Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you
have absolutely nowhere to turn?" Marmeladov's question came
suddenly into his mind "for every man must have somewhere to turn..."
  He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had
yesterday, slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the
thought recurring to him, for he knew, he had felt beforehand, that it
must come back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only
yesterday's thought. The difference was that a month ago, yesterday
even, the thought was a mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a
dream at all, it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar
shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself.... He felt a
hammering in his head, and there was a darkness before his eyes.
  He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted
to sit down and was looking for a seat; he was walking along the K____
Boulevard. There was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him.
He walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a
little adventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the
seat, he had noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of
him, but at first he took no more notice of her than of other
objects that crossed his path. It had happened to him many times going
home not to notice the road by which he was going, and he was
accustomed to walk like that. But there was at first sight something
so strange about the woman in front of him, that gradually his
attention was riveted upon her, at first reluctantly and, as it
were, resentfully, and then more and more intently. He felt a sudden
desire to find out what it was that was so strange about the woman. In
the first place, she appeared to be a girl quite young, and she was
walking in the great heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves,
waving her arms about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some
light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not properly hooked
up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the waist: a great
piece was rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was flung about
her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl was walking
unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to side. She
drew Raskolnikov's whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at
the seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the
corner; she let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her
eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he saw
at once that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking
sight. He could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before
him the face of a quite young, fair-haired girl- sixteen, perhaps
not more than fifteen years old, pretty little face, but flushed and
heavy looking and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know
what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it
indecorously, and showed every sign of being unconscious that she
was in the street.
  Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her,
and stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard was never much
frequented; and now, at two o'clock, in the stifling heat, it was
quite deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevard, about
fifteen paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the
pavement, he, too, would apparently have liked to approach the girl
with some object of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in the
distance and had followed her, but found Raskolnikov in his way. He
looked angrily at him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood
impatiently biding his time, till the unwelcome man in rags should
have moved away. His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a
plump, thickly-set man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high
colour, red lips and moustaches. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a
sudden longing to insult this fat dandy in some way. He left the
girl for a moment and walked towards the gentleman.
  "Hey! You Svidrigailov! What do you want here?" he shouted,
clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with rage.
  "What do you mean?" the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty
  "Get away, that's what I mean."
  "How dare you, you low fellow!"
  He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists,
without reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for two men
like himself. But at that instant some one seized him from behind, and
a police constable stood between them.
  "That's enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place.
What do you want? Who are you?" he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing
his rags.
  Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward,
sensible, soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers.
  "You are just the man I want," Raskolnikov cried, catching at his
arm. "I am a student, Raskolnikov.... You may as well know that
too," he added, addressing the gentleman, "come along, I have
something to show you."
  And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat.
  "Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the
boulevard. There is no telling who and what she is, she does not
look like a professional. It's more likely she has been given drink
and deceived somewhere... for the first time... you understand? and
they've put her out into the street like that. Look at the way her
dress is torn, and the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by
somebody, she has not dressed herself, and dressed by unpractised
hands, by a man's hands; that's evident. And now look there: I don't
know that dandy with whom I was going to fight, I see him for the
first time, but, he, too has seen her on the road, just now, drunk,
not knowing what she is doing, and now he is very eager to get hold of
her, to get her away somewhere while she is in this state... that's
certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him myself watching her and
following her, but I prevented him, and he is just waiting for me to
go away. Now he has walked away a little, and is standing still,
pretending to make a cigarette.... Think how can we keep her out of
his hands, and how are we to get her home?"
  The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to
understand, he turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to
examine her more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion.
  "Ah, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head- "why, she is quite a
child! She has been deceived, you can see that at once. Listen, lady,"
he began addressing her, "where do you live?" The girl opened her
weary and sleepy-looking eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and
waved her hand.
  "Here," said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty
copecks, "here, call a cab and tell him to drive her to her address.
The only thing is to find out her address!"
  "Missy, missy!" the policeman began again, taking the money. "I'll
fetch you a cab and take you home myself. Where shall I take you,
eh? Where do you live?"
  "Go away! They won't let me alone," the girl muttered, and once more
waved her hand.
  "Ach, ach, how shocking! It's shameful, missy, it's a shame!" He
shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic and indignant.
  "It's a difficult job," the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he
did so, he looked him up and down in a rapid glance. He. too, must
have seemed a strange figure to him: dressed in rags and handing him
  "Did you meet her far from here?" he asked him.
  "I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here,
in the boulevard. She only just reached the seat and sank down on it."
  "Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world nowadays, God
have mercy on us! An innocent creature like that, drunk already! She
has been deceived, that's a sure thing. See how her dress has been
torn too.... Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not
she belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe.... There are many like
that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as though she were a lady," and
he bent over her once more.
  Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, "looking like
ladies and refined" with pretensions to gentility and smartness....
  "The chief thing is," Raskolnikov persisted, "to keep her out of
this scoundrel's hands! Why should he outrage her! It's as clear as
day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!"
  Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentleman heard him,
and seemed about to fly into a rage again, but thought better of it,
and confined himself to a contemptuous look. He then walked slowly
another ten paces away and again halted.
  "Keep her out of his hands we can," said the constable thoughtfully,
"if only she'd tell us where to take her, but as it is.... Missy, hey,
missy!" he bent over her once more.
  She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently,
as though realising something, got up from the seat and walked away in
the direction from which she had come. "Oh shameful wretches, they
won't let me alone!" she said, waving her hand again. She walked
quickly, though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but
along another avenue, keeping his eye on her.
  "Don't be anxious, I won't let him have her," the policeman said
resolutely, and he set off after them.
  "Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!" he repeated aloud, sighing.
  At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an
instant a complete revulsion of feeling came over him.
  "Hey, here!" he shouted after the policeman.
  The latter turned round.
  "Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! Let him amuse
himself." He pointed at the dandy, "What is it to do with you?"
  The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open-eyed.
Raskolnikov laughed.
  "Well!" ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and he
walked after the dandy and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a
madman or something even worse.
  "He has carried off my twenty copecks," Raskolnikov murmured angrily
when he was left alone. "Well, let him take as much from the other
fellow to allow him to have the girl and so let it end. And why did
I want to interfere? Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help?
Let them devour each other alive- what is to me? How did I dare to
give him twenty copecks? Were they mine?"
  In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down
on the deserted seat. His thought strayed aimlessly.... He found it
hard to fix his mind on anything at that moment. He longed to forget
himself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and
begin life anew....
  "Poor girl!" he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat-
"She will come to herself and weep, and then her mother will find
out.... She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating
and then maybe, turn her out of doors.... And even if she does not,
the Darya Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be
slipping out on the sly here and there. Then there will be the
hospital directly (that's always the luck of those girls with
respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then... again the
hospital... drink... the taverns... and more hospital, in two or three
years- a wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen.... Have not
I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought to it? Why,
they've all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter? That's
as it should be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us,
must every year go... that way... to the devil, I suppose, so that the
rest may remain chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage! What
splendid words they have; they are so scientific, so consolatory....
Once you've said 'percentage,' there's nothing more to worry about. If
we had any other word... maybe we might feel more uneasy.... But
what if Dounia were one of the percentage! Of another one if not
that one?
  "But where am I going?" he thought suddenly. "Strange, I came out
for something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out.... I was
going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That's what it was...
now I remember. What for, though? And what put the idea of going to
Razumihin into my head just now? That's curious."
  He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old comrades at the
university. It was remarkable that Raskolnikov had hardly any
friends at the university; he kept aloof from every one, went to see
no one, and did not welcome any one who came to see him, and indeed
every one soon gave him up. He took no part in the students'
gatherings, amusements or conversations. He worked with great
intensity without sparing himself, and he was respected for this,
but no one liked him. He was very poor, and there was a sort of
haughty pride and reserve about him, as though he were keeping
something to himself. He seemed to some of his comrades to look down
upon them all as children, as though he were superior in
development, knowledge and convictions, as though their beliefs and
interests were beneath him.
  With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more unreserved
and communicative with him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any
other terms with Razumihin. He was an exceptionally good-humoured
and candid youth, good-natured to the point of simplicity, though both
depth and dignity lay concealed under that simplicity. The better of
his comrades understood this, and all were fond of him. He was
extremely intelligent, though he was certainly rather a simpleton at
times. He was of striking appearance- tall, thin, blackhaired and
always badly shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be
of great physical strength. One night, when out in a festive
company, he had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on his back.
