The Most Interesting Stories of All Nations

J >> Julian Hawthorne >> The Most Interesting Stories of All Nations

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"Are they both asleep, or has some one strangled them? The thrice-
confounded creatures!" growled the visitor in a guttural voice.
"Hi! Alena Ivanovna, you old sorceress! Elizabeth Ivanovna, you
indescribable beauty!--open! Oh! the witches! can they be asleep?"

In his exasperation he rang ten times running, and as loud as he
possibly could. This man was evidently not a stranger there, and
was in the habit of being obeyed. At the same moment some light
and rapid footsteps resounded on the staircase. It was another
person coming to the fourth floor. Raskolnikoff was not at first
aware of the newcomer's arrival.

"Is it possible that there's no one at home?" said the latter in a
loud and hearty tone of voice, addressing the first visitor who was
still tugging at the bell pull. "Good day, Koch!"

"Judging by his voice, he must be quite a young man," immediately
thought Raskolnikoff.

"The devil only knows! I've almost smashed the lock," replied
Koch. "But how is it you know me?"

"What a question! The day before yesterday I played you at
billiards, at Gambrinus's, and won three games right off."

"Ah!"

"So they're not at home? That's strange. I might almost say it's
ridiculous. Where can the old woman have gone? I want to speak
with her."

"And I too, batuchka, I want to speak with her."

"Well, what's to be done? I suppose we must go back to whence we
came. I wanted to borrow some money of her!" exclaimed the young
man.

"Of course we must go back again; but why then did she make an
appointment? She herself, the old witch, told me to come at this
hour. And it's a long way to where I live. Where the deuce can
she be? I don't understand it. She never stirs from one year's
end to the other, the old witch; she quite rots in the place, her
legs have always got something the matter with them, and now all on
a sudden she goes gallivanting about!"

"Suppose we question the porter?"

"What for?"

"To find out where she's gone and when she will be back."

"Hum!--the deuce!--question!--but she never goes anywhere." And he
again tugged at the door handle. "The devil take her! there's
nothing to be done but to go."

"Wait!" suddenly exclaimed the young man, "look!--do you notice how
the door resists when we pull it?"

"Well, what then?"

"Why, that shows that it's not locked, but bolted! Hark how it
clinks!"

"Well?"

"Don't you understand? That shows that one of them must be at
home. If both were out, they would have locked the door after
them, and not have bolted it inside. Listen, don't you hear the
noise it makes? Well, to bolt one's door, one must be at home, you
understand. Therefore it follows that they are at home, only for
some reason or other they don't open the door!"

"Why, yes, you're right!" exclaimed the astonished Koch. "So
they're there, are they?" And he again shook the door violently.

"Stay!" resumed the young man, "don't pull like that. There's
something peculiar about this. You've rung, you've pulled at the
door with all your might, and they haven't answered you; therefore,
they've either both fainted away, or--"

"What?"

"This is what we had better do: have the porter up, so that he may
find out what's the matter."

"That's not a bad idea!"

They both started downstairs.

"Stop! you stay here; I'll fetch the porter."

"Why stay here?"

"Well, one never knows what might happen--"

"All right."

"You see, I might also pass for an examining magistrate! There's
something very peculiar about all this, that's evident, e-vi-dent!"
said the young man excitedly, and he hastily made his way down the
stairs.

Left alone, Koch rang again, but gently this time; then, with a
thoughtful air, he began to play with the door handle, turning it
first one way, then the other, so as to make sure the door was only
bolted. After this, with a great deal of puffing and blowing, he
stooped down to look through the keyhole, but the key was in the
lock, and turned in such a way that one could not see through.
Standing up on the other side of the door, Raskolnikoff still held
the hatchet in his hands. He was almost in a state of delirium and
was preparing to attack the two men the moment they forced an
entrance. More than once, on hearing them knocking and planning
together, he had felt inclined to put an end to the matter there
and then by calling out to them. At times he experienced a desire
to abuse and defy them, while awaiting their irruption. "The
sooner it's over the better!" he kept thinking.

"The devil take them!" The time passed; still no one came. Koch
was beginning to lose patience. "The devil take them!" he muttered
again, and, tired of waiting, he relinquished his watch to go and
find the young man. By degrees the sound of his heavy boots
echoing on the stairs ceased to be heard.

"Heavens! What shall I do?"

Raskolnikoff drew back the bolt and opened the door a few inches.
Reassured by the silence which reigned in the house, and, moreover,
scarcely in a fit state at the time to reflect on what he did, he
went out on to the landing, shut the door behind him as securely as
he could and turned to go downstairs. He had already descended
several steps when suddenly a great uproar arose from one of the
floors below. Where could he hide? Concealment was impossible, so
he hastened upstairs again.

"Hi there! hang it! stop!"

He who uttered these cries had just burst out of one of the
lodgings, and was rushing down the stairs as fast as his legs would
carry him, yelling the while: "Dmitri! Dmitri! Dmitri! May the
devil take the fool!"

