Trying to untie the string and turning towards the window, towards the light (all her windows were shut, despite the heat), she left him for a few seconds and turned her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and loosened the axe from its loop, though he did not yet fully draw it out, only held it with his right hand beneath his clothes. His hands were terribly weak; to his own ears, they seemed to grow more numb and stiff with each passing moment. He feared he might drop the axe… Suddenly, his head seemed to spin. – What's this nonsense he's up to! – the old woman cried irritably, shifting towards him. Not a moment could be lost. He drew out the axe completely, swung it with both hands, hardly aware of himself, and brought it down with little effort, almost mechanically, striking her on the head with the blunt side. At that instant, he felt almost no strength in him. But no sooner had he delivered the blow than strength surged within him.
– Fever, – he replied curtly. – Anyone would look pale… when there’s nothing to eat, – he added, barely able to speak. His strength was fading again. But the answer seemed plausible; the old woman took the pledge. – What’s this? – she asked, eyeing Raskolnikov sharply once more and testing the weight of the pledge in her hand. – A little thing… a cigarette case… silver… just take a look. – Hmph, doesn’t seem like silver at all… Looks like cheap tinkering.
The old woman glanced briefly at the pledge, then fixed her eyes sharply on the uninvited guest. She stared at him attentively, with malice and suspicion. A full minute passed. He even felt that mockery flickered in her gaze, as though she had already guessed everything. He began to lose his composure, felt almost afraid—so afraid that he thought if she kept looking at him like that, without saying a word for another half-minute, he would run out of her apartment. "Why are you staring like you don't recognise me?" he suddenly snapped, with equal bitterness. "Take it if you want, if not—I'll go elsewhere. I don't have time to waste."
He hadn't planned to say that—those words just slipped out on their own. The old woman collected herself, and the visitor's firm tone seemed to reassure her. "What's the matter with you, my good man—why so upset? What's going on?" she asked, looking down at the pledge. "A silver cigarette case—I told you last time."
She stretched out her hand. "But why are you so pale, son? And your hands are shaking! Did you perhaps take a bath and catch a chill?"
– Lord! What do you want?... Who are you? What do you need? – Please, Alyona Ivanovna… your acquaintance… Raskolnikov… I’ve brought the pledge I promised the other day… – And he held out the pledge to her.
The door, as before, opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp, suspicious eyes stared at him from the darkness. At this point Raskolnikov lost his composure and was about to make a crucial mistake. Afraid that the old woman might get frightened seeing they were alone, and not trusting that his appearance would reassure her, he grabbed the door and pulled it towards himself, so she wouldn't suddenly decide to shut it again. Seeing this, she didn't yank the door back, but she didn't let go of the latch either, so that he nearly dragged her, along with the door, out onto the landing. Then, noticing she was blocking the doorway and preventing him from entering, he moved straight towards her. She jumped aside in fright, seeming to want to say something, but unable to speak, and stared at him wide-eyed. "Good day, Alyona Ivanovna," he began as casually as he could, but his voice failed him, broke, and trembled. "I've brought you... an item... better come here, where there's light..." And without waiting for an invitation, he strode straight into the room. The old woman ran after him, her tongue now loosened.
He deliberately stirred himself and muttered something a little louder, so as not to appear as if hiding; then he rang for the third time, but quietly, calmly, and without any sign of impatience. Recalling it afterwards—vividly, clearly, this moment etched itself into his memory forever—he could not understand where he had found such cunning, especially since his mind seemed to fade at intervals, and he hardly felt his body at all... A moment later, he heard the latch being drawn back. VII
But his heart did not stop. On the contrary, as if on purpose, it thudded louder, harder, faster… He could bear it no longer; slowly, he reached out his hand towards the bell and rang it. Half a minute later, he rang again, more loudly. No answer. There was no point in ringing uselessly, and anyway it did not become him. The old woman was certainly at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He knew something of her habits… and once more pressed his ear closely to the door. Were his senses unnaturally sharpened (which was hardly likely), or was it really so quiet, but suddenly he made out a cautious rustle near the latch, and a faint whisper of a dress brushing against the very door. Someone invisible was standing right at the lock and, just as he was outside, listening intently from within, holding breath, and seemingly pressing an ear to the door too…
But here was the fourth floor, here was the door, here was the flat opposite—empty. On the third floor, by all signs, the flat directly beneath the old woman's was also vacant: the visiting card nailed to the door with small nails had been removed—they'd moved out! He could hardly breathe. For a fleeting moment the thought flashed through his mind: "Shall I go back?" But he gave himself no answer and instead strained to listen towards the old woman's flat—deathly silence. Then once more he listened down the staircase, listening long and intently... Then he looked around one final time, gathered himself, adjusted his clothes, and tested the axe in its loop. "Am I pale... very pale?" he thought. "Am I showing too much agitation? She's suspicious... Shouldn't I wait a little longer—until my heart calms down?"
Catching his breath and pressing a hand to his pounding heart, he quickly felt for the axe once more and adjusted it, then began cautiously and quietly climbing the stairs, stopping every few steps to listen. The staircase was completely empty at that moment; all the doors were shut, and no one crossed his path. On the second floor, it was true, a flat stood wide open where painters were at work, but they paid him no mind. He paused, thought for a moment, and continued upwards. "Of course, it would’ve been better if they weren’t here at all, but… there are still two more floors above."
Fortunately for him, he passed through the gateway without any trouble again. What was more, as if on purpose, at that very moment a huge hay-cart had just driven in through the gate, completely shielding him as he crossed the passage, and the instant the cart moved into the courtyard, he swiftly slipped to the right. Behind the cart, several voices could be heard shouting and arguing, but no one noticed him, and he met nobody on his way. Many windows facing the large, square courtyard were open at that moment, but he did not lift his head—there was no strength for that. The staircase to the old woman’s flat was close by, just to the right after entering the gate. He was already on the stairs…
"Yes, truly, those being led to execution cling with their thoughts to every object they pass on the way," flashed through his mind—only for an instant, like lightning; he quickly extinguished the thought himself... But now he was nearing, here was the house, here were the gates. Somewhere, a clock struck once. "What's this? Surely not half-past seven? It can't be—must be running fast!"
Suddenly, he grew interested in another question: why is it that, in all big cities, people—not merely out of necessity, but somehow quite deliberately—tend to live and settle precisely in those areas where there are no gardens or fountains, where there’s filth, stench, and every kind of squalor. Then he suddenly remembered his own walks through Sennaya, and for a moment he came to his senses. "What nonsense," he thought. "No, better not to think about anything at all!"
Earlier, when he used to imagine all this in his mind, he sometimes thought he would be terribly afraid. But now he wasn't very afraid, not afraid at all, in fact. Instead, some unrelated thoughts occupied him for brief moments. Passing by Yusupov Garden, he was even quite absorbed in thinking about installing tall fountains and how nicely they would freshen the air across all the squares. Gradually, he became convinced that if the Summer Garden were extended all the way to Mars Field and even connected with the Palace Mikhailovsky Garden, it would be a beautiful and highly beneficial thing for the city.
He walked along quietly and unhurriedly, trying not to arouse any suspicion. He barely looked at the passersby, even striving not to glance at faces and to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Suddenly, his hat came to mind. "Good heavens! The money was there the day before yesterday, and still I couldn't change it for a cap!" A curse welled up from the depths of his soul. Glancing casually with just one eye into a shop, he saw that the wall clock inside showed ten minutes past seven. He needed to hurry now, yet at the same time take a detour—approach the house from the opposite side.
