Crime and Punishment (34 page)

‘She's drowned herself! She's drowned herself!’ dozens of voices clamoured; people came running, both embankments were crawling with spectators, and all around Raskolnikov on the bridge people crowded together, pressing him and pushing him from behind.

‘Oh for God's sake, that's our Afrosinyushka!’ a woman's voice wailed somewhere close by. ‘For God's sake, rescue her! Kind friends and fathers, pull her out of there!’

‘A boat! A boat!’ people shouted from the crowd.

But now a boat was no longer required: a policeman ran down the steps of one of the descents to the Canal, threw off his overcoat and boots, and hurled himself into the water. There was not much that needed to be done: the water had carried the drowning woman to a point just a couple of yards from the descent; with his right hand he seized her by her clothes, while with his left he succeeded in catching hold of a pole which his mate held out to him, and the woman was hauled out. They laid her on the granite slabs of the descent. She soon came to, raised herself, sat up, and began to sniff and sneeze, vacantly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She did not say anything.

‘She's drunk herself crazy, friends, drunk herself crazy,’ the same female voice wailed, from beside Afrosinyushka now. ‘And the other day she tried to hang herself, too, we had to take her down from the rope. I went out to the corner shop, left my
little girl to keep an eye on her – and look what a terrible thing happened! She's from round these parts, dearie, from round these parts, we live next door to her, the second building from the end, right here…’

The crowd dispersed, the policemen continued to hover around the woman who had tried to drown herself, someone shouted something about the bureau… Raskolnikov looked at everything with a strange sense of indifference and lack of involvement. He had begun to feel revolted. ‘No, that's vile… the water… it's not worth it,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Nothing's going to happen,’ he added. ‘There's no point in waiting around. What was that about the bureau?… And why isn't Zamyotov at the bureau? It doesn't close until ten…’ He turned his back to the railing and looked around him.

‘Well, so what, then? Perhaps I will,’ he said, resolutely, left the bridge and set off in the direction of the bureau. His heart felt empty and hollow. He did not want to think. Even his depression had gone, and he possessed not a trace of the energy he had felt earlier when, leaving his quarters, he had told himself he was going to ‘bring it all to an end’. It had been replaced by a state of complete apathy.

‘After all, this is a way out, too!’ he thought, as he walked slowly and languidly along the embankment of the Canal. ‘I
will
bring it all to an end, because I want to… But will it be a proper way out? Oh, it's all the same! There'll be a couple of feet to turn round in – ha! But what an end! Will it really be the end? Will I tell them, or won't I? Oh… the devil. I'm tired; I want to sit or lie down as soon as possible! The most embarrassing thing about it is that it's so stupid. Oh, I don't give a spit. God, what stupid things come into one's head…’

In order to reach the bureau he had to keep straight on and take the second turning to the left: it was hardly any distance at all. When he came to the first turning, however, he stopped, thought for a moment, then walked down the alley and made a detour by way of two other streets – perhaps without any particular purpose in view, but perhaps, also, in order to spin out the moment and gain some time. As he walked, he looked at the ground. Suddenly it was as if someone had whispered
something in his ear. He lifted his head and saw he was standing outside
that
building, right by its front entrance. He had not been here since
that
evening, had not so much as passed it by.

An irresistible and inexplicable desire drew him onwards. He went into the building, walked right through the entrance-way, then entered the first floor on the right and began to climb the familiar staircase up to the fourth floor. The steep, narrow stairs were very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked around with curiosity. The frame of the window on the first-floor landing had been completely removed. ‘This wasn't like that then,’ he thought. Here, too, was the apartment on the second floor where friends Nikolai and Mitya had been working: ‘The door's shut, and it's been freshly painted, too; that means the place is up for rent.’ Here was the third floor… and the fourth… ‘Here!’ He was gripped with bewilderment: the door of the apartment was wide open.

It was also being redecorated; there were workmen in it, and this seemed to make a particular impression on him. For some reason he had imagined that he would find everything exactly as he had left it that day, that even the dead bodies might still be lying in the same positions on the floor. But now he found: bare walls, no furniture. There was something strange about it. He walked over to a window and sat down on its ledge.