The rest died away in the distance; the man who was uttering these
cries had already left the house far behind. All was once more
silent; but scarcely was this alarm over than a fresh one succeeded
it: several individuals talking together in a loud tone of voice
were noisily coming up the stairs. There were three or four of
them. Raskolnikoff recognized the young man's sonorous accents.
"It is they!" No longer hoping to escape them, he advanced boldly
to meet them: "Let happen what will!" said he to himself: "if they
stop me, all is over; if they let me pass, all is over just the
same: they will remember passing me on the stairs." They were
about to encounter him, only one flight separated them--when
suddenly he felt himself saved! A few steps from him, to the
right, there was an empty lodging with the door wide open, it was
that same one on the second floor where he had seen the painters
working, but, by a happy chance, they had just left it. It was
they, no doubt, who a few minutes before had gone off, uttering
those shouts. The paint on the floors was quite fresh, the workmen
had left their things in the middle of the room: a small tub, some
paint in an earthenware crock, and a big brush. In the twinkling
of an eye, Raskolnikoff glided into the deserted apartment and hid
himself as best he could up against the wall. It was none too
soon: his pursuers were already on the landing; they did not stop
there, however, but went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly
among themselves. After waiting till they had got some distance
off, he left the room on tiptoe and hurried down as fast as his
legs would carry him. No one on the stairs! No one either at the
street door! He stepped briskly outside, and, once in the street,
turned to the left.

He knew very well, he knew without a doubt, that they who were
seeking him were at that moment in the old woman's lodging, and
were amazed to find that the door, which a little while before had
been shut so securely, was now open. 'They're examining the
corpses," thought he; "it won't take them a minute to come to the
conclusion that the murderer managed to hide himself from them as
they went up the stairs; perhaps they may even have a suspicion
that he stowed himself away in the empty lodging on the second
floor while they were hurrying to the upper part of the house."
But, in spite of these reflections, he did not dare to increase his
pace, though he still had a hundred steps or so to go before
reaching the first turning. "Suppose I slipped into some doorway,
in some out-of-the-way street, and waited there a few minutes? No,
that would never do! I might throw my hatchet away somewhere? or
take a cab? No good! no good!" At last he reached a narrow lane;
he entered it more dead than alive. There, he was almost in
safety, and he knew it: in such a place, suspicion could hardly be
fixed upon him; while, on the other hand, it was easier for him to
avoid notice by mingling with the crowd. But all these agonizing
events had so enfeebled him that he could scarcely keep on his
legs. Great drops of perspiration streamed down his face; his neck
was quite wet. "I think you've had your fill!" shouted some one
who took him for a drunken man as he reached the canal bank.

He no longer knew what he was doing; the farther he went, the more
obscure became his ideas. However, when he found himself on the
quay, he became frightened at seeing so few people there, and,
fearing that he might be noticed on so deserted a spot, he returned
to the lane. Though he had hardly the strength to put one leg
before the other, he nevertheless took the longest way to reach his
home. He had scarcely recovered his presence of mind even when he
crossed the threshold; at least the thought of the hatchet never
came to him until he was on the stairs. Yet the question he had to
solve was a most serious one: it consisted in returning the hatchet
to the place he had taken it from, and in doing so without
attracting the least attention. Had he been more capable of
considering his position, he would certainly have understood that,
instead of replacing the hatchet, it would be far safer to get rid
of it by throwing it into the yard of some other house.

Nevertheless he met with no mishap. The door of the porter's lodge
was closed, though not locked; to all appearance, therefore, the
porter was at home. But Raskolnikoff had so thoroughly lost all
faculty of preparing any kind of plan, that he walked straight to
the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him: "What do you
want?" perhaps he would simply have handed him the hatchet. But,
the same as on the previous occasion, the porter was absent, and
this gave the young man every facility to replace the hatchet under
the bench, exactly where he had found it. Then he went upstairs
and reached his room without meeting a soul; the door of his
landlady's apartments was shut. Once home again, he threw himself
on his couch just as he was. He did not sleep, but lay in a sort
of semiconsciousness. If anybody had then appeared before him, he
would have sprung up and cried out. His head was swimming with a
host of vague thoughts: do what he could, he was unable to follow
the thread of one of them.

Raskolnikoff lay on the couch a very long while. At times he
seemed to rouse from this half sleep, and then he noticed that the
night was very far advanced, but still it never entered his head to
rise. Soon it began to brighten into day, and the dawn found him
in a state of stupefaction, lying motionless on his back. A
desperate clamor, and sounds of brawls from the streets below, rose
to his ears. These awakened him thoroughly, although he heard them
every morning early at the same hour. "Ah! two o'clock, drinking
is over," and he started up as though some one had pulled him off
the couch. "What! two o'clock already?" He sat on the edge of the
couch and then recollected everything, in an instant it all came
back! At first he thought he was going out of his mind, a strange
chill pervaded his frame, but the cold arose from the fever which
had seized upon him during his sleep. He shivered until his teeth
chattered, and all his limbs fairly shook. He went to the door,
opened it, and listened; all was silent in the house. With
astonishment he turned and looked round the room. How could he
have come home the night before, not bolted the door, and thrown
himself on the couch just as he was, not only not undressed, but
with his hat on? There it lay in the middle of the floor where it
had rolled. "If anyone came in, what would he think? That I am
drunk, of course."