But he must be nearby, somewhere in the compound, since the door's wide open." In a flash, he darted towards an axe (it was an axe), pulled it from under the bench where it lay between two logs; right there, without stepping out, he slipped it into his coat loop, thrust both hands into his pockets, and walked out of the lodge—no one had noticed! "Not reason, but a demon!" he thought, grimly smiling. This turn of events greatly emboldened him.
He paused in thought under the gateway. Going out for a walk, just for the sake of it, felt repulsive; returning home was even more so. "What a golden chance I've lost forever!" he muttered, standing aimlessly under the archway, directly opposite the dark little lodge of the watchman, which was also open. Suddenly, he shivered. From the watchman's cubby, just two steps away from him, something glinted under the bench to the right, catching his eye. He looked around—no one in sight. On tiptoe, he approached the lodge, stepped down two stairs, and called out to the watchman in a weak voice. "Just as I thought—no one's home!
"And why did I assume," he thought, as he descended through the gate, "why did I take it for granted that she definitely wouldn't be home at this very moment? Why, why, why did I become so certain of it?" He felt crushed, even humiliated. He wanted to laugh at himself in anger... A dull, savage rage began to boil inside him.
A trivial incident threw him into confusion even before he had left the staircase. As he passed by his landlady’s kitchen, which, as usual, stood wide open, he glanced cautiously inside, hoping to check whether the landlady herself was there in Nastasya's absence. If not, he wanted to make sure her room doors were securely locked so she wouldn't suddenly pop out when he went in for the axe. To his utter astonishment, he saw that Nastasya was not only at home in her kitchen this time, but was actually busy doing laundry—taking clothes out of a basket and hanging them on the lines. On seeing him, she stopped hanging the clothes, turned to look at him, and kept staring all the while he passed by. He averted his eyes and walked on as if noticing nothing. But it was all over—no axe. He was terribly shaken.
Having reached such conclusions, he decided that in his own case, in his own affair, there could be no such painful upheavals; that reason and will would remain intact, inseparable from him throughout the entire execution of his plan, solely because what he had planned was “not a crime”… We pass over the entire process by which he arrived at this final decision; we have already gone too far ahead… We only add that the practical, purely material difficulties of the matter played the most secondary role in his mind. “It would only take preserving full will and reason over them, and they would all be overcome in due time, once one became acquainted with every detail of the matter down to the finest point…” But the deed did not begin. He had the least faith in his final decision, and when the hour struck, everything happened not at all in that way, but rather unexpectedly, almost by chance.
It persists in the same state during the act itself and for some time afterwards, depending on the individual, then gradually fades away, just as any illness would. Yet he still felt unable to resolve the question: does the illness give rise to the crime, or is the crime itself, by some special nature of its own, always accompanied by something akin to illness?
At first—and indeed for a long time before this—he had been preoccupied by one question: why is it that nearly all crimes are so easily discovered and the culprits so clearly exposed? Gradually, he arrived at various curious conclusions. In his view, the main reason lay less in the practical impossibility of concealing a crime than in the criminal himself: the criminal, almost without exception, at the moment of committing the crime undergoes a certain weakening of will and reason, replaced instead by a childlike, almost phenomenal recklessness—just when reason and caution are most needed. He became convinced that this clouding of reason and weakening of will overtakes a person much like an illness, develops gradually, and reaches its peak shortly before the crime is committed.
But these were trivialities he hadn't begun to think about, nor did he have time. His mind was fixed on the main thing, and he kept postponing the small details until the moment he would finally decide—but that final moment seemed utterly unattainable. At least, so it appeared to him. He simply couldn't imagine, for instance, that a time would come when he'd finish thinking, get up, and simply walk there… Even his recent visit (with the intention of finally surveying the place) had been more of a trial run: "Let me just go and test it," he'd thought, "to see if it's even worth dreaming about!"—but he couldn't bear it, spat in disgust, and ran away, furious with himself. Yet, on the surface, he'd already completed the moral analysis and resolved the issue: his casuistry was razor-sharp, and he found no conscious objections within himself. But now, he no longer trusted himself; stubbornly, like a slave, he groped for objections elsewhere, as if someone were forcing him, dragging him toward it. And when the final day arrived so unexpectedly, settling everything at once, it affected him almost mechanically: as though someone had seized his hand and was pulling him forward irresistibly, blindly, with unnatural strength, without protest. It was as if a piece of his clothing had got caught in a machine's wheel, and it had started drawing him in.
Of course, he would have to walk past and wait until she went out again. But what if, in the meantime, someone noticed the axe was missing, started searching, raised an outcry—then suspicion would follow, or at least grounds for suspicion.
And even if it ever happened that everything had been thought through to the very last detail, finally decided beyond any doubt, then, it seemed, he would suddenly abandon the whole idea as nonsense, monstrous and impossible. Yet a whole abyss of unresolved points and doubts still remained. As for where to get an axe, that minor issue did not trouble him at all, because nothing could be easier. The fact was that Nastasya, especially in the evenings, was constantly out of the house—either running to neighbours or to the shop—leaving the door wide open. The landlady often quarrelled with her over this. So, when the time came, he need only slip quietly into the kitchen and take the axe, then, an hour later (when everything would be over), go back and put it in its place. But doubts arose: suppose he came back after an hour to return the axe, and Nastasya was right there, having returned.
– It's already seven! – Already! Good Lord! He rushed to the door, listened, grabbed his hat, and began descending the thirteen steps below, cautiously, silently, like a cat. The most crucial task lay ahead—stealing the axe from the kitchen. That the deed had to be done with an axe had been decided long ago. He did have a small folding garden knife; but he had no faith in the knife, nor especially in his own strength, and so had finally settled on the axe. Let us note, by the way, one peculiar trait regarding all the final decisions he had made in this matter. They had a strange quality: the more final they became, the more hideous and absurd they immediately appeared in his eyes. Despite all his agonising inner struggle, he could never, not even for a single moment, truly believe that his plans could actually be carried out, at any point during this time.
Then, neatly and carefully, he wrapped them in clean white paper and tied the package with a narrow ribbon, also in a cross, making the knot just tricky enough to delay untying. The idea was to distract the old woman’s attention for a moment when she struggled with the knot, giving him a chance to act. The iron strip had been added for weight, so that the old woman wouldn’t immediately guess the object was made of wood. He had kept all this hidden under the sofa until now. No sooner had he taken out the package than suddenly a shout rang out somewhere in the courtyard:
Having finished with that, he slipped his fingers into a small crack between his ‘Turkish’ sofa and the floor, felt around near the left corner, and pulled out a small object long prepared and hidden there. This pledge, however, was not really a pledge at all, but merely a wooden board, smoothly planed, no larger or thicker than a silver cigarette case. He had found this piece by chance during one of his walks, in the yard of a building where some workshop was located in an outbuilding. Later, he had added to it a smooth, thin iron strip—probably a broken-off piece of something—which he had also picked up on the street at the same time. Placing the two pieces together, with the iron one slightly smaller than the wooden, he tied them firmly together in a cross pattern with thread.
He reached under his pillow and pulled from the pile of clothes tucked beneath it an old, tattered, unwashed shirt. From its ragged edges, he tore off a strip of cloth, about an inch wide and roughly eight inches long. Folding it double, he took off his thick, sturdy summer coat—made of heavy cotton fabric, his only outer garment—and began sewing both ends of the strip under his left armpit on the inside. His hands trembled as he sewed, but he managed it well enough so that nothing was visible from outside once he put the coat back on. The needle and thread had been ready for a long time, kept wrapped in paper in a little table drawer. As for the loop, it was a clever invention of his own: it was meant for an axe. He couldn’t possibly carry an axe openly through the streets. And if hidden under his coat, he’d still have to hold it with his hand, which would draw attention. But now, with the loop, he only needed to slip the blade of the axe into it, and it would hang quietly under his arm, all the way. By simply sliding his hand into the side pocket of the coat, he could steady the end of the axe handle, preventing it from swinging. Since the coat was very loose, practically like a sack, no one would notice from outside that he was clutching something through the pocket. He had thought up this loop two weeks earlier.
