 IV. His mother's letter had been a torture to him, but as regards the chief fact in it, he had felt not one moment's hesitation even whilst he was reading the letter. The essential question was settled and irrevocably settled in his mind. IV. Never such a marriage while I am alive. And Mr. Lern be damned. The thing is perfectly clear. V. He muttered to himself, with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of his decision. IV. No, mother. No, Donya. You won't deceive me. And then they apologized for not asking my advice. And for taking the decision without me, I daresay, they imagined it is a range now and can't be broken off. But we will see whether it can or not. A magnificent excuse, Piotor Petrovitch is such a busy man that even his wedding has to be in post-haste, almost by express. V. No, Donya. I see it all, and I know what you want to say to me. I know, too, what you were thinking about when you walked up and down all night and what your prayers were like before the holy mother of Kazan, who stands in mother's bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha. V. Hmm. So it is finally settled. You have determined to marry a sensible businessman, Avdocha Romanovna. IV. One who has a fortune has already made his fortune. That is so much more solid and impressive. A man who holds two government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising generation as mother writes, and who seems to be kind as Donya herself observes. That seems beats everything. And that very Donya, for that very seems, is marrying him. Splendid. Splendid. But I should like to know why mother has written to me about our most rising generation. Everybody has a descriptive touch, or the idea of pre-possessing me in favor of Mr. Lurin. Oh, the cunning of them. I should like to know one thing more. How far they were open with one another that day and night and all this time since. Was it all put into words, or did both understand that they had the same thing at heart and in their minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud and better not to speak of it? Most likely it was partly like that. For mother's letter it's evident. He struck her as rude a little, and mother and her simplicity took her observations to Donya. And she was sure to be vexed and answered her angrily, I should think so. Who would not be angered when it was quite clear without any naive questions, and when it was understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she write to me, love Donya, Rodya, and she loves you more than herself? Has she a secret conscience prick at sacrificing her daughter to her son? You are our one comfort. You are everything to us. Oh, mother. His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin at that moment he might have murdered him. Hmm, yes, that's true. He continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain. It is true that it needs time and care to get to know a man. But there is no mistake about Mr. Lurrin. The chief thing is he is a man of business and seems kind. That was something wasn't it to send the bags and big box for them. A kind man, no doubt after that. But his bride and her mother are to drive in a peasants cart covered with sacking. I know I have been driven in it. No matter. It is only ninety bursts, and then they can travel very comfortably third class for a thousand bursts. Quite right, too. One must cut one's coat according to one's cloth. But what about you, Mr. Lurrin? She is your bride, and you must be aware that her mother has to raise money on her pension for the journey. To be sure it's a matter of business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares and expenses. Food and drink provided, but pay for your tobacco. The businessman has got the better of them, too. The luggage will cost less than their fares and very likely go for nothing. How is it that they don't both see all that? Or is it that they don't want to see? Are they pleased, pleased, and to think that this is only the first blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come? But what really matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the tone of the whole thing. For that will be the tone after marriage. It's a foretaste of it, and mother, too. Why should she be so lavish? What will she have by the time she gets to Petersburg? Three silver rubles or two paper ones, as she says. That old woman. What does she expect to live upon in Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons already for guessing that she could not live with Donya after the marriage, even for the first few months. The good man has no doubt let slip something on that subject also, though mother would deny it. I shall refuse, says she. On whom is she reckoning, then? Is she counting on what is left of her hundred and twenty rubles of pension, when off an Aussie Ivanovitch's debt is paid? She knits woolen shaws and embroidered cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all her shawls don't add more than twenty rubles a year to her hundred and twenty. I know that. So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Lurin's generosity. He will offer it of himself. He will press it on me. You may wait a long time for that. That's how it always is with these chiller-esque noble hearts. Till the last moment every goose is a swan with them. Till the last moment. They hope for the best, and will see nothing wrong, and although they have an inkling of the other side of the picture, yet they won't face the truth till they are forced to. The very thought of it makes them shiver. They thrust the truth away with both hands until the man they deck out in false colors puts a fool's cap on them with his own hands. I should like to know whether Mr. Lurin has any orders of merit. I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole, and that he puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors or merchants. He will be sure to have it for his wedding, too. Enough of him can found him. Well, mother, I don't wonder at. It's like her. God bless her, but how could Donya? Donya, darling, as though I did not know you. You were nearly twenty when I saw you last. I understood you then. Mother writes that Donya can put up with a great deal. I know that very well. I know that two years and a half ago, and for the last two and a half years, I have been thinking about it. Thinking of just that. That Donya can put up with a great deal. If she could put up with Mr. Sfidry Gailov, and the rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal. And now, mother, and she have taken it into their heads that she can put up with Mr. Luren, who propounds the theory of the superiority of wives raised from destitution in owing everything to their husband's bounty, who propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he let it slip, though he is a sensible man. Yet maybe it was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon as possible. But Donya, Donya, she understands the man, of course. But she will have to live with the man. Why, she'd live on black bread and water. She would not sell her soul. She would not barter her moral freedom for comfort. She would not barter it for all sleswig Holstein, much less Mr. Luren's money. No, Donya was not that sort when I knew her, and she is still the same, of course. Yes, there's no denying. This feedery guile officer a bitter pill. It's a bitter thing to spend one's life a governess in the provinces for two hundred rubles. But I know she would rather be a nigger on a plantation, or a let with a German master than to grade her soul and her moral dignity. I biding herself forever to a man whom she does not respect. And with whom she has nothing in common for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luren had been of unallowed gold, or one huge diamond, she