Prestuplenie i nakazanie. English by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
CHAPTER VI
But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid theparcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up againand began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have becomeperfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panicfear that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strangesudden calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose wasevident in them. "To-day, to-day," he muttered to himself. He understoodthat he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave himstrength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would notfall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, helooked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment's thoughtput it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all thecopper change from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes.Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs andglanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her backto him, blowing up the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. Who wouldhave dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in thestreet.
It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling asbefore, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His headfelt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in hisfeverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know anddid not think where he was going, he had one thought only: "that all_this_ must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he wouldnot return home without it, because he _would not go on living likethat_." How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it,he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thoughttortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must bechanged "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immovableself-confidence and determination.
From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the HayMarket. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing inthe road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a verysentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stoodon the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, amantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all veryold and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked andcoarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper fromthe shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a fivecopeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on asentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on,"and both moved on to the next shop.
"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-agedman standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and hismanner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like iton cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all thepassers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wetsnow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what Imean?--and the street lamps shine through it..."
"I don't know.... Excuse me..." muttered the stranger, frightened by thequestion and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to theother side of the street.
Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the HayMarket, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; butthey were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked roundand addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before acorn chandler's shop.
"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"
"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancingsuperciliously at Raskolnikov.
"What's his name?"
"What he was christened."
"Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"
The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciouslyforgive me, your excellency!"
"Is that a tavern at the top there?"
"Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-room and you'll findprincesses there too.... La-la!"
Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowdof peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, lookingat the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter intoconversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; theywere all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little andtook a turning to the right in the direction of V.
He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leadingfrom the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawnto wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he mightfeel more so.
Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a greatblock of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating-houses;women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in theirindoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement,especially about the entrances to various festive establishments inthe lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, thetinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street.A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on thesteps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunkensoldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road,swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but hadforgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man deaddrunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng ofwomen, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and worecotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and somenot more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.
He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise anduproar in the saloon below.... someone could be heard within dancingfrantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitarand of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently,gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peepinginquisitively in from the pavement.
"Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing,"
trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire tomake out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.
"Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I getdrunk?"
"Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice wasstill musical and less thick than the others, she was young and notrepulsive--the only one of the group.
"Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.
She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
"You're very nice looking yourself," she said.
"Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have youjust come out of a hospital?"
"They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snubnoses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearinga loose coat. "See how jolly they are."
"Go along with you!"
"I'll go, sweetie!"
And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.
"I say, sir," the girl shouted after him.
"What is it?"
She hesitated.
"I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, butnow I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice youngman!"
Raskolnikov gave her what came first--fifteen copecks.
"Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!"
"What's your name?"
"Ask for Duclida."
"Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her headat Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I shoulddrop with shame...."
Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wenchof thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She madeher criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov."Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says
He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihinwas just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was itI wanted? Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he'd read it in thepapers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious andpositively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were,however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in aroom further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikovfancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at thatdistance. "What if it is?" he thought.
"Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter.
"Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the lastfive days, and I'll give you something."
"Yes, sir, here's to-day's. No vodka?"
The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down andbegan to look through them.
"Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An accident on astaircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a firein Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... another fire in thePetersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter....Ah, here it is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began toread it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and beganeagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His handsshook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someonesat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerkZametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and thewatch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with thesmart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a goodhumour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His darkface was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk.
"What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd knownhim all his life. "Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you wereunconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?"
Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers andturned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade ofirritable impatience was apparent in that smile.
"I know you have," he answered. "I've heard it. You looked for mysock.... And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He saysyou've been with him to Luise Ivanovna's--you know, the woman you triedto befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and hewould not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail tounderstand--it was quite clear, wasn't it?"
"What a hot head he is!"
"The explosive one?"
"No, your friend Razumihin."
"You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the mostagreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?"
"We've just been... having a drink together.... You talk about pouringit into me!"
"By way of a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it'sall right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "Iam not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as thatworkman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case ofthe old woman...."
"How do you know about it?"
"Perhaps I know more about it than you do."
"How strange you are.... I am sure you are still very unwell. Yououghtn't to have come out."
"Oh, do I seem strange to you?"
"Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?"
"Yes."
"There's a lot about the fires."
"No, I am not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously atZametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am notreading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. "But confessnow, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am readingabout?"
"I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question? Why do you keepon...?"
"Listen, you are a man of culture and education?"
"I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with somedignity.
"Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings--youare a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnikovbroke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drewback, more amazed than offended.
"Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I can'thelp thinking you are still delirious."
"I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? Youfind me curious, do you?"
"Yes, curious."
"Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? Seewhat a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"
"Well, what is it?"
"You prick up your ears?"
"How do you mean--'prick up my ears'?"
"I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you... no,better 'I confess'... No, that's not right either; 'I make a depositionand you take it.' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking andsearching...." he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I was searching--andcame here on purpose to do it--for news of the murder of the oldpawnbroker woman," he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringinghis face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at himsteadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametovafterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed forexactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.
