Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky(page 9)

‘Do you like street music?’ said Raskolnikov,
addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The
man looked at him, startled and wondering.
‘I love to hear singing to a street organ,’ said
Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of
keeping with the subject—‘I like it on cold, dark, damp
autumn evenings—they must be damp—when all the
passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when
wet snow is falling straight down, when there’s no wind—
you know what I mean?—and the street lamps shine
through it …’
‘I don’t know…. Excuse me …’ muttered the stranger,
frightened by the question and Raskolnikov’s strange
manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street.
Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the
corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his
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wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there
now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round
and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood
gaping before a corn 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, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.
‘What’s his name?’
‘What he was christened.’
‘Aren’t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?’
The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
‘It’s not a province, your excellency, but a district.
Graciously forgive 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 find princesses there too…. La-la!’
Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there
was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the
thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an
unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with
people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were
all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a
little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V.
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He had often crossed that little street which turns at an
angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of
late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district,
when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so.
Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that
point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in
dram shops and eating- houses; women were continually
running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor
clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the
pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive
establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a
loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and
shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of
women were thronging round the door; some were sitting
on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing
talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was
walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be
trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten
where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a
man dead drunk was lying right across the road.
Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were
talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore
cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of
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forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had
blackened eyes.
He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the
noise and uproar in the saloon below…. someone could
be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his
heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice
singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and
dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping
inquisitively 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 to make out what he was singing, as though
everything depended on that.
‘Shall I go in?’ he thought. ‘They are laughing. From
drink. Shall I get drunk?’
‘Won’t you come in?’ one of the women asked him.
Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others,
she was young and not repulsive—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.
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‘You’re very nice looking yourself,’ she said.
‘Isn’t he thin though!’ observed another woman in a
deep bass. ‘Have you just come out of a hospital?’
‘They’re all generals’ daughters, it seems, but they have
all snub noses,’ interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile
on his face, wearing a 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, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a
drink, there’s a nice young man!’
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 head at Duclida. ‘I don’t know how you can
ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame….’
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Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a
pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with
her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and
earnestly. ‘Where is it,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Where is it
I’ve read that someone condemned to death says or thinks,
an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some
high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he’d only room to
stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting
solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to
remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a
thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to
die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it
may be! … How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a
vile creature! … And vile is he who calls him vile for that,’
he added a moment later.
He went into another street. ‘Bah, the Palais de Cristal!
Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But
what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers….
Zossimov said he’d read it in the papers. Have you the
papers?’ he asked, going into a very spacious and positively
clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were,
however, rather empty. Two or three people were
drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four
men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that
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Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at
that distance. ‘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 last five 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 and began to look through them.
‘Oh, damn … these are the items of intelligence. An
accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a
shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski … a fire in the
Petersburg quarter … another fire in the Petersburg
quarter … and another fire in the Petersburg quarter….
Ah, here it is!’ He found at last what he was seeking and
began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he
read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the
following numbers. His hands shook with nervous
impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat
down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the
head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings
on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black
hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather
shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good
humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and goodCrime
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humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the
champagne he had drunk.
‘What, you here?’ he began in surprise, speaking as
though he’d known him all his life. ‘Why, Razumihin
told me only yesterday you were unconscious. 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 and turned to Zametov. There was a smile
on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was
apparent in that smile.
‘I know you have,’ he answered. ‘I’ve heard it. You
looked for my sock…. And you know Razumihin has lost
his heart to you? He says you’ve been with him to Luise
Ivanovna’s—you know, the woman you tried to befriend,
for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he
would not understand. Do you remember? How could he
fail to understand—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 most agreeable places. Who’s been pouring
champagne into you just now?’
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‘We’ve just been … having a drink together…. You
talk about pouring it into me!’
‘By way of a fee! You profit by everything!’
Raskolnikov laughed, ‘it’s all right, my dear boy,’ he
added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. ‘I am not
speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as
that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with
Dmitri, in the case of the 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. You oughtn’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 at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a
mocking smile. ‘No, I am not reading about the fires,’ he
went on, winking at Zametov. ‘But confess now, my dear
fellow, you’re awfully anxious to know what I am reading
about?’
‘I am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why do
you keep on … ?’
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‘Listen, you are a man of culture and education?’
‘I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,’ said
Zametov with some dignity.
‘Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting
and your rings— you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo!
what a charming boy!’ Here Raskolnikov broke into a
nervous laugh right in Zametov’s face. The latter drew
back, more amazed than offended.
‘Foo! how strange you are!’ Zametov repeated very
seriously. ‘I can’t help thinking you are still delirious.’
‘I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So
I am strange? You find me curious, do you?’
