But as soon as she out, he got up, the door, the
parcel which Razumihin had in that and had up again
and dressing. Strange to say, he to have become
perfectly calm; not a of his of the panic
fear that had him of late. It was the moment of a strange
sudden calm. His movements were and definite; a purpose was
evident in them. “To-day, to-day,” he to himself. He understood
that he was still weak, but his gave him
strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not
fall in the street. When he had in new clothes, he
looked at the money on the table, and after a moment’s thought
put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the
copper from the ten by Razumihin on the clothes.
Then he the door, out, and
glanced in at the open door. Nastasya was with her back
to him, up the landlady’s samovar. She nothing. Who would
have of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the
street.
It was nearly eight o’clock, the sun was setting. It was as as
before, but he in the stinking, town air. His head
felt dizzy; a of energy in his
feverish and his wasted, and yellow face. He did not know and
did not think where he was going, he had one only: “that all
_this_ must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would
not return home without it, he _would not go on like
that_.” How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it,
he did not want to think of it. He away thought; thought
tortured him. All he knew, all he was that must be
changed “one way or another,” he with and immovable
self-confidence and determination.
From old he took his walk in the direction of the Hay
Market. A dark-haired man with a organ was in
the road in of a little shop and was out a very
sentimental song. He was a girl of fifteen, who stood
on the in of him. She was up in a crinoline, a
mantle and a with a flame-coloured in it, all very
old and shabby. In a and voice, and
coarsened by singing, she sang in of a copper from
the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five
copeck piece and put it in the girl’s hand. She off on a
sentimental high note, to the organ “Come on,”
and moved on to the next shop.
“Do you like music?” said Raskolnikov, a middle-aged
man by him. The man looked at him, and wondering.
“I love to to a organ,” said Raskolnikov, and his
manner out of with the subject--“I like it
on cold, dark, autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the
passers-by have green, faces, or still when wet
snow is down, when there’s no wind--you know what I
mean?--and the through it...”
“I don’t know.... Excuse me...” the stranger, by the
question and Raskolnikov’s manner, and he over to the
other of the street.
Raskolnikov walked on and came out at the of the Hay
Market, where the and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but
they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round
and a in a red shirt who a
corn chandler’s shop.
“Isn’t there a man who a with his wife at this corner?”
“All of people keep here,” answered the man, glancing
superciliously at Raskolnikov.
“What’s his name?”
“What he was christened.”
“Aren’t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?”
The man looked at Raskolnikov again.
“It’s not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously
forgive me, your excellency!”
“Is that a at the top there?”
“Yes, it’s an eating-house and there’s a billiard-room and you’ll find
princesses there too.... La-la!”
Raskolnikov the square. In that there was a crowd
of peasants. He pushed his way into the part of it, looking
at the faces. He an to enter into
conversation with people. But the took no notice of him; they
were all in groups together. He and a little and
took a to the right in the direction of V.
He had often that little which at an angle, leading
from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often drawn
to about this district, when he depressed, that he might
feel more so.
Now he walked along, of nothing. At that point there is a great
block of buildings, let out in shops and eating-houses;
women were in and out, bare-headed and in their
indoor clothes. Here and there they in groups, on the pavement,
especially about the to in
the storeys. From one of these a loud din, of singing, the
tinkling of a and of merriment, into the street.
A of were the door; some were on the
steps, others on the pavement, others were talking. A drunken
soldier, a cigarette, was walking near them in the road,
swearing; he to be trying to his way somewhere, but had
forgotten where. One was with another, and a man dead
drunk was right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the of
women, who were talking in voices. They were bare-headed and wore
cotton and shoes. There were of and some
not more than seventeen; almost all had eyes.
He by the and all the noise and
uproar in the below.... someone be dancing
frantically, marking time with his to the of the guitar
and of a thin voice a air. He intently,
gloomily and dreamily, at the entrance and peeping
inquisitively in from the pavement.
“Oh, my soldier
Don’t me for nothing,”
trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov a great to
make out what he was singing, as though on that.