He ate a little, without appetite, just three or four spoonfuls, almost mechanically. The headache had eased somewhat. After the meal, he stretched out again on the sofa, but could not fall asleep. Instead, he lay motionless, face down, with his face buried in the pillow. Visions kept floating through his mind—strange, vivid dreams. Most often, he imagined himself somewhere in Africa, in Egypt, in an oasis. A caravan rested there; camels lay quietly. All around, palm trees formed a circle. Everyone was having lunch. But he kept drinking water directly from a stream flowing nearby, murmuring softly. How cool it felt! And the water was so wonderfully clear and blue—cold, rushing over multicoloured stones and over sand so pure, sparkling with golden specks… Suddenly, he clearly heard the clock striking. He started, woke up, lifted his head, looked out the window, figured out the time, and abruptly sprang up, fully alert, as if someone had yanked him from the sofa. He tiptoed to the door, opened it slightly, and began listening intently down the staircase. His heart thudded wildly. But the stairs were silent, as though everyone were asleep… It seemed wild and bizarre to him that he could have slept so deeply since yesterday, having done nothing, made no preparations… And yet, perhaps it had already struck six… Suddenly, instead of sleepiness and numbness, an intense feverish agitation and frantic confusion seized him. Still, there weren’t many preparations to make. He strained every nerve to think everything through and forget nothing, but his heart kept pounding so hard that it became difficult to breathe. First, he needed to make a loop and sew it onto his coat—just a minute’s work.
– You should just step outside, – she said after a pause – just let the breeze blow over you. Will you at least eat something? – Later, – he murmured weakly. – Go on, leave! – and waved his hand. She stood there a moment longer, looking at him with pity, then went out. A few minutes later, he raised his eyes and stared for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he took some bread, picked up the spoon, and began to eat.
He slept an unusually long and dreamless sleep. Next morning, when Nastasya entered his room at ten o'clock, she could barely wake him. She had brought him tea and bread. The tea was weak again, served in her own teapot. "Goodness, just look at him sleeping!" she cried in annoyance. "He's sleeping and sleeping!"
With great effort, he raised himself. His head ached. He tried to stand, turned around in his little room, and then fell back onto the couch. "Going to sleep again?" Nastasya cried. "Are you ill or what?"
He gave no answer. "Do you want tea or not?"
"Later," he managed to say, closing his eyes once more and turning towards the wall. Nastasya stood over him a while. "Really, he might be ill," she said, turned around, and left. She returned again at two o'clock with soup. He was lying exactly as before. The tea remained untouched. Nastasya actually felt offended now and prodded him sharply. "Why are you lazing around like this?" she shouted, looking at him with disgust. He sat up slowly but said nothing and stared at the floor. "Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya. Again, there was no reply.
Returning from Sennaya, he threw himself on the sofa and sat motionless for a full hour. It grew dark around him; he had no candle, nor did it even occur to him to light one. He could never afterwards recall whether he had been thinking of anything at all during that time. At last, he felt the familiar fever returning—the chills, the shivers—and with a sense of relief realised he could at least lie down on the sofa. Soon, a heavy, leaden sleep descended upon him, as if pressing him down.
– You're talking and making speeches now; but tell me this: would you actually kill the old woman or not? – Of course not! I'm speaking for justice... It's not about me... – In my opinion, if you yourself aren't bold enough to do it, then there's no justice in it at all! Come on, let's play another game! Raskolnikov was in a state of extreme agitation. After all, all this was nothing but ordinary talk—commonplace thoughts and discussions he had often heard before, though in different forms and on different subjects. But why, precisely now, did he have to overhear this particular conversation, these very thoughts, at the very moment when such an idea had just begun to stir in his own mind? And why, just as he had carried away the seed of his own thought from the old woman, did he suddenly stumble upon a conversation about that very same old woman? This coincidence had always seemed strange to him. That insignificant, tavern-born conversation exerted an extraordinary influence on the further course of events—as though, indeed, there had been some predestination in it, some definite sign...
– Of course, she's not fit to live, – remarked the officer – but then, that's nature. – Ah, brother, but nature can be corrected and guided; otherwise we'd drown in superstitions. Without that, there wouldn't have been a single great man. People talk about 'duty, conscience' – I'm not against duty and conscience – but how do we even understand them? Wait, I'll ask you one more question. Listen! – No, you wait; I'll ask you a question. Listen! – All right!
– Listen further. On the other hand, young, fresh energies, going to waste by the thousands, everywhere, for lack of support! A hundred, a thousand good deeds and enterprises that could be launched and set right with the old woman’s money—money fated to rot away in a monastery! Hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives set on the right path; dozens of families saved from poverty, from decay, from ruin, from vice, from venereal hospitals—and all this with her money. Kill her, take her money, and use it to devote yourself to serving all humanity and a noble cause: tell me, wouldn't one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? In exchange for one life—thousands of lives saved from rot and ruin. One death, and a hundred lives in return—this is mere arithmetic! And what does the life of this consumptive, foolish, malicious old crone weigh in the balance? No more than a louse, a cockroach—and even less, since she’s harmful. She feeds on others’ lives: just recently, in a fit of spite, she bit off a piece of Lizaveta’s finger; it nearly had to be amputated!
– Oh, I see, – replied the officer, staring intently at his agitated comrade.
– Why, you say she's ugly? – remarked the officer. – Well, she's dark-complexioned, looks like a soldier in disguise, but you know, not ugly at all. She's got such a kind face, and her eyes—very nice indeed. Proof? Many people like her. She's quiet, gentle, meek, submissive—agrees to everything, agrees to anything. And her smile is actually quite lovely. – So you like her yourself, don't you? – the officer laughed. – Oddly enough, no. But listen, I'll tell you something. I would have killed and robbed that cursed old woman, and I assure you, without the slightest prick of conscience – the student added fervently. The officer burst out laughing again, but Raskolnikov shivered. How strange this was! – Just let me ask you a serious question – the student grew animated. – I was joking just now, of course, but look: on one hand, there's this stupid, meaningless, worthless, spiteful, sickly old crone, needed by no one, harmful to everyone, who doesn't even know herself why she's alive, and who'll die all on her own tomorrow anyway. Do you understand? Do you understand?
The old woman had already made her will—something Lizaveta herself knew—under which Lizaveta would inherit not a single penny, only household items and furniture; all the money was to be donated to a monastery in the H. province for perpetual prayers for her soul. Lizaveta was a commoner, not a government official’s daughter, an unmarried woman, terribly awkward in appearance, unusually tall, with long, oddly twisted legs, always wearing worn-out goat-skin slippers, though she kept herself scrupulously clean. What surprised and amused the student most, however, was that Lizaveta was constantly getting pregnant…
They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke of her with particular amusement, laughing all the while, while the officer listened with keen interest and even asked the student to send Lizaveta over to mend his laundry. Raskolnikov did not utter a single word, yet learned everything: Lizaveta was the younger half-sister (by different mothers) of the old woman, already thirty-five years old. She worked for her sister day and night, serving as both cook and washerwoman in the house, besides sewing items for sale and even taking on odd jobs like scrubbing floors—all of which she handed over entirely to her sister. She dared not accept any outside work or commission without the old woman’s permission.