There were only two workmen, both young fellows, one with a senior look about him, and the other very decidedly his junior. They were covering the walls with new wallpaper which was white with lilac-coloured flowers, replacing the old yellow paper which was frayed and torn. For some reason Raskolnikov did not like this one little bit; he viewed the new wallpaper with hostility, as though he regretted their having changed everything in this way.

The workmen had obviously been taking their time over the job; now it was late, however, and they were hurrying to roll up their paper and be off home. To Raskolnikov's appearance they paid only the merest attention. They were talking together about something. Raskolnikov folded his arms and began to listen carefully.

‘This one comes up to me this morning,’ the older workman
was telling the younger, ‘the crack of dawn it was, and she was all dressed up to kill. “What are you an-orangeing-and-a-lemoning
⁸
with me like that for?” I said. “Oh, Tit Vasilyich,” she said, “I want to be in your complete control from this day forth.” How do you like that? And boy, was she dressed to kill: a
journal
, a proper
journal
.’

‘What's a
journal
, uncle?’ the young workman asked. He evidently looked up to his ‘uncle’ as a source of instruction.

‘A
journal
, my lad, is a lot of pictures, coloured ones, which arrive by post at the tailors’ establishments here in town from abroad every Saturday to show everyone how to dress, the male sex, that is, every bit as much as the female sex. It's drawings, see. The male sex is drawn mostly in waisted coats with gathers, but in the women's section there's tarts the likes of which you could never get enough of!’

‘Here, they've got everything in this St Petersburg place!’ the younger workman exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘Apart from mum and dad, they've got the lot!’

‘Apart from them, my lad, they have,’ the older workman affirmed, in the tone of a mentor.

Raskolnikov got up and went through to the other room, which had contained the trunk, the bed and the chest of drawers; without its furniture he thought the room looked terribly small. The wallpaper was still unchanged; in one corner it clearly showed the spot where the icon-case had stood. Having cast a glance round, he returned to his window. The older workman peered at him sideways.

‘What do you want, sir?’ he asked, suddenly, turning towards him.

Instead of replying, Raskolnikov stood up, went out into the passage, took hold of the bell-pull and gave it a tug. It was the same bell, the same tinny sound! He tugged it again, then yet again, listening attentively, and remembering. The tormentingly fear-ridden, outrageous sensation he had had then was beginning to return to him with greater and greater vividness and clarity, with each ring he shuddered, and started to enjoy it more and more.

‘Well, what do you want? Who are you?’ the workman cried,
coming out after him. Raskolnikov went back in through the doorway.

‘I want to rent some lodgings,’ he said. ‘I'm taking a look round.’

‘They don't rent lodgings at night; and anyway, you're supposed to come up with the yardkeeper.’

‘The floor's been washed; is it going to be painted?’ Raskolnikov went on. ‘Has the blood all gone?’

‘What blood?’

‘Oh, an old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a whole pool of blood in this room.’

‘Here, what sort of a bloke are you?’ the workman cried, with uneasiness in his voice.

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you really like to know?… Then let's go down to the bureau, I'll tell you there.’

The workmen looked at him bewilderedly.

‘It's time we were off, we're late. Come on, Alyosha, my lad. We've got to lock up,’ the older workman said.

‘All right, let's go,’ Raskolnikov replied with indifference, going out ahead of them, and moving off slowly down the stairs. ‘Hey, yardkeeper!’ he shouted, as he was going out through the gate.

A few people were standing just outside the street entrance to the building, gaping at the passers-by: the two yardkeepers, a peasant woman, an artisan in a dressing-gown, and someone else. Raskolnikov walked straight up to them.

‘What do you want?’ one of the yardkeepers responded.

‘Have you been to the bureau?’

‘Yes, I've just come back from it. What's it to you?’

‘Are they still at their desks?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is the assistant superintendent there, too?’

‘He was for a while. What's it to you?’

Raskolnikov did not reply and stood beside him, thinking.

‘He came to have a look at the apartment,’ the older workman said, coming over.