‘Yes, curious.’
‘Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was
looking for? See what 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 deposition and you take it.’ I depose that
I was reading, that I was looking and searching….’ he
screwed up his eyes and paused. ‘I was searching—and
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came here on purpose to do it—for news of the murder of
the old pawnbroker woman,’ he articulated at last, almost
in a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the
face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without
moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov
afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence
followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one
another all the while.
‘What if you have been reading about it?’ he cried at
last, perplexed and impatient. ‘That’s no business of mine!
What of it?’
‘The same old woman,’ Raskolnikov went on in the
same whisper, not heeding Zametov’s explanation, ‘about
whom you were talking in the police-office, you
remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand
now?’
‘What do you mean? Understand … what?’ Zametov
brought out, almost alarmed.
Raskolnikov’s set and earnest face was suddenly
transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same
nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to
restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with
extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the
recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe
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behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men
outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire to
shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at
them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
‘You are either mad, or …’ began Zametov, and he
broke off, as though stunned 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 became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy.
He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his
hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov.
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 of bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking
at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled
himself together. At the same moment his face resumed 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
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News that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in
Moscow. It was a regular society. They used 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, simpletons, not criminals!
Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object—
what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they
want to have more faith in one another than in
themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all
collapses. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people
to change the notes— what a thing to trust to a casual
stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed
and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest of
their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of
his life! Better hang oneself at once! And they did not
know how to change the notes either; the man who
changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his
hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but
did not count the fifth thousand—he was in such a hurry
to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course
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he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash
through one fool! Is it possible?’
‘That his hands trembled?’ observed Zametov, ‘yes,
that’s quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible.
Sometimes one can’t stand things.’
‘Can’t stand that?’
‘Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn’t. For the
sake of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible
experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it’s
their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not
have the face to do it. Would you?’
Raskolnikov had an intense desire again ‘to put his
tongue out.’ Shivers kept running down his spine.
‘I should do it quite differently,’ Raskolnikov began.
‘This is how I would change the notes: I’d count the first
thousand three or four times backwards and forwards,
looking at every note and then I’d set to the second
thousand; I’d count that half-way through and then hold
some fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold
it to the light again—to see whether it was a good one. ‘I
am afraid,’ I would say, ‘a relation of mine lost twenty-five
roubles the other day through a false note,’ and then I’d
tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the
third, ‘No, excuse me,’ I would say, ‘I fancy I made a
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mistake 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 and so on to the end. And
when I had finished, I’d pick out one from the fifth and
one from the second thousand and take them again to the
light and ask again, ‘Change them, please,’ and put the
clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get
rid of me. When I’d finished and had gone 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 all that 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 on himself, much less
you and I. To take an example near home—that old
woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to
have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open
daylight, was saved by a miracle—but his hands shook,
too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, 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 at Zametov.
‘Well, they will catch him.’
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‘Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him?
You’ve a tough job! A great point for you is whether a
man is spending money or not. If he had no money and
suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that
any child can mislead you.’
‘The fact is they always do that, though,’ answered
Zametov. ‘A man will commit a clever murder at the risk
of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern.
They are caught spending money, they are not all as
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 should behave in that case, too?’ he asked
with displeasure.
‘I should like to,’ Zametov answered firmly and
seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear
in his words and looks.
‘Very much?’
‘Very much!’
‘All right then. This is how I should behave,’
Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to
Zametov’s, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper,
so that the latter positively shuddered. ‘This is what I
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should have done. I should have taken the money and
jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone
straight to some deserted place with fences round it and
scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place
of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some
stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been
lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I
would lift that stone—there would sure to be a hollow
under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that
hole. 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’d be no trace.’
‘You are a madman,’ said Zametov, and for some
reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from
Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had 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 move without uttering a word. This
lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but
could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on
his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it
will break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will
speak out.
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‘And what if it was I who murdered the old woman
and Lizaveta?’ he said suddenly and—realised what he had
done.
Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the
tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile.
‘But is it possible?’ he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov
looked wrathfully at him.
‘Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?’
‘Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,’
Zametov cried hastily.
‘I’ve caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it
before, if now you believe less than ever?’
‘Not at all,’ cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed.
‘Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?’
‘You don’t believe it then? What were you talking
about behind my back when I went out of the policeoffice?
And why did the explosive lieutenant question me
after I fainted? Hey, there,’ he shouted to the waiter,
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!’ he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with
notes in it. ‘Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles.
Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes
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come from? You know I had not a copeck. You’ve crossexamined
my landlady, I’ll be bound…. Well, that’s
enough! Assez causé! Till we meet again!’
He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild
hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of
insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired.