“Shall I go in?” he thought. “They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get
drunk?”
“Won’t you come in?” one of the asked him. Her voice was
still and less thick than the others, she was and not
repulsive--the only one of the group.
“Why, she’s pretty,” he said, himself up and looking at her.
She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
“You’re very looking yourself,” she said.
“Isn’t he thin though!” another woman in a bass. “Have you
just come out of a hospital?”
“They’re all generals’ daughters, it seems, but they have all snub
noses,” a with a on his face, wearing
a coat. “See how they are.”
“Go along with you!”
“I’ll go, sweetie!”
And he into the below. Raskolnikov moved on.
“I say, sir,” the girl after him.
“What is it?”
She hesitated.
“I’ll always be pleased to an hour with you, gentleman, but
now I shy. Give me six for a drink, there’s a young
man!”
Raskolnikov gave her what came first--fifteen copecks.
“Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!”
“What’s your name?”
“Ask for Duclida.”
“Well, that’s too much,” one of the observed, her head
at Duclida. “I don’t know how you can ask like that. I I should
drop with shame....”
Raskolnikov looked at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench
of thirty, with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made
her and earnestly. “Where is it,” Raskolnikov.
“Where is it I’ve read that someone to death says or thinks,
an hour his death, that if he had to live on some high rock,
on such a narrow that he’d only room to stand, and the ocean,
everlasting darkness, solitude, around
him, if he had to on a square of space all his
life, a thousand years, eternity, it were to live so than to die
at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, it may be!...
How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a creature!... And vile
is he who calls him for that,” he added a moment later.
He into another street. “Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin
was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it
I wanted? Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he’d read it in the
papers. Have you the papers?” he asked, going into a very and
positively clean restaurant, of rooms, which were,
however, empty. Two or three people were tea, and in a
room away were four men champagne. Raskolnikov
fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he not be sure at that
distance. “What if it is?” he thought.
“Will you have vodka?” asked the waiter.
“Give me some tea and me the papers, the old ones for the last
five days, and I’ll give you something.”
“Yes, sir, here’s to-day’s. No vodka?”
The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat and
began to look through them.
“Oh, damn... these are the of intelligence. An accident on a
staircase, of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire
in Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... another fire in the
Petersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter....
Ah, here it is!” He at last what he was and to
read it. The lines his eyes, but he read it all and began
eagerly later in the numbers. His hands
shook with as he the sheets. Suddenly someone
sat him at his table. He looked up, it was the clerk
Zametov, looking just the same, with the on his and the
watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, and pomaded, with the
smart waistcoat, and linen. He was in a good
humour, at least he was very and good-humouredly. His dark
face was from the he had drunk.
“What, you here?” he in surprise, speaking as though he’d known
him all his life. “Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were
unconscious. How strange! And do you know I’ve been to see you?”
Raskolnikov he would come up to him. He the papers and
turned to Zametov. There was a on his lips, and a new of
irritable was in that smile.
“I know you have,” he answered. “I’ve it. You looked for my
sock.... And you know Razumihin has his to you? He says
you’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna’s--you know, the woman you tried
to befriend, for you to the Explosive Lieutenant and he
would not understand. Do you remember? How he fail to
understand--it was clear, wasn’t it?”
“What a he is!”
“The one?”
“No, your friend Razumihin.”
“You must have a life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most
agreeable places. Who’s been into you just now?”
“We’ve just been... having a drink together.... You talk about pouring
it into me!”
“By way of a fee! You profit by everything!” Raskolnikov laughed, “it’s
all right, my dear boy,” he added, Zametov on the shoulder. “I
am not speaking from temper, but in a way, for sport, as that
workman of yours said when he was with Dmitri, in the case of
the old woman....”
“How do you know about it?”
“Perhaps I know more about it than you do.”
“How you are.... I am sure you are still very unwell. You
oughtn’t to have come out.”
“Oh, do I to you?”
“Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a about the fires.”
