Chapter 13 of 41

VI

But as soon as she left, he got up, hooked the door shut, untied the bundle of clothes that Razumikhin had brought earlier and then tied up again, and began to dress. Strange thing: it seemed he had suddenly become completely calm; there was neither the half-mad delirium of before, nor the panic fear of all this recent time. This was the first moment of some strange, sudden tranquility. His movements were precise and clear; a firm intention showed through them. "Today, today!..." he muttered to himself. He understood, however, that he was still weak, but the most intense mental strain, which had reached a state of calm, of fixed idea, gave him strength and self-confidence; he hoped, however, that he would not collapse in the street. Having dressed completely, all in new clothes, he glanced at the money lying on the table, thought, and put it in his pocket. There were twenty-five rubles. He also took all the copper five-kopeck pieces, the change from the ten rubles Razumikhin had spent on clothes. Then he quietly unhooked the door, left the room, went down the stairs and looked into the wide-open kitchen: Nastasya stood with her back to him and, bending over, was stoking the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. And who could have supposed he would leave? A minute later he was already in the street.

It was about eight o'clock, the sun was setting. The heat remained as before; but he greedily breathed in this stinking, dusty air infected by the city. His head began to spin slightly; a kind of wild energy suddenly flashed in his inflamed eyes and his thin, pale-yellow face. He didn't know, and didn't think about, where he was going; he knew only one thing: "that all this must be ended today, at once, right now; that otherwise he would not return home, because he did not want to live like this." How to end it? What to end it with? He had no idea, and didn't want to think about it. He drove the thought away: the thought tormented him. He only felt and knew that everything must change, one way or another, "no matter what," he repeated with desperate, fixed self-assurance and resolution.

By old habit, by the usual route of his former walks, he headed straight for the Haymarket. Before reaching the Haymarket, on the pavement in front of a small shop, stood a young dark-haired organ-grinder turning out some very sentimental romance. He was accompanying a girl standing in front of him on the sidewalk, about fifteen years old, dressed like a young lady, in a crinoline, in a mantilla, in gloves and in a straw hat with a flame-colored feather; everything old and worn out. In a street-singing voice, cracked but quite pleasant and strong, she was singing the romance, waiting for a two-kopeck piece from the shop. Raskolnikov stopped alongside two or three listeners, listened, took out a five-kopeck coin and placed it in the girl's hand. She suddenly broke off the singing at the most sentimental and high note, as if cut off, sharply cried to the organ-grinder: "enough!", and both trudged on to the next shop.

"Do you like street singing?" Raskolnikov suddenly addressed a no-longer-young passerby standing beside him at the organ and having the air of an idler. The man looked at him wildly and was surprised. "I like," continued Raskolnikov, but with such an air as if he were not talking about street singing at all, "I like it when they sing to the organ on a cold, dark and damp autumn evening, necessarily damp, when all the passersby have pale-green and sickly faces; or, even better, when wet snow is falling, quite straight, without wind, you know? and through it the gas lamps are shining..."

"Don't know, sir... Excuse me..." muttered the gentleman, frightened both by the question and by Raskolnikov's strange appearance, and crossed to the other side of the street.

Raskolnikov went straight ahead and came out to that corner of the Haymarket where the tradesman and the woman who had been talking with Lizaveta that time were trading; but they weren't there now. Recognizing the place, he stopped, looked around and turned to a young fellow in a red shirt, yawning at the entrance to a flour shop.

"That tradesman trades here on the corner, with a woman, with his wife, right?"

"All kinds of people trade," answered the fellow, haughtily sizing up Raskolnikov.

"What's his name?"

"What they baptized him, that's what they call him."

"And aren't you from Zaraysk? What province?"

The fellow looked at Raskolnikov again.

"We don't have a province, your excellency, but a district, and it was my brother who traveled, but I sat at home, so I don't know, sir... Forgive me, your excellency, magnanimously."

"That's a tavern, up there?"

"That's a traktir, and billiards are to be had; and princesses can be found... La-la!"

Raskolnikov crossed the square. There, on the corner, stood a dense crowd of people, all peasants. He plunged into the very thick of it, looking into faces. For some reason he was drawn to strike up conversation with everyone. But the peasants paid no attention to him, and all were chattering among themselves, gathering in clusters. He stood, thought, and went to the right, along the sidewalk, in the direction of V—y Prospect. Having passed the square, he entered an alley...