would never have consented to become his legal concubine. Why is she consenting, then? What's the point of it? What's the answer? It's clear enough, for herself, for her comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself. But for someone else she is doing it. For one she loves, for one she adores, she would sell herself. That's what it amounts to. For her brother, for her mother, she would sell herself. She will sell everything. In such cases we overcome our moral feeling if necessary. Freedom, peace, conscience even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if only my dear ones may be happy. More than that we become casuists. We learn to be Jesuitical. And for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves. We can persuade ourselves that is one's duty for a good object. That's just like us. It's as clear as daylight. It's clear the Radeon Romanovich Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business and no one else. Oh yes, she can ensure his happiness. Keep him in the university. Make him a partner in the office. Make his whole future secure. Maybe he may even be a rich man later on. Prosperous. Respected. And may even end his life a famous man. But my mother, it's our Rodya. Precious Rodya. Her firstborn. For such a son who would not sacrifice such a daughter. Oh, loving over partial hearts. Why, for his sake, we would not shrink even from Sonia's fate. Sonia. Sonia Marmaladev, the eternal victim, so long as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both of you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it? Let me tell you, Donia, Sonia's life is no worse than life with Mr. Lahren. There can be no question of love, mother writes. And what if there can be no respect either? If on the contrary, there is aversion, contempt, repulsion. What then? So you will have to keep up appearances, too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness means? Do you understand that the Lahren's smartness is just the same thing as Sonia's, and maybe worse? Viola, baser, because in your case, Donia, it's a bargain for luxuries, after all. But with Sonia, it's simply a question of starvation. It has to be paid for. It has to be paid for, Donia, this smartness. And what if it's more than you can bear afterwards, if you regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the tears hidden from all the world. For you are not a Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy. She is worried. But then when she sees it all clearly, and I, yes indeed, what have you taken me for? I won't have your sacrifice, Donia. I won't have it, mother. It shall not be. For as long as I am alive, it shall not. It shall not. I won't accept it. He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still. It shall not be. But what are you going to do to prevent it? You'll forbid it? And what right have you? What can you promise them on your side to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future. You will devote to them when you have finished your studies and obtained a post. Yes, we have all heard that before. And that's all words. But now. Now something must be done. Now do you understand that? And what are you doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their 100 rubles pension. They borrow from the Sfidry Gailovs. How are you going to save them from the Sfidry Gailovs? From Afanasi Ivanovich Vakroshan? Oh, future millionaire Zeus who had arranged their lives for them. In another ten years? In another ten years mother will be blind with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping, too. She will be worn to a shadow of fasting. And my sister? Imagine for a moment what may have become of your sister in ten years. What may happen to her during those ten years? Can you fancy? So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not new ones suddenly confronting him. They were old familiar aches. It was long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long ago his present anguish had its first beginnings. It had waxed and gathered strength. It had matured and concentrated, until it had taken the form of a fearful, frenzied, and fantastic question which tortured his heart and mind, clamoring insistently for an answer. Now his mother's letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he must not now suffer passively, wearing himself over unsolved questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway, he must decide on something or else, or throw up life altogether. He cried suddenly in a frenzy. Except one's lot humbly as it is, once, for all, and stifle everything in one's self, giving up all claim to activity, life, and love. Do you understand, sir? Do you understand what it means, when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? Mara Miladov'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 if a 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 as 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 peace 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 biting 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 color, red lips and mustaches. 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, sfeedry guile-off! What do you want here? He shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with rage. What do you mean? The gentleman asked sternly, scowling and haughty astonishment. 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 someone seized him from behind, and a police constable stood between them. That's enough, gentlemen, no fighting please in the public place. What do you want? Who are you? He asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his rags. Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straightforward, sensible, soldierly face with gray 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. In taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat. Raskolnikov looked here, hopelessly drunk, and she had 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 deceives somewhere. For the first time, you understand. And they 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 unpracticed 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 and examined her more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion. Ah! What a pity! He said, shaking his head. Why, she's quite a child. She has been deceived. You can see that at once. Listen, lady. He began addressing her. Where do you leave? The girl opened her weary and sleepy-looking eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker, and waved her hand. Here! Sevros Konokov, feeling in his pocket and finding twenty go-pecks. 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, huh? Where do you leave? Go away. They won't leave me alone. The girl muttered, and once more waved her hand. Ah! 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 money. 