Crime and Punishment (19 page)

Terror was gaining an increasing hold on him, particularly after this second, quite unpremeditated murder. He felt that he wanted to escape from this place as quickly as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing things in better proportion and of making decisions, if he had been able to perceive all the difficulties of his situation, in all its desperate, monstrous absurdity, and to realize just how many problems he would have to overcome and how much villainy he might have to perform in order to get out of this place and arrive back home again, he might very well have abandoned the whole undertaking and gone at once to give himself up – not out of fear for himself, but from a simple feeling of horror and revulsion at what he had done. The sense of revulsion in particular kept rising up and growing inside him with each moment that passed. Not for anything in the world would he have gone back to the chest now, nor even to the rooms of the apartment.

Little by little, however, he had begun to fall into a kind of absent-minded, even reflective condition; at some moments he seemed to forget himself, or rather forget what was important and cling to trivial things instead. Even so, when he took a look in the kitchen and caught sight of a half-full pail of water on a bench, he hit upon the notion of giving his hands and the axe a good wash. His hands were covered in blood and his fingers were stuck together. He lowered the axe straight into the water, blade-first, grabbed a small piece of soap that was lying in a
broken saucer on the windowsill and began to wash his hands right there, in the pail. When they were clean, he pulled out the axe, gave the iron part of it a thorough rinsing, and spent a long time – about three minutes – cleaning the wooden shaft, on which a great deal of blood had gathered, using the soap to get rid of it. After that he wiped everything down with some of the washing that was hanging up to dry on the clothes-line that had been strung up across the kitchen, and then made a long and attentive examination of the axe over by the window. Not a vestige remained; the shaft was still damp, that was all. Carefully he put the axe back into the loop inside his coat. Then, as far as the dim light of the kitchen would allow, he examined the coat, his trousers and boots. On a first, superficial glance there appeared to be nothing to worry about; only the boots showed some stains. He soaked his rag in the water and rubbed the boots down. He was, however, aware that he was not examining everything properly, that there might be something immediately obvious which he had not noticed. He stood in the middle of the room, reflecting. A dark, tormenting thought was rising up inside him – the thought that he was behaving like a madman and that he was not at that moment in a position either to think properly or to protect himself, that what he was doing now was not at all what he ought to be doing… ‘Oh my God! I must flee, flee!’ he muttered to himself, and he rushed into the entrance-hall. But here there awaited him a shock of horror the like of which he had never once yet experienced.

He stood, looked, and was unable to believe his eyes: the door, the outer door which led from the hallway on to the staircase, the very same door at which he had rung earlier and through which he had walked, was open by a distance easily as wide as a man's hand; no lock, no bolt, for the whole time, for all this time! The old woman had not locked the door after him when he had come in, possibly out of caution. But for God's sake! After all, he had seen Lizaveta later on! How, how could he not have realized that she must have got in somehow? She hadn't come through the wall, had she?

He flung himself at the door and fastened the bolt.

‘No, that's not the right thing to do, either! I must go, go…’

He undid the bolt, opened the door and began to listen on the stairs.

He listened for a long time. Somewhere far away, down at the foot of the stairs, probably somewhere in the entrance-way, two voices were shouting loudly and shrilly, arguing and exchanging abuse. ‘What's up with them?…’ Patiently, he waited. At last the hubbub stopped without warning, as though cut short; they had gone their separate ways. He was on the point of making his exit when suddenly a door opened with a noise on the floor below, and someone began to go downstairs humming some tune or other. ‘What a noise they're all making!’ was the thought that flashed across his mind. He closed the door again, and waited. At last all sounds had died away, there was not a soul about. He was just about to put his foot on the staircase when he suddenly heard more footsteps, someone else's this time.