“No, I am not reading about the fires.” Here he looked at
Zametov; his were again in a smile. “No, I am not
reading about the fires,” he on, at Zametov. “But confess
now, my dear fellow, you’re to know what I am reading
about?”
“I am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why do you keep
on...?”
“Listen, you are a man of and education?”
“I was in the class at the gymnasium,” said Zametov with some
dignity.
“Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your and your rings--you
are a of fortune. Foo! what a boy!” Here Raskolnikov
broke into a laugh right in Zametov’s face. The drew
back, more than offended.
“Foo! how you are!” Zametov very seriously. “I can’t
help you are still delirious.”
“I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You
find me curious, do you?”
“Yes, curious.”
“Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See
what a of papers I’ve them me. Suspicious, eh?”
“Well, what is it?”
“You up your ears?”
“How do you mean--‘prick up my ears’?”
“I’ll that afterwards, but now, my boy, I to you... no,
better ‘I confess’... No, that’s not right either; ‘I make a deposition
and you take it.’ I that I was reading, that I was looking and
searching....” he up his and paused. “I was searching--and
came here on purpose to do it--for news of the of the old
pawnbroker woman,” he at last, almost in a whisper, bringing
his close to the of Zametov. Zametov looked at him
steadily, without moving or his away. What Zametov
afterwards as the part of it all was that for
exactly a minute, and that they at one another all the while.
“What if you have been reading about it?” he at last, perplexed
and impatient. “That’s no of mine! What of it?”
“The same old woman,” Raskolnikov on in the same whisper, not
heeding Zametov’s explanation, “about you were talking in the
police-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand
now?”
“What do you mean? Understand... what?” Zametov out, almost
alarmed.
Raskolnikov’s set and was transformed, and he
suddenly off into the same laugh as before, as though
utterly unable to himself. And in one he with
extraordinary of a moment in the past, that
moment when he with the the door, while the latch
trembled and the men and it, and he had a sudden
desire to at them, to at them, to put out his at
them, to them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
“You are either mad, or...” Zametov, and he off, as though
stunned by the idea that had into his mind.
“Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!”
“Nothing,” said Zametov, angry, “it’s all nonsense!”
Both were silent. After his fit of Raskolnikov became
suddenly and melancholy. He put his on the table and
leaned his on his hand. He to have forgotten
Zametov. The for some time.
“Why don’t you drink your tea? It’s cold,” said Zametov.
“What! Tea? Oh, yes....” Raskolnikov the glass, put a of
bread in his mouth and, looking at Zametov, to remember
everything and himself together. At the same moment his face
resumed its original expression. He on tea.
“There have been a great many of these lately,” said Zametov.
“Only the other day I read in the _Moscow News_ that a whole of
false had been in Moscow. It was a regular society. They
used to tickets!”
“Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago,”
Raskolnikov answered calmly. “So you them criminals?” he added,
smiling.
“Of they are criminals.”
“They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, a hundred
people meeting for such an object--what an idea! Three would be too
many, and then they want to have more in one another than in
themselves! One has only to in his cups and it all collapses.
Simpletons! They people to the notes--what
a thing to trust to a stranger! Well, let us that these
simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what for the
rest of their lives? Each is on the others for the of his
life! Better at once! And they did not know how to change
the notes either; the man who the notes took five thousand
roubles, and his hands trembled. He the four thousand,
but did not count the thousand--he was in such a to the
money into his pocket and away. Of he suspicion. And
the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?”
“That his hands trembled?” Zametov, “yes, that’s quite
possible. That, I sure, is possible. Sometimes one can’t
stand things.”
“Can’t that?”
“Why, you it then? No, I couldn’t. For the of a hundred
roubles to such a terrible experience? To go with false notes
into a bank where it’s their to spot that of thing! No, I
should not have the to do it. Would you?”
Raskolnikov had an again “to put his out.” Shivers
kept his spine.