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 don't have mercy on us. An innocent creature, like that, drunk already. She has been deceived. That's your thing. See how her dress has been torn, too. Ah! The vice one sees nowadays. And as likely as not, she belongs to gentle folk, 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 the 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 in other ten paces away, and again halted. Uh, keep her out of his hands. We can. Said the constable thoughtfully. If only she would tell us where to take her. But as it is— Missy! Hey! Missy! He bent over her once more. She opened her eyes foley all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as though realizing something, got up from the seat, and walked away in the direction from which she had come. Oh! Shame for wretches! They won't leave 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 want to let him have her. The policeman said resolutely, and he set off after them. Ah! The vice once sees nowadays. He repeated aloud, sighing. And 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-copex. Raskolnikov muttered 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 it to me? How did I dare to give him twenty-copex? Were they mine? In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on the deserted seat. His thoughts 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 that her mother will find out. She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating, and then maybe turn her out of doors. Even if she does not, the Daria Fransovna's 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! What does it matter? As 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 Donya 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 Vasiliysky Ostrov, to Razumikin. That's what it was, now I remember. What for, though? And what put the idea of going to Razumikin into my head just now? That's curious. He wondered it himself. Razumikin was one of his old comrades at the university. It was remarkable that Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university. He kept a loop from everyone, went to see no one, and did not welcome anyone who came to see him, and indeed everyone 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 the Mollid's children, as though he were superior in development, knowledge, and convictions, as though their beliefs and interests were beneath him. With Razumikin he had gone on, or at least he was more unreserved and communicative with him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any other terms with Razumikin. He was an exceptionally good-humored 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, black-haired, 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 Razumikin. No failure to stress him, and it seemed as though no unfavorable 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. Raskonokov had not been to see him for the last four months, and Razumikin did not even know his address. About two months before they had met in the street, but Raskonokov had turned away, and even crossed to the other side that he might not be observed. And though Razumikin noticed him, he passed him by, as he did not want to annoy him. CHAPTER V Of course I have been meaning lately to go to Razumikin's to ask for work, to ask him to give me lessons or something. Raskonokov thought. 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 can get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give lessons. Hmm. Well, and what then? What shall I do with a few coppers I earn? That's not what I want now. It's really absurd for me to go to Razumikin. The question why he was now going to Razumikin 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 Razumikin 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. Hmm. To Razumikin's. He said all at once, calmly, as though he had reached a final determination. I should go to Razumikin's, of course. But not now. I should go to him, on the next day after it, when it will be over and everything will begin afresh. And suddenly he realized 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 passed 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. Then with a start he lifted his head again and looked round. He forgot at once what he had just been thinking about, and even where he was going. In this way he walked right across Vasilievsky Ostrov, came out onto the Lesserneva, 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. As 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 verandas 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 copax. Twenty to the policeman. Three to Nastasia for the letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmaladevs 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 drank only a wine-glassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy, and a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovskyostrov 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 truth-like 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 system. Boris Konokov 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 gray 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 cop's 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 horse 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, in 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, unadored icons, and the old priest with the shaking head. Where 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 carthorses, and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at those great carthorses with their long mains, 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 peasant's 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 beat 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, I'll get in! But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the crowd. Take us all. In 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 much vey. He shouted from the cart, At this brute, mates, is just breaking my heart. I feel as if I could kill her. She's just eating her head off. Yeah, then 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. You hear, she'll gallop. Gallop indeed. She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years. She'll jog along. And 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, in 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! Oh, get in! She will draw you all, I'll miss 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. When 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 falling. Bigger to death! cried Mikolka. It's come to that, I'll deal for her. What are you about? Are you a Christian, you devil? shouted an old man in the crowd. Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a cart-load. 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, and there he's at the eyes. cried Mikolka. Give us a song, mates. shouted someone in the cart, and everyone 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. Ringing his hands and screaming, he rushed up to the gray-headed old man with the gray 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. Thrasher! Thrasher! Why have you stopped? shouted voices in the crowd. 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, maids. 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 a 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 with 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! Someone 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 brittle! 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! It 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? And I shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble, hide all splattered in the blood with the axe. Good God! Can it be? He was shaking like a leaf as he said this. 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 realized 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 to 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 is arithmetic. My God! Anyway, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it. 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 the path. I renounced 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 the month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom! Freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession. Later on, when he recalled that time and all that had 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 and 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. Rag pickers and costar mongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the hay market. Raskolnikov particularly liked this place in the neighboring 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 scandalizing people. At the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, et cetera. 