"What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexedand impatient. "That's no business of mine! What of it?"
"The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, notheeding Zametov's explanation, "about whom you were talking in thepolice-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understandnow?"
"What do you mean? Understand... what?" Zametov brought out, almostalarmed.
Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and hesuddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as thoughutterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled withextraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, thatmoment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latchtrembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a suddendesire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue atthem, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
"You are either mad, or..." began Zametov, and he broke off, as thoughstunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.
"Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!"
"Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it's all nonsense!"
Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov becamesuddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table andleaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgottenZametov. The silence lasted for some time.
"Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold," said Zametov.
"What! Tea? Oh, yes...." Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel ofbread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remembereverything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his faceresumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.
"There have been a great many of these crimes lately," said Zametov."Only the other day I read in the _Moscow News_ that a whole gang offalse coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. Theyused to forge tickets!"
"Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago,"Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you consider them criminals?" he added,smiling.
"Of course they are criminals."
"They? They are children, s
"That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that's quitepossible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can'tstand things."
"Can't stand that?"
"Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundredroubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notesinto a bank where it's their business to spot that sort of thing! No, Ishould not have the face to do it. Would you?"
Raskolnikov had an intense desire again "to put his tongue out." Shiverskept running down his spine.
"I should do it quite differently," Raskolnikov began. "This is how Iwould change the notes: I'd count the first thousand three or four timesbackwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I'd set to thesecond thousand; I'd count that half-way through and then hold somefifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the lightagain--to see whether it was a good one. 'I am afraid,' I would say, 'arelation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through afalse note,' and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I begancounting the third, 'No, excuse me,' I would say, 'I fancy I made amistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.'And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second andso on to the end. And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from thefifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the lightand ask again, 'Change them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stewthat he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and hadgone out, I'd come back, 'No, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation.That's how I'd do it."
"Foo! what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But allthat is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip.I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon onhimself, much less you and I. To take an example near home--that oldwoman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been adesperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved bya miracle--but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing theplace, he couldn't stand it. That was clear from the..."
Raskolnikov seemed offended.
"Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he cried, maliciously gibing atZametov.
"Well, they will catch him."
"Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You've a tough job! Agreat point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he hadno money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that anychild can mislead you."
"The fact is they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man willcommit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goesdrinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not allas cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?"
Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.
"You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I shouldbehave in that case, too?" he asked with displeasure.
"I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat toomuch earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.
"Very much?"
"Very much!"
"All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began, againbringing his face close to Zametov's, again staring at him and speakingin a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. "This is whatI should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I shouldhave walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted placewith fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen gardenor place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stoneweighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner fromthe time the house was built. I would lift that stone--there would sureto be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in thathole. Then I'd roll the stone back so that it would look as before,would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two,three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There'dbe no trace."
"You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in awhisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. Hehad turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering.He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to movewithout uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what hewas doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled onhis lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will breakout, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.
"And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he saidsuddenly and--realised what he had done.
Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. Hisface wore a contorted smile.
"But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov lookedwrathfully at him.
"Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?"
"Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov criedhastily.
"I've caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now youbelieve less than ever?"
"Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you beenfrightening me so as to lead up to this?"
"You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind myback when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosivelieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there," he shouted to thewaiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?"
"Thirty copecks," the latter replied, running up.
"And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" heheld out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes andblue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my newclothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You've cross-examined mylandlady, I'll be bound.... Well, that's enough! _Assez cause!_ Till wemeet again!"
He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hystericalsensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet hewas gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit.His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensationstimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed asquickly when the stimulus was removed.
Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged inthought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain ona certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.
"Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead," he decided.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when hestumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each othertill they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stoodlooking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, thenanger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.
"So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice--"you ran awayfrom your bed! And here I've been looking for you under the sofa! Wewent up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And herehe is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the wholetruth! Confess! Do you hear?"
"It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone,"Raskolnikov answered calmly.
"Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as asheet and you are gasping for breath! Idi
"Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too muchfor Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
"Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll dowith you directly? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry youhome under my arm and lock you up!"
"Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm--"can'tyou see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have toshower benefits on a man who... curses them, who feels them a burden infact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe Iwas very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough to-day thatyou were torturing me, that I was... sick of you! You seem to want totorture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering myrecovery, because it's continually irritating me. You saw Zossimovwent away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, forgoodness' sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don'tyou see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How, how canI persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may beungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God's sake, let me be!Let me be, let me be!"
He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he wasabout to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he hadbeen with Luzhin.
Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.