“I should do it differently,” Raskolnikov began. “This is how I
would the notes: I’d count the thousand three or four times
backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I’d set to the
second thousand; I’d count that half-way through and then some
fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then it to the light
again--to see it was a good one. ‘I am afraid,’ I would say, ‘a
relation of mine twenty-five the other day through a
false note,’ and then I’d tell them the whole story. And after I began
counting the third, ‘No, me,’ I would say, ‘I I a
mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.’
And so I would give up the third thousand and go to the second and
so on to the end. And when I had finished, I’d out one from the
fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light
and ask again, ‘Change them, please,’ and put the into such a stew
that he would not know how to of me. When I’d and had
gone out, I’d come back, ‘No, me,’ and ask for some explanation.
That’s how I’d do it.”
“Foo! what terrible you say!” said Zametov, laughing. “But all
that is only talk. I say when it came to you’d make a slip.
I that a practised, man cannot always on
himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home--that old
woman in our district. The to have been a
desperate fellow, he in open daylight, was saved by
a miracle--but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in the
place, he couldn’t it. That was clear from the...”
Raskolnikov offended.
“Clear? Why don’t you catch him then?” he cried, at
Zametov.
“Well, they will catch him.”
“Who? You? Do you you catch him? You’ve a job! A
great point for you is a man is money or not. If he had
no money and spending, he must be the man. So that any
child can you.”
“The is they always do that, though,” answered Zametov. “A man will
commit a at the of his life and then at once he goes
drinking in a tavern. They are money, they are not all
as as you are. You wouldn’t go to a tavern, of course?”
Raskolnikov and looked at Zametov.
“You to the and would like to know how I should
behave in that case, too?” he asked with displeasure.
“I should like to,” Zametov answered and seriously. Somewhat too
much to appear in his and looks.
“Very much?”
“Very much!”
“All right then. This is how I should behave,” Raskolnikov began, again
bringing his close to Zametov’s, again at him and speaking
in a whisper, so that the positively shuddered. “This is what
I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should
have walked out of there and have gone to some place
with it and anyone to be seen, some garden
or place of that sort. I should have looked out some stone
weighing a or more which had been in the from
the time the house was built. I would that stone--there would sure
to be a under it, and I would put the and money in that
hole. Then I’d roll the so that it would look as before,
would press it with my and walk away. And for a year or two,
three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they search! There’d
be no trace.”
“You are a madman,” said Zametov, and for some he too spoke in a
whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, were glittering. He
had and his upper lip was and quivering.
He as close as possible to Zametov, and his to move
without a word. This for a minute; he what he
was doing, but not himself. The terrible word on
his lips, like the on that door; in another moment it will break
out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.
“And what if it was I who the old woman and Lizaveta?” he said
suddenly and--realised what he had done.
Zametov looked at him and white as the tablecloth. His
face a smile.
“But is it possible?” he out faintly. Raskolnikov looked
wrathfully at him.
“Own up that you it, yes, you did?”
“Not a of it, I it less than now,” Zametov cried
hastily.
“I’ve my cock-sparrow! So you did it before, if now you
believe less than ever?”
“Not at all,” Zametov, embarrassed. “Have you been
frightening me so as to lead up to this?”
“You don’t it then? What were you talking about my
back when I out of the police-office? And why did the explosive
lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there,” he to the
waiter, up and taking his cap, “how much?”
“Thirty copecks,” the replied, up.
“And there is twenty for vodka. See what a of money!” he
held out his hand to Zametov with notes in it. “Red notes and
blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I them? And where did my new
clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You’ve cross-examined my
landlady, I’ll be bound.... Well, that’s enough! _Assez causé!_ Till we
meet again!”
He out, all over from a of wild hysterical
sensation, in which there was an of rapture. Yet he
was and tired. His was as after a fit.
His rapidly. Any shock, any sensation
stimulated and his at once, but his failed as
quickly when the was removed.
Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, in
thought. Raskolnikov had a in his brain on
a point and had up his mind for him conclusively.
“Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,” he decided.
Raskolnikov had opened the door of the restaurant when he
stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other
till they almost against each other. For a moment they stood
looking each other up and down. Razumihin was astounded, then
anger, anger in his eyes.