His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased
rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and
revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as
quickly when the stimulus was removed.
Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same
place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly
worked a revolution in his brain on a 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 he stumbled against Razumihin on the
steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked
against each other. For a moment they stood looking each
other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded,
then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.
‘So here you are!’ he shouted at the top of his voice—
‘you ran away from your bed! And here I’ve been looking
for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost
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beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after all.
Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole
truth! 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 a sheet and you are gasping for breath!
Idiot! … What have you been doing in the Palais de
Cristal? Own up at once!’
‘Let me go!’ said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him.
This was too much for 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 do with you directly? I’ll pick you up, tie
you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and
lock you up!’
‘Listen, Razumihin,’ Raskolnikov began quietly,
apparently calm— ‘can’t you see that I don’t want your
benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits
on a man who … curses them, who feels them a burden in
fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my
illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn’t I tell you
plainly enough to-day that you were torturing me, that I
was … sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I
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assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery,
because it’s continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov
went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me
alone too, for goodness’ sake! What right have you,
indeed, to keep me by force? Don’t you see that I am in
possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I
persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I
may be ungrateful, 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 was about to utter, but finished,
panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had been with
Luzhin.
Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand
drop.
‘Well, go to hell then,’ he said gently and thoughtfully.
‘Stay,’ he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move.
‘Listen to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of
babbling, posing idiots! If you’ve any little trouble you
brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are
plagiarists even in that! There isn’t a sign of independent
life in you! You are made of spermaceti ointment and
you’ve lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don’t
believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first
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thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!’
he cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov
was again making a movement—‘hear me out! You know
I’m having a house-warming this evening, I dare say
they’ve arrived by now, but I left my uncle there—I just
ran in—to receive the guests. And if you weren’t a fool, a
common fool, 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 a fool!—and if you
weren’t a fool you’d come round to me this evening
instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you
have gone out, there’s no help for it! I’d give you a snug
easy chair, my landlady has one … a cup of tea,
company…. Or you could lie on the sofa—any way 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 back to them
afterwards…. One feels ashamed and goes back to a man!
So remember, Potchinkov’s house on the third storey….’
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‘Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you’d let anybody
beat you from sheer benevolence.’
‘Beat? Whom? Me? I’d twist his nose off at the mere
idea! Potchinkov’s house, 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 if you 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 he went 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 what Zossimov seemed afraid
of.’ He struck his finger on his forehead. ‘What if … how
could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself….
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Ach, what a blunder! I can’t.’ And he ran back to overtake
Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse
he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Cristal to
question Zametov.
Raskolnikov walked straight to X—— Bridge, stood in
the middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into
the distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much
weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed
to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over
the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of
the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the
gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left
bank, flashing as though on fire in the 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
flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the
passers-by, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before
his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from
swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became
aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he
looked and 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, but obviously she saw nothing
and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right
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hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing,
then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy
water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment,
but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the
surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs
in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
‘A woman drowning! A woman drowning!’ shouted
dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were
thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded
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 a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to
the canal, threw off his great coat 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 of her
clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole
which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman
was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite
pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered
consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing
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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 wailed at her side. ‘Out of her senses. The
other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran
out to the shop just now, left my little girl 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, someone mentioned the police station….
Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of
indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. ‘No, that’s
loathsome … water … it’s not good enough,’ he muttered
to himself. ‘Nothing will come of it,’ he added, ‘no use to
wait. What about the police office … ? And why isn’t
Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till
ten o’clock….’ He turned his back to the railing and
looked about him.
‘Very well then!’ he said resolutely; he moved from the
bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His
heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think.
Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now
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of the energy with which he had set out ‘to make an end
of it all.’ Complete apathy had succeeded to it.
‘Well, it’s a way out of it,’ he thought, walking slowly
and listlessly along the canal bank. ‘Anyway I’ll make an
end, for I want to…. But is it a way out? What does it
matter! There’ll be the square yard of space—ha! But what
an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah …
damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or
lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so
stupid. But I don’t care about that either! What idiotic
ideas come into one’s head.’
To reach the police office he had to go straight forward
and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few
paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a
minute’s thought, turned into a side street and went two
streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or
possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked,
looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to
whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was
standing at the very gate of the house. He had not passed
it, he had not been near it since that evening. An
overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on.
He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then
into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting
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the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow,
steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing
and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing
the framework of the window had been taken out. ‘That
wasn’t so then,’ he thought. Here was the flat on the
second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been
working. ‘It’s shut up and the door newly painted. So it’s
to let.’ Then the third storey and the fourth. ‘Here!’ He
was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open.