There was no limit to his drinking powers, but he could abstain from
drink altogether; he sometimes went too far in his pranks; but he
could do without pranks altogether. Another thing striking about
Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no
unfavourable circumstances could crush him. He could lodge anywhere,
and bear the extremes of cold and hunger. He was very poor, and kept
himself entirely on what he could earn by work of one sort or another.
He knew of no end of resources by which to earn money. He spent one
whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to declare that he
liked it better, because one slept more soundly in the cold. For the
present he, too, had been obliged to give up the university, but it
was only for a time, and he was working with all his might to save
enough to return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to see
him for the last four months, and Razumihin did not even know his
address. About two months before, they had met in the street, but
Raskolnikov had turned away and even crossed to the other side that he
might not be observed. And though Razumihin noticed him, he passed him
by, as he did not want to annoy him.

                             Chapter Five
  "OF COURSE, I've been meaning lately to go to Razumihin's to ask for
work, to ask him to get me lessons or something..." Raskolnikov
thought, "but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me
lessons, suppose he shares his last farthing with me, if he has any
farthings, so that I could get some boots and make myself tidy
enough to give lessons... hm... Well and what then? What shall I do
with the few coppers I earn? That's not what I want now. It's really
absurd for me to go to Razumihin...."
  The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him even
more than he was himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some
sinister significance in this apparently ordinary action.
  "Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way
out by means of Razumihin alone?" he asked himself in perplexity.
  He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long
musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a
fantastic thought came into his head.
  "Hm... to Razumihin's," he said all at once, calmly, as though he
had reached a final determination. "I shall go to Razumihin's of
course, but... not now. I shall go to him... on the next day after It,
when It will be over and everything will begin afresh...."
  And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.
  "After It," he shouted, jumping up from the seat, "but is It
really going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?" He left
the seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back,
homewards, but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with
intense loathing; in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of
his, all this had for a month past been growing up in him; and he
walked on at random.
  His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel
shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he
began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all
the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract
his attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every
moment into brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and
looked around, he forgot at once what he had just been thinking
about and even where he was going. In this way he walked right
across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed
the bridge and turned towards the islands. The greenness and freshness
were at first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town and
the huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed upon him. Here there
were no taverns, no stifling closeness, no stench. But soon these
new pleasant sensations passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes
he stood still before a brightly painted summer villa standing among
green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the distance
smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies, and children
running in the gardens. The flowers especially caught his attention;
he gazed at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by
luxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them
with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had vanished
from his sight. Once he stood still and counted his money; he found he
had thirty copecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for
the letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the
Marmeladovs yesterday," he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown
reason, but he soon forgot with what object he had taken the money out
of his pocket. He recalled it on passing an eating-house or tavern,
and felt that he was hungry.... Going into the tavern he drank a glass
of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it as he
walked away. It was a long while since he had taken vodka and it had
an effect upon him at once, though he only drank a wine-glassful.
His legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him.
He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped
completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down
upon the grass and instantly fell asleep.
  In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular
actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times
monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture
are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly,
but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist
like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the
waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and
make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous
  Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his
childhood in the little town of his birth. He was a child about
seven years old, walking into the country with his father on the
evening of a holiday. It was a grey and heavy day, the country was
exactly as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in
his dream than he had done in memory. The little town stood on a level
flat as bare as the hand, not even a willow near it; only in the far
distance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge of the horizon.
A few paces beyond the last market garden stood a tavern, a big
tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of
fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was always a crowd
there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse singing and
often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking figures were hanging
about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling
all over when he met them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty
track, the dust of which was always black. It was a winding road,
and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to the right to the
graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with
a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year
with his father and mother, when a service was held in memory of his
grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had never seen. On
these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a table
napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in
the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned,
unadorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head. Near his
grandmother's grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little grave
of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He did not
remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother,
and whenever he visited the graveyard he used religiously and
reverently to cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave.
And now he dreamt that he was walking with his father past the
tavern on the way to the graveyard; he was holding his father's hand
and looking with dread at the tavern. A peculiar circumstance
attracted his attention: there seemed to be some kind of festivity
going on, there were crowds of gaily dressed townspeople, peasant
women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts, all singing and all
more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern stood a cart,
but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts usually drawn by
heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods.
He always liked looking at those great cart-horses, with their long
manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect
mountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier
going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the
shafts of such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of
those peasants' nags which he had often seen straining their utmost
under a heavy load of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were
stuck in the mud or in a rut. And the peasants would be at them so
cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes and he felt so
sorry, so sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always
used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden there was a
great uproar of shouting, singing and the balalaika, and from the
tavern a number of big and very drunken peasants came out, wearing red
and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders.
  "Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young thick-necked
peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll take you all, get
  But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in
the crowd.
  "Take us all with a beast like that!"
  "Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?"
  "And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!"
  "Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted again, leaping first
into the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front.
"The bay has gone with Marvey," he shouted from the cart- "and this
brute, mates, is just breaking my heart, I feel as if I could kill
her. She's just eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I'll make her
gallop! She'll gallop!" and he picked up the whip, preparing himself
with relish to flog the little mare.
  "Get in! Come along!" The crowd laughed. "D'you hear, she'll
  "Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten
  "She'll jog along!"
  "Don't you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!"
  "All right! Give it to her!"
  They all clambered into Mikolka's cart, laughing and making jokes.
Six men got in and there was still room for more. They hauled in a
fat, rosy-cheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a
pointed, beaded headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking
nuts and laughing. The crowd round them was laughing too and indeed,
how could they help laughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the
cartload of them at a gallop! Two young fellows in the cart were
just getting whips ready to help Mikolka. With the cry of "now," the
mare tugged with all her might, but far from galloping, could scarcely
move forward; she struggled with her legs, gasping and shrinking
from the blows of the three whips which were showered upon her like
hail. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd was redoubled, but
Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously thrashed the mare, as though he
supposed she really could gallop.
  "Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd
whose appetite was aroused.
  "Get in, all get in," cried Mikolka, "she will draw you all. I'll
beat her to death!" And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside
himself with fury.
  "Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they doing? Father,
they are beating the poor horse!"
  "Come along, come along!" said his father. "They are drunken and
foolish, they are in fun; come away, don't look!" and he tried to draw
him away, but he tore himself away from his hand, and, beside
himself with horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast was in a bad
way. She was gasping, standing still, then tugging again and almost
  "Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to that. I'll do
for her!"
  "What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?" shouted an old
man in the crowd.
  "Did any one ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling
such a cartload," said another.
  "You'll kill her," shouted the third.
  "Don't meddle! It's my property. I'll do what I choose. Get in, more
of you! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop!..."
  All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the
mare, roused by the shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even the
old man could not help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast
like that trying to kick!
  Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to
beat her about the ribs. One ran each side.
  "Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes," cried Mikolka.
  "Give us a song, mates," shouted some one in the cart and every
one in the cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and
whistling. The woman went on cracking nuts and laughing.
  ...He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being
whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt
choking, his tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut
with the whip across the face, he did not feel it. Wringing his
hands and screaming, he rushed up to the grey-headed old man with
the grey beard, who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman
seized him by the hand and would have taken him away, but he tore
himself from her and ran back to the mare. She was almost at the
last gasp, but began kicking once more.
  "I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down
the whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a
long, thick shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an
effort brandished it over the mare.
  "He'll crush her," was shouted round him. "He'll kill her!"
  "It's my property," shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down
with a swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.
  "Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?" shouted voices in
the crowd.
  And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second
time on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches,
but lurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged
first on one side and then on the other, trying to move the cart.
But the six whips were attacking her in all directions, and the
shaft was raised again and fell upon her a third time, then a
fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could
not kill her at one blow.
  "She's a tough one," was shouted in the crowd.
  "She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of
her," said an admiring spectator in the crowd.
  "Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off," shouted a third.
  "I'll show you! Stand off," Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw
down the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron
crowbar. "Look out," he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a
stunning blow at the poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered,
sank back, tried to pull, but the bar fell again with a swinging
blow on her back and she fell on the ground like a log.
  "Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out
of the cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized
anything they could come across- whips, sticks, poles, and ran to
the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random
blows with the crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long
breath and died.