He had often passed through this short alley before, which makes a bend and leads from the square to Sadovaya. Lately he had even been drawn to wander through all these places when he felt sick, "to make it even sicker." Now, however, he entered without thinking about anything. There's a large building there, all given over to drinking establishments and other eating-and-drinking establishments; from them women kept running out, dressed as they go "around the neighborhood"—bare-headed and in just dresses. In two or three places they crowded on the sidewalk in groups, predominantly at the entrances to the lower floor, where, down two steps, one could descend into various highly entertaining establishments. In one of them, at this moment, there was banging and hubbub all down the street, a guitar was twanging, they were singing songs, and it was very merry. A large group of women crowded at the entrance; some sat on the steps, others on the sidewalk, still others stood and talked. Nearby, on the pavement, a drunken soldier with a cigarette was wandering, cursing loudly, and seemed to want to go somewhere, but as if he'd forgotten where. One ragamuffin was cursing at another ragamuffin, and some dead-drunk man lay across the street. Raskolnikov stopped by the large group of women. They were talking in hoarse voices; all were in cotton dresses, goatskin shoes and bare-headed. Some were over forty, but there were also some about seventeen, almost all with black eyes.

For some reason he was interested in the singing and all that banging and hubbub down there... From there he could hear how, amid laughter and squeals, to a thin falsetto of a bold melody and to a guitar, someone was desperately dancing, beating time with their heels. He listened intently, gloomily and pensively, bending over at the entrance and curiously peering from the sidewalk into the passageway.

My pretty bun-tosher

Don't beat me for nothing! —

poured forth the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov desperately wanted to hear what they were singing, as if everything depended on it.

"Shouldn't I go in?" he thought. "They're laughing! Drunk. But why not get drunk myself?"

"Won't you come in, dear sir?" asked one of the women in a rather clear and not yet completely hoarse voice. She was young and not even repulsive—the only one in the whole group.

"Look, a pretty one!" he answered, straightening up and looking at her.

She smiled; the compliment pleased her very much.

"You're very pretty yourself," she said.

"How thin he is!" another remarked in a bass voice. "Just out of the hospital, or what?"

"It seems they're all generals' daughters, but they all have snub noses!" suddenly interrupted a peasant who had approached, tipsy, in an unfastened peasant coat and with a slyly laughing mug. "Look, what fun!"

"Go through if you've come!"

"I'll go through! Sweet!"

And he tumbled down.

Raskolnikov moved on.

"Listen, sir!" the girl called after him.

"What?"

She became embarrassed.

"I, dear sir, would always be glad to spend time with you, but now somehow I can't gather up the courage in front of you. Give me, pleasant cavalier, six kopecks for a drink!"

Raskolnikov pulled out however much came out: three five-kopeck coins.

"Ah, what a kind sir!"

"What's your name?"

"Ask for Duklida."

"Well now, this is something," suddenly remarked one of the group, shaking her head at Duklida. "This I don't know, how it is to ask like that! I would, it seems, just sink from shame..."

Raskolnikov looked with curiosity at the speaker. It was a pockmarked wench, about thirty, covered in bruises, with a swollen upper lip. She spoke and condemned calmly and seriously.

"Where was it," thought Raskolnikov, walking on, "where did I read about a man condemned to death who, an hour before death, says or thinks that if he had to live somewhere on a height, on a cliff, and on such a narrow platform that only two feet could be placed—and all around would be chasms, ocean, eternal darkness, eternal solitude and eternal storm—and to remain so, standing on a square yard of space, all his life, a thousand years, an eternity—it would be better to live like that than to die right now! Only to live, live and live! However one lives—only to live!... What truth! Lord, what truth! Man is a scoundrel! And he's a scoundrel who calls him a scoundrel for it," he added a minute later.

He came out onto another street: "Bah! The 'Crystal Palace'! Razumikhin was talking about the 'Crystal Palace' a while ago. But what was it I wanted? Yes, to read!... Zosimov said he'd read it in the papers..."

"Do you have newspapers?" he asked, entering a very spacious and even tidy tavern establishment of several rooms, however quite empty. Two or three patrons were drinking tea, and in one far room sat a group, about four people, drinking champagne. It seemed to Raskolnikov that Zametov was among them. However, from a distance it was impossible to see clearly.

"So what!" he thought.

"Would you like vodka, sir?" asked the waiter.

"Bring tea. And bring me newspapers, old ones, about five days in a row, and I'll give you something for vodka."

"At your service, sir. Here are today's, sir. And vodka, sir?"

The old newspapers and tea appeared. Raskolnikov sat down and began to search: "Izler—Izler—Aztecs—Aztecs—Izler—Bartola—Massimo—Aztecs—Izler... damn it! Ah, here are the notices: fell down the stairs—tradesman burned from drink—fire on the Sands—fire on Petersburg Side—another fire on Petersburg Side—another fire on Petersburg Side—Izler—Izler—Izler—Izler—Massimo... Ah, here..."

