers, and boots. From the outside, at first glance, nothing seemed amiss; only the boots had spots. He wet a rag and wiped the boots clean. Yet he knew he wasn't observing properly, that perhaps something glaringly obvious escaped his notice. Pensively, he stood in the middle of the room. A painful, dark thought arose within him—that he was going mad, that at this very moment he was incapable of reasoning or protecting himself, that perhaps everything he was doing now was entirely wrong… "My God!

But a certain absent-mindedness, almost like deep preoccupation, began gradually to take hold of him: at times he seemed to lose himself, or rather, forget the main thing and fixate on trivial details. Yet, when he glanced into the kitchen and saw on the bench a bucket half full of water, he quickly thought to wash his hands and the axe. His hands were covered in blood and sticky. He dipped the axe blade straight into the water, grabbed a small piece of soap lying on the windowsill, on a broken saucer, and began scrubbing his hands right in the bucket. After cleaning his hands, he pulled out the axe, washed the blade, then scrubbed the wooden handle for nearly three minutes where blood had stained it, even applying soap to remove the traces.

Fear gripped him more and more, especially after this second, completely unexpected murder. He wanted to run away from here as quickly as possible. Had he been able at that moment to see clearly and think rationally; had he only been able to grasp all the difficulties of his situation, its utter desperation, horror, and absurdity, and at the same time understand how many more obstacles, perhaps even more evil deeds, he would have to face and commit in order to escape from here and reach home, then very likely he would have given up everything and gone straight to confess. And not even out of fear for himself, but simply from horror and revulsion at what he had done. This revulsion in particular kept rising and growing within him with every passing minute. Now, no matter what, he would never have gone near the chest again, nor even into the rooms.

So utterly simple, broken, and permanently frightened was poor Lizaveta that she didn’t even raise her hands to shield her face—though this would have been the most natural, instinctive gesture at that moment, with the axe raised directly over her head. She only slightly lifted her free left hand—not even close to her face—and slowly stretched it towards him, as if trying to push him away. The blow landed squarely on her skull, cutting straight through the top of her forehead, almost to the crown. She collapsed at once. Raskolnikov was completely beside himself; he grabbed her bundle, then dropped it again and ran into the hallway.

In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta, a large bundle in her hands, frozen in horror as she stared at her murdered sister, her face as pale as linen, unable even to scream. Seeing him rush out, she trembled violently, her whole body shaking, and convulsions ran across her face. She raised her hand, opened her mouth, but still no cry came—slowly, backing away, she moved towards the corner, staring at him intensely, unblinkingly, yet still unable to cry out, as if the breath had been crushed from her lungs. He lunged at her with the axe. Her lips twisted in a pitiful way, just like a very young child’s when it begins to fear something, stares fixedly at the frightening object, and is about to scream.

But no sooner had he moved the rags than a pair of gold watches slipped out from under the cloak. He began tossing everything about. Indeed, among the rags were mixed various gold items—presumably all the pawned things, redeemed and unredeemed—bracelets, chains, earrings, brooches, and so on. Some were in cases, others wrapped neatly and carefully in doubled sheets of newspaper and tied with string. Without a moment's hesitation, he started stuffing them into the pockets of his trousers and coat, not bothering to open the packages or cases. But he hadn't managed to gather much... Suddenly, he heard footsteps in the room where the old woman had been. He froze, holding his breath like a dead man. But everything was quiet—probably his imagination. Then, clearly, came a faint cry, or as if someone had quietly and abruptly groaned and then fell silent. Again, utter stillness followed, for a minute or two. Crouched by the chest, he waited, barely breathing. Then, suddenly, he jumped up, seized the axe, and rushed out of the bedroom.

Sure enough, there stood a sizeable trunk, over an arshin in length, with a domed lid, covered in red morocco leather and studded with steel nails. The notched key fit perfectly and opened it. On top, under a white sheet, lay a hare-skin coat trimmed with red velvet; beneath it was a silk dress, then a shawl, and deep inside it all seemed to be nothing but rags. First thing, he began wiping his blood-stained hands on the red trimming. "Red—well, blood won't show up so much on red," he reasoned, and suddenly came to his senses: "Good God! Have I gone mad?" he thought in terror.

He was in a terrible hurry, grabbed the keys and began fumbling with them again. But everything kept going wrong—the keys simply wouldn't fit into the locks. It wasn't exactly that his hands were shaking so much, but he kept making mistakes: he clearly saw, for instance, that the key was the wrong one, didn't match, yet still kept forcing it. Suddenly, he remembered and realized that this large key with its jagged edge, dangling right there among the smaller ones, could certainly not belong to the chest of drawers (just as it had occurred to him the last time), but must be for some sort of trunk, and perhaps everything was hidden in that very trunk. He dropped the chest of drawers and immediately crawled under the bed, knowing that trunks were usually placed by old women beneath their beds.

He tugged at it, but the cord was strong and wouldn't break, and besides, it was soaked with blood. He tried pulling it out from under her clothes, but something was stuck. Impatiently, he raised the axe again to cut the cord right there on the body, from above—but didn't dare. With great difficulty, staining his hands and the axe, after two minutes of fumbling, he managed to cut the cord without touching the body and removed it. He hadn't been mistaken—it was the purse. On the cord were two crosses, one made of cypress wood and one of copper, and a small enamel icon; together with them hung a small, greasy, leather pouch, with a steel rim and a ring. The pouch was tightly stuffed. Rascolnikov shoved it into his pocket without examining it, tossed the crosses back onto the woman's chest, grabbed the axe once more, and rushed back into the bedroom.

He placed the axe on the floor beside the dead woman and immediately began searching her pockets, trying not to get stained by the flowing blood—into the very same right pocket from which she had previously taken out her keys. He was fully conscious now, no more faintness or dizziness, but his hands still trembled. Later, he recalled that he had been extremely careful and cautious, making every effort not to get anything dirty. He quickly pulled out the keys; all were together on a single bunch, attached to a steel ring, just as before. Immediately, he ran with them into the bedroom. It was a very small room, dominated by a large icon case. Against another wall stood a large, neatly made bed covered with a silken, patchwork quilt. Along the third wall stood a chest of drawers. Strange thing: the moment he started trying the keys on the chest, the moment he heard their jingle, a kind of convulsion passed through him. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming urge to drop everything and leave. But it was only a fleeting moment. It was too late to turn back. He even smiled at himself, when suddenly another anxious thought struck him. It seemed to him that perhaps the old woman was still alive and might regain consciousness. Dropping the keys and abandoning the chest, he rushed back to the body, snatched up the axe and raised it again over the old woman—but did not bring it down. There was no doubt: she was dead. Leaning closer to examine her once more, he clearly saw that her skull was shattered and slightly caved in to one side. He almost touched it with his finger, but pulled his hand back; there was no need. By now, a large pool of blood had already formed. Suddenly, he noticed a cord around her neck.

The old woman, as always, had no hair covering. Her thin, greying hair, as usual greased heavily with oil, was plaited into a tiny rat-like braid and tucked under a broken horn comb sticking out at the back of her head. The blow struck her right on the crown of the head, made easier by her short stature. She cried out, but very faintly, and suddenly crumpled to the floor, though she managed to raise both hands to her head. In one hand she still tightly held the pledge. Then he struck with all his strength, once and again, each time with the blunt side of the axe, straight on the crown. Blood gushed out like from an overturned glass, and the body fell backwards. He stepped back, let it drop, and immediately bent over her face; she was already dead. Her eyes were bulging as if about to pop out, and her forehead and entire face were wrinkled and twisted in a spasm.