– She's a fine one, – he said. – You can always get money from her. As rich as a Jew – she can hand over five thousand right away, yet she won't look down on taking a single-rupee pledge. Many of our lot have dealt with her. But she's a terrible old hag... And he began describing how cruel and whimsical she was, how if you were just one day late on a pledge, your item was lost for good. She'd give you a quarter of an item's worth, yet charge five or even seven percent monthly interest, and so on. The student got carried away and added that the old woman had a sister, Lizaveta, whom she – such a tiny, nasty creature – beat constantly and kept in complete bondage like a little child, although Lizaveta was at least eight vershoks tall... – Now there's a phenomenon! – cried the student and burst into laughter.
At a nearby table sat a student he didn't know at all and barely remembered, along with a young officer. They had just finished a game of billiards and were sipping tea. Suddenly, he heard the student telling the officer about Alyona Ivanovna, the moneylender and collegiate secretary, and giving him her address. This struck Raskolnikov as strange: he had just come from there, and now they were talking about the very same person. Of course, it was a coincidence, but he was already gripped by an unusual feeling, and now it seemed as if someone were handing him exactly what he needed—the student suddenly began sharing various details about this Alyona Ivanovna with his companion.
But Raskolnikov had lately grown superstitious. Traces of superstition remained in him for a long time afterwards, almost indelibly. And in the whole affair, he would always later perceive a certain oddness, a kind of mystery, as if there were some special influences and coincidences at play. Back in winter, a fellow student of his, Pokorev, leaving for Kharkov, had once casually mentioned to him the address of the old woman, Alyona Ivanovna, in case he ever needed to pawn something. He hadn't gone to her for a long while, as he was giving lessons and somehow managing to get by. About a month and a half ago, he remembered the address. He had two items suitable for pawning: his late father's old silver watch and a small gold ring with three odd red stones, a parting gift from his sister, kept as a keepsake. He decided to take the ring. After finding the old woman, he felt an irresistible repulsion toward her at first glance—though he knew nothing special about her yet—collected two small banknotes from her, and on his way out stopped at a shabby little tavern. He ordered tea, sat down, and fell into deep thought. A strange idea was beginning to hatch in his mind, like a chick from an egg, and it gripped him intensely, profoundly.
Later, Raskolnikov happened to learn why the townsman and the woman had invited Lizaveta to their place. It was a simple, common matter with nothing particularly unusual about it. A poor, visiting family was selling household items, clothing, and other women's things. As selling at the market was not profitable, they were looking for a woman trader, and Lizaveta did such work—she took commissions, ran errands, and had plenty of experience, because she was extremely honest and always quoted the true price: whatever price she named, that's what it was. Generally, she spoke very little, and, as already mentioned, was humble and timid by nature…
Certainly, even if he had to wait for years for a suitable opportunity, having conceived the plan, he could hardly count on a more obvious step towards its success than the one that had suddenly presented itself now. At any rate, it would have been difficult to know the day before, with certainty, greater precision, and minimal risk—without any dangerous questioning or inquiries—that tomorrow, at such-and-such an hour, the old woman targeted for the attack would be home entirely alone.
Only a few steps remained to his flat. He entered as one condemned to death. He reasoned about nothing, could reason about nothing; but suddenly, with his whole being, he felt that he had no more freedom of mind, no will of his own, and that everything had suddenly been decided once and for all.
"Yes, this time don't say a word to Alyona Ivanovna," interrupted the husband, "that's my advice. Just drop by our place unannounced. It'll be convenient. Later, your sister will understand on her own."
"Should I come over?"
"At seven o'clock tomorrow; the others will have arrived by then; you can decide matters in person."
"We'll even have the samovar ready," added the wife. "Alright, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still thinking it over, and slowly began to move away. Raskolnikov had already passed by and heard no more. He walked quietly, unnoticed, careful not to miss a single word. His initial surprise gradually gave way to horror, as if a chill had run down his spine. He had found out—he had suddenly, completely unexpectedly discovered—that tomorrow, exactly at seven in the evening, Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and her only companion, would be out of the house, and therefore, the old woman would be alone exactly at seven in the evening.
– You should decide for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna, – said the townsman loudly. – Do come tomorrow, around seven o'clock. They'll be there too. – Tomorrow? – Lizaveta said slowly and thoughtfully, as if she couldn't make up her mind. – My word, how frightened Alena Ivanovna has made you! – chattered the trader's wife, a sharp-tongued woman. – Just look at you, you're as timid as a little child. She's not even your real sister, only a step-sister, and yet see how she bosses you around!
It was about nine o'clock when he walked past Sena Square. Shopkeepers at stalls, tables, and shops were shutting up, packing away their wares, and heading home, just like their customers. Around the eating houses on the ground floors, in the dirty and smelly courtyards of Sena Square buildings—and especially near the liquor shops—crowds of workers and ragged people of all sorts gathered. Raskolnikov particularly liked these places and the nearby lanes when he wandered the streets without any purpose. Here, his tattered clothes drew no haughty glances, and one could walk about in any state without offending anyone. Near K- Lane, at the corner, a petty trader and his wife were selling goods—thread, ribbons, cotton handkerchiefs, and such—from two tables. They were packing up to go home but had paused to chat with an acquaintance who had just arrived. The woman was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or simply Lizaveta, as everyone called her—the younger sister of that very Alena Ivanovna, the retired clerical officer and moneylender, at whose place Raskolnikov had been the day before to pawn his watch and make a certain inquiry. He had long known everything about this Lizaveta, and she, in fact, knew a little about him too. She was a tall, clumsy, timid, and meek girl, almost considered simple-minded, aged thirty-five, completely enslaved by her sister, working for her day and night, trembling in fear of her, and even enduring beatings from her. She stood there pondering, holding a bundle, in front of the trader and his wife, listening attentively. They were explaining something to her with unusual earnestness. When Raskolnikov suddenly saw her, a strange sensation, something like profound astonishment, came over him—though there was really nothing astonishing in this meeting.
As if someone had been lying in wait for him on purpose!
Precisely: he simply couldn't understand or explain to himself why he, tired and worn out as he was, for whom it would have been most convenient to return home by the shortest and most direct route, had instead gone back via Sennaya Square, where he had absolutely no need to go. The detour was small, yet clearly unnecessary. Of course, dozens of times he had returned home without remembering the streets he'd taken. But why, he always asked himself, why did such a significant, such a decisive encounter for him—yet at the same time so utterly accidental—occur at Sennaya, a place he didn't even need to pass through, just now, at this particular hour, at this very moment in his life, exactly when his state of mind and his circumstances were such that only then could this meeting have the most decisive and final impact on his entire fate?
Crossing the bridge, he quietly and calmly looked at the Neva, at the brilliant sunset of a bright red sun. Despite his weakness, he did not even feel tired. It was as if a sore that had been festering in his heart for a whole month had suddenly burst. Freedom, freedom! He was now free from those spells, from the sorcery, charm, and enchantment! Later, when he recalled that time and everything that had happened to him during those days—moment by moment, point by point, detail by detail—there was always one circumstance that struck him superstitiously, though in reality it was not very extraordinary, yet which afterwards seemed to him to be somehow like a predestination of his fate.
He stood up, looked around in surprise, as though astonished at having come here, and walked towards the T– bridge. He was pale, his eyes were burning, and exhaustion weighed upon every limb; but suddenly he felt as though breathing more easily. He sensed that he had at last cast off the terrible burden that had long oppressed him, and his soul became suddenly light and peaceful. "Lord!" he prayed, "show me my path, and I renounce this accursed... dream of mine!"
