– 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.
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.