These footsteps were very far away, right at the bottom of the stairs, but he later recalled very well and distinctly that right from the very first sound of them he began to suspect that for some reason whoever it was was coming
here
, to the fourth floor, to the old woman's apartment. Why had that been? Was there anything particularly special or portentous about those sounds? The steps were heavy, regular, unhurried. There – now
he
had passed the first floor, now he was coming up further; there, louder and louder! The heavy breathing of the man who had entered the building was now audible. Now he had started his climb to the third floor… He was coming here! And suddenly he felt that he had gone stiff and numb, that this was like something in a dream, the sort of dream where one is being hunted down by pursuers who are close on one's heels and have the intention of killing, while one seems to have become rooted to the spot and is unable to move a limb.

Then, as the visitor was beginning his ascent to the fourth floor, only then did he suddenly rouse himself and manage to slip back quickly and deftly out of the passage and into the apartment again, closing the door behind him. Then he gripped the bolt and quietly, soundlessly slid it into its fastening. Some instinct helped him. When he had finished these preparations he hid, scarcely breathing, right behind the door. The unbidden
visitor was now also next to the door. They were standing opposite each other, just as earlier he and the old woman had stood, when the door had separated them, and he had listened.

The visitor gasped heavily several times, recovering his breath. ‘He must be a big, stout fellow,’ Raskolnikov thought, as he clutched the axe in his hand. This really was all like a dream. The visitor grabbed at the bell-pull and rang it loudly.

No sooner had the tinny sound of the bell clanked out than he suddenly fancied there was movement in the room. For a few seconds he actually gave the matter some serious attention. The stranger, whoever he was, clanked the bell again, waited a little longer and then suddenly, in impatience, began to tug at the door handle for all he was worth. Raskolnikov watched the tongue of the bolt leap in its fastening, and waited in dull terror for it to come flying out. That really did seem possible, so violent was the tugging. He thought of holding the bolt in place with his hand, but then reflected that
he
would guess what was happening. His head had started to go round again. ‘I'm going to fall!’ flashed across his mind, but the stranger began to speak, and he at once recovered his balance.

‘What's wrong with them in there, are they asleep or has somebody strangled them? The cursed wr-r-etches!’ he roared, in a voice that seemed to come from a barrel. ‘Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, you old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, my fabled beauty! Open up! Ach, the cursed wretches, are they sleeping or what?’

And again, in a frenzy of rage, he pulled at the bell a dozen times in succession with all his strength. This must certainly be some intimate frequenter of the household, who possessed authority over it.

Just at that moment light, hurried footsteps were heard somewhere on the stairs, not far away. Someone else was coming, too. Raskolnikov could not catch what they were saying at first.

‘Is there really no one in?’ one of the men who had come upstairs shouted in a resonant, cheerful voice, addressing the original visitor, who was still continuing to pull at the bell. ‘Hallo, Koch!’

‘If his voice is anything to go by, he must be very young,’ Raskolnikov thought suddenly.

‘The devil only knows what they're up to in there, I've practically smashed the lock to bits,’ Koch replied. ‘May I inquire how you know my name?’

‘I like that! Hey, I beat you at billiards three times in a row at the Gambrinus
¹
the day before yesterday.’

‘Aha-a-a…’

‘So they're not in? Funny. It's damn silly, in fact. Where would an old woman like her be off to? I've got business with her.’

‘I too, my dear fellow – I too have business with her.’

‘Well, what's to be done? Go back again, I suppose. Damn! And there was I thinking I'd get some money!’ the young man exclaimed.

‘That's right, there's no point hanging around here. But why go and fix an appointment? She herself actually fixed an appointment with me. I mean, it's not exactly on my usual route. Where the devil can she have gone gadding off to? That's what I don't understand. All year round she sticks at home moping, the old witch, telling you how her legs ache, and now suddenly she's off for a walk!’

‘Couldn't we ask the yardkeeper?’

‘Ask him what?’

‘Where she's gone and what time she'll be back.’

‘Hm… the devil… having to ask… I mean, she never goes anywhere…’ And again he pulled at the bell-handle. ‘The devil, there's nothing to be done! Let's go!’

‘Wait!’ the young man shouted, suddenly. ‘Look: do you see the way the door catches when you pull it?’