  "You butchered her," some one shouted in the crowd.
  "Why wouldn't she gallop then?"
  "My property!" shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the
bar in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing
more to beat.
  "No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices were
shouting in the crowd.
  But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way screaming through the
crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and
kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Then he jumped up
and flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that
instant his father who had been running after him, snatched him up and
carried him out of the crowd.
  "Come along, come! Let us go home," he said to him.
  "Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!" he sobbed, but his
voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.
  "They are drunk.... They are brutal... it's not our business!"
said his father. He put his arms round his father but he felt
choked, choked. He tried to draw a breath, to cry out- and woke up.
  He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with
perspiration, and stood up in terror.
  "Thank God, that was only a dream," he said, sitting down under a
tree and drawing deep breaths. "But what is it? Is it some fever
coming on? Such a hideous dream!"
  He felt utterly broken; darkness and confusion were in his soul.
He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.
  "Good God!" he cried, "can it be, can it be, that I shall really
take an axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull
open... that I shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock,
steal and tremble; hide, all spattered in the blood... with the
axe.... Good God, can it be?"
  He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.
  "But why am I going on like this?" he continued, sitting up again,
as it were in profound amazement. "I knew that I could never bring
myself to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now?
Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that... experiment,
yesterday I realised completely that I could never bear to do it....
Why am I going over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came
down the stairs yesterday, I said myself that it was base,
loathsome, vile, vile... the very thought of it made me feel sick
and filled me with horror.
  "No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted, granted that there
is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded
this last month is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My God! Anyway
I couldn't bring myself to it! I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it!
Why, why then am I still...?"
  He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at
finding himself in this place, and went towards the bridge. He was
pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed
suddenly to breathe more easily. He felt he had cast off that
fearful burden that had so long been weighing upon him, and all at
once there was a sense of relief and peace in his soul. "Lord," he
prayed, "show me my path- I renounce that accursed... dream of mine."
  Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the
glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness
he was not conscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that
had been forming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken.
Freedom, freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that
  Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him
during those days, minute by minute, point by point, he was
superstitiously impressed by one circumstance, which though in
itself not very exceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the
predestined turning-point of his fate. He could never understand and
explain to himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it
would have been more convenient for him to go home by the shortest and
most direct way, he had returned by the Hay Market where he had no
need to go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily out of his way,
though not much so. It is true that it happened to him dozens of times
to return home without noticing what streets he passed through. But
why, he was always asking himself, why had such an important, such a
decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance meeting
happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no reason to go)
at the very hour, the very minute of his life when he was just in
the very mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting
was able to exert the gravest and most decisive influence on his whole
destiny? As though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose!
  It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the
tables and the barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market
people were closing their establishments or clearing away and
packing up their wares and, like their customers, were going home.
Ragpickers and costermongers of all kinds were crowding round the
taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market.
Raskolnikov particularly liked this place and the neighbouring alleys,
when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not
attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in any attire
without scandalising people. At the corner of an alley a huckster
and his wife had two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton
handkerchiefs, &c. They, too, had got up to go home, but were
lingering in conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them.
This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as every one called her,
Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna,
whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn his watch and
make his experiment.... He already knew all about Lizaveta and she
knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five,
tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete
slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, who made her
work day and night, and even beat her. She was standing with a
bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly and
doubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. The
moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange
sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing
astonishing about this meeting.
  "You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," the
huckster was saying aloud. "Come round tomorrow about seven. They will
be here too."
  "To-morrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable
to make up her mind.
  "Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna," gabbled
the huckster's wife, a lively little woman. "I look at you, you are
like some little babe. And she is not your own sister either-
nothing but a stepsister and what a hand she keeps over you!"
  "But this time don't say a word to Alyona Ivanovna," her husband
interrupted; "that's my advice, but come round to us without asking.
It will be worth your while. Later on your sister herself may have a
  "Am I to come?"
  "About seven o'clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be
able to decide for yourself."
  "And we'll have a cup of tea," added his wife.
  "All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she
began slowly moving away.
  Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly,
unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followed
by a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had
learnt, he had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day
at seven o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and only
companion, would be away from home and that therefore at seven o'clock
precisely the old woman would be left alone.
  He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man
condemned to death. He thought of nothing and was incapable of
thinking; but he felt suddenly in his whole being that he had no
more freedom of thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and
irrevocably decided.
  Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity,
he could not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of
the plan than that which had just presented itself. In any case, it
would have been difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty,
with greater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous
inquiries and investigations, that next day at a certain time an old
woman, on whose life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and
entirely alone.

                             Chapter Six
  LATER on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his
wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was
nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and
been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and
clothes, all women's things. As the things would have fetched little
in the market, they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta's
business. She undertook such jobs and was frequently employed, as
she was very honest and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She
spoke as a rule little and, as we have said already, she was very
submissive and timid.
  But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of
superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable.
And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something
strange and mysterious, as it were the presence of some peculiar
influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he
knew called Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in
conversation to give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old
pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For a long while
he did not go to her, for he had lessons and managed to get along
somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered the address; he had two
articles that could be pawned: his father's old silver watch and a
little gold ring with three red stones, a present from his sister at
parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman he
had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance,
though he knew nothing special about her. He got two roubles from
her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way home. He
asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange idea was
pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very much
absorbed him.
  Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student,
whom he did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer.
They had played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at
once he heard the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona
Ivanovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to
Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once he heard her
name. Of course it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very
extraordinary impression, and here some one seemed to be speaking
expressly for him; the student began telling his friend various
details about Alyona Ivanovna.
  "She is first rate," he said. "You can always get money from her.
She is as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand roubles at a
time and she is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our
fellows have had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy...."
  And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if
you were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how
she gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even
seven percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on,
saying that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little
creature was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like
a small child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.
  "There's a phenomenon for you," cried the student and he laughed.
  They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her
with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer
listened with great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some
mending for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned
everything about her. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and
was her half-sister, being the child of a different mother. She was
thirty-five. She worked day and night for her sister, and besides
doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and worked as a
charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare to
accept an order or job of any kind without her sister's permission.
The old woman had already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it,
and by this will she would not get a farthing; nothing but the
movables, chairs and so on; all the money was left to a monastery in
the province of N___, that prayers might be said for her in
perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried
and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that
looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered
goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What the student
expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta
was continually with child.
  "But you say she is hideous?" observed the officer.
  "Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up,
but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured
face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of
people are attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature,
ready to put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything.
And her smile is really very sweet."
  "You seem to find her attractive yourself," laughed the officer.
  "From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill that
damned old woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without
the faintest conscience-prick," the student added with warmth. The
officer laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!
  "Listen, I want to ask you a serious question," the student said
hotly. "I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a
stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman,
not simply useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what
she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any
case. You understand? You understand?"
  "Yes, yes, I understand," answered the officer, watching his excited
companion attentively.
  "Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away
for want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand
good deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman's money which
will be buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be
set on the right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from
ruin, from vice, from the Lock hospitals- and all with her money. Kill
her, take her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the
service of humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would
not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one
life thousands would be saved from corruption and decay. One death,
and a hundred lives in exchange- it's simple arithmetic! Besides, what
value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in
the balance of existence! No more than the life of a louse, of a black
beetle, less in fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is
wearing out the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta's
finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated."
  "Of course she does not deserve to live," remarked the officer, "but
there it is, it's nature."
  "Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and,
but for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for
that, there would never have been a single great man. They talk of
duty, conscience- I don't want to say anything against duty and
conscience;- but the point is what do we mean by them. Stay, I have
another question to ask you. Listen!"
  "No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!"
  "You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you
kill the old woman yourself?"
  "Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It's
nothing to do with me...."
  "But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there's no justice
about it.... Let us have another game."
  Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary
youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in
different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to
hear such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his
own brain was just conceiving... the very same ideas? And why, just at
the moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the
old woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This
coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a
tavern had an immense influence on him in his later action; as
though there had really been in it something preordained, some guiding
  On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and
sat for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had
no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could
never recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that
time. At last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering,
and he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon
heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as it were crushing him.
  He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming.
Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o'clock the next morning, had
difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea
was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot.
  "My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indignantly. "And he is
always asleep."
  He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn
in his garret and sank back on the sofa again.
