Kabanata Kabanata 6 · 第6章

Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his

wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was

nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been

reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all

women’s things. As the things would have fetched little in the market,

they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta’s business. She

undertook such jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest

and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule

little and, as we have said already, she was very submissive and timid.

But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of

superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable.

And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something

strange and mysterious, as it were, the presence of some peculiar

influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew

called Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to

give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he

might want to pawn anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for

he had lessons and managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had

remembered the address; he had two articles that could be pawned: his

father’s old silver watch and a little gold ring with three red stones,

a present from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When

he found the old woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her

at the first glance, though he knew nothing special about her. He got

two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way

home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange

idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very

much absorbed him.

Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he

did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had

played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard

the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and

give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he

had just come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course

it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary

impression, and here 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 roubles at a time and

she is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have

had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy....”

And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you

were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she

gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven

percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying

that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was

continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child,

though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.

“There’s a phenomenon for you,” cried the student and he laughed.

They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a

peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened

with great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending

for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about

her. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister,

being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked

day and night for her sister, and besides doing the cooking and the

washing, she did sewing and worked as a charwoman and gave her sister

all she earned. She did not dare to accept an order or job of any kind

without her sister’s permission. The old woman had already made her

will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a

farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money was

left to a monastery in the province of N----, that prayers might be

said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister,

unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long

feet that looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered

goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What the student expressed

most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was

continually with child.

“But you say she is hideous?” observed the officer.

“Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but

you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face

and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are

attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up

with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is

really very sweet.”

“You seem to find her attractive yourself,” laughed the officer.

“From her queerness. No, I’ll tell you what. I could kill that damned

old woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the

faintest conscience-prick,” the student added with warmth. The officer

laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!

“Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the student said hotly.

“I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid,

senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply

useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is

living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You

understand? You understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” answered the officer, watching his excited

companion attentively.

“Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for

want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good

deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman’s money which will be

buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the

right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from

vice, from the Lock hospitals--and all with her money. Kill her, take

her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of

humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny

crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands

would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives

in exchange--it’s simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of

that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence!

No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact

because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of

others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s finger out of spite; it almost

had to be amputated.”

“Of course she does not deserve to live,” remarked the officer, “but

there it is, it’s nature.”

“Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but

for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that,

there would never have been a single great man. They talk of

duty, conscience--I don’t want to say anything against duty and

conscience;--but the point is, what do we mean by them? Stay, I have

another question to ask you. Listen!”

“No, you stay, I’ll ask you a question. Listen!”

“Well?”

“You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the

old woman _yourself_?”

“Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It’s nothing to

do with me....”

“But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no justice about

it.... Let us have another game.”

Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary

youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in

different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear

such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain

was just conceiving... _the very same ideas_? And why, just at the

moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old

woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This

coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern

had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had

really been in it something preordained, some guiding 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 realised

with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep

came over him, as it were crushing him.

He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya,

coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morning, had difficulty

in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the

second brew and again in her own tea-pot.

“My goodness, how he sleeps!” she cried indignantly. “And he is always

asleep.”

He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in

his garret and sank back on the sofa again.

“Going to sleep again,” cried Nastasya. “Are you ill, eh?”

He made no reply.

“Do you want some tea?”

“Afterwards,” he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning

to the wall.

Nastasya stood over him.

“Perhaps he really is ill,” she said, turned and went out. She came in

again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood

untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully

rousing him.

“Why are you lying like a log?” she shouted, looking at him with

repulsion.

He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor.

“Are you ill or not?” asked Nastasya and again received no answer.

“You’d better go out and get a breath of air,” she said after a pause.

“Will you eat it or not?”

“Afterwards,” he said weakly. “You can go.”

And he motioned her out.

She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went

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 ached less. After his meal he stretched himself

on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring,

with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-dreams and such

strange day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he was

in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting,

the camels were peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a

complete circle; all the party were at dinner. But he was drinking water

from a spring which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was

wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured

stones and over the clean sand which glistened here and there like

gold.... Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself,

raised his head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was,

suddenly jumped up wide awake as though 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 hands shook

as he sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed outside

when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got ready

long before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for the

noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose was intended

for the axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe through the

street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still have

had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable. Now

he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang

quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat

pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the way, so that it did

not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it

could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the

hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a

fortnight before.

