Part 1 Chapter 7
The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly made a great mistake.
Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took hold of the door and drew it towards him to prevent the old woman from attempting to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did not let go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with it on to the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him.
"Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna," he began, trying to speak easily, but his voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. "I have come . . . I have brought something . . . but we'd better come in . . . to the light. . . ."
And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.
"Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?"
"Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me . . . Raskolnikov . . . here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other day . . ." And he held out the pledge.
The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for another half minute, he thought he would have run away from her.
"Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?" he said suddenly, also with malice. "Take it if you like, if not I'll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry."
He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor's resolute tone evidently restored her confidence.
"But why, my good sir, all of a minute. . . . What is it?" she asked, looking at the pledge.
"The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know."
She held out her hand.
"But how pale you are, to be sure . . . and your hands are trembling too? Have you been bathing, or what?"
"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale . . . if you've nothing to eat," he added, with difficulty articulating the words.
His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge.
"What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the pledge in her hand.
"A thing . . . cigarette case. . . . Silver. . . . Look at it."
"It does not seem somehow like silver. . . . How he has wrapped it up!"
Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall. . . . A sudden giddiness came over him.
"But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with vexation and moved towards him.
He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung it with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once brought the axe down, his strength returned to him.
The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat's tail and fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was so short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still held "the pledge." Then he dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood gushed as from an overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively.
He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her pocket (trying to avoid the streaming body)--the same right-hand pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get smeared with blood. . . . He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two minutes' hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken--it was a purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the crosses on the old woman's body and rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.
He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress, then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his blood- stained hands on the red brocade. "It's red, and on red blood will be less noticeable," the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to himself. "Good God, am I going out of my senses?" he thought with terror.
But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned out to be various articles made of gold among the clothes--probably all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed--bracelets, chains, ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he had not time to take many. . . .
He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bedroom.
In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees babies' mouths, when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most necessary and natural action at the moment, for the axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatching up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry.
Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and, perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the room for anything in the world.
But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window. There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind--the idea that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing something utterly different from what he was now doing. "Good God!" he muttered "I must fly, fly," and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had never known before.
He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung, was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!
He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
"But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away. . . ."
He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the staircase.
He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway, two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding. "What are they about?" He waited patiently. At last all was still, as though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone began going downstairs humming a tune. "How is it they all make such a noise?" flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and waited. At last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.
The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming /there/, to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now /he/ had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one's arms.
At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one another, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door divided them and he was listening.
The visitor panted several times. "He must be a big, fat man," thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream indeed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly.
As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the fastening, but /he/ might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him again. "I shall fall down!" flashed through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he recovered himself at once.
"What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!" he bawled in a thick voice, "Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?"
And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority and an intimate acquaintance.
At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the stairs. someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at first.
"You don't say there's no one at home," the new-comer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the bell. "Good evening, Koch."
"From his voice he must be quite young," thought Raskolnikov.
"Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the lock," answered Koch. "But how do you come to know me?
"Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiards at Gambrinus'."
"Oh!"
"So they are not at home? That's queer. It's awfully stupid though. Where could the old woman have gone? I've come on business."
"Yes; and I have business with her, too."
"Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie--aie! And I was hoping to get some money!" cried the young man.
"We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It's out of my way. And where the devil she can have got to, I can't make out. She sits here from year's end to year's end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!"
"Hadn't we better ask the porter?"
"What?"
"Where she's gone and when she'll be back."
"Hm. . . . Damn it all! . . . We might ask. . . . But you know she never does go anywhere."
And he once more tugged at the door-handle.
"Damn it all. There's nothing to be done, we must go!"
"Stay!" cried the young man suddenly. "Do you see how the door shakes if you pull it?"
"Well?"
"That shows it's not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how the hook clanks?"
"Well?"
"Why, don't you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they were all out, they would have locked the door from the outside with the key and not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don't you see. So there they are sitting inside and don't open the door!"
"Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What are they about in there?" And he began furiously shaking the door.
