CHAPTER II
"And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in myroom?"
But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in.Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have leftall those things in the hole?
He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled thethings out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles inall: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardlylooked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too,merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that lookedlike a decoration.... He put them all in the different pockets of hisovercoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to concealthem as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out ofhis room, leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, andthough he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid ofpursuit, he was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of anhour perhaps, instructions would be issued for his pursuit, and so atall costs, he must hide all traces before then. He must clear everythingup while he still had some strength, some reasoning power left him....Where was he to go?
That had long been settled: "Fling them into the canal, and all traceshidden in the water, the thing would be at an end." So he had decided inthe night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse toget up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to getrid of it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered alongthe bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more and lookedseveral times at the steps running down to the water, but he could notthink of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps' edge,and women were washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, andpeople were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticedfrom the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious for a man to godown on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what ifthe boxes were to float instead of sinking? And of course they would.Even as it was, everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as ifthey had nothing to do but to watch him. "Why is it, or can it be myfancy?" he thought.
At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to theNeva. There were not so many people there, he would be less observed,and it would be more convenient in every way, above all it was furtheroff. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half-hour,worried and anxious in this dangerous past without thinking of itbefore. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simplybecause he had thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absentand forgetful and he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste.
He walked towards the Neva along V---- Prospect, but on the wayanother idea struck him. "Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to gosomewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the thingsin some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spotperhaps?" And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the ideaseemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. Forcoming out of V---- Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left apassage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the righthand, the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched farinto the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with it fortwenty paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the left. Herewas a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of different sorts waslying. At the end of the court, the corner of a low, smutty, stone shed,apparently part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. Itwas probably a carriage builder's or carpenter's shed; the whole placefrom the entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place tothrow it, he thought. Not seeing anyone in the yard, he slipped in, andat once saw near the gate a sink, such as is often put in yards wherethere are many workmen or cab-drivers; and on the hoarding above hadbeen scribbled in chalk the time-honoured witticism, "Standing herestrictly forbidden." This was all the better, for there would be nothingsuspicious about his going in. "Here I could throw it all in a heap andget away!"
Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticedagainst the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big unhewnstone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was astreet. He could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but hecould not be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from thestreet, which might well happen indeed, so there was need of haste.
He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands,and using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was a smallhollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his pocket into it.The purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then heseized the stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it wasin the same position again, though it stood a very little higher. Buthe scraped the earth about it and pressed it at the edges with his foot.Nothing could be noticed.
Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense,almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had inthe police-office. "I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think oflooking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever sincethe house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it werefound, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!" And he laughed.Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiselesslaugh, and went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. Butwhen he reached the K---- Boulevard where two days before he had comeupon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into hismind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seaton which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and that itwould be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he hadgiven the twenty copecks: "Damn him!"
He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas nowseemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that therereally was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing thatpoint--and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.
"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury."If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, howstupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawnedupon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do Icare for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! Itis not that at all!"
Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simplequestion perplexed and bitterly confounded him.
"If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, ifI really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not evenglance into the purse and don't know what I had there, for which I haveundergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base,filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into thewater the purse together with all the things which I had not seeneither... how's that?"
Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, andit was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the nightwithout hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as thoughit could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it all, andunderstood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at themoment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases outof it.... Yes, so it was.
"It is because I am very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have beenworrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I am doing....Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have beenworrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not worry.... But whatif I don't get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!"
He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for somedistraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A newoverwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over himevery moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion foreverything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred.All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, theirmovements,
their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that hemight have spat at him or bitten him....
He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, nearthe bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. "Why, he lives here, in that house,"he thought, "why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Hereit's the same thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though;have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Nevermind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him theday _after_; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go furthernow."
He went up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor.
The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, andhe opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen eachother. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers onhis bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
"Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after abrief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you'vecut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit down,you are tired, I'll be bound."
And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which wasin even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that hisvisitor was ill.
"Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling hispulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I have come for this: I have no lessons.... Iwanted,... but I don't really want lessons...."
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed, watchinghim carefully.
"No, I am not."
Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs toRazumihin's, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friendface to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of alldisposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in thewide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage athimself as soon as he crossed Razumihin's threshold.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, thisis... almost insulting! I won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who couldhelp... to begin... because you are kinder than anyone--cleverer, Imean, and can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear?Nothing at all... no one's services... no one's sympathy. I am bymyself... alone. Come, that's enough. Leave me alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for allI care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don't care about that, butthere's a bookseller, Heruvimov--and he takes the place of a lesson.I would not exchange him for five lessons. He's doing publishing of akind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation theyhave! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that Iwas a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am!Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling ofanything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures ofthe German text--in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discussesthe question, 'Is woman a human being?' And, of course, triumphantlyproves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as acontribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expandthese two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeoustitle half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! Hepays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roublesfor the job, and I've had six already in advance. When we have finishedthis, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some ofthe dullest scandals out of the second part of _Les Confessions_ we havemarked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau wasa kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don't contradict him, hang him!Well, would you like to do the second signature of '_Is woman a humanbeing?_' If you would, take the German and pens and paper--all thoseare provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles inadvance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share.And when you have finished the signature there will be another threeroubles for you. And please don't think I am doing you a service; quitethe contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; tobegin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterlyadrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part.The only comfort is, that it's bound to be a change for the better.Though who can tell, maybe it's sometimes for the worse. Will you takeit?"
Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roublesand without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment.But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted thestairs to Razumihin's again and laying on the table the German articleand the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last."What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too... what did you come tosee me for, damn you?"
"I don't want... translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above.Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
"Hey, there! Where are you living?"
No answer.
"Well, confound you then!"
But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the NikolaevskyBridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasantincident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave hima violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen underhis horses' hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to therailing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middleof the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth.He heard laughter, of course.
"Serves him right!"
"A pickpocket I dare say."
"Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels onpurpose; and you have to answer for him."
"It's a regular profession, that's what it is."
But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewilderedafter the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly feltsomeone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly womanin a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter,wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. Fromhis dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggarasking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks hedoubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, andturned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was withouta cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in theNeva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from thebridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight,and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished.The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; oneuneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stoodstill, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot wasespecially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he hadhundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot,gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled ata vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangelycold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wonderedevery time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrustinghimself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalledthose old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it wasno mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange andgrotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before,as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts
, beinterested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him...so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung hisheart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to himnow--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories,his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all.... Hefelt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishingfrom his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, hesuddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened hishand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it intothe water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cuthimself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have beenwalking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember.Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on thesofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....
It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what ascream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears,blows and curses he had never heard.
He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror hesat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailingand cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazementhe caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking andwailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not makeout what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to bebeaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice ofher assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almosta croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quicklyand indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikovtrembled; he recognised the voice--it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch.Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her,banging her head against the steps--that's clear, that can be toldfrom the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the worldtopsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeysand all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doorsbanging. "But why, why, and how could it be?" he repeated, thinkingseriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! Andthey would come to him then next, "for no doubt... it's all aboutthat... about yesterday.... Good God!" He would have fastened his doorwith the latch, but he could not lift his hand... besides, it wouldbe useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbedhim.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes,began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; IlyaPetrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at last he,too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. "Can he havegone away? Good Lord!" Yes, and now the landlady is going too, stillweeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd wasgoing from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, callingto one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to awhisper. There must have been numbers of them--almost all the inmatesof the block. "But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he comehere!"
Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. Helay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation ofinfinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a brightlight flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plateof soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was notasleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what shehad brought--bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You've been trudgingabout all day, and you're shaking with fever."
"Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?"
She looked intently at him.
"Who beat the landlady?"
"Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistantsuperintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating her like that,and... why was he here?"
Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted along time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
"Nastasya, why don't you speak?" he said timidly at last in a weakvoice.
"It's the blood," she answered at last softly, as though speaking toherself.
"Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning towards thewall.
Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
"Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a firm,resolute voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
"I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up," hesaid still more timidly. "I listened a long while. The assistantsuperintendent came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all theflats."
"No one has been here. That's the blood crying in your ears. Whenthere's no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancyingthings.... Will you eat something?"
He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
"Give me something to drink... Nastasya."
She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water.He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spillingsome on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.