‘Which apartment?’

‘The one where we're working. “Why have you washed the blood away?” he says. “There was a murder here,” he says, “and I've come to rent the place.” He started ringing the bell, too, just about pulled it off. “Let's go down to the bureau,” he says, “I'll tell you all about it there.” Pestering us, he was.’

The yardkeeper was viewing Raskolnikov with bewilderment, a frown on his face.

‘And who might you be?’ he shouted, threateningly.

‘I'm Rodion Romanych Raskolnikov, ex-student, and I live in Schiel's Tenements,
⁹
in the alley just round from here, apartment no. 14. Ask the yardkeeper… he knows me.’ Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, reflective voice, without turning round, staring fixedly at the darkening street.

‘Why did you go up to that apartment?’

‘To take a look.’

‘What's there to take a look at in it?’

‘Why don't we just take him down to the bureau?’ said the artisan, intervening suddenly, and then falling silent.

Raskolnikov cocked an eye at him over his shoulder, took a good look, and said, quietly and lazily as before:

‘Very well, come on, then!’

‘Yes, we ought to take him down there!’ the artisan resumed, encouraged by this remark. ‘What led him to talk about
that
? What's he got on his mind, eh?’

‘Maybe he's drunk, or maybe he isn't – God only knows!’ the workman muttered.

‘What it's got to do with you, anyway?’ the yardkeeper shouted again, growing angry in earnest now. ‘Why have you come poking your nose in?’

‘Are you scared of going to the bureau?’ Raskolnikov said to him with a mocking smile.

‘Who said anything about being scared? Why have you come bothering us?’

‘Sly-boots!’ the peasant woman shouted.

‘Come on, what's the point in talking to him?’ exclaimed the other yardkeeper, an enormous muzhik in an open caftan with
a key stuck in his belt. ‘Send him on his way!… A sly-boots, that's what he is… Send him on his way!’

And, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder, he hurled him into the street. Raskolnikov almost turned head over heels, but managed to keep his balance, straightened himself up, looked silently at all the spectators and then went on his way.

‘That's a peculiar chap,’ the workman commented.

‘The whole country's peculiar these days, if you ask me,’ the peasant woman said.

‘I still say we ought to take him down to the bureau,’ the artisan put in.

‘It's better not to have anything to do with him,’ the big yardkeeper said, firmly. ‘He was a sly-boots, believe you me! Making a nuisance of himself with a purpose in view, he was; it's an old ploy – once you get mixed up with them you can never get away… I know his sort!’

‘Well, shall I go there or shan't I?’ Raskolnikov wondered, coming to a standstill in the midst of the roadway at the intersection and looking around him, as though he expected someone to supply the final word. But there was no response from any quarter; everything was dull and dead as the stones on which he trod, dead to him, and only to him… Suddenly, in the distance, some two hundred yards away from him at the end of the street, in the thickening darkness his eyes distinguished a crowd, and he heard talking, shouting… Amidst the crowd there was some carriage or other… A light was gleaming in the middle of the street. ‘What's that?’ Raskolnikov turned right and walked towards the crowd. It was as if he were clutching at straws, and he smiled ironically as this thought occurred to him, because he had now taken a firm decision regarding the bureau and knew for a certainty that it would all very soon be over.

In the middle of the street stood a barouche, a grand and elegant one, harnessed to a pair of fiery grey horses; there was no one in it, and its coachman had climbed down from the box and
was standing alongside; he was holding the horses by the bridle. All around jostled a throng of people, with policemen at the front. One of the policemen was holding a lighted lantern which he was using in order to illuminate something that was lying in the roadway, right underneath the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, sighing; the coachman seemed to be in a state of bewilderment, and every so often he would say:

‘Oh, what a sin! Lord, what a terrible sin!’

Raskolnikov squeezed his way through as best he could, and at last saw the object of all this fuss and curiosity. On the ground lay a man who had just been run down by the horses, unconscious by the look of it, very poorly dressed, but in ‘respectable’ clothes, and covered in blood. Blood streamed from his face and head; his face was battered, torn and mutilated. He had clearly been run down in earnest.