  "Going to sleep again," cried Nastasya. "Are you ill, eh?"
  He made no reply.
  "Do you want some tea?"
  "Afterwards," he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and
turning to the wall.
  Nastasya stood over him.


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"Perhaps he really is ill," she said, turned and went out. She
came in again at two o'clock with soup. He was lying as before. The
tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began
wrathfully rousing him.
  "Why are you lying like a log?" she shouted, looking at him with
  He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the
  "Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya and again received no answer.
"You'd better go out and get a breath of air," she said after a pause.
"Will you eat it or not?"
  "Afterwards," he said weakly. "You can go."
  And he motioned her out.
  She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went
  A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long
while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon
and began to eat.
  He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite as it
were mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched
himself on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay
without stirring, with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by
daydreams and such strange daydreams; in one, that kept recurring,
he fancied that he was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The
caravan was resting, the camels were peacefully lying down; the
palms stood all around in a complete circle; all the party were at
dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring which flowed
gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful, wonderful,
blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured stones and over
the clean sand which glistened here and there like gold.... Suddenly
he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his
head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly
jumped up wide awake as though some one had pulled him off the sofa.
He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began
listening on the staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet
on the stairs as if every one was asleep.... It seemed to him
strange and monstrous that he could have slept in such forgetfulness
from the previous day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing
yet.... And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness
and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it
were, distracted, haste. But the preparations to be made were few.
He concentrated all his energies on thinking of everything and
forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping so that he
could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it into his
overcoat- a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and
picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn out, old
unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches
wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two,
took off his wide, strong summer overcoat of some stout cotton
material (his only outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the
rag on the inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook as he
sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed outside
when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got
ready long before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As
for the noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose
was intended for the axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe
through the street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would
still have had to support it with his hand, which would have been
noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose,
and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his
hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the
way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a
regular sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was
holding something with the hand that was in the pocket. This noose,
too, he had designed a fortnight before.
  When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little
opening between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and
drew out the pledge, which he had got ready long before and hidden
there. This pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of
wood the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up
this piece of wood in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there
was some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a
thin smooth piece of iron, which he had also picked up at the same
time in the street. Putting the iron which was a little the smaller on
the piece of wood, he fastened them very firmly, crossing and
re-crossing the thread round them; then wrapped them carefully and
daintily in clean white paper and tied up the parcel so that it
would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the
attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo
the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give
weight, so that the woman might not guess the first minute that the
"thing" was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand
under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard some
one suddenly about in the yard.
  "It struck six long ago."
  "Long ago! My God!"
  He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to
descend his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had
still the most important thing to do- to steal the axe from the
kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long
ago. He had also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on
the knife and still less on his own strength, and so resolved
finally on the axe. We may note in passing, one peculiarity in
regard to all the final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they
had one strange characteristic: the more final they were, the more
hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his eyes. In
spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for a single
instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans.
  And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least
point could have been considered and finally settled, and no
uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have
renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But
a whole mass of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for
getting the axe, that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for
nothing could be easier. Nastasya was continually out of the house,
especially in the evenings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a
shop, and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady
was always scolding her about. And so when the time came, he would
only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an
hour later (when everything was over) go in and put it back again. But
these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later to put
it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would of
course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing
she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry-
that would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
  But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to
consider, and indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief
point, and put off trifling details, until he could believe in it all.
But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at
least. He could not imagine, for instance, that he would sometime
leave off thinking, get up and simply go there.... Even his late
experiment (i.e. his visit with the object of a final survey of the
place) was simply an attempt at an experiment, far from being the real
thing, as though one should say "come, let us go and try it- why dream
about it!"- and at once he had broken down and had run away cursing,
in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the
moral question, that his analysis was complete; his casuistry had
become keen as a razor, and he could not find rational objections in
himself. But in the last resort he simply ceased to believe in
himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all directions,
fumbling for them, as though some one were forcing and drawing him
to it.
  At first- long before indeed- he had been much occupied with one
question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily
detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He
had come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in
his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material
impossibility of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself.
Almost every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning
power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant
when prudence and caution are most essential. It was his conviction
that this eclipse of reason and failure of will power attacked a man
like a disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point just
before the perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at
the moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after,
according to the individual case, and then passed off like any other
disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the crime,
or whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always
accompanied by something of the nature of disease, he did not yet feel
able to decide.
  When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case
there could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will
would remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for
the simple reason that his design was "not a crime...." We will omit
all the process by means of which he arrived at this last
conclusion; we have run too far ahead already.... We may add only that
the practical, purely material difficulties of the affair occupied a
secondary position in his mind. "One has but to keep all one's will
power and reason to deal with them, and they will all be overcome at
the time when once one has familiarised oneself with the minutest
details of the business...." But this preparation had never been
begun. His final decisions were what he came to trust least, and
when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as it
were accidentally and unexpectedly.
  One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even
left the staircase. When he reached the landlady's kitchen, the door
of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether,
in Nastasya's absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not,
whether the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not
peep out when he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement
when he suddenly saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the
kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen out of a basket and
hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging the clothes,
turned to him and stared at him all the time he was passing. He turned
away his eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But it
was the end of everything; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.
  "What made me think," he reflected, as he went under the gateway,
"what made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that
moment! Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?"
  He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself
in his anger.... A dull animal rage boiled within him.
  He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go for
a walk for appearance sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even
more revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for ever!" he muttered,
standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter's little
dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter's
room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to
the right caught his eye.... He looked about him- nobody. He
approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a
faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home! Somewhere near
though, in the yard, for the door is wide open." He dashed to the
axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it
lay between two chunks of wood; at once before going out, he made it
fast in the noose, he thrust both hands into his pockets and went
out of the room; no one had noticed him! "When reason fails, the devil
helps!" he thought with a strange grin. This chance raised his spirits
  He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid
awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to
escape looking at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable
as possible. Suddenly he thought of his hat. "Good heavens! I had
the money the day before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear
instead!" A curse rose from the bottom of his soul.
  Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock
on the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste
and at the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the
house from the other side....
  When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had
sometimes thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not
very much afraid now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even
occupied by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he
passed the Yusupov garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the
building of great fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the
atmosphere in all the squares. By degrees he passed to the
conviction that if the summer garden were extended to the field of
Mars, and perhaps joined to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it
would be a splendid thing and a great benefit to the town. Then he was
interested by the question why in all great towns men are not simply
driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way inclined to live in
those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor fountains;
where there is most dirt and smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then
his own walks through the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for
a moment he waked up to reality. "What nonsense!" he thought,
"better think of nothing at all!"
  "So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object
that meets them on the way," flashed through his mind, but simply
flashed, like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought.... And
by now he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly
a clock somewhere struck once. "What! can it be half-past seven?
Impossible, it must be fast!"
  Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that
very moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay
had just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he
passed under the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to
drive through into the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the
right. On the other side of the waggon he could hear shouting and
quarrelling; but no one noticed him and no one met him. Many windows
looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but
he did not raise his head- he had not the strength to. The staircase
leading to the old woman's room was close by, just on the right of the
gateway. He was already on the stairs....
  Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and
once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly
and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the
stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no
one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters
were at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still,
thought a minute and went on. "Of course it would be better if they
had not been here, but... it's two storeys above them."
  And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the
flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman's
was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had
been torn off- they had gone away!... He was out of breath. For one
instant the thought floated through his mind "Shall I go back?" But he
made no answer and began listening at the old woman's door, a dead
silence. Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and
intently... then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself
together, drew himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose.
"Am I very pale?" he wondered. "Am I not evidently agitated? She is
mistrustful.... Had I better wait a little longer... till my heart
leaves off thumping?"
  But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite
him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer,
he slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later
he rang again, more loudly.
  No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old
woman was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He
had some knowledge of her habits... and once more he put his ear to
the door. Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is
difficult to suppose), or the sound was really very distinct.
Anyway, he suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a
hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door. Some
one was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as he was doing
on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed to have her
ear to the door.... He moved a little on purpose and muttered
something aloud that he might not have the appearance of hiding,
then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly and without impatience,
Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly,
distinctly, forever; he could not make out how he had had such
cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was
almost unconscious of his body.... An instant later he heard the latch

                            Chapter Seven
  THE DOOR was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp
and suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then
Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly made a great mistake.
  Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone,
and not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he
took hold of the door and drew it towards him to prevent the old woman
from attempting to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the
door back, but she did not let go the handle so that he almost dragged
her out with it on to the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in
the doorway not allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her.
She stepped back in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed unable
to speak and stared with open eyes at him.
  "Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna," he began, trying to speak easily,
but his voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. "I have
come... I have brought something... but we'd better come in... to
the light...."
  And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old
woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.
  "Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?"
  "Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought
you the pledge I promised the other day..." and he held out the
  The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared
in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously
and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a
sneer in her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He
felt that he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so
frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for
another half minute, he thought he would have run away from her.
  "Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?" he said
suddenly, also with malice. "Take it if you like, if not I'll go
elsewhere, I am in a hurry."
  He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said
of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor's resolute
tone evidently restored her confidence.
  "But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?" she asked,
looking at the pledge.
  "The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know."
  She held out her hand.
  "But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling
too? Have you been bathing, or what?"
  "Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale... if
you've nothing to eat," he added, with difficulty articulating the
  His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like
the truth; the old woman took the pledge.
  "What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently,
and weighing the pledge in her hand.
  "A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it."
  "It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!"
  Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light
(all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left
him altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He
unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not
yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand
under the coat. His hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every
moment growing more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let
the axe slip and fall.... A sudden giddiness came over him.
  "But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with
vexation and moved towards him.
  He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung
it with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without
effort, almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her
head. He seemed not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he
had once brought the axe down, his strength returned to him.
  The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair,
streaked with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a
rat's tail and fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the
nape of her neck. As she was so short, the blow fell on the very top
of her skull. She cried out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all
of a heap on the floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she
still held "the pledge." Then he dealt her another and another blow
with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood gushed as from
an overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall,
and at once bent over her face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be
starting out of their sockets, the brow and the whole face were
drawn and contorted convulsively.
  He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in
her pocket (trying to avoid the streaming body)- the same right hand
pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in
full possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness,
but his hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he
had been particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not
to get smeared with blood.... He pulled out the keys at once, they
were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into
the bedroom with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of
holy images. Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and
covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a
chest of drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the
keys into the chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a
convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again
to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it
was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself, when
suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly
fancied that the old woman might be still alive and might recover
her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body,
snatched up the axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but
did not bring it down. There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending
down and examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the
skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was about to
feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was
evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of blood. All
at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but the
string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked with
blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but
something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he
raised the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did
not dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the
blood, after two minutes' hurried effort, he cut the string and took
it off without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken- it
was a purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and
one of copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a
small greasy chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The
purse was stuffed very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket
without looking at it, flung the crosses on the old woman's body and
rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.
  He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying
them again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the
locks. It was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he
kept making mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not
the right one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly
he remembered and realised that the big key with the deep notches,
which was hanging there with the small keys could not possibly
belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had struck
him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps was hidden
in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and at once felt under
the bedstead, knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their
beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized box under the bed, at
least a yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather
and studded with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and
unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red
brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress, then a shawl
and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes. The first
thing he did was to wipe his blood-stained hands on the red brocade.
"It's red, and on red blood will be less noticeable," the thought
passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to himself. "Good
God, am I going out of my senses?" he thought with terror.
  But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped
from under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There
turned out to be various articles made of gold among the
clothes-probably all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed-
bracelets, chains, ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in
cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly
folded, and tied round with tape. Without any delay, he began
filling up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without
examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he had not time to
take many....
  He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He
stopped short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must
have been his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as
though some one had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence
for a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and
waited holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and
ran out of the bedroom.
  In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her
arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white
as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him
run out of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a
leaf, a shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her
mouth, but still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from
him into the corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but
still uttered no sound, as though she could not get breath to
scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously,
as one sees babies' mouths, when they begin to be frightened, stare
intently at what frightens them and are on the point of screaming. And
this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thoroughly crushed
and scared that she did not even raise a hand to guard her face,
though that was the most necessary and natural action at the moment,
for the axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty left
hand, but not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as
though motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just on
the skull and split at one blow all the top of the head. She fell
heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatched up her
bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry.
  Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this
second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the
place as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable
of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise
all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the
hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how
many obstacles and, perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to
commit, to get out of that place and to make his way home, it is
very possible that he would have flung up everything, and would have
gone to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple horror and
loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loathing especially
surged up within him and grew stronger every minute. He would not
now have gone to the box or even into the room for anything in the
  But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess had begun by degrees to
take possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather,
forgot what was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing,
however, into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on
a bench, he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe. His
hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the
water, snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the
window, and began washing his hands in the bucket. When they were
clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and spent a long time,
about three minutes, washing the wood where there were spots of
blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen
that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a
long while attentively examining the axe at the window. There was no
trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung
the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in
the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his
trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing
but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots. But
he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something
quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of
the room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind-
the idea that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of
reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing
something utterly different from what he was now doing. "Good God!" he
muttered "I must fly, fly," and he rushed into the entry. But here a
shock of terror awaited him such as he had never known before.
  He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the
outer door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and
rung, was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock,
no bolt, all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it
after him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen
Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to
reflect that she must have come in somehow! She could not have come
through the wall!
  He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
  "But no, the wrong thing again. I must get away, get away...."
  He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on
the staircase.
  He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the
gateway, two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling
and scolding. "What are they about?" He waited patiently. At last
all was still, as though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He
was meaning to go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was
noisily opened and some one began going downstairs humming a tune.
"How is it they all make such a noise!" flashed through his mind. Once
more he closed the door and waited. At last all was still, not a
soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the stairs when he
heard fresh footsteps.
  The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs,
but he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first
sound he began for some reason to suspect that this was some one
coming there, to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the
sounds somehow peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and
unhurried. Now he had passed the first floor, now he was mounting
higher, it was growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy
breathing. And now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And
it seemed to him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it
was like a dream in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will
be killed, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one's arms.
  At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he
suddenly started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back
into the flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook
and softly, noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him.
When he had done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door.
The unknown visitor was by now also at the door. They were now
standing opposite one another, as he had just before been standing
with the old woman, when the door divided them and he was listening.
  The visitor panted several times. "He must be a big, fat man,"
thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a
dream indeed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang loudly.
  As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of
something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite
seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged
violently and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed
in horror at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror
expected every minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It
certainly did seem possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was
tempted to hold the fastening, but he might be aware of it. A
giddiness came over him again. "I shall fall down!" flashed through
his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he recovered himself at
  "What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!" he bawled
in a thick voice, "Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna,
hey, my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or
  And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at
the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority and an intimate
  At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the
stairs. Some one else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard
them at first.
  "You don't say there's no one at home," the new-comer cried in a
cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still
went on pulling the bell. "Good evening, Koch."
  "From his voice he must be quite young," thought Raskolnikov.
  "Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the lock," answered
Koch. "But how do you come to know me?
  "Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at
billiards at Gambrinus'."
  "So they are not at home? That's queer? It's awfully stupid
though. Where could the old woman have gone? I've come on business."
  "Yes; and I have business with her, too."
  "Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie-aie! And I was hoping
to get some money!" cried the young man.
  "We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time
for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It's out
of my way. And where the devil she can have got to, I can't make
out. She sits here from year's end to year's end, the old hag; her
legs are bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!"
  "Hadn't we better ask the porter?"
  "Where she's gone and when she'll be back."
  "Hm.... Damn it all!... We might ask.... But you know she never does
go anywhere."
  And he once more tugged at the door-handle.
  "Damn it all. There's nothing to be done, we must go!"
  "Stay!" cried the young man suddenly. "Do you see how the door
shakes if you pull it?"
  "That shows it's not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear
how the hook clanks?"
  "Why, don't you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If
they were all out, they would have locked the door from the outside
with the key and not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how
the hook is clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at
home, don't you see. So there they are sitting inside and don't open
the door!"
  "Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What are
they about in there!" And he began furiously shaking the door.
  "Stay!" cried the young man again. "Don't pull at it! There must
be something wrong..... Here, you've been ringing and pulling at the
door and still they don't open! So either they've both fainted or..."