He finally found what he was seeking and began to read; the lines jumped before his eyes, but he nevertheless read through the entire "notice" and greedily began to search in the following numbers for later additions. His hands trembled as he turned the pages, from convulsive impatience. Suddenly someone sat down beside him, at his table. He looked—Zametov, the very same Zametov and looking the same, with rings, with chains, with a part in his black curly and pomaded hair, in a fashionable vest and in a somewhat worn frock coat and not-fresh linen. He was cheerful, at least smiling very cheerfully and good-naturedly. His swarthy face had flushed slightly from the champagne he'd drunk.

"What! You're here?" he began with perplexity and in such a tone as if they'd known each other forever, "and Razumikhin was telling me just yesterday that you were still unconscious. How strange! But I was at your place..."

Raskolnikov knew he would approach. He put aside the newspapers and turned to Zametov. There was a smirk on his lips, and some new irritable impatience showed through in this smirk.

"I know you were," he answered, "I heard, sir. You were looking for a sock... And you know, Razumikhin is crazy about you, says you went with him to Laviza Ivanovna, you know, the one you were trying for then, you were winking at Lieutenant Porokh, and he didn't understand at all, remember? How could he not understand—the matter was clear... eh?"

"But what a brawler he is!"

"Porokh?"

"No, your friend, Razumikhin..."

"You have it good, Mr. Zametov; free entrance to the most pleasant places! Who was pouring champagne for you just now?"

"Why, we were... drinking... Was he really pouring?!"

"An honorarium! You take advantage of everything!" Raskolnikov laughed. "Nothing, my dear boy, nothing!" he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder, "I'm not saying it maliciously, 'but in all that is love, playfully' as your workman said when he was beating Mitka, you know, in that old woman's case."

"How do you know?"

"Perhaps I know more than you do."

"How strange you are... Surely you're still very ill. You shouldn't have come out..."

"Do I seem strange to you?"

"Yes. What are you reading newspapers for?"

"Newspapers."

"There's a lot written about fires..."

"No, I'm not reading about fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; a mocking smile twisted his lips again. "No, I'm not reading about fires," he continued, winking at Zametov. "Admit it, dear youth, that you're terribly curious to know what I was reading about?"

"Not at all curious; I just asked. Can't one ask? Why do you keep..."

"Listen, you're an educated person, literary, eh?"

"I'm from the sixth class of gymnasium," answered Zametov with some dignity.

"Sixth class! Ah, my little sparrow! With a part in your hair, with rings—a rich man! Foo, what a sweet boy!" Here Raskolnikov burst into nervous laughter, right in Zametov's face. The latter recoiled, not so much offended as very surprised.

"Foo, how strange!" repeated Zametov very seriously. "It seems to me you're still delirious."

"Delirious? You're lying, sparrow!... So I'm strange? Well, am I curious to you, eh? Curious?"

"Curious."

"Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was searching for? Look how many numbers I had them drag in! Suspicious, eh?"

"Well, tell me."

"All ears?"

"What do you mean, ears?"

"I'll tell you later, what ears, but now, my dear, I declare to you... no, better: 'I confess'... No, that's not right either: 'I give testimony, and you take it down'—that's it! So I give testimony that I read, was interested... searched... sought out..." Raskolnikov squinted his eyes and waited, "sought out—and that's why I came here—about the murder of the old woman official," he finally pronounced, almost in a whisper, bringing his face extremely close to Zametov's face. Zametov looked at him directly, without moving and without drawing his face away from his face. What seemed strangest to Zametov afterward was that they remained silent for exactly a whole minute and gazed at each other like that for exactly a whole minute.

"Well, so what if you read it?" he suddenly cried out in perplexity and impatience. "What's it to me! What's in that?"

"That very same old woman," continued Raskolnikov in the same whisper and without flinching at Zametov's exclamation, "that very same one, remember, about whom they began telling at the station, and I fainted. Do you understand now?"

"What do you mean? What... 'understand'?" uttered Zametov almost in alarm.

Raskolnikov's motionless and serious face was transformed in an instant, and suddenly he burst into the same nervous laughter as before, as if utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary clarity of sensation that recent moment when he stood behind the door with the axe, the bolt was jumping, they were cursing and breaking in behind the door, and he suddenly wanted to scream at them, curse at them, stick out his tongue at them, tease them, laugh, roar with laughter, roar, roar, roar!

"You're either mad, or..." said Zametov—and stopped, as if suddenly struck by a thought that had flashed through his mind.

"Or? What 'or'? Well, what? Well, tell me!"

"Nothing!" answered Zametov angrily, "all nonsense!"