"Stay!" cried the young man again. "Don't pull at it! There must be something wrong. . . . Here, you've been ringing and pulling at the door and still they don't open! So either they've both fainted or . . ."
"What?"
"I tell you what. Let's go fetch the porter, let him wake them up."
"All right."
Both were going down.
"Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter."
"What for?"
"Well, you'd better."
"All right."
"I'm studying the law you see! It's evident, e-vi-dent there's something wrong here!" the young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.
Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began touching the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure once more that it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he bent down and began looking at the keyhole: but the key was in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be seen.
Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of delirium. He was even making ready to fight when they should come in. While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, while they could not open the door! "Only make haste!" was the thought that flashed through his mind.
"But what the devil is he about? . . ." Time was passing, one minute, and another--no one came. Koch began to be restless.
"What the devil?" he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy boots on the stairs. The steps died away.
"Good heavens! What am I to do?"
Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door--there was no sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.
He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below--where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to the flat.
"Hey there! Catch the brute!"
Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.
"Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!"
The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. "They!"
Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling "come what must!" If they stopped him--all was lost; if they let him pass--all was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only a flight from him--and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at work, and which, as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the middle of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the wall and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing. Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.
No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through the gateway and turned to the left in the street.
He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. "Should he slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!"
At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet. "My word, he has been going it!" someone shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank.
He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from quite a different direction.
He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his house! he was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe. And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody's yard. But it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter's room was closed but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that the porter was at home. But he had so completely lost all power of reflection that he walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him, "What do you want?" he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe back under the bench, and even covering it with the chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his room; the landlady's door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was--he did not sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts. . . .
像那次一样，房门开了很窄的一条缝，又是两道锐利和不信任的目光从黑暗中注视着他。这时拉斯科利尼科夫发慌了，犯了一个严重错误。
他担心，因为只有他们两个人，老太婆会觉得害怕，而且也不指望他的这副样子能消除她的疑心，于是他一把抓住房门，朝自己这边猛一拉，以免老太婆忽然又想把门关上。看到这一情况，她没有把门拉回去，可是也没放开门锁上的把手，这样一来，他差点儿没有把她连门一道拉到楼梯上来。看到她拦在门口。不放他进去，他一直朝她走了过去，她惊恐地往旁边一闪，想要说什么，可是又好像说不出来，于是瞪大了双眼直瞅着他。
“您好，阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜，”他尽可能随随便便地说，可是他的声音不听话，猝然中断了，而且颤一抖起来，“我给您……拿来一样东西……嗯，最好咱们还是到这儿来……到亮处来……”说着，他丢下她，不待邀请，径直走进屋里。老太婆跟在他后面跑进来；滔一滔一不一绝地说起来了。
“上帝啊！您要干什么？……您是什么人？您有什么事？”
“得了吧，阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜……您的熟人……拉斯科利尼科夫……瞧，拿来了抵押品，前两天说过要拿来的……”说着，他把抵押品递给她。
老太婆瞅了瞅那件抵押品，但立刻又用双眼盯着这个不速之客的眼睛。她十分留心、恶狠狠地、怀疑地瞅着他。约摸过了一分钟光景；他甚至好像觉得，她眼里有类似嘲笑的神情，似乎她已经什么都猜到了。他感到惊慌失措，几乎感到可怕，可怕到了这种程度，似乎她再这样一言不发地瞅着他，再瞅上半分钟，他就会从这儿逃跑了。
“唉，您干吗这样看着我，就像不认识似的？”他突然恶狠狠地说。“想要，就拿去，不想要，我就去找别人，我没空。”
他本不想说这些话，可是这些话却突然脱口而出。
老太婆镇静下来了，看来，客人的坚决语调使她受到了鼓舞。
“你这是怎么回事，我的爷，这么突然……这是什么啊？”
她瞅着那件抵押品，问。
“银烟盒：上次我不是说过了吗。”
她伸出手来。
“可您脸色怎么这么白？手也在发一抖！吓了一跳，是吗，先生？”
“寒热病发作了，”他断断续续地回答。“不由自主地脸色发白……既然没有吃的，”他补上一句，勉强才把这句话说了出来。他又没有力气了。但是这回答似乎合情合理；老太婆把抵押品接了过去。
“这是什么啊？”她问，手里掂量着那件抵押品，又一次盯着拉斯科利尼科夫仔细看了看。
“这东西……烟盒……是银子的……您看看吧。”
“可怎么，好像不是银的……咦，捆起来了。”
她竭力想解一开捆在上面的细绳，转身面对窗户，冲着亮光（别看天气闷热，她的窗子全都关着），有几秒钟背对他站着，完全不管他了。他解一开大衣，从环扣上取下斧头，不过还没有完全拿出来，而只是用右手在衣服里面轻轻一握着它。他的手非常虚弱；他自己感觉到，每一瞬间手都越来越麻木，越来越僵硬了。他担心会放开手，把斧头掉下去……突然他好像头晕起来。
“哼，他这是捆了件什么东西啊！”老太婆恼怒地喊了一声，朝他这边动了动。
再不能错过这一刹那的时间了。他把斧头完全拿了出来，双手抡起斧头，几乎不知不觉，几乎毫不费力，几乎不由自主地用斧背打到她的头上。这时他似乎根本没有力气。但是他刚一把斧头打下去，身上立刻有了力气。
和往常一样，老太婆头上没包头巾。她那稀疏、斑白、和往常一样厚厚搽了一层油的浅色头发，编成一条老鼠尾巴似的细辫子，盘在头上，后脑勺上一翘着一把角质的破梳子。一斧下去，正打在她的头顶上，这也是因为她个子矮小，才使他正好击中了头顶。她叫喊了一声，但声音十分微弱，于是突然全身缩下去坐到了地板上，不过还是举起双手想保护自己的脑袋。她一只手里还在拿着那件“抵押品”。这时他使出浑身的力气又打了一下，两下，一直是用斧背，而且都打在头顶上。血恰似从翻倒的杯子里迸涌一出来，身一子仰面倒了下去。他往后退去，让她完全倒下，并立刻俯下一身一子，看看她的脸；她已经死了。她两只眼睛瞪得老大，眼珠仿佛想从眼眶里跳出来，由于一抽一搐，前额和脸都皱起来了，变得很难看。
他把斧头放到地板上、死者的旁边，立刻伸手去摸她的衣袋，竭力不让还在流淌的血沾到手上，——他摸的就是上次她从里面掏出钥匙来的右边的口袋。他头脑完全清醒，神智不清和头晕已经消失，不过手一直还在发一抖。他后来回想起当时的情况，那时他甚至非常细心，十分谨慎，一直竭力不让身上沾上血迹……他立刻掏出钥匙；所有钥匙都像上次一样串作一串，串在一个小钢圈儿上。他立刻拿着钥匙跑进卧室。这是一间很小的房间，屋里有个供着圣像的、老大的神龛。另一边靠墙摆着一张大一床一，很干净，上面有一一床一棉被，被面是用零碎绸缎拼接起来的。第三面墙边放着一个一抽一屉柜。怪事：他刚把钥匙插到一抽一屉柜的锁孔上，刚刚听到钥匙的响声，突然感到全身一阵痉一挛。他突然又想丢下一切，离开这里。但这仅仅是一瞬间的事；要走已经迟了。他甚至嘲笑自己了，突然又一个让人惊慌不安的想法使他吃了一惊。他突然好像觉得，老太婆大概还活着，还可能苏醒过来。他丢下钥匙和一抽一屉柜，跑回一尸一体那里，拿起斧头，又一次对准老太婆抡起斧子，但是没有打下去。毫无疑问，她已经死了。他弯下腰，又在近处仔细看了看她，他清清楚楚看到，颅骨给打碎了，甚至稍稍歪到了一边。他本想用手指摸一摸，但立刻把手缩了回来；就是不摸也看得出来。这时血已经流了一大摊。突然他发现，她脖子上有一根细线带，他拉了拉它，但线带很结实，拉不断，而且让血给弄一湿了。他试着从她怀里把它拉出来，但不知有什么东西碍事，给挡住了。他急不可耐地又抡起斧头，本想从上边，就在这儿，在一尸一体上砍断那根细带，可是没敢这么做；他忙乱了两分钟光景，两手和斧头都沾上了鲜血，好不容易割断那根细带，没让斧头碰到一尸一体，把线带拉了出来；他没弄错——这是钱袋。线带上挂着两个十字架，一个是柏木做的，一个是铜的，除了十字架，还有一个小珐琅圣像；和这些东西一起，还挂着一个油渍斑斑、不大的麂皮钱袋，钱袋上还有个小钢圈儿和小圆环。钱袋装得满满的；拉斯科利尼科夫没有细看，就把它塞一进了衣袋，两个十字架却丢到了老太婆的胸膛上，这一次还拿了斧头，然后跑回卧室。
他很着急，抓起那些钥匙，又忙乱起来。但是不知怎的总是不顺利：钥匙都插不进锁孔。倒不是因为他的手抖得那么厉害，但他总是弄错：例如，他明明看出，不是这把钥匙，插不进去，可还是往里插。他突然想起，也猜出，这把和其他几把小钥匙挂在一起的、带锯齿的大钥匙肯定不是开一抽一屉柜的（上次他就想到了），而是开一个什么小箱子的，或许所有财物都藏在这个小箱子里。他丢开一抽一屉柜，立刻爬到一床一底下，因为他知道，老太婆们通常都是把小箱子放在一床一底下的。果然不错：那里有个相当大的箱子，一俄尺多长，箱盖是拱形的，蒙着红色的一精一制山羊皮，上面还钉着些小钢钉。那把带锯齿的钥匙刚好合适，把箱子开开了。最上面是一条白被单，被单底下是一件兔皮小袄，上面蒙着红色的法国图尔绸；皮袄下面是一件绸连衫裙，再下面是一条披巾，再往底下好像都是些破破烂烂的旧衣服。他首先在那块红色法国图尔绸上擦净自己那双沾满血污的手。“这是红的，在红色的东西上，血看不大出来”，他这样考虑，可是突然醒悟过来：“上帝啊！
我疯了吗？”他惊恐地想。
但是他刚翻了翻这堆破旧衣服，突然从皮袄底下滑一出一块金表来。他赶紧把这堆东西全都翻了一遍。真的，在那些破旧衣服里混杂着一些金首饰，——大概都是些抵押品，有会来赎回的，也有不会来赎的，——镯子，表链，耳环，佩针，还有些别的东西。有的装在小盒子里，另一些只不过用报纸包着，不过包得整整齐齐，看来十分珍惜，而且包了两层纸，还用带子捆着。他毫不迟延，立刻把这些东西塞满裤袋和大衣口袋，既不挑选，也没把那些小包和小盒子打开看看；东西这么多，他没来得及拿……
突然好像听到老太婆所在的那间屋里有人走动的声音。他住了手，像死人样一动不动。但是毫无动静，这么说，是他的幻觉。突然清清楚楚传来一声轻微的叫喊，或者似乎是有人轻轻地、断断续续地呻一吟，随即又住了声。后来又是死一般的寂静，约摸有一两分钟寂静无声。他蹲在箱子旁边，等待着，大气也不敢出，但是突然跳起来，拿了斧头，跑出了卧室。
莉扎薇塔站在房屋中间，双手抱着个大包袱，呆呆地望着被人杀害的姐姐，脸色白得跟麻布一般，似乎连叫喊的力气都没有了。看到他跑出来，她像片树叶样浑身打战，轻轻一颤一抖，脸上一阵痉一挛；她微微抬起一只手，张一开一了一嘴，但还是没有叫喊，于是慢慢地后退着躲开他，退到墙角落里，两眼直愣愣地盯着他，可是一直没有叫喊，仿佛由于气不足，喊不出来。他拿着斧头向她扑了过去：她的嘴唇一抽一搐，扭歪了，样子那么悲哀，就像很小的小孩子叫什么给吓着了，直盯着让他们感到害怕的那个东西，想大声叫喊时一样。这个可怜的莉扎薇塔老实到了这种程度，甚至没有抬起手来护着自己的脸，虽说在这时候，这是最必须、也是最自然的动作，因为斧头正对准她的脸高高举了起来。她只是稍稍抬起空着的左手，不过离脸还很远，慢慢地向他伸过去，仿佛是要推开他。斧刃正劈到她的颅骨上，立刻把前额的上半部，几乎到头顶，都劈作两半。她一下子倒了下去。拉斯科利尼科夫完全惊慌失措了，拿起她的包袱，又把它扔掉，往前室跑去。
他越来越害怕了，尤其是在完全出乎意外地第二次杀人以后。他想快点儿逃离这儿。如果那时候他能较为正确地想象和思考；如果他哪怕还能考虑到自己处境的困难，考虑到他已毫无出路，考虑到他是多么不像话，多么荒唐，同时能够理解，要想从这儿逃走，逃回家去，他还得克服多少困难，甚至还得再干多少罪恶勾当，那么很有可能，他会扔掉一切，立刻前去自首，这甚至不是由于为自己感到害怕，而仅仅是由于对他所干的事感到恐怖和厌恶。他心中的厌恶情绪特别强烈，而且时刻都在增长。现在他无论如何也不会再到那个箱子跟前去，甚至再也不会进那两间房间了。
但是渐渐地他有点儿心不在焉了，甚至仿佛陷入沉思：有时他似乎忘却了一切，或者不如说，忘记了主要的事情，却牢牢记住了一些不足道的小事。不过他朝厨房里望了望，看到长凳子上放着个水桶，桶里有半桶水，于是想到，该洗净自己的手和斧子。他的双手都沾满了血，黏一糊糊的。他把斧刃放进水里，拿起放在小窗台上破碟子里的一小块肥皂，就在桶里洗起手来。洗净了手，他把斧头也拿出来，洗净沾在铁上的血，然后花了好长时间，大约有三分钟的样子，洗净木头上沾上了血的地方，甚至试着用肥皂来洗掉上面的血迹。然后，就在那儿，拿晾在厨房里绳上的一件内一衣把一切全都擦干，随后又在窗前把斧头细心地检查了一遍，检查了很久。没有留下痕迹，只不过斧一柄一还是潮的。他细心地把斧头套在大衣里面的环扣里。然后，在厨房里暗淡的光线下尽可能仔细检查了一下大衣、长裤和靴子。从外表看，第一眼看上去似乎什么也没有；只不过靴子上有几点污迹。他把一块抹布浸一湿，擦净了靴子。不过他知道，他检查得不够仔细，说不定还有什么他没发现的、很显眼的痕迹。他站在房屋当中陷入沉思。他心中产生了一个痛苦的、模模糊糊的想法，——这想法就是：他疯了，在这个时候他已经既不能思考，也无力保护自己，而且也许根本就不应该做他现在所做的这一切……“我的天哪！应该逃跑，逃跑！”他喃喃地说，于是往前室跑去。但这儿却有一桩惊恐的事等待着他，这样惊恐的事，当然啦，他还从未经受过。
他站在那儿，看着，不相信自己的眼睛：外面的门，从前室通往楼梯的门，外面的房门，就是不久前他拉门铃、从那里进来的那道房门开着，甚至开了有整整一个手掌那么宽的一道缝：在整个这段时间里既没锁上，也没扣上门钩！老太婆在他进去以后没有把门锁上，可能是由于谨慎。可是天哪！后来他不是看到莉扎薇塔了吗！他怎么能，怎么能没想到，她总得从什么地方进来！总不会是穿墙进来的吧。
他冲到门前，把门扣上了。
“不过不对，又做错了！该走了，该走了……”
他开开门钩，打开房门，听听楼梯上有没有动静。
他留神听了好久。下边不知哪里，大概是大门口，有两个人的声音在高声刺耳地叫喊，争吵，对骂。“他们在干什么？……”他耐心等着。终于一下子静了下来，叫喊声突然停了；人也散了。他已经想要出去了，但是突然下面一层楼上，通楼梯的房门砰地一声开开了，有人哼着不知是什么曲调，往楼下走去。“他们干吗老是这么吵闹！”这想法在他头脑里忽然一闪。他又掩上房门，等着。终于一切都静下来，一个人也没有了。他已经往楼梯上迈了一步，突然又传来不知是什么人的、新出现的脚步声。
这脚步声是从很远的地方传来的，刚刚上楼，但是他记得清清楚楚，刚一听到响声，不知为什么他就怀疑，这一定是来这儿，到四楼来找老太婆的。为什么呢？是不是脚步声那么特别，那么值得注意呢？脚步声沉重，均匀，从容不迫。听，他已经走完第一层的楼梯，又在往上走；听得越来越清楚，越来越清楚了！可以听到上来的那个人很吃力的喘一息声。听，已经上第三层了……往这儿来了！他突然觉得，他好像全身都僵硬了，这就跟在梦中一样，梦见有人追他，已经离得很近了，想要杀死他，可他仿佛在原地扎了根，连手都不能动弹了。
最后，当这个客人已经开始上四楼的时候，他这才突然打了个哆嗦，还是及时迅速、机警地从穿堂溜进屋里，随手关上了房门。然后抓起门钩，轻轻地、悄无声息地把它扣进铁环。本能帮助了他。扣上门以后，他立刻屏住呼吸，就躲在了房门后面。那个不速之客已经来到门前。现在他们两个是面对面站着，就像不久前他和老太婆隔着房门面对面站着一样，他在侧耳倾听。