“So here you are!” he at the top of his voice--“you ran away
from your bed! And here I’ve been looking for you under the sofa! We
went up to the garret. I almost Nastasya on your account. And here
he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole
truth! Confess! Do you hear?”
“It means that I’m to death of you all and I want to be alone,”
Raskolnikov answered calmly.
“Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your is as white as a
sheet and you are for breath! Idiot!... What have you been doing
in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!”
“Let me go!” said Raskolnikov and to pass him. This was too much
for Razumihin; he him by the shoulder.
“Let you go? You tell me to let you go? Do you know what I’ll do
with you directly? I’ll you up, tie you up in a bundle, you
home under my arm and lock you up!”
“Listen, Razumihin,” Raskolnikov quietly, calm--“can’t
you see that I don’t want your benevolence? A you have to
shower on a man who... them, who them a in
fact! Why did you me out at the of my illness? Maybe I
was very to die. Didn’t I tell you to-day that
you were me, that I was... of you! You to want to
torture people! I you that all that is my
recovery, it’s me. You saw Zossimov
went away just now to avoid me. You me alone too, for
goodness’ sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don’t
you see that I am in of all my now? How, how can
I you not to me with your kindness? I may be
ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God’s sake, let me be!
Let me be, let me be!”
He calmly, over the phrases he was
about to utter, but finished, for breath, in a frenzy, as he had
been with Luzhin.
Razumihin a moment, and let his hand drop.
“Well, go to then,” he said and thoughtfully. “Stay,” he
roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. “Listen to me. Let me tell
you, that you are all a set of babbling, idiots! If you’ve any
little trouble you over it like a hen over an egg. And you are
plagiarists in that! There isn’t a of life in
you! You are of and you’ve in your veins
instead of blood. I don’t in anyone of you! In any circumstances
the thing for all of you is to be a being! Stop!” he
cried with fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making
a movement--“hear me out! You know I’m having a house-warming this
evening, I say they’ve by now, but I left my uncle there--I
just ran in--to the guests. And if you weren’t a fool, a common
fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original of a translation...
you see, Rodya, I you’re a fellow, but you’re a
fool!--and if you weren’t a you’d come to me this evening
instead of out your in the street! Since you have gone
out, there’s no help for it! I’d give you a easy chair, my landlady
has one... a cup of tea, company.... Or you on the sofa--any
way you would be with us.... Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?”
“No.”
“R-rubbish!” Razumihin shouted, out of patience. “How do you know?
You can’t answer for yourself! You don’t know anything about it....
Thousands of times I’ve tooth and with people and back
to them afterwards.... One and goes to a man! So
remember, Potchinkov’s house on the third storey....”
“Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do you’d let you from sheer
benevolence.”
“Beat? Whom? Me? I’d his nose off at the idea! Potchinkov’s
house, 47, Babushkin’s flat....”
“I shall not come, Razumihin.” Raskolnikov and walked away.
“I you will,” Razumihin after him. “I to know you if
you don’t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Talked to him?”
“Yes.”
“What about? Confound you, don’t tell me then. Potchinkov’s house, 47,
Babushkin’s flat, remember!”
Raskolnikov walked on and the into Sadovy Street.
Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a of his hand he
went into the house but stopped of the stairs.
“Confound it,” he on almost aloud. “He talked but yet...
I am a fool! As if didn’t talk sensibly! And this was just what
Zossimov of.” He his on his forehead. “What
if... how I let him go off alone? He may himself.... Ach,
what a blunder! I can’t.” And he ran to overtake Raskolnikov, but
there was no of him. With a he returned with steps to
the Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.