When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening

between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out

the _pledge_, which he had got ready long before and hidden there. This

pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and

thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood

in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of

a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece

of iron, which he had also picked up at the same time in the street.

Putting the iron which was a little the smaller on the piece of wood,

he fastened them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round

them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and

tied up the parcel so that it would be very difficult to untie it. This

was in order to divert the attention of the old woman for a time, while

she was trying to undo the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip

was added to give weight, so that the woman might not guess the first

minute that the “thing” was made of wood. All this had been stored by

him beforehand under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when

he heard 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 agonising inward struggle, he never for

a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his

plans.

And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point

could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of

any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all

as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of

unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe,

that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier.

Nastasya was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings;

she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and always left the

door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her

about. And so, when the time came, he would only have to go quietly into

the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything

was over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points.

Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had

come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait

till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss

the axe, look for it, make an outcry--that would mean suspicion or at

least grounds for suspicion.

But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and

indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off

trifling details, until _he could believe in it all_. But that seemed

utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not

imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get

up and simply go there.... Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with

the object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at

an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say

“come, let us go and try it--why dream about it!”--and at once he

had broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself.

Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his

analysis was complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he

could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last resort

he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought

arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though 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 instant when prudence

and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse

of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a disease,

developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the

perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment

of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, according to the

individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The

question whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the

crime from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied by something of

the nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to decide.

When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there

could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would

remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the

simple reason that his design was “not a crime....” We will omit all the

process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have

run too far ahead already.... We may add only that the practical, purely

material difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his

mind. “One has but to keep all one’s will-power and reason to deal

with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has

familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the business....” But

this preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he

came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite

differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly.

One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even

left the staircase. When he reached the landlady’s kitchen, the door

of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in

Nastasya’s absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether

the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when

he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly

saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied

there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing

him, she left off hanging the clothes, turned to him and stared at him

all the time he was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as

though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything; he had not

the axe! He was overwhelmed.

“What made me think,” he reflected, as he went under the gateway, “what

made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment!

Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?”

He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in

his anger.... A dull animal rage boiled within him.

He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk

for appearance’ sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more

revolting. “And what a chance I have lost for ever!” he muttered,

standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter’s little

dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter’s

room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the

right caught his eye.... He looked about him--nobody. He approached the

room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called

the porter. “Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for

the door is wide open.” He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled

it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood;

at once, before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both

hands into his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him!

“When reason fails, the devil helps!” he thought with a strange grin.

This chance raised his spirits extraordinarily.

He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening

suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking

at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible.

Suddenly he thought of his hat. “Good heavens! I had the money the day

before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!” A curse rose

from the bottom of his soul.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on

the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at

the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the

other side....

When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes

thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much

afraid now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied

by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov

garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great

fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all

the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer

garden were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the

garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a

great benefit to the town. Then he was interested by the question why

in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some

peculiar way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there

are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all

sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back

to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to reality. “What nonsense!”

he thought, “better think of nothing at all!”

“So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that

meets them on the way,” flashed through his mind, but simply flashed,

like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought.... And by now

he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock

somewhere struck once. “What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it

must be fast!”

Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very

moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had

just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under

the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into

the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other

side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one

noticed him and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge

quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his

head--he had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old

woman’s room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was

already on the stairs....

Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and

once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly

and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the

stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no

one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were

at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought

a minute and went on. “Of course it would be better if they had not been

here, but... it’s two storeys above them.”

And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the

flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman’s was

apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been

torn off--they had gone away!... He was out of breath. For one instant

the thought floated through his mind, “Shall I go back?” But he made no

answer and began listening at the old woman’s door, a dead silence. Then

he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently...

then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew

himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose. “Am I very pale?”

he wondered. “Am I not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful.... Had I

better wait a little longer... till my heart leaves off thumping?”

But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite

him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer,

he slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he

rang again, more loudly.

No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman

was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some

knowledge of her habits... and once more he put his ear to the door.

Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to

suppose), or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly

heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the

rustle of a skirt at the very door. 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 at moments and

he was almost unconscious of his body.... An instant later he heard the

latch unfastened.