"But what is wrong with me! — he continued, speaking again, almost in deep amazement — I myself knew I couldn't bear it, so why have I kept torturing myself all this time? I realised it clearly yesterday, yes, even yesterday when I went to carry out that... I understood only yesterday that I wouldn't be able to endure it... Why am I still hesitating now? Why did I doubt for so long? Even yesterday, as I was coming down the stairs, I myself said it was base, despicable, vile, utterly contemptible... The very thought made me sick and filled me with horror... No, I can't bear it, I simply can't endure it! Let it be — let there be no doubt at all in all these calculations, let every plan made over this past month be as clear as daylight, as certain as arithmetic. But my God, I still won't have the courage! I still won't be able to go through with it! I can't endure it, I can't bear it!... Then why, why have I still... until now..."
<|endoftext|>
His whole body felt shattered; his soul was clouded and dark. He rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in both hands. "God!" he cried, "Could it really be? Could I really pick up an axe, strike her on the head, crush her skull, slip in the sticky, warm blood, break open the lock, steal, tremble—hide myself, drenched all over in blood—with an axe in hand? Lord, is this really possible?"
He trembled like a leaf as he spoke.
But the poor boy no longer remembers himself. Shouting, he pushes through the crowd toward the mare, throws his arms around her dead, bloodied face, and kisses her, kisses her eyes, her lips… Then suddenly he jumps up and in a frenzy hurls his little fists at Mikolka. At that moment, his father—who had been chasing after him for a long while—finally catches him and carries him out of the crowd. – Come on! Come on! – he tells him. – Let’s go home! – Daddy! Why did they… kill the poor horse! – he sobs, but his breath catches, and the words burst out in screams from his tight, aching chest. – Drunkards, they’re up to mischief, nothing to do with us, let’s go! – says the father. The boy clings to his father, but his chest feels so tight, so constricted. He tries to catch his breath, to cry out—and wakes up. He woke up drenched in sweat, his hair soaked, gasping for air, and sprang up in terror. – Thank God, it was only a dream! – he said, sitting up under the tree and breathing deeply. – But what was that? Could it be a fever coming on? Such a dreadful dream!
"My property!" shouts Mikolka, standing with a crowbar in hand and bloodshot eyes, as if regretting there's no one left to beat. "Indeed, you must have no cross on you!" many voices from the crowd now shout back.
– She'll drop any moment now, mates, this is the end of her! – shouts one spectator from the crowd. – Give her a blow with an axe, why don't you! Finish her off at once! – yells another. – Arre, bloody mosquitoes! Get out of the way! – roars Mikolka furiously, throws down the shaft, bends into the cart again, and pulls out an iron crowbar. – Watch out! – he shouts, and brings the bar down with full force on his poor nag. The blow lands heavily; the mare staggers, sags down, tries to pull forward, but the bar swings again and crashes onto her back—she collapses to the ground as if all four legs had been chopped off at once. – Finish her off! – screams Mikolka, leaping out of the cart like a madman. Several lads, flushed and drunk, grab whatever they can find—whips, sticks, the shaft—and rush toward the dying mare. Mikolka positions himself at her side and starts beating her back senselessly with the crowbar. The horse stretches out her muzzle, heaves a deep groan, and dies. – He's done her in! – cry voices from the crowd. – What use was she anyway, couldn't even gallop!
– Beat her, beat her! Why have you stopped? – voices from the crowd shout. And Mikolka swings again, bringing down another full-force blow on the back of the wretched mare. The horse sinks down completely on her haunches, but leaps up and pulls, pulls with all her failing strength in every direction to move forward; but from all sides she is met with six whips at once, and the shaft rises again and falls for the third time, then the fourth, steady and hard with full force. Mikolka is furious that he cannot kill her with a single blow. – Tough one! – people cry all around.
– A song, brothers! – someone shouts from the cart, and everyone in it joins in. A boisterous song rings out, a tambourine jingles, whistles pierce through the chorus. A little woman cracks nuts and giggles. …He runs beside the mare, darts ahead, sees her being lashed right in the eyes, straight in the eyes! He weeps. His heart swells, tears stream down. One of the men strikes him across the face; he doesn't feel it. He wrings his hands, screams, rushes to an old grey-bearded man shaking his head and condemning it all. A woman grabs his hand, tries to pull him away, but he breaks free and runs back to the mare. She's making her final efforts, yet still kicks out once more. – May the devil take you! – roars Mikolka in fury. He throws down the whip, bends over and pulls from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, grips it with both hands at one end, and swings it heavily over the dun mare. – He'll do it! – voices shout around. – He'll kill her! – It's my property! – screams Mikolka, bringing the shaft down with full force. A heavy thud echoes through the air.
Suddenly, a loud burst of laughter erupts and drowns everything: the poor mare, unable to bear the repeated blows, begins kicking helplessly. Even the old man can't hold back and smirks. Indeed, such a wretched creature, yet still it kicks! Two young men from the crowd grab whips and rush to flog the horse from either side. Each runs to strike from their own flank. "Hit her in the face, in the eyes—lash her in the eyes!" shouts Mikhalka.
– Let me in too, brothers! – shouts a tipsy young man from the crowd. – Get on, everyone get on! – yells Mikolka. – I'll give a ride to all! I'll whip her! – And he thrashes and lashes wildly, no longer knowing what or why he's hitting in his fury. – Papa, papa! – the child cries to his father. – Papa, what are they doing? Papa, they're beating the poor horse! – Come on, come on! – says the father. – They're drunk, acting mad, fools! Let's go, don't look! – He tries to pull the child away, but the boy breaks free and, beside himself, runs straight to the horse. But the poor animal is already in bad shape. She's gasping, stumbles, jerks forward again, nearly collapsing. – Beat her to death! – screams Mikolka. – That's what she's here for! I'll whip her down! – Don't you fear God, you demon! – shouts an old man from the crowd. – Ever seen such a poor horse pull such a load? – adds another. – You'll kill her! – yells a third. – Hands off! She's mine! I can do what I like! Get on, more of you! Everyone get on! I want her to gallop, I tell you—gallop!
Laughter in the cart and among the onlookers doubles, but Mikolka grows angry and, in a furious rage, lashes the mare harder and faster, as if really believing she’ll suddenly break into a gallop.
One by one, everyone climbs into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and cracking jokes. Six men are already in, and there’s still room for more. They take along a woman—plump and rosy-faced, dressed in bright cotton, wearing a beaded headdress, with woolen socks on her feet, cracking nuts and giggling. The crowd around laughs too, and truly, how could they not? Such a bulky mare being expected to gallop under such a load! Two lads in the cart grab whips right away to help Mikolka. A shout of “Now!” goes up, the poor mare strains with all her might, but galloping is out of the question—she can barely manage a slow shuffle, her legs trembling, groaning and buckling under the hail of lashes from three whips raining down on her like peas.
– Sit, I’ll take everyone! – Mikolka shouts again, jumping into the cart first, grabbing the reins and standing upright on the front seat. – The bay’s gone with Matvey, – he yells from the cart, – but this mare here, brothers, only breaks my heart: I’d kill her right now, the way she eats bread for nothing. I said, sit down! I’ll make her gallop! She’ll go full speed! – And he takes the whip in his hand, eagerly preparing to lash the skinny horse. – Come on, sit! – the crowd laughs. – Hear that? Full gallop! – She hasn’t galloped in ten years, probably. – She’ll start now! – Don’t spare her, brothers, grab your whips, get ready! – That’s right! Flog her!
– This old nag will surely pull! – Hey, Mikolka, have you lost your mind? Yoking such a mare to a cart like that! – That chestnut horse must be at least twenty years old, mates!