Both fell silent. After the sudden, fit-like burst of laughter, Raskolnikov suddenly became pensive and sad. He leaned his elbows on the table and propped his head with his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten about Zametov. The silence lasted quite a while.

"Why aren't you drinking your tea? It'll get cold," said Zametov.

"Eh? What? Tea?... All right..." Raskolnikov gulped from the glass, put a piece of bread in his mouth and suddenly, looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and as if shook himself: his face resumed at that very moment its original mocking expression. He continued drinking tea.

"There's a lot of these swindles nowadays," said Zametov. "Just recently I was reading in the Moscow Gazette that they caught a whole gang of counterfeiters in Moscow. A whole society. They were forging notes."

"Oh, that was long ago! I read about it a month ago," answered Raskolnikov calmly. "So in your opinion, are they swindlers?" he added, smirking.

"How can they not be swindlers?"

"Them? They're children, blancbecs, not swindlers! A whole fifty people gathering for such a purpose! Is that even possible? Three would be too many, and even then each would have to be more certain of the others than of himself! Otherwise one gets drunk and blabs, and everything goes to hell! Blancbecs! They hire unreliable people to exchange notes at offices: entrust such a business to the first person they meet! Well, suppose they succeeded with blancbecs, suppose each exchanged a million for himself, well, and then what? All your life? Each dependent on the other for his whole life? Better to hang yourself! And they didn't even know how to exchange: one went to an office to exchange, received five thousand, and his hands trembled. He counted four, but took the fifth without counting, on faith, just to get it in his pocket and run away as quickly as possible. Well, he aroused suspicion. And everything fell apart because of one fool! Is that really possible?"

"That his hands trembled?" picked up Zametov, "no, that's possible, sir. No, I'm absolutely convinced that's possible. Sometimes one can't hold out."

"That?"

"And could you hold out? No, I couldn't! For a hundred rubles reward to go into such horror! To go with a forged note—where?—to a banking office, where they're experts at this—no, I'd get embarrassed. Wouldn't you get embarrassed?"

Raskolnikov suddenly desperately wanted again to "stick out his tongue." Chills intermittently ran down his spine.

"I wouldn't do it that way," he began from afar. "This is how I'd exchange it: I'd count the first thousand, about four times from all sides, peering at each note, and would start on the second thousand; I'd begin counting it, would count to the middle, and would pull out some fifty-ruble note, and hold it up to the light, and turn it over and hold it to the light again—isn't it counterfeit? 'I'm afraid, you see: a relative of mine lost twenty-five rubles that way the other day'; and I'd tell a story right there. And when I'd start counting the third thousand—no, wait: I think there, in the second thousand, I counted the seventh hundred wrong, I'm having doubts, so I'd drop the third and go back to the second—and do that with all five. And when I'd finished, I'd pull out a note from the fifth and from the second, and hold them up to the light again, and again be doubtful, 'please change them,' so I'd bring the clerk to a cold sweat, so he wouldn't know how to get rid of me! When I'd finally finished, would go out, would open the doors—no, excuse me, would come back again, ask about something, get some explanation—that's how I'd do it!"

"Foo, what terrible things you're saying!" said Zametov, laughing. "But all this is just talk, and in reality, you'd surely stumble. Here, I'll tell you, in my opinion, not just for you and me, even for a hardened, desperate man, one can't vouch for oneself. Why go far—here's an example: in our district, they killed that old woman. It seems like a desperate head, risked everything in broad daylight, was saved by a miracle alone—but his hands still trembled: he didn't manage to rob her, didn't hold out; it's clear from the case..."

Raskolnikov seemed offended.

"Clear! Well, catch him then, go on!" he cried, maliciously egging on Zametov.

"Who? They'll catch him."

"Who? You? You'll catch him? You'll wear yourselves out! Here's what's most important to you: is a person spending money or not? Didn't have money before, and suddenly starts spending—well, how could it not be him? So just like that, any child could fool you if they wanted!"

"That's just it, they all do it that way," answered Zametov, "kill cleverly, risk their lives, and then immediately get caught in a tavern. They get caught because they're spending. Not everyone's as clever as you. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?"

Raskolnikov frowned and stared intently at Zametov.

"It seems you've gotten a taste for it and want to know how I would act in this case too?" he asked with displeasure.

"I'd like to," the latter answered firmly and seriously. He had begun speaking and looking somehow too seriously.

"Very much?"

"Very much."