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

  "I tell you what. Let's go fetch the porter, let him wake them up."
  "All right."
  Both were going down.
  "Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter."
  "What for?"
  "Well, you'd better."
  "All right."
  "I'm studying the law you see! It's evident, e-vi-dent there's
something wrong here!" the young man cried hotly, and he ran
  Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one
tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began
touching the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure
once more that it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and
panting he bent down and began looking at the keyhole; but the key was
in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be seen.
  Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of
delirium. He was even making ready to fight when they should come
in. While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several
times occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them
through the door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to
jeer at them, while they could not open the door! "Only make haste!"
was the thought that flashed through his mind.
  "But what the devil is he about?..." Time was passing, one minute,
and another- no one came. Koch began to be restless.
  "What the devil?" he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting
his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping his heavy
boots on the stairs. The steps died away.
  "Good heavens! What am I to do?"
  Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door- there was no
sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing
the door as thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.
  He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice
below- where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going
back to the flat.
  "Hey there! Catch the brute!"
  Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell
than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.
  "Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!"
  The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all
was still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast
began noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them.
He distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. "They!"
  Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling "come
what must!" If they stopped him- all was lost; if they let him pass-
all was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they
were only a flight from him- and suddenly deliverance! A few steps
from him on the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide
open, the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at
work, and which, as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was
they, no doubt, who had just run down, shouting. The floor had only
just been painted, in the middle of the room stood a pail and a broken
pot with paint and brushes. In one instant he had whisked in at the
open door and hidden behind the wall and only in the nick of time;
they had already reached the landing. Then they turned and went on
up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on
tiptoe and ran down the stairs.
  No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly
through the gateway and turned to the left in the street.
  He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the
flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the
door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the
bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and
completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had
succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They
would guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they
were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much,
though the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. "Should
he slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown
street? No, hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a
cab? Hopeless, hopeless!"
  At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than
alive. Here he was half way to safety, and here understood it; it
was less risky because there was a great crowd of people, and he was
lost in it like a grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so
weakened him that he could scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in
drops, his neck was all wet. "My word, he has been going it!" some one
shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank.
  He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he
went the worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to
the canal bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so
being more conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though
he was almost falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as
to get home from quite a different direction.
  He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his
house! he was already on the staircase before he recollected the
axe. And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back
and to escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of
course incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not
to restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody's yard.
But it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter's room was
closed but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that the porter
was at home. But he had so completely lost all power of reflection
that he walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had
asked him "What do you want?" he would perhaps have simply handed
him the axe. But again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in
putting the axe back under the bench, and even covering it with the
chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on
the way to his room; the landlady's door was shut. When he was in
his room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was- he did not
sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness. If any one had come into his
room then, he would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and
shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not
catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his

                               PART TWO
                             Chapter One
  SO HE lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up,
and at such moments he noticed that it was far into the night, but
it did not occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was
beginning to get light. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his
recent oblivion. Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the
street, sounds which he heard every night, indeed, under his window
after two o'clock. They woke him up now.
  "Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns," he thought,
"it's past two o'clock," and at once he leaped up, as though some
one had pulled him from the sofa.
  "What! Past two o'clock!"
  He sat down on the sofa- and instantly recollected everything! All
at once, in one flash, he recollected everything.
  For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill
came over him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long
before in his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering,
so that his teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He
opened the door and began listening; everything in the house was
asleep. With amazement he gazed at himself and everything in the
room around him, wondering how he could have come in the night
before without fastening the door, and have flung himself on the
sofa without undressing, without even taking his hat off. It had
fallen off and was lying on the floor near his pillow.
  "If any one had come in, what would he have thought? That I'm
drunk but..."
  He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and he began
hurriedly looking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes;
were there no traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering
with cold, he began taking off everything and looking over again. He
turned everything over to the last threads and rags, and mistrusting
himself, went through his search three times.
  But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where
some thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge
of his trousers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the
frayed threads. There seemed to be nothing more.
  Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken
out of the old woman's box were still in his pockets! He had not
thought till then of taking them out and hiding them! He had not
even thought of them while he was examining his clothes! What next?
Instantly he rushed to take them out, and fling them on the table.
When he had pulled out everything, and turned the pocket inside out to
be sure there was nothing left, he carried the whole heap to the
corner. The paper had come off the bottom of the wall and hung there
in tatters. He began stuffing all the things into the hole under the
paper: "They're in! All out of sight, and the purse too!" he thought
gleefully, getting up and gazing blankly at the hole which bulged
out more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror; "My
God!" he whispered in despair: "what's the matter with me? Is that
hidden? Is that the way to hide things?"
  He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only
thought of money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place.
  "But now, now, what am I glad of?" he thought, "Is that hiding
things? My reason's deserting me- simply!"
  He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by
another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair
beside him his old student's winter coat, which was still warm
though almost in rags, covered himself up with it and once more sank
into drowsiness and delirium. He lost consciousness.
  Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second
time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again.
  "How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have
not taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like
that! Such a piece of evidence!"
  He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the
bits among his linen under the pillow.
  "Pieces of torn linen couldn't rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I
think not, I think not, any way!" he repeated, standing in the
middle of the room, and with painful concentration he fell to gazing
about him again, at the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he
had not forgotten anything. The conviction, that all his faculties,
even memory, and the simplest power of reflection were failing him,
began to be an insufferable torture.
  "Surely it isn't beginning already! Surely it isn't my punishment
coming upon me? It is!"
  The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on
the floor in the middle of the room, where any one coming in would see
  "What is the matter with me!" he cried again, like one distraught.
  Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes
were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many
stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because
his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces... his reason was
clouded.... Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the
purse too. "Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I
put the wet purse in my pocket!"
  In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!- there were
traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!
  "So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some
sense and memory, since I guessed it of myself," he thought
triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief: "It's simply the weakness of
fever, a moment's delirium," and he tore the whole lining out of the
left pocket of his trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on
his left boot; on the sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied
there were traces! He flung off his boots: "traces indeed! The tip
of the sock was soaked with blood"; he must have unwarily stepped into
that pool.... "But what am I to do with this now? Where am I to put
the sock and rags and pocket?"
  He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of
the room.
  "In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn
them? But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No,
better go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it
away," he repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, "and at once, this
minute, without lingering..."
  But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy
shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.
  And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the
impulse to "go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all
away, so that it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!"
Several times he tried to rise from the sofa but could not.
  He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his
  "Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!" shouted
Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. "For whole days
together he's snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell
you. It's past ten."
  "Maybe he's not at home," said a man's voice.
  "Ha! that's the porter's voice.... What does he want?"
  He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a
positive pain.
  "Then who can have latched the door?" retorted Nastasya.
  "He's taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing!
Open, you stupid, wake up!"
  "What do they want? Why the porter? All's discovered. Resist or
open? Come what may!..."
  He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.
  His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving
the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.
  Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant
and desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey
folded paper sealed with bottle-wax.
  "A notice from the office," he announced, as he gave him the paper.
  "From what office?"
  "A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office."
  "To the police?... What for?..."
  "How can I tell? You're sent for, so you go."
  The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and
turned to go away.
  "He's downright ill!" observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off
him. The porter turned his head for a moment. "He's been in a fever
since yesterday," she added.
  Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands,
without opening it. "Don't you get up then," Nastasya went on
compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the
sofa. "You're ill, and so don't go; there's no such hurry. What have
you got there?"
  He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from
his trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been
asleep with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he
remembered that half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this
tightly in his hand and so fallen asleep again.
  "Look at the rags he's collected and sleeps with them, as though
he has got hold of a treasure..."
  And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.
  Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes
intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational
reflection at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like
that with a person who was going to be arrested. "But... the police?"
  "You'd better have some tea! Yes? I'll bring it, there's some left."
  "No... I'm going; I'll go at once," he muttered, getting on to his
  "Why, you'll never get downstairs!"
  "Yes, I'll go."
  "As you please."
  She followed the porter out.
  At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.
  "There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt,
and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion
could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have
noticed, thank God!" Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the
notice and began reading; he was a long while reading, before he
understood. It was an ordinary summons from the district police
station to appear that day at half past nine at the office of the
district superintendent.
  "But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do
with the police! And why just to-day?" he thought in agonising
bewilderment. "Good God, only get it over soon!"