Yet each time he visited the cemetery, he would devoutly and respectfully make the sign of the cross over the tiny grave, bow deeply before it, and kiss it. And now in his dream: he is walking with his father along the road to the cemetery, passing by the tavern. He holds his father’s hand and turns fearfully to look at the tavern. Something unusual catches his attention: this time, it seems to be a celebration, a crowd of townspeople and women in their festival clothes, their husbands, and all sorts of riffraff. Everyone is drunk, singing songs, and near the tavern porch stands a cart—but a strange one. It is one of those large carts meant for big dray horses, the kind used to haul goods and wine casks. He had always loved watching those enormous draft horses, long-maned, with thick legs, walking slowly and steadily, pulling mountainous loads without strain, as if they found it easier to go with a load than without. But now, oddly enough, a tiny, thin, scrubby peasant nag was harnessed to this large cart—one of those poor beasts he had often seen straining desperately under a high load of firewood or hay, especially when the cart got stuck in mud or a rut, and then beaten cruelly, so painfully, by peasants with whips, sometimes even across the face and eyes. The sight always made him feel so sorry, so heartbroken, that he nearly cried; and his mother would usually turn him away from the window. But suddenly, all became noisy and chaotic: from the tavern burst out drunken, wildly drunk men in red and blue shirts, wearing loose coats over their shoulders. "Come on, get in, all of you!" shouted one, still young, with a thick neck and a heavy, beet-red face. "I'll take everyone, hop in!" Immediately, laughter and cries broke out:
Raskolnikov had a terrible dream. He dreamt he was a child again, just seven years old, walking with his father outside their little town on a holiday evening. The sky was dull, the air heavy and close, and the landscape looked exactly as it had remained in his memory—though actually, in memory, it had faded far more than it now appeared in his dream. The town lay open, bare as the palm of a hand, with no poplars around; far, far away, right at the edge of the sky, a small forest loomed darkly. A few steps beyond the last town garden stood a tavern, a large one, which had always frightened him dreadfully whenever he passed it with his father. There was always such a crowd there, such shouting, laughter, swearing, such ugly, hoarse singing, and frequent fights. Drunk, terrifying faces wandered about the tavern, and whenever he saw them, he would press close to his father and tremble all over. Alongside the tavern ran a country path, always dusty, and the dust was always so black. The path wound on ahead and about three hundred paces farther turned right towards the town cemetery. In the middle of the cemetery stood a stone church with a green dome—only twice a year he had visited it with his parents for memorial services for his grandmother, who had died long ago and whom he had never seen alive. They always brought kutia on a white plate wrapped in a napkin—sweet rice with raisins pressed into it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, its old icons mostly without casings, and the elderly priest with his trembling head. Near his grandmother’s grave, marked by a slab, was a small grave of his little brother who had died at six months old—someone had told him about the brother, though he had never known or remembered him.
In a state of illness, dreams often have an extraordinary vividness, intensity, and striking resemblance to reality. Sometimes a horrifying scene unfolds, yet the setting and the entire course of the vision are so lifelike, with such subtle, unexpected, yet artistically fitting details, that the very same person who dreamt it could never invent them while awake—even if he were a writer of the calibre of Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, born of illness, are remembered for a long time and leave a powerful impression on a person's weakened and already agitated system.
He finished it again while walking. He hadn't drunk vodka in a very long time, and even that single shot hit him quickly. Suddenly his legs grew heavy, and he felt an overwhelming drowsiness. He headed home; but having reached Petrovsky Island, he collapsed from exhaustion, stepped off the road, entered a thicket, fell onto the grass, and instantly fell asleep.
A feverish tremor seized him, turning into something almost like a chill; despite the heat, he felt cold. Almost involuntarily, as if driven by some inner compulsion, he began to scan every object around him, as though desperately seeking distraction—but it hardly worked, and he kept slipping into deep thought. Whenever he suddenly raised his head, shivering, and looked around, he would immediately forget what he had just been thinking, even where he was walking. In this manner he crossed Vasilevsky Island, crossed the Little Neva by the bridge, and turned towards the Summer Gardens. At first, the greenery and freshness pleased his weary eyes, long accustomed to city dust, brick walls, and the massive, crowded, oppressive buildings. Here, there was no stifling air, no stench, no liquor stalls. But soon even these new, pleasant sensations turned painful and irritating. Occasionally, he stopped before one of the ornate country houses surrounded by greenery, peered through the fence, and saw well-dressed women on balconies and terraces, children running in the garden. He was particularly drawn to the flowers, gazing at them the longest. He also passed luxurious carriages, riders on horseback—men and women—whom he followed with idle curiosity, forgetting them even before they disappeared from sight. Once, he stopped and counted his money: about thirty kopecks. "Twenty for the constable, three for Nastasya for the letter—so I gave Marmeladov yesterday about forty-seven or fifty kopecks," he thought, calculating for some reason, but soon forgot why he had even taken the money from his pocket. He remembered only while passing a small eatery, similar to a roadside tavern, and realized he was hungry. Entering, he drank a shot of vodka and ate a pie filled with something.
He left the bench and began walking, almost running; he thought of turning back, heading home, but suddenly going home felt terribly repulsive—the very place, that corner, that dreadful cupboard where everything had been brewing for over a month—and so he walked on, aimlessly, wherever his eyes led him.
The question of why he was now going to Razumikhin troubled him far more than he had even realised; anxiously, he sought some ominous meaning in what seemed such an ordinary act. "What? Could it be that I wanted to set everything right through Razumikhin alone, and saw my entire way out in Razumikhin?" he asked himself in surprise. He thought, rubbing his forehead, and strangely, almost casually, after a long silence, a most peculiar thought suddenly came to him. "Hm... to Razumikhin," he said suddenly, quite calmly, as if reaching a final decision, "yes, I will go to Razumikhin—that's certain... but—not now. I'll go to him... the day after, once it's all done, when everything begins anew..."
And suddenly he came to his senses. "After!" he cried out, jumping up from the bench. "But will it even happen? Can it really happen?"
V
"I did recently think of asking Razumikhin for work—maybe he could find me some tutoring or something," mused Raskolnikov. "But how can he possibly help me now? Suppose he does get me some lessons. Suppose he even shares his last penny—if he has a penny—and I can buy new shoes, mend my clothes to look presentable for the classes... hmmm. But then what? What good will a few paise do me? Is that really what I need now? Honestly, it's ridiculous that I even came to Razumikhin."
Razumikhin saw him, but passed by without stopping, not wanting to trouble him.
For some reason, he had grown closer to Razumikhin—though not exactly “closer,” but simply more communicative and open with him. Still, it was nearly impossible to have any other kind of relationship with Razumikhin. He was an extraordinarily cheerful and talkative young man, kind to the point of simplicity. Yet beneath this simplicity lay depth and dignity. The best of his classmates understood this, and everyone liked him. He was far from foolish, though he could indeed seem naïve at times. His appearance was striking—tall, thin, always poorly shaved, with dark hair. Occasionally, he could be rowdy and was known as a strong man. Once, at night during a gathering, he knocked down a watchman twelve vershoks tall with a single punch. He could drink endlessly, but could also abstain completely; sometimes he'd behave outrageously, yet at other times he wouldn't misbehave at all. What also made Razumikhin remarkable was that no misfortune ever disturbed him, and no hardship seemed capable of crushing his spirit. He could live even on a rooftop, endure terrible hunger and extreme cold. He was very poor and entirely on his own, supporting himself through odd jobs. He knew countless ways to earn a little money. One winter, he didn't heat his room at all and insisted it was even more pleasant, because one slept better in the cold. At present, he had also been forced to leave the university, though only temporarily, and was now doing everything possible to improve his situation so he could resume his studies. Raskolnikov hadn't visited him in nearly four months, and Razumikhin didn't even know where he lived. Once, about two months earlier, they had met on the street, but Raskolnikov turned away and even crossed to the other side so as not to be noticed.