"All right. This is how I'd act," began Raskolnikov, again suddenly bringing his face close to Zametov's face, again staring at him directly and again speaking in a whisper, so that the latter even shuddered this time. "This is what I'd do: I'd take the money and things and, as soon as I left there, immediately, without stopping anywhere, I'd go somewhere where the place is deserted and there are only fences, and almost no one—some vegetable garden or something like that. I'd have looked beforehand, in that yard, for some stone, about a pood or a pood and a half in weight, somewhere in a corner, by the fence, that's been lying there since the building was constructed; I'd lift that stone—there must be a hole under it—and into that hole I'd put all the things and money. I'd put them in and roll the stone over them, in the same position it was lying before, would press it down with my foot and leave. And for a year I wouldn't take it, for two years I wouldn't take it, for three years I wouldn't take it—well, go ahead and look! Gone without a trace!"

"You're mad," Zametov uttered, also for some reason almost in a whisper and for some reason suddenly drew away from Raskolnikov. The latter's eyes flashed; he grew terribly pale; his upper lip trembled and twitched. He leaned as close as possible to Zametov and began moving his lips, saying nothing; this lasted about half a minute; he knew what he was doing but couldn't restrain himself. The terrible word, like the bolt in the door then, kept jumping on his lips: just about to break loose; just about to release it, just about to say it!

"And what if it was I who killed the old woman and Lizaveta?" he suddenly uttered and—came to his senses.

Zametov looked at him wildly and went pale as a tablecloth. His face twisted into a smile.

"Is that really possible?" he uttered barely audibly.

Raskolnikov glanced at him maliciously.

"Admit that you believed it? Yes? Isn't that so?"

"Not at all! Now more than ever, I don't believe it!" said Zametov hastily.

"Caught at last! Caught the sparrow. So you did believe before, when now 'more than ever, you don't believe'?"

"Not at all!" cried Zametov, visibly embarrassed. "Was it just to frighten me that you led up to this?"

"So you don't believe it? But what were you talking about without me when I left the station that time? And why did Lieutenant Porokh question me after my fainting spell? Hey you," he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much do I owe?"

"Thirty kopecks in all, sir," answered the latter, running up.

"And here's another twenty kopecks for vodka. Look how much money! Red ones, blue ones, twenty-five rubles. Where from? And where did the new clothes come from? You know I didn't have a kopeck! You've surely questioned the landlady already... Well, enough! Assez causé! Till we meet... most pleasant!.."

He went out, trembling all over from some wild hysterical sensation, in which, however, there was an element of unbearable pleasure—though gloomy, terribly tired. His face was twisted, as if after some kind of fit. His fatigue was rapidly increasing. His strength was aroused and came now suddenly, with the first jolt, with the first irritating sensation, and weakened just as quickly as the sensation weakened.

And Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, in thought. Raskolnikov had inadvertently turned all his thoughts upside down on a certain point and definitively established his opinion.

"Ilya Petrovich is a blockhead!" he decided finally.

As soon as Raskolnikov opened the door to the street, suddenly, on the very porch, he collided with Razumikhin coming in. They didn't see each other even a step away, so that they almost knocked heads. For some time they measured each other with their gazes. Razumikhin was in the greatest astonishment, but suddenly anger, real anger, flashed menacingly in his eyes.

"So this is where you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "Ran away from bed! And I even looked for him under the sofa! We went up to the attic! I almost beat Nastasya because of you... And here's where he is! Rodya! What does this mean? Tell the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?"

"It means that I'm deadly sick of you all, and I want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly.

"Alone? When you still can't walk, when your mug is still pale as a sheet, and you're gasping for breath! Fool!... What were you doing in the 'Crystal Palace'? Confess immediately!"

"Let me pass!" said Raskolnikov and tried to walk by. This drove Razumikhin out of his mind: he seized him firmly by the shoulder.

"Let you pass? You dare to say: 'let me pass'? Do you know what I'll do with you now? I'll pick you up in my arms, tie you in a bundle and carry you home under my arm, under lock and key!"

"Listen, Razumikhin," began Raskolnikov quietly and apparently quite calmly, "can't you see that I don't want your benefactions? And what's this passion for benefiting those who... spit on it? Those, finally, who find it seriously burdensome to bear? Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I would have been very glad to die? Haven't I shown you enough today that you're tormenting me, that you're... sick of to me! The passion, really, to torment people! I assure you that all this is seriously hindering my recovery, because it's constantly irritating me. After all, Zosimov left a while ago so as not to irritate me! Leave me too, for God's sake! And what right, finally, do you have to restrain me by force? Can't you see that I'm speaking now in complete possession of my mind? How, how, teach me, can I beg you, finally, not to pester me and not to benefit me? Let me be ungrateful, let me be base, only all of you leave me alone, for God's sake, leave me alone! Leave me! Leave me!"

He began calmly, rejoicing in advance at all the venom he was preparing to pour out, but finished in a frenzy and gasping for breath, as before with Luzhin.

Razumikhin stood, thought, and released his hand.

"Go to the devil then!" he said quietly and almost pensively. "Wait!" he suddenly roared when Raskolnikov was about to move off, "listen to me. I declare to you that you're all, to a man, chatterboxes and braggarts! You get some little suffering going—you nurse it like a hen with an egg! Even here you steal from other authors. There's not a sign of independent life in you! You're made of spermaceti ointment, and instead of blood you have whey! I don't believe any of you! The first thing for you, in all circumstances, is how not to resemble a human being! Wa-a-it!" he shouted with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again moving to leave, "listen to the end! You know, I'm having a housewarming today, maybe they've already come now, but I left my uncle there—I just dropped in—to receive guests. So, if you weren't a fool, not a common fool, not a perfect fool, not a translation from a foreign language... you see, Rodya, I admit you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool!—so, if you weren't a fool, you'd do better to come to my place tonight, spend the evening, than to wear out your boots for nothing. Since you've already gone out, there's nothing to be done! I'd roll up such soft armchairs for you, the hosts have them... Some tea, company... Or no—you could lie on the couch—at least you'd be lying among us... And Zosimov will be there. Will you come, eh?"

"No."

"Li-i-iar!" cried Razumikhin impatiently, "how do you know? You can't answer for yourself! And you don't understand any of this... A thousand times I've broken with people just like this and run back again... You get ashamed—and you come back to the person! So remember, Pochinkov's house, third floor..."

"Why, at this rate, Mr. Razumikhin, you'll probably let someone beat you, from the pleasure of benefiting."

"Who? Me! I'll twist off the nose for just the fantasy! Pochinkov's house, number forty-seven, in the apartment of the official Babushkin..."

"I won't come, Razumikhin!" Raskolnikov turned and walked away.

"I bet you'll come!" Razumikhin shouted after him. "Otherwise I... otherwise I don't want to know you! Hey, wait! Is Zametov there?"

"There."

"Did you see him?"

"I saw him."

"And talked?"

"Talked."

"About what? Well, to hell with you, don't tell me then. Pochinkov's, forty-seven, Babushkin's, remember!"

Raskolnikov reached Sadovaya and turned the corner. Razumikhin looked after him, deep in thought. Finally, waving his hand, he went into the building but stopped in the middle of the stairs.

"Devil take it!" he continued, almost aloud, "he speaks sensibly, and yet as if... But I'm a fool too! Don't madmen speak sensibly? And Zosimov, it seemed to me, is afraid of precisely this!—He tapped his forehead with his finger. "Well, what if... well, how can I let him go alone now? He might drown himself... Eh, I made a mistake! Can't be!" And he ran back in pursuit of Raskolnikov, but the trail had already gone cold. He spat and returned with quick steps to the "Crystal Palace" to question Zametov as quickly as possible.

Raskolnikov walked straight to the —sky Bridge, stood in the middle, by the railing, leaned on it with both elbows and began to gaze into the distance. Having parted with Razumikhin, he had grown so weak that he barely made it here. He wanted to sit or lie down somewhere, in the street. Bending over the water, he mechanically looked at the last pink reflection of sunset, at the row of houses darkening in the gathering dusk, at one distant window, somewhere in an attic, on the left embankment, gleaming as if aflame from the last ray of sun that struck it for a moment, at the darkening water of the canal and seemed to peer attentively at this water. Finally red circles began spinning in his eyes, the houses swayed, passersby, embankments, carriages—everything spun and danced around. Suddenly he started, perhaps saved anew from fainting by a wild and grotesque vision. He felt that someone had stopped beside him, on the right, next to him; he looked—and saw a woman, tall, with a kerchief on her head, with a yellow, elongated, wasted face and with reddish, sunken eyes. She looked straight at him but obviously saw nothing and distinguished no one. Suddenly she leaned her right arm on the railing, raised her right leg and swung it over the fence, then her left, and threw herself into the canal. The dirty water parted, swallowed the victim for a moment, but in a minute the drowned woman floated up, and the current carried her gently downstream, with her head and legs in the water, her back on top, with her skirt billowing and puffing up above the water like a pillow.

"She's drowned! She's drowned!" dozens of voices shouted; people came running, both embankments were strung with spectators, a crowd gathered on the bridge around Raskolnikov, pressing and crushing him from behind.

"Merciful heavens, it's our Afrosinyushka!" a tearful woman's cry was heard somewhere nearby. "Merciful heavens, save her! Good fathers, pull her out!"