  He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into
laughter- not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
  He began, hurriedly dressing. "If I'm lost, I am lost, I don't care!
Shall I put the sock on?" he suddenly wondered, "it will get dustier
still and the traces will be gone."
  But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in
loathing and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no
other socks, he picked it up and put it on again- and again he
  "That's all conventional, that's all relative, merely a way of
looking at it," he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface
of his mind, while he was shuddering all over, "there, I've got it on!
I have finished by getting it on!"
  But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.
  "No, it's too much for me..." he thought. His legs shook. "From
fear," he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. "It's a trick!
They want to decoy me there and confound me over everything," he
mused, as he went out on to the stairs- "the worst of it is I'm almost
light-headed... I may blurt out something stupid..."
  On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things
just as they were in the hole in the wall, "and very likely, it's on
purpose to search when I'm out," he thought, and stopped short. But he
was possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may
so call it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. "Only to get it
  In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain
had fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks, and mortar, again the
stench from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the
Finnish pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in
his eyes, so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his
head going round- as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out
into the street on a bright sunny day.
  When he reached the turning into the street, in an agony of
trepidation he looked down it... at the house... and at once averted
his eyes.
  "If they question me, perhaps I'll simply tell," he thought, as he
drew near the police station.
  The police station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had
lately been moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house.
He had been once for a moment in the old office but long ago.
Turning in at the gateway, he saw on the right a flight of stairs
which a peasant was mounting with a book in his hand. "A house-porter,
no doubt; so then, the office is here," and he began ascending the
stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask questions of any one.
  "I'll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything..." he
thought, as he reached the fourth floor.
  The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The
kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost
the whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase
was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under
their arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The
door of the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting
within. There, too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening
smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.
  After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next
room. All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience
drew him on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room
some clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather
a queer-looking set. He went up to one of them.
  "What is it?"
  He showed the notice he had received.
  "You are a student?" the man asked, glancing at the notice.
  "Yes, formerly a student."
  The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He
was a particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his
  "There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no
interest in anything," thought Raskolnikov.
  "Go in there to the head clerk," said the clerk, pointing towards
the furthest room.
  He went into that room- the fourth in order; it was a small room and
packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer
rooms. Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning,
sat at the table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his
dictation. The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red,
blotchy face, excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom
as big as a saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting for
something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The
latter glanced at it, said: "Wait a minute," and went on attending
to the lady in mourning.
  He breathed more freely. "It can't be that!"
  By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself
to have courage and be calm.
  "Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray
myself! Hm... it's a pity there's no air here," he added, "it's
stifling.... It makes one's head dizzier than ever... and one's mind
  He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of
losing his self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his
mind on it, something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in
this at all. Yet the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping
to see through him and guess something from his face.
  He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile
face that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed
and foppish, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and
pomaded, and wore a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a
gold chain on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to
a foreigner who was in the room, and said them fairly correctly.
  "Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down," he said casually to the
gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing as though not
venturing to sit down, though there was a chair beside her.
  "Ich danke," said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk
she sank into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white
lace floated about the table like an air-balloon and filled almost
half the room. She smelt of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed
at filling half the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and though
her smile was impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident
  The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with
some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar
swing of his shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the
table and sat down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped
from her seat on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of
ecstasy; but the officer took not the smallest notice of her, and
she did not venture to sit down again in his presence. He was the
assistant superintendent. He had a reddish moustache that stood out
horizontally on each side of his face, and extremely small features,
expressive of nothing much except a certain insolence. He looked
askance and rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was so very badly
dressed, and in spite of his humiliating position, his bearing was
by no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily
fixed a very long and direct look on him, so that he felt positively
  "What do you want?" he shouted, apparently astonished that such a
ragged fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance.
  "I was summoned... by a notice..." Raskolnikov faltered.
  "For the recovery of money due, from the student," the head clerk
interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. "Here!" and
he flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. "Read
  "Money? What money?" thought Raskolnikov, "but... then... it's
certainly not that."
  And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable
relief. A load was lifted from his back.
  "And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?" shouted
the assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and
more aggrieved. "You are told to come at nine, and now it's twelve!"
  "The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago,"
Raskolnikov answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he,
too, grew suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. "And it's
enough that I have come here ill with fever."
  "Kindly refrain from shouting!"
  "I'm not shouting, I'm speaking very quietly, it's you who are
shouting at me. I'm a student, and allow no one to shout at me."
  The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first
minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his
  "Be silent! You are in a government office. Don't be impudent, sir!"
  "You're in a government office, too," cried Raskolnikov, "and you're
smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect
to all of us."
  He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.
  The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant
superintendent was obviously disconcerted.
  "That's not your business!" he shouted at last with unnatural
loudness. "Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him.
Alexandr Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don't
pay your debts! You're a fine bird!"
  But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at
the paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a
second time, and still did not understand.
  "What is this?" he asked the head clerk.
  "It is for the recovery of money on an I.O.U., a writ. You must
either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written
declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking
not to leave the capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal
your property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and
proceed against you according to the law."
  "But I... am not in debt to any one!"
  "That's not our business. Here, an I.O.U. for a hundred and
fifteen roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been
brought us for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor
Zarnitsyn, nine months ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to
one Mr. Tchebarov. We therefore summon you hereupon."
  "But she is my landlady!"
  "And what if she is your landlady?"
  The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of
compassion, and at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a
novice under fire for the first time- as though he would say: "Well,
how do you feel now?" But what did he care now for an I.O.U., for a
writ of recovery! Was that worth worrying about now, was it worth
attention even! He stood, he read, he listened, he answered, he even
asked questions himself, but all mechanically. The triumphant sense of
security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger, that was what
filled his whole soul that moment without thought for the future,
without analysis, without suppositions or surmises, without doubts and
without questioning. It was an instant of full, direct, purely
instinctive joy. But at that very moment something like a thunderstorm
took place in the office. The assistant superintendent, still shaken
by Raskolnikov's disrespect, still fuming and obviously anxious to
keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the unfortunate smart lady,
who had been gazing at him ever since he came in with an exceedingly
silly smile.
  "You shameful hussy!" he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice.
(The lady in mourning had left the office.) "What was going on at your
house last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you're a scandal to the
whole street. Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of
correction? Why, I have warned you ten times over that I would not let
you off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you... you...!"
  The paper fell out of Raskolnikov's hands, and he looked wildly at
the smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw
what it meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the
scandal. He listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and
laugh... all his nerves were on edge.
  "Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but
stopped short, for he knew from experience that the enraged
assistant could not be stopped except by force.
  As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the
storm. But strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms
of abuse became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive
the smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily,
and curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of
putting in her word; and at last she found it.
  "There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain,"
she pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian
confidently, though with a strong German accent, "and no sort of
scandal, and his honour came drunk, and it's the whole truth I am
telling, Mr. Captain, and I am not to blame.... Mine is an
honourable house, Mr. Captain, and honourable behaviour, Mr.
Captain, and I always, always dislike any scandal myself. But he
came quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles again, and then he
lifted up one leg, and began playing the pianoforte with one foot, and
that is not at all right in an honourable house, and he ganz broke the
piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said so. And he took
up a bottle and began hitting every one with it. And then I called the
porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl and hit him in the eye; and he
hit Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek.
And it was so ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and I
screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and stood in the
window, squealing like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of
squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! Fie upon
him! And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is
true, Mr. Captain, he tore sein Rock. And then he shouted that man
muss pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr.
Captain, five roubles for sein Rock. And he is an ungentlemanly
visitor and caused all the scandal. 'I will show you up,' he said,
'for I can write to all the papers about you.'"
  "Then he was an author?"
  "Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an
honourable house...."
  "Now then! Enough! I have told you already..."
  "Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk repeated significantly.
  The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly
shook his head.
  "... So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, and I tell
it you for the last time," the assistant went on. "If there is a
scandal in your honourable house once again, I will put you yourself
in the lock-up, as it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a
literary man, an author took five roubles for his coat-tail in an
'honourable house'? A nice set, these authors!"