"Well, go to hell then," he said gently and thoughtfully. "Stay," heroared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me tellyou, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you've anylittle trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you areplagiarists even in that! There isn't a sign of independent life inyou! You are made of spermaceti ointment and you've lymph in your veinsinstead of blood. I don't believe in anyone of you! In any circumstancesthe first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!" hecried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again makinga movement--"hear me out! You know I'm having a house-warming thisevening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle there--Ijust ran in--to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a commonfool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation...you see, Rodya, I recognise you're a clever fellow, but you're afool!--and if you weren't a fool you'd come round to me this eveninginstead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you have goneout, there's no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landladyhas one... a cup of tea, company.... Or you could lie on the sofa--anyway you would be with us.... Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?"
"No."
"R-rubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patience. "How do you know?You can't answer for yourself! You don't know anything about it....Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run backto them afterwards.... One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! Soremember, Potchinkov's house on the third storey...."
"Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheerbenevolence."
"Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov'shouse, 47, Babushkin's flat...."
"I shall not come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov turned and walked away.
"I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you ifyou don't! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes."
"Talked to him?"
"Yes."
"What about? Confound you, don't tell me then. Potchinkov's house, 47,Babushkin's flat, remember!"
Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street.Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand hewent into the house but stopped short of the stairs.
"Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He talked sensibly but yet...I am a fool! As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just whatZossimov seemed afraid of." He struck his finger on his forehead. "Whatif... how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself.... Ach,what a blunder! I can't." And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, butthere was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps tothe Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.
Raskolnikov walked straight to X---- Bridge, stood in the middle, andleaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On partingwith Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach thisplace. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bendingover the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of thesunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, atone distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire inthe last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal,and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashedbefore his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canalbanks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started,saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. Hebecame aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he lookedand saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow,wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, butobviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned herright hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, thenher left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted andswallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowningwoman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her headand legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; peopleran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge peoplecrowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.
"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully close by."Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!"
"A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of aboat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his greatcoat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her:she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold ofher clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which acomrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. Theylaid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recoveredconsciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing,stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the same woman's voice wailedat her side. "Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hangherself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my littlegirl to look after her--and here she's in trouble again! A neighbour,gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end,see yonder...."
The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someonementioned the police station.... Raskolnikov looked on with a strangesensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. "No, that'sloathsome... water... it's not good enough," he muttered to himself."Nothing will come of it," he added, "no use to wait. What about thepolice office...? And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The policeoffice is open till ten o'clock...." He turned his back to the railingand looked about him.
"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge andwalked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow andempty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, therewas not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out "to make anend of it all." Complete apathy had succeeded to it.
"Well, it's a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly and listlesslyalong the canal bank. "Anyway I'll make an end, for I want to.... Butis it a way out? What does it matter! There'll be the square yard ofspace--ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them ornot? Ah... damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or liedown soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don'tcare about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one's head."
To reach the police offic
"She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "veryearly, all dressed up. 'Why are you preening and prinking?' says I. 'Iam ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way ofgoing on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!"
"And what is a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviouslyregarded the other as an authority.
"A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to thetailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks howto dress, the male sex as well as the female. They're pictures. Thegentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies' fluffles,they're beyond anything you can fancy."
"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger criedenthusiastically, "except father and mother, there's everything!"
"Except them, there's everything to be found, my boy," the elderdeclared sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box,the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him verytiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in thecorner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it andwent to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance.
"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.
Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled thebell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second anda third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisinglyfearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and morevividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and moresatisfaction.
"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out tohim. Raskolnikov went inside again.
"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."
"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come upwith the porter."
"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov wenton. "Is there no blood?"
"What blood?"
"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was aperfect pool there."
"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.
"Who am I?"
"Yes."
"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you."
The workmen looked at him in amazement.
"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lockup," said the elder workman.
"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and goingout first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in thegateway.
At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers-by;the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others.Raskolnikov went straight up to them.
"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.
"Have you been to the police office?"
"I've just been there. What do you want?"
"Is it open?"
"Of course."
"Is the assistant there?"
"He was there for a time. What do you want?"
Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward.
"Which flat?"
"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he.'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.'And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the policestation,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leaveus."
The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live inShil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, heknows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, notturning round, but looking intently into the darkening street.
"Why have you been to the flat?"
"To look at it."
"What is there to look at?"
"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coatjerked in abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in thesame slow, lazy tones:
"Come along."
"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he goinginto _that_, what's in his mind, eh?"
"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered theworkman.
"But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angryin earnest--"Why are you hanging about?"
"You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"
"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.
"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasantin a full open coat and with keys on his belt. "Get along! He is a rogueand no mistake. Get along!"
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. Helurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators insilence and walked away.
"Strange man!" observed the workman.
"There are strange folks about nowadays," said the woman.
"You should have taken him to the police station all the same," said theman in the long coat.
"Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A regularrogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, youwon't get rid of him.... We know the sort!"
"Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middleof the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, asthough expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, allwas dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, tohim alone.... All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yardsaway, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts.In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage.... A light gleamed in themiddle of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the rightand went up to the crowd. He seemed to