客人很吃力地喘了好几口气。“这个人一大概是个大胖子”，拉斯科利尼科夫想，手里紧一握着斧头。真的，好像这一切都是在作梦。客人拉住门铃，用力拉了拉。
白铁门铃刚一响，他突然好像觉得，房间里有人在动。有几秒钟他甚至认直仔细听了听。陌生人又拉了一次门铃，又等了等，突然急不可耐地使出全身的力气猛拉房门上的把手。拉斯科利尼科夫惊恐地瞅着在铁环里跳动的门钩，隐隐怀着恐惧心情等待着，眼看门钩就要跳出来了。真的，这似乎是可能的：拉得那么猛。他本想用手按住门钩，可是那个人会猜到的。他的头好像又眩晕起来。“我这就要昏倒了！”这个想法在他脑子里突然一闪，可是一陽一生人说话了，于是他立刻惊醒过来。
“她们在里面干什么，是睡大觉呢，还是有人把她们掐死了！该死的！”他好像从大桶里吼叫。“嗳，阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜，老巫婆！莉扎薇塔·伊万诺芙娜，没法儿形容的美人儿！请开门！嘿，该死的，她们在睡觉，还是怎么的？”
他暴跳如雷，又使出最大的力气一连拉了十次门铃。不用说这是个对这家人颇有权势、跟她们关系亲密的人。
就在这时候，突然从楼梯上不远的地方传来一阵匆匆忙忙、然而是小步行走的脚步声。又有人走过来了。一开头拉斯科利尼科夫没有听清。
“莫非一个人也不在家？”那个走过来的人声音响亮而愉快地对第一个来访者喊道，后者一直还在拉铃。“您好哇，科赫！”
“听声音，大概是个很年轻的人”拉斯科利尼科夫突然想。
“鬼知道她们，门上的锁差点儿没弄断了，”科赫回答。
“可请问您是怎么认得我的？”
“啊，是这么回事！前天，在‘加姆布里乌斯’①我一连赢了您三盘台球。”
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①“加姆布里乌斯”——“加姆布里乌斯”啤酒公司在瓦西利耶夫斯基岛上开的啤酒馆。加姆布里乌斯是传说中佛来米的国王，据说啤酒是他发明的。
“啊——啊——啊……”
“这么说她们不在家吗？奇怪。不过，一胡一闹，真糟糕。老太婆能上哪儿去呢？我有事。”
“我也有事呀，老兄！”
“唉，怎么办呢？看来，只好回去了。唉——！我本想弄点儿钱呢，”年轻人一大声嚷。
“当然只好回去，可是为什么约我来呢？老巫婆自己约我这个时候来的。要知道，我是绕了个弯儿特意赶来的。可是见鬼，我真不明白，她上哪儿闲逛去了？老巫婆一年到头坐在家里，有病，腿痛，可是这会儿却突然散步去了！”
“不去问问管院子的吗？”
“问什么？”
“她上哪儿去了，什么时候回来？”
“嗯哼……见鬼……问……可要知道，她哪儿也不去……”他又拉了拉门锁上的把手。“见鬼，毫无办法，走吧！”
“等等！”年轻人突然叫喊起来，“您瞧：看到了吗，拉门的时候，门动了动？”
“那又怎么呢？”
“可见门没上锁，而是销着，也就是用门钩扣着的！听到门钩响了吗？”
“那又怎么呢？”
“唉，您怎么还不明白？这就是说，她们两人当中总有人在家。要是她们都出去了，就会用钥匙从外面把门锁上，而不会从里面把门扣上。可现在，——您听到了，门钩在嗒嗒地响？要从里面把门扣上，得有人在家才行，明白了吗？可见她们在家，可就是不开门！”
“哦！真的！”感到惊讶的科赫高声叫嚷起来。“那么她们在里面干什么？”于是他又发疯似地拉起门来。
“等等！”那个年轻人又叫喊起来，“您别拉了！这有点儿不对头……您不是已经拉过铃，拉过门了吗——可她们就是不开；这么说，要么是她们俩都昏迷不醒，要么就是……”
“什么？”
“这么着吧：咱们去叫管院子的；让他来叫醒她们。”
“是个办法！”两人一起往楼下走去。
“等等！请您留在这儿，我跑下去叫管院子的。”
“干吗留下？”
“这有什么关系呢？……”
“好吧……”
“要知道，我打算当法院侦查员！显然，显—而—易—见，这有点儿不对头！”年轻人着急地叫嚷着，跑下去了。
科赫留了下来，又轻轻拉了拉门铃，铃噹地响了一声；随后他仿佛在反复思考，细心察看，轻轻转动门把手，往外一拉，然后放开，想再一次证实，门只是用门钩扣着。然后气喘吁吁地弯下腰，往锁孔里张望；可是钥匙从里面插在锁孔里，所以什么也看不见。
拉斯科利尼科夫站在门边，紧紧攥着斧头。他仿佛在发高烧。他甚至作好了准备，等他们一进来，就和他们搏斗。当他们敲门和商议的时候，有好几次他突然起了这样的念头：从门后对他们大声叫喊，一下子把一切全都结束。有时他想和他们对骂，戏一弄他们，直到把门打开。“但愿快一点儿！”这个想法在他脑子里一闪而过。