There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not
expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last
stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up;
there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he
somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left
it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the
floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed
strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the
window-sill. There were two workmen, both young
fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were
papering the walls with a new white paper covered with
lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one.
Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this.
He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt
sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had
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obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were
hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go
home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov’s coming in;
they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and
listened.
‘She comes to me in the morning,’ said the elder to the
younger, ‘very early, all dressed up. ‘Why are you
preening and prinking?’ says I. ‘I am ready to do anything
to please you, Tit Vassilitch!’ That’s a way of going on!
And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!’
‘And what is a fashion book?’ the younger one asked.
He obviously regarded the other as an authority.
‘A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they
come to the tailors here every Saturday, by post from
abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as
the female. They’re pictures. The gentlemen 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 cried enthusiastically, ‘except father and mother,
there’s everything!’
‘Except them, there’s everything to be found, my boy,’
the elder declared sententiously.
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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 very tiny without
furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the
corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He
looked at it and went 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 the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note.
He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and
remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful
sensation he had felt then began to come back more and
more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him
more and more satisfaction.
‘Well, what do you want? Who are you?’ the workman
shouted, going out to him. 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 up with the porter.’
‘The floors have been washed, will they be painted?’
Raskolnikov went on. ‘Is there no blood?’
‘What blood?’
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‘Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered
here. There was a perfect 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 lock up,’ said the elder workman.
‘Very well, come along,’ said Raskolnikov indifferently,
and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. ‘Hey,
porter,’ he cried in the gateway.
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?’
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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 police station,’ says he.
‘I’ll tell you everything there.’ He wouldn’t leave us.’
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 in Shil’s house, not far from here, flat
Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me.’ Raskolnikov
said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning 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 coat jerked in abruptly.
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Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder
and said in the same slow, lazy tones:
‘Come along.’
‘Yes, take him,’ the man went on more confidently.
‘Why was he going into that what’s in his mind, eh?’
‘He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s the matter
with him,’ muttered the workman.
‘But what do you want?’ the porter shouted again,
beginning to get angry in 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 peasant in a full open coat and with keys on
his belt. ‘Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get
along!’
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him
into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his
footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked
away.
‘Strange man!’ observed the workman.
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‘There are strange folks about nowadays,’ said the
woman.
‘You should have taken him to the police station all the
same,’ said the man in the long coat.
‘Better have nothing to do with him,’ decided the big
porter. ‘A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may be
sure, but once take him up, you won’t get rid of him….
We know the sort!’
‘Shall I go there or not?’ thought Raskolnikov,
standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at the crossroads,
and he looked about him, as though expecting from
someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all was
dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead
to him, to him alone…. All at once at the end of the
street, two hundred yards away, 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 the
middle of the street. ‘What is it?’ Raskolnikov turned to
the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch
at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for
he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station
and knew that it would all soon be over.
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Chapter VII
An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road
with a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one in it,
and the coachman had got off his box and stood by; the
horses were being held by the bridle…. A mass of people
had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of
them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on
something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking,
shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and
kept repeating:
‘What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!’
Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and
succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion
and interest. On the ground a man who had been run
over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood;
he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood
was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed,
mutilated and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured.
‘Merciful heaven!’ wailed the coachman, ‘what more
could I do? If I’d been driving fast or had not shouted to
him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Everyone
could see I was going along just like everybody else. A
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drunken man can’t walk straight, we all know…. I saw
him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I
shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held
the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he
did it on purpose or he was very tipsy…. The horses are
young and ready to take fright … they started, he
screamed … that made them worse. That’s how it
happened!’
‘That’s just how it was,’ a voice in the crowd
confirmed.
‘He shouted, that’s true, he shouted three times,’
another voice declared.
‘Three times it was, we all heard it,’ shouted a third.
But the coachman was not very much distressed and
frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a
rich and important person who was awaiting it
somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety
to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do
was to take the injured man to the police station and the
hospital. No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped
closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the
unfortunate man’s face. He recognised him.
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‘I know him! I know him!’ he shouted, pushing to the
front. ‘It’s a government clerk retired from the service,
Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel’s house…. Make
haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?’ He pulled money out
of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in
violent agitation.
The police were glad that they had found out who the
man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address,
and, as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought
the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his
lodging at once.
‘Just here, three houses away,’ he said eagerly, ‘the
house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going
home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He
has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter….
It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is
sure to be a doctor in the house. I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least
he will be looked after at home … they will help him at
once. But he’ll die before you get him to the hospital.’ He
managed to slip something unseen into the policeman’s
hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate,
and in any case help was closer here. They raised the
injured man; people volunteered to help.
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