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 Lisevieta Ivanovna, or, as everyone called her, Lisevieta, 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 Lisevieta, and she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, submissive, and almost uriatic. 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, Lisevieta Ivanovna. The huckster was saying aloud, Come round to-morrow, about seven. There will be year two. Tomorrow? said Lisevieta 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 step-sister, 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 an ocean. Am I to come? About seven o'clock tomorrow, and there will be year. You'll be able to decide for yourself. And we'll have a cup of tea. added his wife. All right. I'll come. said Lisevieta, still pondering, and she began slowly moving away. Raskonikov 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, Lisevieta, 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. If he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he could not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of his 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 VI Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife had invited Lisevieta. It was a very ordinary matter, and there was nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to 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 Lisevieta'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 of 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 rubles 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 someone 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 rubles at a time, and she is not above taking a pledge for a ruble. 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 shattered on, saying that she had a sister, Liza Vietta, whom the wretched little creature was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though Liza Vietta was at least six feet high. �There's a phenomenon for you� cried the student, and he laughed. They began talking about Liza Vietta. 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 Liza Vietta to do some mending for him. Resconacov did not miss a word, and learned everything about her. Liza Vietta was younger than the old woman, and she 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 Liza Vietta 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. Liza Vietta 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 goat-skinned shoes, and was clean in her person. And the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Liza Vietta was continually with child. But you say she is hideous? Observe 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 a 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 can 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 in the lock hospitals, and with all 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 Lisa Veta's finger out of a 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? State, I have another question to ask you. Listen. No, you stay. I'll ask you a question. Listen. Well? You are talking and speech-ifying 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. As Conakov was violently agitated, of course it was all ordinary youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in different forms 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 it 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 really had been in it something preordained, some guiding hint. 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 realized with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leadened sleep came over him, as it were crushing him. He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasia, 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 teapot. My goodness, how he sleeps! She cried indignantly. And he's 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. Ha! Going to sleep again! cried Nastasia. Are you ill, huh? He made no reply. Do you want some tea? Afterwards. He said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning to the wall. Nastasia stood over him. 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. Nastasia felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing him. Why are you lying like a log? She shouted, looking at him with repulsion. He got up and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor. Are you ill or not? Asked Nastasia, 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 out. 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 egged 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. When one 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 party-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 someone 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 everyone 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 hand 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 smooth, plain 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 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 recrossing the thread around them, then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper, and tied 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 someone 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 agonizing 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. Nastasia was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings. She would run into the neighbors or to a shop, and always left the door jar. 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 Nastasia 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 run away cursing in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile, it would seem, as regards the moral question that his analysis was complete. His kazooish tree 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 someone 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 moment 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 the 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 willpower and reason to deal with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarized 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 unexpected. 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 Nostazia'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 ax. But what was his amazement when he suddenly saw that Nostazia 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 ax. 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 home at that moment? 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 at the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk for appearance's sake, was revolting. To go back to his room even more revolting. And what a chance I have lost forever! 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. There near though in the yard, 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. The chance raised his spirits extraordinarily. He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passersby, 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 some way 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 Usoppah Garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere and 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 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. But 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 wagon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the wagon 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 wagon he could hear shouting and quarreling, 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 moment, and went on. Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but it's two stories above them. In there was the fourth story. Here was the door. Here was the flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman's was apparent to the 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. Where 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. Someone 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, for ever. He could not make out how he had had such cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded of moments, and he was almost unconscious of his body. An instant later he heard the latch unfastened. CHAPTER VII The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and suspicious eyes glared 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 onto 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, Alionya 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 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 is it? Who is it? What do you want? Why, Alionya Ivanovna, you know me. Raskolnikov here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other day. And he held out the pledge. 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 a 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? Thiever. He answered abruptly. You can't help getting pale, if you have nothing to eat. He added, with difficulty articulating the words. 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 Roscona Coventently, 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 ax 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 grow more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the ax slip and fall. A sudden giddiness came over him. But what has he tidied 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 ax 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 ax down, his strength returned to him. The old woman was, as always, bare-headed. Her thin, light hair, streaked with gray, thickly smeared with grease, was plated in a rat-stail, 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 below 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 spent 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 fell 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, as soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shutter passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted 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 the body, but did not dare, and with difficulty smearing his hand in the axe and 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 cypress 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, but Esconacov thrusted 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 realized 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 fell under the bed stud, knowing that old women usually kept 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 hair-skin. 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, earrings, pins and such things. Somewhere in cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded and tied around 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 deaf. But all was quiet, so it must have been his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though someone 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 rooms stood the Zavietta with a big bundle in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, wide as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Being 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 baby's mouths when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of screaming. In this hapless Zavietta 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 below all the top of the head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatching 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 realize all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurdity of it, 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 world. But a sort of blankness, even dreamious, had become 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 ax. His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the ax 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 ax, 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 ax at the window. There was no trace left on it. Only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the ax 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 agonizing ideas rose in his mind, the idea that he was mad and 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 engaged 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 his avietta afterwards! And how could he? How could he have failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow? She could not have come in 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, quarreling 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 someone began going down stairs, humming a tune. How is it they all make such a noise? Flash 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 someone was 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 story 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 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 it 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 once. What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? Damn them! He bawled in a thick voice. Hey! Ilania Ivanova, old witch, Lizaveta Ivanova, hey, my beauty! Open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what? 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 acquaintance. At this moment light-hurried steps were heard not far off on the stairs. Someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at first. You don't say there is no one at home. The newcomer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the bell. Good evening, Kov. From his voice he must be quite young. Thought, Raskolnikov. Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the lock. Answered Kakh. But how do you come to know me? Why, the day before yesterday, I beat you three times running at billiards and gambrinos. Oh. 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. Aye, aye. 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? What? Well, she's gone, and once she'll be back. 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? Well? That shows it's not locked, but fastened with the hook. Do you hear how the hook clanks? Well? 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. And Koch astonished. What are they about in there? And he began furiously shaking the door. Stay! Cried the young man again. Don't pull 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 have both fainted, or? What? 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, evident! There is something wrong here! The young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs. 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 with 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. Mithka! Mithka! Mithka! Mithka! Mithka! 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 loudly and fast began noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. Hey! 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 in Odalt who had just run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, and in the middle of the room stood a pale in 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 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 realize 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 quick in his pace much, though the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. Should he slip through some gateway, and wait somewhere on 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 halfway to safety, and he 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. Someone shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank. He was only dimly conscious of himself now. In the farther he went the worse it was. He remembered, however, that on coming out onto 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 around 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 into 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 a 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 thought were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one. He could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts.