Chapter 9 of 41

II

"What if there has already been a search? What if I find them at my place right now?"

But here was his room. Nothing and no one; no one had looked in. Even Nastasya hadn't touched anything. But, Lord! How could he have left all those things in that hole earlier?

He rushed to the corner, thrust his hand under the wallpaper and began pulling out the things and loading his pockets with them. There turned out to be eight items in all: two small boxes with earrings or something of that sort—he hadn't looked properly; then four small morocco cases. One chain was simply wrapped in newspaper. Something else in newspaper, apparently a decoration...

He put everything in different pockets, in his coat and in the remaining right pocket of his trousers, trying to make it inconspicuous. He took the purse along with the things as well. Then he left the room, this time even leaving it wide open.

He walked quickly and firmly, and though he felt completely broken, his consciousness was with him. He feared pursuit, feared that in half an hour, in a quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would already be issued to follow him; consequently, at all costs, he had to hide the traces before then. He had to manage it while he still had at least some strength left and at least some reasoning... Where to go?

This had long been decided: "Throw everything in the canal, and ends in the water, and that's the end of it." He had resolved this the night before, in his delirium, in those moments when, he remembered, he had tried several times to get up and go: "quickly, quickly, and throw everything out." But throwing it out proved very difficult.

He had been wandering along the embankment of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour already, perhaps even more, and had looked several times at the steps down to the canal where he encountered them. But it was impossible even to think of carrying out his intention: either barges stood right at the steps and washerwomen were washing linen on them, or boats were moored, and everywhere people were swarming, and from the embankments, from all sides, one could see, one could notice: it would be suspicious for a person to deliberately go down, stop and throw something in the water. What if the cases don't sink but float? And of course they would. Everyone would see. And as it was, everyone was already staring at him as they passed, looking him over, as if they had nothing else to concern themselves with. "Why is that, or maybe it just seems that way to me," he thought.

Finally it occurred to him that it might be better to go somewhere on the Neva? There were fewer people there, and it would be less noticeable, and in any case more convenient, and most importantly—farther from these parts. And he suddenly wondered: how was it that he had wandered for a whole half hour in anguish and anxiety, and in dangerous places, and hadn't been able to think of this earlier! And he had wasted a whole half hour on this senseless business only because it had been decided that way in his sleep, in his delirium! He was becoming extremely scattered and forgetful and he knew it. He definitely had to hurry!

He headed for the Neva along V— Prospect; but on the way another thought suddenly came to him: "Why the Neva? Why in water? Wouldn't it be better to go somewhere very far away, again to the Islands perhaps, and there somewhere, in a lonely place, in a forest, under a bush—bury it all and perhaps mark the tree?" And though he felt he was not in a state to consider everything clearly and sensibly at this moment, the thought seemed flawless to him.

But he was not destined to reach the Islands either, and something else happened: coming out from V— Prospect onto the square, he suddenly saw on the left an entrance to a courtyard enclosed by completely blank walls. On the right, immediately upon entering the gate, a blank unwhitewashed wall of the neighboring four-story building stretched far into the courtyard. On the left, parallel to the blank wall and also right from the gate, ran a wooden fence, about twenty paces deep into the courtyard, and then it made a turn to the left. This was an enclosed, walled-off place where some materials lay. Further, in the depths of the courtyard, the corner of a low, sooty stone shed peeked out from behind the fence, obviously part of some workshop. There was probably some establishment here, a carriage-making or locksmith's shop, or something of that sort; everywhere, almost from the very gates, there was blackness from coal dust. "Here's where I could toss it and leave!" it suddenly occurred to him. Not noticing anyone in the courtyard, he stepped through the gate and immediately saw, right near the gate, a gutter installed by the fence (as is often arranged in such houses where there are many factory workers, artels, cab drivers, etc.), and above the gutter, right there on the fence, was chalked the usual witticism for such cases: "Standing here is prohibited." So it was all the better, since there would be no suspicion that he had come in and stopped. "Here I can throw it all in a heap somewhere and leave!"

Looking around once more, he had already thrust his hand in his pocket, when suddenly against the outer wall, between the gate and the gutter, where the entire distance was about an arshin wide, he noticed a large unhewn stone, weighing perhaps a pood and a half, lying directly against the stone street wall. Beyond this wall was the street, the sidewalk, he could hear passersby scurrying about, of whom there were always many here; but no one could see him beyond the gate unless someone came in from the street, which, however, could very well happen, so he had to hurry.

He bent down to the stone, grasped its top firmly with both hands, gathered all his strength and turned the stone over. A small depression formed under the stone; he immediately began throwing everything from his pocket into it. The purse went on top, and still there was room left in the depression. Then he grasped the stone again, turned it over with one movement to its former side, and it came exactly to its former place, except it seemed perhaps slightly, just slightly higher. But he scraped up earth and pressed it down at the edges with his foot. Nothing was noticeable.

Then he went out and headed for the square. Again a strong, almost unbearable joy, as earlier at the station, seized him for a moment. "The traces are hidden! And who, who could think to look under that stone? It's been lying there perhaps since the building was constructed and will lie there just as long again. And even if they found it: who would think of me? It's all over! No evidence!"—and he laughed. Yes, he remembered later that he laughed a nervous, shallow, inaudible, long laugh, and kept laughing the whole time as he crossed the square. But when he stepped onto K— Boulevard, where three days ago he had encountered that girl, his laughter suddenly stopped. Other thoughts crept into his head. It suddenly seemed terribly repulsive to him now to pass by that bench where he had sat and pondered after the girl left, and it would also be terribly hard to meet again that mustachioed man to whom he had given twenty kopecks then: "Devil take him!"

He walked, looking around absently and angrily. All his thoughts now circled around one main point,—and he himself felt that this was indeed the main point and that now, precisely now, he was left alone face to face with this main point,—and that this was even the first time after these two months.

"And devil take it all!"—he suddenly thought in a fit of inexhaustible rage.—"Well, if it's begun, it's begun, to hell with it and with the new life! How stupid this is, Lord!.. And how much I lied and groveled today! How disgustingly I fawned and flirted earlier with that vile Ilya Petrovich! But that's nonsense too! I don't give a damn about them all, or about the fact that I fawned and flirted! It's not that at all! Not that at all!.."

Suddenly he stopped; a new, completely unexpected and extremely simple question suddenly confounded him and bitterly astonished him:

"If indeed this whole thing was done consciously and not foolishly, if you indeed had a definite and firm goal, then how is it that until now you haven't even looked in the purse and don't know what you got, what you took on all these torments for and consciously went to such a vile, filthy, base deed? Why, you wanted to throw it in the water just now, the purse, along with all the things, which you also haven't seen yet... How can this be?"

Yes, it was so; it was all so. However, he had known this before, and it was not at all a new question for him; and when it was decided in the night to throw it in the water, it was decided without any hesitation or objection, but just as if it had to be so, as if it couldn't be otherwise... Yes, he knew all this and remembered everything; why, it had almost been decided yesterday already, in that very moment when he sat over the trunk and pulled the cases out of it... But it was so!..

"It's because I'm very ill,"—he decided glumly at last,—"I've tormented and tortured myself, and I don't know what I'm doing... And yesterday, and three days ago, and all this time I've been tormenting myself... I'll recover and... won't torment myself... But what if I don't recover at all? Lord! How tired I am of it all!.." He walked without stopping. He terribly wanted somehow to distract himself, but he didn't know what to do or what to undertake. One new, irresistible sensation was taking hold of him more and more with almost every minute: it was a kind of infinite, almost physical revulsion to everything encountered and surrounding, obstinate, malicious, hateful. Everyone he met disgusted him,—their faces, their gait, their movements disgusted him. He would simply spit on someone, bite them, it seemed, if anyone spoke to him...

He suddenly stopped when he came out on the embankment of the Little Neva, on Vasilyevsky Island, near the bridge. "So he lives here, in this building,"—he thought.—"What's this, haven't I come to Razumikhin myself! The same story again, as before... But it's very curious, however: did I come myself or was I just walking and happened to come here? It's all the same; I said... three days ago... that I'd go to him the day after that, well so what, I'll go! As if I really can't drop in now..."

He went up to Razumikhin's on the fifth floor.

He was home, in his closet, and at that moment was busy, writing, and opened the door himself. They hadn't seen each other for about four months. Razumikhin sat in a dressing gown worn to tatters, in slippers on bare feet, disheveled, unshaven and unwashed. His face expressed surprise.

"What's this?"—he cried, looking over his entering comrade from head to foot; then he fell silent and whistled.

"Is it really that bad? But you, brother, have outdone us all,"—he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags.—"But sit down, you must be tired!"—and when the other collapsed on the oilcloth Turkish sofa, which was even worse than his own, Razumikhin suddenly noticed that his guest was ill.

"But you're seriously ill, you know that?"—He began to feel his pulse; Raskolnikov pulled his hand away.

"Don't,"—he said,—"I came... here's the thing: I have no lessons... I wanted... however, I don't need lessons at all..."

"You know what? You're delirious!"—remarked Razumikhin, who was watching him intently.

"No, I'm not delirious..."—Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. Going up to Razumikhin's, he hadn't thought that he would consequently have to meet with him face to face. Now, however, in an instant, he realized from experience that he was least inclined at this moment to meet face to face with anyone at all in the whole world. All his bile rose in him. He almost choked with rage at himself the moment he crossed Razumikhin's threshold.

"Goodbye!"—he said suddenly and went to the door.

"Wait, wait, you oddball!"

"Don't need to!.."—the other repeated, again pulling away his hand.

"Then what the devil did you come for after that! Have you gone crazy or what? Why, this is... almost insulting. I won't let you go like this."

"Well, listen: I came to you because, besides you, I don't know anyone who could help... begin... because you're kinder than all of them, that is, smarter, and can judge... But now I see that I don't need anything, do you hear, nothing at all... no one's services or participation... I myself... alone... Well, and that's enough! Leave me in peace!"

"Wait a minute, chimney sweep! You're completely mad! Do as you like for all I care. You see: I don't have lessons either, and I don't give a damn, but there's a bookseller Kheruvimov at the flea market, he's a lesson in himself. I wouldn't trade him now for five merchant lessons. He does these little publications and puts out natural science booklets,—and how they sell! The titles alone are worth something! You always maintained that I'm stupid; by God, brother, there are stupider people than me! Now he's gotten into the movement too; he doesn't understand a damn thing himself, but I, of course, encourage him. Here are two and a bit sheets of German text,—in my opinion, the stupidest charlatanism: in a word, it examines whether woman is human or not human? Well, and of course it's triumphantly proved that she is human. Kheruvimov is preparing this for the woman question; I'm translating; he'll stretch these two and a half sheets to about six, we'll tack on a most pompous title half a page long and let it go for fifty kopecks. It'll do! For translation I get six silver rubles per sheet, meaning about fifteen rubles total, and I took six rubles in advance. When we finish this, we'll start translating about whales, then some extremely boring gossip from the second part of 'Confessions' we've also marked, we'll translate that; someone told Kheruvimov that Rousseau is supposedly a Radishchev of sorts. I, of course, don't contradict, to hell with him! So, do you want to translate the second sheet of 'Is Woman Human?' If you want, take the text right now, take pens, paper—it's all provided—and take three rubles: since I took an advance for the whole translation, for the first and second sheet, that means three rubles will come directly to your share. And when you finish the sheet—you'll get another three silver rubles. But here's another thing, please don't consider this some kind of favor on my part. On the contrary, the moment you came in, I already calculated how you'd be useful to me. First, I'm bad at spelling, and second, in German I'm sometimes simply terrible, so I mostly make things up and only console myself that it comes out even better that way. But who knows, maybe it comes out not better but worse... Will you take it or not?"

Raskolnikov silently took the German sheets of the article, took the three rubles and, without saying a word, went out. Razumikhin looked after him with surprise. But having already reached the first line, Raskolnikov suddenly turned back, went up to Razumikhin again and, putting both the German sheets and the three rubles on the table, again without saying a word, left.

"Do you have delirium tremens or what!"—roared the finally infuriated Razumikhin.—"What kind of comedy are you playing! You've even confused me... Why did you come after that, devil!"

"Don't need... translations..."—muttered Raskolnikov, already descending the stairs.

"Then what the devil do you need?"—Razumikhin shouted from above. The other silently continued descending.

"Hey, you! Where do you live?"

No answer followed.

"Well then to the de-e-evil with you!.."

But Raskolnikov was already going out onto the street. On Nikolaevsky Bridge he had to come fully to his senses once more as a result of a very unpleasant incident for him. A coachman of a carriage lashed him solidly with a whip on his back because he almost got under the horses, despite the coachman shouting at him three or four times. The blow of the whip so enraged him that he, jumping back to the railing (for some unknown reason he was walking right in the middle of the bridge, where one drives, not walks), angrily gnashed and clicked his teeth. Around him, of course, laughter rang out.

"Serves him right!"

"Some scoundrel."

"It's well known, they pretend to be drunk and deliberately get under the wheels; and then you're responsible for him."

"That's how they make a living, my good sir, that's how they make a living..."

But at the moment when he stood by the railing and still senselessly and angrily looked after the departing carriage, rubbing his back, suddenly he felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked: an elderly merchant's wife in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, and with her a girl in a hat and with a green parasol, probably her daughter. "Take it, dear man, for Christ's sake." He took it, and they passed by. Twenty kopecks. By dress and appearance they could very well have taken him for a beggar, for a real collector of pennies on the street, and he was probably obliged for the gift of a whole twenty kopecks to the blow of the whip, which had made them feel sorry for him.

He clutched the twenty kopecks in his hand, walked about ten paces and turned to face the Neva, toward the palace. The sky was without the slightest cloud, and the water almost blue, which happens so rarely on the Neva. The dome of the cathedral, which from no point is outlined better than looking at it from here, from the bridge, not reaching the chapel by about twenty paces, simply shone, and through the clear air one could distinctly make out even each of its ornaments. The pain from the whip subsided, and Raskolnikov forgot about the blow; one anxious and not entirely clear thought now occupied him exclusively. He stood and looked into the distance for a long time and intently; this place was especially familiar to him. When he went to the university, it usually happened—most often when returning home—perhaps a hundred times, that he stopped at precisely this same spot, gazed intently at this truly magnificent panorama and almost each time was surprised by one vague and unresolved impression of his. An inexplicable coldness always wafted over him from this magnificent panorama; a mute and deaf spirit filled this splendid picture for him... He marveled each time at his gloomy and enigmatic impression and postponed solving it, not trusting himself, to the future. Now he suddenly sharply remembered these former questions and perplexities of his, and it seemed to him that it was not by chance that he now remembered them. The very fact that he had stopped at the same spot as before seemed wild and strange to him, as if he really imagined that he could think about the same things now as before, and be interested in the same former themes and pictures that had interested him... so recently. He even almost found it funny and at the same time his chest was squeezed with pain. Somewhere in some depth, below, barely visible under his feet, all this former past now appeared to him, and former thoughts, and former tasks, and former themes, and former impressions, and this whole panorama, and he himself, and everything, everything... It seemed he was flying somewhere upward and everything was disappearing before his eyes... Making one involuntary movement with his hand, he suddenly felt in his fist the clutched twenty kopecks. He opened his hand, stared intently at the coin, swung and threw it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him that he had as if cut himself off with scissors from everyone and everything at that moment.

He arrived home already toward evening, meaning he had walked for about six hours total. Where and how he walked back, he remembered nothing of this. Undressing and trembling all over like a driven horse, he lay down on the sofa, pulled his greatcoat over himself and immediately lost consciousness...

He came to in complete twilight from a terrible cry. God, what kind of cry was that! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, gnashing, tears, beatings and curses he had never yet heard or seen. He could not even imagine such brutality, such frenzy. In horror he raised himself and sat on his bed, dying and suffering every moment. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew stronger and stronger. And then, to his greatest amazement, he suddenly heard the voice of his landlady. She howled, shrieked and lamented, hurrying, rushing, dropping words so that it was impossible to make out what she was begging about,—of course, that they stop beating her, because she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of the one beating had become so terrible with rage and fury that it was only wheezing, but still the beater was also saying something, and also quickly, inarticulately, hurrying and choking. Suddenly Raskolnikov trembled like a leaf: he recognized this voice; it was the voice of Ilya Petrovich. Ilya Petrovich here and beating the landlady! He's kicking her, pounding her head on the steps,—this is clear, this is audible from the sounds, the screams, the blows! What is this, has the world turned upside down? He could hear crowds gathering on all floors, all along the staircase, voices, exclamations could be heard, people were ascending, knocking, doors slamming, people running. "But why, why, and how is this possible!"—he repeated, seriously thinking that he had completely gone mad. But no, he hears too clearly!.. But then, consequently, they'll come to him now too, if so, "because... surely this is all from that... because of yesterday... Lord!" He wanted to lock himself in with the hook, but his hand wouldn't rise... and it was useless anyway! Fear, like ice, surrounded his soul, tortured him, numbed him... But finally all this uproar, which had lasted a good ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady moaned and groaned, Ilya Petrovich still threatened and cursed... But finally, it seemed, he too fell silent; well, he's no longer heard; "can he really have left! Lord!" Yes, now the landlady is leaving too, still moaning and crying... there, her door has slammed... Now the crowd is dispersing from the stairs to their apartments,—gasping, arguing, calling to each other, now raising their voices to a shout, now lowering them to a whisper. There must have been many of them; almost the whole building had run out. "But God, is all this really possible! And why, why did he come here!"

Raskolnikov fell back on the sofa in exhaustion, but could no longer close his eyes; he lay for about half an hour in such suffering, in such an unbearable sensation of boundless horror as he had never yet experienced. Suddenly a bright light illuminated his room: Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him attentively and making sure he was not sleeping, she set the candle on the table and began laying out what she had brought: bread, salt, the plate, a spoon.

"Probably haven't eaten since yesterday. You wandered around all day, and you've got the fever beating you."

"Nastasya... why was the landlady beaten?"

She looked at him intently.

"Who beat the landlady?"

"Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovich, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs... Why did he beat her so? and... why did he come?.."

Nastasya silently and frowning examined him and looked at him for a long time. He felt very unpleasant from this examination, even frightened.

"Nastasya, why are you silent?"—he finally said timidly in a weak voice.

"It's the blood,"—she finally answered, quietly and as if speaking to herself.

"Blood!.. What blood?.."—he muttered, turning pale and moving away to the wall. Nastasya continued to look at him silently.

"No one beat the landlady,"—she said again in a stern and decisive voice. He looked at her, barely breathing.

"I heard it myself... I wasn't asleep... I was sitting,"—he said even more timidly.—"I listened for a long time... The assistant superintendent came... Everyone ran out onto the stairs, from all the apartments..."

"No one came. It's your blood crying out. It's when it has no way out and the liver starts to clot, that's when you start seeing things... Will you eat or not?"

He didn't answer. Nastasya kept standing over him, staring at him intently and not leaving.

"Give me... a drink... Nastasyushka."

She went downstairs and returned in about two minutes with water in a white clay mug; but he no longer remembered what happened next. He only remembered how he took one sip of cold water and spilled some from the mug onto his chest. Then oblivion came.