He was surprised at himself. Razumikhin was one of his former university classmates. It was remarkable that during his time at the university, Razumikhin had hardly any companions—Raskolnikov kept aloof from everyone, never visited anyone, and found it difficult to receive guests. Gradually, others also drifted away from him. He took no part in group gatherings, conversations, amusements, or anything of the sort. He studied intensely, without sparing himself, and for this he was respected—but not liked. He was very poor, and had a kind of proud, aloof manner, rarely speaking about himself. It seemed to some of his fellow students that he looked down on all of them as if they were children, as though he were far ahead of them in development, knowledge, and convictions, and regarded their beliefs and interests as something inferior.
Where am I even going?—he suddenly wondered. Strange. I set out for some reason. The moment I read the letter, I just went... I went to Vasilyevsky Island, to Razumikhin—that's where. Now I remember. But why, exactly? And how did the thought of going to Razumikhin occur to me just now? That's remarkable.
A certain percentage, they say, must vanish every year... somewhere... to the devil, probably, so the rest can stay fresh and untroubled. Percentage! How clever their little words are—so soothing, so scientific. Say 'percentage,' and there's nothing to worry about. If only some other word were used, then... well, perhaps it would trouble us more. But what if Dunya too ends up in that percentage somehow!... Not this one, then another?..."
Poor little girl!..." he said, looking at the empty corner of the bench. "She'll come to, cry a while, and then her mother will find out... First she'll beat her, then thrash her painfully and shamefully—perhaps even turn her out. And if not turned out, still Darya Frantsevna will get wind of it, and then my poor girl will start sneaking around here and there... Then straight to the hospital (that's always the way with those girls who live so decently and quietly under their mothers' roofs, then go astray). And from there—back to hospital again... Then liquor... Taverns... and yet another hospital... In two or three years—crippled, her whole life gone, though she's only eighteen or nineteen years old... Haven't I seen such cases? And how did they end up like that? Exactly like this... Pah! Let it be. They say this is how it should be.
– Aiyyo! – exclaimed the clerk, waving his hand dismissively, and walked off after the dandy and the girl, clearly taking Raskolnikov either for a lunatic or something even worse. "He took my twenty kopecks," Raskolnikov muttered bitterly, left alone. "Well, let him take her too, and be done with it—let that be the end. What did I go meddling for? Am I the one to help? Do I even have the right to help? Let them devour each other alive—what’s it to me? And how dared I give away those twenty kopecks? Are they even mine?"
Despite these strange words, he felt extremely heavy-hearted. He sat down on the abandoned bench. His thoughts were scattered... In fact, it was painful for him to think of anything at that moment. He wished he could just lose consciousness, forget everything, then wake up and begin anew, completely from scratch...
– Oh, the kind of debauchery going on these days! – he repeated aloud, sighing. At that moment, something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant, he felt completely transformed. – Hey, you there! – he shouted after the moustached man. The man turned around. – Leave it, what do you want? Mind your own business! Let him enjoy himself (he pointed at the dandy). What's it to you? The policeman didn't understand and stared wide-eyed. Raskolnikov burst out laughing.
– The main thing is, don't let this scoundrel get near her! Who knows what more he might do to her! You can see clearly what he's after—look at the rogue, won't leave her alone! Raskolnikov was speaking loudly and pointing straight at him. The man heard this and almost got angry, but then thought better of it and merely gave a contemptuous look. Slowly, he walked away about ten paces and stopped again. – We could certainly prevent them, sir, – replied the non-commissioned officer thoughtfully. – If only they'd say where they'd like to be taken, but as it is… Miss, miss! – he leaned down again. Suddenly, she opened her eyes fully, looked at him attentively as if understanding something, stood up from the bench, and started walking back in the direction she had come from. – Ugh, shameless men, bothering me! – she muttered, waving her hand once more. She walked quickly, but still staggered badly as before. The dandy followed her, though staying on the other pathway, his eyes fixed on her. – Don't worry, sir, I won't let him, – said the moustached officer firmly, and set off after them.
– Oh, what shame there is in the world these days, Lord! Such a simple girl, and already drunk! Clearly she's been deceived! Look, her dress is all torn… Oh, how immorality has spread these days!... But she might well be from a decent family, perhaps poor gentry... So many such girls these days. Outwardly delicate, like a proper young lady – and again he bent over her. Perhaps he, too, had daughters growing up like that – "delicate as young ladies," genteel in manner, already picking up fashionable airs and graces.
"Listen," said Raskolnikov, "here—" (he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out twenty kopecks; he had just enough) "—take a cab and have her delivered to her address. Only we need to find out the address first!"
"Miss, miss!" the policeman began again, accepting the money, "I'll arrange a cab for you straight away and accompany you myself. Where to, miss? Where's your residence?"
"Go away... stop bothering!" muttered the girl, waving her hand again. "Oh, how improper! How shameful, miss, how very shameful indeed!" He shook his head in disapproval, pity, and indignation. "Now what a situation!" he said to Raskolnikov, quickly glancing him over from head to toe. The man certainly looked strange: dressed in rags, yet handing out money! "How far from here did you find her?" he asked. "Just told you—she was walking ahead of me, staggering, right here on the boulevard. When she reached the bench, she just collapsed."
The policeman instantly understood and figured it out. The stout gentleman was clear enough—now only the girl remained. The officer bent closer to take a proper look at her, and genuine pity showed on his face. "Ah, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head. "Still just a child. Been deceived, that's plain. Excuse me, madam," he began calling to her, "where do you live?" The girl opened her tired, dull eyes, stared blankly at those questioning her, and waved her hand dismissively.
Look here, see that woman—dead drunk, just walking along the boulevard. Nobody knows who she is or where she's from, doesn't seem like she's in the trade. Most likely someone got her drunk, deceived her—probably her first time, you understand?—then just threw her out onto the street. Look at her dress, torn to pieces. See how it's put on? Someone dressed her, not herself—clumsy hands, a man's hands, clearly. Just watch now—this dandy over there, the one I nearly fought with, I've never seen him before. But he's spotted her too, sees she's drunk, helpless, not even aware of herself, and now he's desperate to go up, grab her, take her somewhere… And it's certain, I'm telling you—believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I saw him watching her closely, following her steps, but I got in his way. Now he's just waiting for me to leave. See, he's stepped back a little, standing there pretending to roll a cigarette… How can we stop him? How can we get her home safely—just think about it!
And, grabbing the policeman by the arm, he dragged him towards the bench.
"Hey, Svidrigailov! What do you want here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing through lips foaming with rage. "What is the meaning of this?" asked the gentleman sternly, frowning and looking down at him in astonishment. "Get out, that's what!"
"How dare you, you rascal?!"
And he raised his whip. Raskolnikov flew at him with bare fists, without even considering that the sturdy man could easily handle two like him. But just then someone firmly seized Raskolnikov from behind, and a police constable stepped between them. "That's enough, gentlemen! No fighting in public places. What's going on? Who are you?" the constable demanded sharply, eyeing Raskolnikov's ragged clothes. Raskolnikov looked at him closely. It was a smart soldier's face, with grey moustache and side-whiskers, and a sensible expression. "It's you I need," Raskolnikov cried, grabbing his arm. "I'm a former student, Raskolnikov... This you may also know," he turned to the gentleman, "but come with me—I'll show you something..."
Raskolnikov did not sit down and had no intention of leaving; he stood before her, puzzled. The embankment was usually deserted, but now, at two o'clock in such scorching heat, there was almost no one around. Yet, off to the side, about fifteen paces away at the edge of the path, stood a gentleman who clearly had his own intentions towards the girl. He, too, had probably spotted her from afar and chased after her, but Raskolnikov had spoiled his plans. He kept shooting angry glances at him, trying not to be noticed, impatiently waiting for the annoying ragamuffin to go away. The situation was obvious. The man was about thirty, stout, plump, with a healthy glow, rosy lips, a small moustache, and dressed very smartly. Raskolnikov grew furious; suddenly, he felt an urge to somehow insult this well-dressed, well-fed dandy. For a moment, he left the girl and walked straight up to the man.
The girl appeared to understand very little; she had tucked one leg behind the other in a way that exposed it far more than proper, and clearly had little awareness that she was out on the street.
As he looked out for a bench, he noticed a woman walking about twenty paces ahead of him, but at first paid no attention to her—just as he had disregarded all the other things passing before him so far. He had often walked home before without remembering the route he had taken, and had grown used to such absent-minded walking. But there was something strange about this woman, something immediately noticeable, so that gradually his attention began to fix on her—first unwillingly and almost irritably, then more and more insistently. He suddenly felt a strong desire to understand what exactly was so odd about her. For one thing, she must have been a very young girl, walking in such heat without a hat, umbrella, or gloves, oddly swinging her arms. She wore a silk dress made of light fabric ("cotton-like"), but it was put on in a peculiar way—scarcely fastened, and torn at the waist in the back, right at the start of the skirt; a whole flap hung loose and dangled. A small kerchief was thrown over her bare neck, but it stuck out crookedly and sideways. To cap it all, the girl walked unsteadily, stumbling and even swaying from side to side. This encounter finally captured Raskolnikov’s full attention. He drew near the girl just as she reached the bench, but when she got to it, she simply collapsed into a corner, threw her head back against the bench’s backrest, and closed her eyes, clearly from extreme exhaustion. Looking closely at her, he immediately realized she was completely drunk. It was strange and shocking to see such a sight. He even wondered if he could be mistaken. Before him was an extremely youthful face—about sixteen years old, perhaps even only fifteen—small, fair-haired, pretty, but flushed all over and seemingly swollen.
He quickly looked around, searching for something. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a bench; he was walking along K. Boulevard at the time. A bench was visible ahead, about a hundred paces away. He hurried towards it as fast as he could. But on the way, a small incident occurred, which for a few minutes captured his entire attention.
"Or to give up life altogether!" he suddenly cried out in anguish, "to meekly accept one's fate as it is, once and for all, and to crush everything within oneself, renouncing every right to act, to live, to love!"
"Do you understand, do you understand, sir," a thought suddenly flashed back to him—the question Marmeladov had asked yesterday—"what it means when there is nowhere left to go? For every man must have at least some place he can go..."
Suddenly he shuddered: another thought, also from yesterday, darted through his mind. But he shuddered not merely because the thought had come—he knew it would come, had been expecting it. Indeed, this thought was not really from yesterday at all. The difference was that a month ago, even yesterday, it had still been just a dream. But now—now it had suddenly appeared not as a dream, but in some new, terrifying, and utterly unfamiliar form, and he had suddenly become fully aware of it... His heart pounded, and darkness clouded his eyes.
He tormented himself with these questions, even teasing himself with them, almost with a kind of pleasure. Yet, all these questions were not new, not sudden, but old, painful, long-standing ones. They had long been tormenting him, tearing at his heart. This present anguish had taken root in him long ago, gradually growing, gathering strength until recently, when it had ripened and become focused into a terrible, wild, and fantastic question that now haunted his heart and mind, demanding an answer he could not escape. And now, his mother's letter had struck him like a bolt from the blue. It was clear that he could no longer afford to merely brood or suffer passively, debating that the questions were unsolvable—he must act, and immediately, without delay. He had to make a decision at all costs, one way or another.
He suddenly woke up and stopped. "Not going to happen? But what will you do to prevent it? Forbid it? And what right do you have to do that? What can you promise them in return, to have such a right? To devote your whole life, your entire future to them? We’ve heard that before, but what about now? Something must be done right now—you understand that, don’t you? And what are you doing now? You’re only robbing them yourself. Those very hundred-rouble pensions, those very pledges taken under the name of landlords like Svidrigailov—they come from the likes of Svidrigailov, from Afanasy Ivanovich Vahrushin! How will you protect them from such people, you future millionaire, you Zeus who thinks he controls their fate? In ten years? But in ten years, your mother will have gone blind from stitching kerchiefs, perhaps even from weeping; she’ll have wasted away from fasting. And your sister? Come on, imagine—what could happen to her in the next ten years, or even within these ten years? Figured it out?"
Do you understand that Luzhin’s “purity” is no different from Sonetchka’s, and perhaps even worse, filthier, baser—because you, Dounia, at least stand to gain some extra comfort, whereas there, it’s simply a matter of starving to death! “It costs dearly, dearly, Dounia, this purity!” What if later it becomes too much, and you regret it? How much sorrow, grief, curses, how many tears hidden from everyone—because you’re not Marfa Petrovna, after all! And what will happen to Mother then? She’s already uneasy, tormented now—what will she do when she sees everything clearly? And what about me?… What did you really think of me? I don’t want your sacrifice, Dounia, I won’t have it, Mother! It shall never happen, as long as I live—never, never! I won’t allow it!”
How could she not sacrifice even such a daughter for such a son? Oh, dear, misguided hearts! Tell me, would we perhaps even accept Sonetchka’s fate? Sonetchka, Sonetchka Marmeladova, eternal Sonetchka, as long as the world stands! But have you measured the full cost of this sacrifice? Have you weighed it properly? Is it within your strength? Will it truly bring good? Is it even reasonable? Do you know, Dounia, that Sonetchka’s fate is no worse than marrying Mr. Luzhin? “There can be no love here,” Mother writes. But what if, apart from love, there’s no respect either—only disgust, contempt, revulsion? Then what? Then, it seems, the sacrifice must still be made. Isn’t that so? Do you understand—do you truly understand what your purity means?
At such a moment, we’ll crush our moral sense; we’ll take our peace of mind, even our conscience—everything, absolutely everything—and haul it off to the marketplace. Let life be ruined—so long as our beloved ones are happy! And worse, we’ll invent our own sophistry, learn from the Jesuits, perhaps even temporarily pacify ourselves, convince ourselves that it must be so, truly must be for a noble cause. That’s exactly what we are, and everything is as clear as daylight. It’s clear that no one else is at the center of this but Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. Why, of course—his happiness can be secured, he can be supported through university, made a clerk in an office, his whole future assured; later, he may even become wealthy, respected, honoured—perhaps end his days as a famous man! And Mother? Why, Rodya, precious Rodya, her firstborn!
It’s hard to wander the provinces as a governess for two hundred rubles a year, but I still know that my sister would rather go as a slave to a plantation owner in the Americas, or serve a Baltic German landlord, than debase her spirit and moral conscience by binding herself for life to a man she doesn’t respect and has nothing in common with—just for personal comfort! She’d refuse to become the lawful mistress of Mr. Luzhin, even if he were made entirely of purest gold or solid diamonds! So why then is she agreeing now? What’s the trick? What’s the explanation? The answer’s clear: she won’t sell herself for her own comfort, not even to save her life, but she’ll sell herself for another! For someone dear, beloved! That’s the whole trick—it’s for her brother, for her mother she sells herself! She’ll sacrifice everything!
Well, let’s suppose he “let it slip,” though he’s a rational man (so perhaps it wasn’t a slip at all, but a deliberate move to clarify his position quickly)—but Dounia, Dounia? She sees the man clearly, yet she’s meant to live with him? She’d rather eat dry bread and drink water than sell her soul, never surrender her moral freedom—not even for all of Schleswig-Holstein, let alone for Mr. Luzhin! No, Dounia was never that sort, as far as I’ve known her, and… well, of course, she hasn’t changed now! What’s there to say! Svidrigailovs are hard enough to bear.