"A boat! A boat!" voices shouted in the crowd.

But there was no longer any need for a boat: a policeman ran down the steps of the landing to the canal, threw off his coat and boots and jumped into the water. There was little work: the drowned woman was carried by the water two paces from the landing, he grabbed her by her clothing with his right hand, with his left managed to grasp a pole that a comrade extended to him, and immediately the drowned woman was pulled out. They laid her on the granite slabs of the landing. She soon came to, raised herself, sat up and began sneezing and snorting, senselessly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.

"Drank herself to the devils, good fathers, to the devils," wailed the same woman's voice, now beside Afrosinyushka, "the other day she wanted to hang herself too, we took her down from the rope. I went to the shop just now, left a little girl to watch her—and look what evil came of it! A townswoman, good father, our townswoman, we live nearby, the second house from the end, right here..."

The crowd dispersed, the police were still fussing with the drowned woman, someone shouted about the station... Raskolnikov watched it all with a strange sensation of indifference and detachment. He felt disgusted. "No, it's foul... water... not worth it," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will happen," he added, "nothing to wait for. What, the station... And why isn't Zametov at the station? The station opens at ten o'clock..." He turned his back to the railing and looked around.

"Well, so what! And why not!" he said decisively; he moved from the bridge and headed in the direction where the station was. His heart was empty and dull. He didn't want to think. Even the anguish had passed, not a trace of that earlier energy when he left home with the intention "to end it all!" Complete apathy had taken its place.

"Well, this is a way out!" he thought, walking slowly and sluggishly along the embankment of the canal. "I'll end it anyway, because I want to... Is it a way out, though? But it's all the same! There'll be a square yard of space—heh! What an ending, though! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Eh... damn it! And I'm tired: I'd lie down or sit down somewhere as quickly as possible! What's most shameful is that it's all very stupid. But spit on that too. Foo, what stupid thoughts come into one's head..."

To get to the station he had to go straight ahead and at the second turn take a left: it was there in two paces. But having reached the first turn, he stopped, thought, turned into an alley and went by a roundabout route, through two streets—perhaps with no purpose, or perhaps to drag it out at least another minute and gain time. He walked looking at the ground. Suddenly, as if someone whispered something in his ear. He raised his head and saw that he was standing at that house, at the very gates. He hadn't been here and hadn't passed by since that evening.

An irresistible and inexplicable desire drew him. He entered the house, passed through the entire gateway, then into the first entrance on the right and began climbing the familiar stairs to the fourth floor. The narrow and steep staircase was very dark. He stopped on each landing and looked around with curiosity. On the landing of the first floor the window frame had been completely removed: "That wasn't there then," he thought. Here's the apartment on the second floor where Nikolashka and Mitka were working: "Locked; and the door's freshly painted; so it's being rented out, it seems." Here's the third floor... and the fourth... "Here!" Perplexity seized him: the door to that apartment was wide open, there were people there, voices could be heard; he hadn't expected this at all. After hesitating a little, he climbed the last steps and entered the apartment.

It too was being renovated; there were workmen in it; this seemed to strike him. For some reason he had imagined he would find everything exactly as he had left it then, perhaps even the corpses in the same places on the floor. But now: bare walls, no furniture; strange somehow! He went to the window and sat on the windowsill.

There were two workmen, both young fellows, one older and the other much younger. They were papering the walls with new wallpaper, white with lilac flowers, instead of the former yellow, tattered and worn-out one. For some reason this displeased Raskolnikov terribly; he looked at this new wallpaper hostilely, as if sorry that everything had been so changed.

The workmen had obviously lingered and were now hastily rolling up their paper and preparing to go home. Raskolnikov's appearance had hardly attracted their attention. They were talking about something. Raskolnikov crossed his arms and began listening.

"So she comes to me, this one, in the morning," the older one was saying to the younger one, "bright and early, all dressed up. 'Why are you,' I say, 'lemoning around in front of me, why are you,' I say, 'oranging around in front of me?' 'I want,' she says, 'Tit Vasilyich, to be, from now on, hereafter, completely at your disposal.' So that's how it is! And how dressed up she was: a magazine, simply a magazine!"

"And what, uncle, is a magazine?" asked the younger one. He was obviously learning from his "uncle."

"A magazine, that is, my dear fellow, such pictures, colored ones, and they come here to the local tailors every Saturday, by mail, from abroad, that is, showing how everyone should dress, both the male sex equally and the female. A picture, that is. The male sex is mostly shown in bekesha coats, but as for the ladies' department, such soufflés, brother, that you'd give everything you have, and it's still not enough!"

"And what-what there isn't in this Petersburg!" cried the younger one enthusiastically, "except for father and mother, everything exists!"