“可是他，见鬼……”
时间在流逝，一分钟，又一分钟——一个人也没来。科赫动了动。
“可是见鬼！……”他突然喊了一声，不耐烦地离开了自己的岗位，也匆匆下楼去了，只听见靴子在楼梯上橐橐地响。
脚步声沉寂了。
“上帝啊，怎么办呢？”
拉斯科利尼科夫取下门钩，把门打开一条缝，什么声音也听不到，突然，他一点也不犹豫，走了出来，随手掩上房门，尽可能把它关紧一些，然后下楼去了。
他已经下了三道楼梯，下面突然传来一阵很厉害的喧闹声，——躲到哪儿去呢！无处可以藏身。他本已往回跑，想要回到房间里去。
“哎，妖怪，魔鬼！抓住他！”
有人高声叫嚷着，不知从哪套房子里冲出来，不是跑下去，而像是从楼梯上跌了下去，同时还扯着嗓子大喊：
“米季卡！米季卡！米季卡！米季卡！米季卡！叫鬼把你抓——了——去！”
喊声结束时变成了尖一叫；最后的尾音已经是从院子里传来的了；一切复归于寂静。但就在这一瞬间，有好几个人急速地高声说着话，闹嚷嚷地上楼来了。一共有三、四个人。他听出了那个年轻人的声音。“是他们！”
他完全绝望了，一直迎着他们走去：豁出去了！他们拦住他，那就全完了；让他走，也完了：他们准会记住他。他们已经快要碰到一起了；在他们之间总共只剩了一道楼梯，——可是突然出现了救星！离他只有几级楼梯，右边有一套空房子，房门大敞四开，就是二楼上有一些工人在里面油漆房间的那套房子，可这会儿，就像老天帮忙似的，工人都出去了。大概刚才正是他们那样高声叫喊着跑了出去。地板刚刚漆过，房屋中间放着一个小桶和一个小罐，里面盛着油漆和一把刷子。转瞬间他就溜进敞着的门内，躲在墙后边，而且躲得正是时候：他们已经站在楼梯平台上了。接着他们拐弯往上走去，高声谈论着，从门前经过，上四楼去了。他等了一下，踮着脚尖走出房门，跑下楼去。
楼梯上一个人也没有！大门口也没有人。他急忙穿过门洞，往左一拐，来到了街上。
他十分清楚，清清楚楚地知道，这时他们已经在那套房子里了，看到房门没扣，他们感到十分惊讶，可房门刚刚还是扣着的，他们已经在看一尸一体了，而且不消多久就会猜到，而且完全明白，刚刚凶手就在这儿，他不知躲到哪里，从他们身边溜走，逃跑了；大概他们还会猜到，他们上楼的时候，他是躲在那套空房子里。然而无论如何他也不敢加快脚步，走得太快，尽管到第一个拐弯处已经只剩下百来步远了。“要不要溜进哪个门洞里，在那儿不熟悉的楼梯上等一会儿？不，真要命！是不是把斧头扔掉呢？要不要叫辆马车！糟糕，真糟糕！”
终于看到一条一胡一同；他半死不活地转弯进了一胡一同；这时他已经有一半得救了，他明白这一点：在这儿嫌疑会小一些，何况这里来来往往的人多得很，他会像一粒沙一样消失在人群之中。但是所有这些折磨已经使他疲惫不堪，他只是勉强还在行走。他汗如雨下；脖于全都湿了。“瞧，他喝醉了！”当他走到运河边的时候，有人冲着他喊了一声。
他现在有点儿一精一神恍惚，越往前走，越发控制不住自己。可是他记得，当他走到运河边的时候，突然吃了一惊，因为这儿人少，更容易惹人注意，于是想转回小一胡一同去。尽管他几乎要跌倒了，可还是绕了个弯，从完全不同的另一个方向走回家去。
他进自己住房的大门时，神智不十分清醒；至少到已经上了楼梯，这才想起那把斧头来。可还有一件非常重要的任务必须完成：把斧子放回去，而且要尽可能不被发觉。当然，他已经失去思考的能力了，也许他根本不把斧头放回原处，而是把它扔到别人家的院子里，哪怕是以后去这么做，也要比现在放回去好得多。
但一切都很顺利。管院子的人住的小屋门掩着，不过没有锁上，可见管院子的人一大半在家，可是他已经失去思考的能力，所以连想也没想，就径直走近管院子的人的住房，推开了门。如果管院子的人问他：“有什么事？”说不定他会把斧子直接一交一给他。可是管院子的人又没在家，他立刻把斧子放回长凳底下原来的地方；甚至仍然用劈柴把它遮住。以后，直到他回到自己屋里，连一个人，连一个人影也没碰到；女房东的门关着。走进自己屋里，他立刻和衣倒到长沙发上，他没睡，但是处于一种昏昏沉沉的状态。如果当时有人走进他屋里未，他准会立刻跳起来，大声叫喊。一些杂乱无章的思想片断飞也似掠过他的脑海；但是他一点儿也弄不懂自己在想什么，甚至尽管想努力集中思想，却怎么也不能让思想停留在某一点上……
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