  And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. "There was a
scandal the other day in a restaurant, too. An author had eaten his
dinner and would not pay; 'I'll write a satire on you,' says he. And
there was another of them on a steamer last week used the most
disgraceful language to the respectable family of a civil
councillor, his wife and daughter. And there was one of them turned
out of a confectioner's shop the other day. They are like that,
authors, literary men, students, town-criers... Pfoo! You get along! I
shall look in upon you myself one day. Then you had better be careful!
Do you hear?"
  With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying in all
directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at the door,
she stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a fresh,
open face and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the
superintendent of the district himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise
Ivanovna made haste to curtsy almost to the ground, and with mincing
little steps, she fluttered out of the office.
  "Again thunder and lightning- a hurricane!" said Nikodim Fomitch
to Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. "You are aroused
again, you are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!"
  "Well, what then!" Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly
nonchalance; and he walked with some papers to another table, with a
jaunty swing of his shoulders at each step. "Here, if you will
kindly look: an author, or a student, has been one at least, does
not pay his debts, has given an I.O.U., won't clear out of his room,
and complaints are constantly being lodged against him, and here he
has been pleased to make a protest against my smoking in his presence!
He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him, please. Here's
the gentleman, and very attractive he is!"
  "Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like
powder, you can't bear a slight, I daresay you took offence at
something and went too far yourself," continued Nikodim Fomitch,
turning affably to Raskolnikov. "But you were wrong there; he is a
capital fellow, I assure you, but explosive, explosive! He gets hot,
fires up, boils over, and no stopping him! And then it's all over! And
at the bottom he's a heart of gold! His nickname in the regiment was
the Explosive Lieutenant...."
  "And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilya Petrovitch, much
gratified at this agreeable banter, though still sulky.
  Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally
pleasant to them all. "Excuse me, Captain," he began easily,
suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomitch, "will you enter into my
position.... I am ready to ask pardon, if I have been ill-mannered.
I am a poor student, sick and shattered (shattered was the word he
used) by poverty. I am not studying, because I cannot keep myself now,
but I shall get money.... I have a mother and sister in the province
of X. They will send it to me, and I will pay. My landlady is a
good-hearted woman, but she is so exasperated at my having lost my
lessons, and not paying her for the last four months, that she does
not even send up my dinner... and I don't understand this I.O.U. at
all. She is asking me to pay her on this I.O.U. How am I to pay her?
Judge for yourselves!..."
  "But that is not our business, you know," the head clerk was
  "Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain..."
Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying
his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter
persistently appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be
contemptuously oblivious of him. "Allow me to explain that I have been
living with her for nearly three years and at first... at first... for
why should I not confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry
her daughter, it was a verbal promise, freely given... she was a
girl... indeed, I liked her, though I was not in love with her... a
youthful affair in fact... that is, I mean to say, that my landlady
gave me credit freely in those days, and I led a life of... I was very
  "Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we've no time to
waste," Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph;
but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it
exceedingly difficult to speak.
  "But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all
happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is
unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained
lodging there as before, and when my landlady moved into her present
quarters, she said to me... and in a friendly way... that she had
complete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an I.O.U. for
one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt I owed her. She said
if only I gave her that, she would trust me again, as much as I liked,
and that she would never, never- those were her own words- make use of
that I.O.U. till I could pay of myself... and now, when I have lost my
lessons and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me. What
am I to say to that?"
  "All these affecting details are no business of ours." Ilya
Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You must give a written undertaking
but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have
nothing to do with that."
  "Come now... you are harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting
down at the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little
  "Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
  "Write what?" the latter asked, gruffly.
  "I will dictate to you."
  Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually
and contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly
felt completely indifferent to any one's opinion, and this revulsion
took place in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a
little, he would have been amazed indeed that he could have talked
to them like that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And
where had those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been
filled, not with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest
to him, he would not have found one human word for them, so empty
was his heart. A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude
and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. It was not the
meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor
the meanness of the latter's triumph over him that had caused this
sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had he to do now with his
own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German women,
debts, police offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that
moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the
sentence to the end. Something was happening to him entirely new,
sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly
with all the intensity of sensation that he could never more appeal to
these people in the police office with sentimental effusion like his
recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that if they had
been his own brothers and sisters and not police officers, it would
have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any
circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and
awful sensation. And what was most agonising- it was more a
sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most
agonising of all the sensations he had known in his life.
  The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration,
that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date,
that he would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on.
  "But you can't write, you can hardly hold the pen," observed the
head clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. "Are you ill?"
  "Yes, I am giddy. Go on!"
  "That's all. Sign it."
  The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.
  Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going
away, he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his
hands. He felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A
strange idea suddenly occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up
to Nikodim Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened
yesterday, and then to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the
things in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he
got up from his seat to carry it out. "Hadn't I better think a
minute?" flashed through his mind. "No, better cast off the burden
without thinking." But all at once he stood still, rooted to the spot.
Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the
words reached him:
  "It's impossible, they'll both be released. To begin with, the whole
story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if
it had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a
blind? No, that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the
student, was seen at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he
went in. He was walking with three friends, who left him only at the
gate, and he asked the porters to direct him, in the presence of the
friends. Now, would he have asked his way if he had been going with
such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an hour at the
silversmith's below, before he went up to the old woman and he left
him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider..."
  "But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state
themselves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three
minutes later when they went up with the porter, it turned out the
door was unfastened."
  "That's just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted
himself in; and they'd have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not
been an ass and gone to look for the porter too. He must have seized
the interval to get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps
crossing himself and saying: "If I had been there, he would have
jumped out and killed me with his axe.' He is going to have a
thanksgiving service- ha, ha!"
  "And no one saw the murderer?"
  "They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah's Ark,"
said the head clerk, who was listening.
  "It's clear, quite clear," Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly.
  "No, it is anything but clear," Ilya Petrovitch maintained.
  Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he
did not reach it....
  When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a
chair, supported by some one on the right side, while some one else
was standing on the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with yellow
water, and Nikodim Fomitch standing before him, looking intently at
him. He got up from the chair.
  "What's this? Are you ill?" Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply.
  "He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing," said the head
clerk, settling back in his place, and taking up his work again.
  "Have you been ill long?" cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place,
where he, too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come
to look at the sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he
  "Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in reply.
  "Did you go out yesterday?"
  "Though you were ill?"
  "At what time?"
  "About seven."
  "And where did you go, my I ask?"
  "Along the street."
  "Short and clear."
  Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily,
without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch's
  "He can scarcely stand upright. And you..." Nikodim Fomitch was
  "No matter," Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.
  Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing
at the head clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not
speak. There was a sudden silence. It was strange.
  "Very well, then," concluded Ilya Petrovitch, "we will not detain
  Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on
his departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of
Nikodim Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely.
  "A search- there will be a search at once," he repeated to
himself, hurrying home. "The brutes! they suspect."
  His former terror mastered him completely again.

                             Chapter Two
  "AND WHAT if there has been a search already? What if I find them in
my room?"
  But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped
in. Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have
left all those things in the hole?
  He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled
the things out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight
articles in all: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the
sort, he hardly looked to see; then four small leather cases. There
was a chain, too, merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in
newspaper, that looked like a decoration.... He put them all in the
different pockets of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his
trousers, trying to conceal them as much as possible. He took the
purse, too. Then he went out of his room, leaving the door open. He
walked quickly and resolutely, and though he felt shattered, he had
his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that
in another half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions
would be issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all
traces before then. He must clear everything up while he still had
some strength, some reasoning power left him.... Where was he to go?
  That had long been settled: "Fling them into the canal, and all
traces hidden in the water, the thing would be at an end." So he had
decided in the night of his delirium when several times he had had the
impulse to get up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all.
But to get rid of it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He
wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or
more and looked several times at the steps running down to the
water, but he could not think of carrying out his plan; either rafts
stood at the steps' edge, and women were washing clothes on them, or
boats were moored there, and people were swarming everywhere. Moreover
he could be seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it would
look suspicious for a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw
something into the water. And what if the boxes were to float
instead of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was, every
one he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to
do but to watch him. "Why is it, or can it be my fancy?" he thought.
  At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to
the Neva. There were not so many people there, he would be less
observed, and it would be more convenient in every way, above all it
was further off. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a
good half-hour, worried and anxious in this dangerous part without
thinking of it before. And that half-hour he had lost over an
irrational plan, simply because he had thought of it in delirium! He
had become extremely absent and forgetful and he was aware of it. He
certainly must make haste.