‘So?’

‘That means it isn't locked, but only bolted – on the hook, in other words. Listen, can't you hear the bolt clinking?’

‘So?’

‘So what's your problem? It means that one of them's at home. If they'd both gone out, they'd have locked the door from the outside, using the key, not bolted it from inside. There – you hear the bolt clinking? For the bolt to be fastened inside like that there would have to be somebody in there. They must be there, but they're not opening up! Do you see what I mean?’

‘Well, I never! Now that you come to mention it, I do!’ Koch
exclaimed in astonishment. ‘Then what are they up to in there?’ And he began to rattle the door violently.

‘Wait!’ the young man shouted again. ‘Don't do that! There's something fishy here… I mean, you've rung the bell, you've rattled the door, yet they don't open up; that means either they've fainted, or…’

‘What?’

‘I tell you what: let's go and find the yardkeeper; let him winkle them out.’

‘It's a deal.’ They both started off down the stairs.

‘Wait! You stay here, and I'll run down and get the yardkeeper.’

‘Why do I have to stay?’

‘Don't you think one of us ought to?…’

‘I suppose so…’

‘I mean, I'm studying to be a state investigator! There's obviously,
ob
-vi-ous-ly something fishy here!’ the young man heatedly exclaimed, before rushing off down the stairs at full gallop.

Koch stayed behind, and gently moved the bell-pull once again; the bell gave a single clank. Then quietly, as though he were musing and conducting an exploration, he began to move the door-handle, pulling it out and drawing it downwards in order to convince himself again that it was secured by the bolt alone. Then, breathing heavily, he bent down and began to look through the keyhole; but the key had been inserted into it from the other side and, consequently, nothing was visible.

Raskolnikov stood clutching the axe. He was in a kind of delirium. He had even been preparing to fight them when they came in. While they were knocking and discussing what they ought to do, he had several times had a sudden urge to get it all over with and shout to them from his side of the door. At times he had felt like cursing and taunting them, until they forced the door open. ‘Hurry up!’ flashed across his mind.

‘To the devil with it, what's keeping him…’

Time passed, one minute, then another – no one came. Koch began to get restless.

‘To the devil with this!…’ he suddenly exclaimed, and in impatience, abandoning his vigil, set off down to the bottom as
well, hurrying along and making a noise with his boots on the stairs. His footsteps died away.

‘O Lord, what shall I do?’

Raskolnikov undid the bolt, opened the door a little way, heard nothing, and suddenly, quite without thinking now, went outside, closed the door as tightly as he could and rushed off downwards.

He had gone three floors when there was a sudden, violent noise below – what was to become of him? There was nowhere to hide. He started to run back upwards to the apartment again.

‘Hey, damn it, you devil! Stop!’

With a yell someone burst out of an apartment on the floor below and, not so much running as falling down the stairs, shouted at the top of his voice:

‘Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! The deuce have your hide!’

The shout ended on a high-pitched, yelping note. These last sounds came from outside; everything grew quiet. But at that same instant several men, talking loudly and quickly, began to make their way upstairs with a good deal of noise. There were three or four of them. He made out the young man's resonant voice. ‘It's them!’

In complete despair he went straight towards them: what must be, must be! If they stopped him it would all be over, if they let him past, it would all be over, too: they would remember. They were now practically on top of one another: between them there was only one flight of stairs – and suddenly salvation! Only a few steps away from him, to the right, was an empty apartment whose door stood wide open, the very same second-floor apartment that the workmen had been decorating, and which now, as if by special design, they had abandoned. They it must have been who had come rushing out with such a noise a moment ago. The floors had just been painted, in the middle of the room were a small tub and a crock of paint with a paintbrush in it. In a single instant he slipped through the open door and hid himself behind the wall, not before time – they were already on the landing. At that point they turned, passing him, and went on up towards the fourth floor, exchanging loud
conversation with one another. He bided his time, then emerged on tiptoe and ran downstairs.