Raskolnikov walked to X---- Bridge, in the middle, and
leaning on the rail into the distance. On parting
with Razumihin, he so much that he this
place. He to or in the street. Bending
over the water, he at the last pink of the
sunset, at the of houses dark in the twilight, at
one window on the left bank, as though on fire in
the last of the setting sun, at the water of the canal,
and the water to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed
before his eyes, the houses moving, the passers-by, the canal
banks, the carriages, all his eyes. Suddenly he started,
saved again from by an and sight. He
became aware of someone on the right of him; he looked
and saw a tall woman with a on her head, with a long, yellow,
wasted and red eyes. She was looking at him, but
obviously she saw nothing and no one. Suddenly she her
right hand on the parapet, her right leg over the railing, then
her left and herself into the canal. The water and
swallowed up its for a moment, but an later the drowning
woman to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head
and in the water, her skirt like a over her back.
“A woman drowning! A woman drowning!” of voices; people
ran up, banks were with spectators, on the people
crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up him.
“Mercy on it! it’s our Afrosinya!” a woman close by.
“Mercy! save her! people, her out!”
“A boat, a boat” was in the crowd. But there was no need of a
boat; a ran the steps to the canal, off his great
coat and his and into the water. It was easy to her:
she a of yards from the steps, he of
her with his right hand and with his left a which a
comrade out to him; the woman was out at once. They
laid her on the of the embankment. She soon recovered
consciousness, her head, sat up and and coughing,
stupidly her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
“She’s herself out of her senses,” the same woman’s voice wailed
at her side. “Out of her senses. The other day she to hang
herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little
girl to look after her--and here she’s in trouble again! A neighbour,
gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end,
see yonder....”
The up. The police still the woman, someone
mentioned the police station.... Raskolnikov looked on with a strange
sensation of and apathy. He disgusted. “No, that’s
loathsome... water... it’s not good enough,” he to himself.
“Nothing will come of it,” he added, “no use to wait. What about the
police office...? And why isn’t Zametov at the police office? The police
office is open till ten o’clock....” He his to the railing
and looked about him.
“Very well then!” he said resolutely; he moved from the and
walked in the direction of the police office. His and
empty. He did not want to think. Even his had passed, there
was not a now of the energy with which he had set out “to make an
end of it all.” Complete had succeeded to it.
“Well, it’s a way out of it,” he thought, walking slowly and listlessly
along the bank. “Anyway I’ll make an end, for I want to.... But
is it a way out? What it matter! There’ll be the square of
space--ha! But what an end! Is it the end? Shall I tell them or
not? Ah... damn! How I am! If I to or lie
down soon! What I am most of is its being so stupid. But I don’t
care about that either! What ideas come into one’s head.”
To the police office he had to go and take the
second to the left. It was only a away. But at the
first he stopped and, after a minute’s thought, into a
side and two out of his way, possibly without any
object, or possibly to a minute and time. He walked, looking
at the ground; someone to in his ear; he lifted
his and saw that he was at the very gate of _the_ house.
He had not passed it, he had not been near it since _that_ evening.
An overwhelming, him on. He into the
house, passed through the gateway, then into the entrance on the
right, and the familiar to the fourth storey.
The narrow, was very dark. He stopped at each landing
and looked him with curiosity; on the landing the framework
of the window had been taken out. “That wasn’t so then,” he thought.
Here was the on the second where Nikolay and Dmitri had been
working. “It’s up and the door newly painted. So it’s to let.” Then
the third and the fourth. “Here!” He was to the
door of the wide open. There were men there, he voices;
he had not that. After he the last
stairs and into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were
workmen in it. This to him; he somehow that he
would as he left it, the in the
same places on the floor. And now, walls, no furniture; it seemed
strange. He walked to the window and sat on the window-sill. There
were two workmen, fellows, but one much than the
other. They were the with a new white paper with
lilac flowers, of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for
some by this. He looked at the new paper
with dislike, as though he sorry to have it all so changed.
The had their time and now they were
hurriedly up their paper and to go home. They took
no notice of Raskolnikov’s in; they were talking. Raskolnikov
folded his arms and listened.
“She comes to me in the morning,” said the to the younger, “very
early, all up. ‘Why are you and prinking?’ says I. ‘I
am to do anything to you, Tit Vassilitch!’ That’s a way of
going on! And she up like a regular fashion book!”