"Except for that, my dear fellow, everything can be found," the older one concluded instructively.

Raskolnikov got up and went into the other room, where the trunk, the bed and the chest of drawers used to stand; the room seemed terribly small to him without furniture. The wallpaper was the same; in the corner the place where the icon case had stood was sharply outlined on the wallpaper. He looked and returned to his window. The older workman was watching him askance.

"What do you want, sir?" he suddenly asked, addressing him.

Instead of answering, Raskolnikov stood up, went into the entrance hall, took hold of the bell and pulled. The same bell, the same tinny sound! He pulled a second, third time; he listened and remembered. The former tormenting-terrible, hideous sensation began to come back to him more clearly and vividly, he shuddered with each ring, and it became more and more pleasant to him.

"So what do you want? Who are you?" cried the workman, coming out to him. Raskolnikov went in through the door again.

"I want to rent the apartment," he said, "I'm looking it over."

"They don't rent apartments at night; and besides you should come with the caretaker."

"The floor's been washed; are you going to paint it?" continued Raskolnikov. "Is there no blood?"

"What blood?"

"But they killed the old woman and her sister. There was a whole pool here."

"What kind of person are you?" cried the workman anxiously.

"I?"

"Yes."

"You'd like to know?... Let's go to the station, I'll tell you there."

The workmen looked at him with bewilderment.

"It's time for us to leave, sir, we've lingered. Come on, Alyoshka. We need to lock up," said the older workman.

"Well, let's go!" answered Raskolnikov indifferently and went out first, slowly descending the stairs. "Hey, caretaker!" he shouted, going out through the gates.

Several people stood right at the entrance to the building from the street, staring at passersby: both caretakers, a woman, a tradesman in a robe and someone else. Raskolnikov went straight to them.

"What do you want?" responded one of the caretakers.

"Have you been to the station?"

"I was there just now. What do you want?"

"Are they there?"

"They're there."

"And is the assistant there?"

"He was there for a while. What do you want?"

Raskolnikov didn't answer and stood beside them, deep in thought.

"He came to look at the apartment," said the older workman, approaching.

"What apartment?"

"Where we're working. 'Why,' he says, 'did they wash off the blood? There was,' he says, 'a murder here, and I've come to rent it.' And he started ringing the bell, almost tore it off. 'And let's go,' he says, 'to the station, I'll prove everything there.' He wouldn't leave off."

The caretaker looked at Raskolnikov with a frown, bewildered.

"And who are you?" he shouted more menacingly.

"I'm Rodion Romanych Raskolnikov, former student, and I live in Shil's house, here in the alley, not far from here, apartment number fourteen. Ask the caretaker... he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this somehow lazily and pensively, without turning around and staring intently at the darkened street.

"And why did you come to the apartment?"

"To look."

"What's there to look at?"

"Why don't you just take him to the station?" suddenly interjected the tradesman and fell silent.

Raskolnikov glanced at him sideways over his shoulder, looked attentively and said just as quietly and lazily:

"Let's go!"

"Yes, take him!" the tradesman picked up, emboldened. "Why did he come asking about that, what's on his mind, eh?"

"Drunk or not drunk, God knows," muttered the workman.

"What do you want?" the caretaker shouted again, beginning to get seriously angry, "why do you keep pestering?"

"Are you scared to go to the station?" Raskolnikov said to him mockingly.

"What are you scared of? Why do you keep pestering?"

"Rogue!" shouted the woman.

"Why talk to him," cried the other caretaker, a huge man in an unfastened peasant coat and with keys at his belt. "Clear off!... And he really is a rogue... Clear off!"

And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder, he threw him into the street. Raskolnikov almost stumbled but didn't fall, recovered himself, looked silently at all the spectators and walked on.

"Strange fellow," said the workman.

"Strange folk there are nowadays," said the woman.

"Should've taken him to the station all the same," added the tradesman.

"Best not to get involved," decided the large caretaker. "He's a rogue all right! Asking for it himself, obviously, but once you get involved, you can't get uninvolved... We know!"

"So should I go or not," thought Raskolnikov, stopping in the middle of the roadway at a crossroads and looking around, as if expecting someone's final word. But nothing responded from anywhere; everything was dull and dead, like the stones he walked on, dead for him, for him alone... Suddenly, far off, about two hundred paces from him, at the end of the street, in the thickening darkness, he made out a crowd, voices, shouts... A carriage of some kind was standing in the middle of the crowd... A light flickered in the middle of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went toward the crowd. He seemed to be clutching at everything and smiled coldly at this thought, because he had already decided firmly about the station and knew for certain that everything would end soon.