“And what is a fashion book?” the one asked. He obviously
regarded the other as an authority.
“A fashion book is a of pictures, coloured, and they come to the
tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to how
to dress, the male as well as the female. They’re pictures. The
gentlemen are and for the ladies’ fluffles,
they’re anything you can fancy.”
“There’s nothing you can’t in Petersburg,” the cried
enthusiastically, “except father and mother, there’s everything!”
“Except them, there’s to be found, my boy,” the elder
declared sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the box,
the bed, and the of had been; the room to him very
tiny without in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the
corner where the case of had stood. He looked at it and
went to the window. The looked at him askance.
“What do you want?” he asked suddenly.
Instead of Raskolnikov into the passage and the
bell. The same bell, the same note. He it a second and
a third time; he and remembered. The and agonisingly
fearful he had then to come more and more
vividly. He at every ring and it gave him more and more
satisfaction.
“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” the shouted, going out to
him. Raskolnikov again.
“I want to take a flat,” he said. “I am looking round.”
“It’s not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up
with the porter.”
“The have been washed, will they be painted?” Raskolnikov went
on. “Is there no blood?”
“What blood?”
“Why, the old woman and her sister were here. There was a
perfect there.”
“But who are you?” the cried, uneasy.
“Who am I?”
“Yes.”
“You want to know? Come to the police station, I’ll tell you.”
The looked at him in amazement.
“It’s time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock
up,” said the workman.
“Very well, come along,” said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going
out first, he slowly downstairs. “Hey, porter,” he in the
gateway.
At the entrance people were standing, at the passers-by;
the two porters, a woman, a man in a long and a others.
Raskolnikov up to them.
“What do you want?” asked one of the porters.
“Have you been to the police office?”
“I’ve just been there. What do you want?”
“Is it open?”
“Of course.”
“Is the there?”
“He was there for a time. What do you want?”
Raskolnikov no reply, but them in thought.
“He’s been to look at the flat,” said the workman, forward.
“Which flat?”
“Where we are at work. ‘Why have you away the blood?’ says he.
‘There has been a here,’ says he, ‘and I’ve come to take it.’
And he at the bell, all but it. ‘Come to the police
station,’ says he. ‘I’ll tell you there.’ He wouldn’t leave
us.”
The looked at Raskolnikov, and perplexed.
“Who are you?” he as as he could.
“I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, I live in
Shil’s house, not from here, Number 14, ask the porter, he
knows me.” Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, voice, not
turning round, but looking into the street.
“Why have you been to the flat?”
“To look at it.”
“What is there to look at?”
“Take him to the police station,” the man in the long coat
jerked in abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked at him over his and said in the
same slow, lazy tones:
“Come along.”
“Yes, take him,” the man on more confidently. “Why was he going
into _that_, what’s in his mind, eh?”
“He’s not drunk, but God what’s the with him,” the
workman.
“But what do you want?” the again, to angry
in earnest--“Why are you about?”
“You the police station then?” said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
“How it? Why are you about?”
“He’s a rogue!” the woman.
“Why waste time talking to him?” the other porter, a peasant
in a full open and with keys on his belt. “Get along! He is a rogue
and no mistake. Get along!”
And Raskolnikov by the he him into the street. He
lurched forward, but his footing, looked at the in
silence and walked away.
“Strange man!” the workman.
“There are about nowadays,” said the woman.
“You should have taken him to the police station all the same,” said the
man in the long coat.
“Better have nothing to do with him,” the big porter. “A regular
rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you
won’t of him.... We know the sort!”
“Shall I go there or not?” Raskolnikov, in the middle
of the at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as
though from someone a word. But no came, all
was and like the on which he walked, to him, to
him alone.... All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards
away, in the he saw a and talk and shouts.
In the middle of the a carriage.... A light in the
middle of the street. “What is it?” Raskolnikov to the right
and up to the crowd. He to at and smiled
coldly when he it, for he had up his mind to go to
the police station and that it would all soon be over.