He went to the window--it was pretty light--and looked himself all
over from head to foot, to see if there were any stains on his
clothes. But he could not rely upon that sort of inspection; so,
still shivering, he undressed and examined his clothes again,
looking everywhere with the greatest care. To make quite sure, he
went over them three times. He discovered nothing but a few drops
of clotted blood on the ends of his trousers which were very much
frayed. He took a big clasp-knife and cut off the frayed edges.
Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had
abstracted from the old woman's chest, were still in his pockets!
He had never thought of taking them out and hiding them! indeed, it
had never crossed his mind that they were in his pockets while
examining his clothes! Was it possible? In a second he emptied
all out on to the table in a heap. Then, turning his pockets
inside out to make sure there was nothing left in them, he carried
the things to a corner of the room. Just there, the paper was
hanging loose from the wall; he bent down and commenced to stuff
all the things into a hole behind the paper. "There, it's all out
of sight!" thought he gleefully, as he stood gazing stupidly at the
spot where the paper bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he began
to shudder from terror. "Good heavens!" murmured he in despair,
"what is the matter with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to
hide anything?"

Indeed, he had not reckoned on such spoil, he had only thought of
taking the old woman's money; so he was not prepared with a hiding
place for the jewels. "I have no cause to rejoice now," thought
he. "Is that the way to hide anything? I must really be losing my
senses!" He sunk on the couch again exhausted; another fit of
intolerable shivering seized him, and he mechanically pulled his
old student's cloak over him for warmth, as he fell into a
delirious sleep. He lost all consciousness of himself. Not more
than five minutes had elapsed before he woke up in intense
excitement, and bent over his clothes in the deepest anguish. "How
could I go to sleep again when nothing is done! For I have done
nothing, the loop is still where I sewed it. I forgot all about
that! What a convincing proof it would have been." He ripped it
off and tore it into shreds which he placed among his underlinen
under the pillow. "These rags cannot awaken any suspicions, I
fancy; at least, so it seems to me," repeated he, standing up in
the middle of the room, and, with an attempt rendered all the more
painful by the effort it cost him, he looked all round, trying to
make sure he had forgotten nothing. He suffered cruelly from this
conviction, that everything, even memory, even the most elementary
prudence, was abandoning him.

"Can this be the punishment already beginning? Indeed! indeed! it
is!"

And indeed the frayed edges he had cut from the bottom of his
trousers were lying on the floor, in the middle of the room,
exposed to the view of the first comer. "But what can I be
thinking of?" exclaimed he in utter bewilderment. Then a strange
idea came into his head; he thought that perhaps all his clothes
were saturated in blood, and that he could not see this because his
senses were gone and his perception of things lost. Then he
recollected that there would be traces on the purse, and his
pockets would be wet with blood. It was so. "I am bereft of my
reason, I know not what I am doing. Bah! not at all!--it is only
weakness, delirium. I shall soon be better." He tore at the
lining. At this moment the rays of the morning streamed in and
shone on his left boot. There were plain traces, and all the point
was covered. "I must have stepped in that pool. What shall I do
now? Boot, lining, rags, where shall they go?" He rolled them up
and stood thinking in the middle of the room. "Ah, the stove.
Yes, burn them. No, I cannot, I have no match. Better throw them
away. Yes, yes, that is the thing," said he, again sitting on the
couch. "At once, and without delay too, quick." But, instead, his
head fell back upon the pillow, and chilly shiverings again came
over him. He covered himself with his cloak and slept again. It
appeared hours to him, and many a time in his sleep he tried to
rise to hasten to throw away his bundle, but he could not, he
seemed chained to the bed. At last he awoke, as he heard a loud
knock at his door.

"Eh, open, will you?" cried Nastasia. "Don't lie there like a dog.
It's eleven o'clock."

"Perhaps he is not in," said a man's voice.

"The porter's voice. What does he want?" Raskolnikoff rose, and
sat on the couch listening. His heart throbbed violently.

"Who has bolted the door then?" exclaimed the servant. "Open, will
you?"

"All must be discovered?" He rose a little and undid the bolt, and
fell back again on his bed. There stood the porter and Nastasia.
The servant looked strangely at Raskolnikoff, while he fixed a
despairing glance upon the porter.

"Here is a notice for you from the office," said the latter.

"What office?"

"The police office."

"What for?"

"I don't know. You are summoned there, go." The porter looked
anxiously at the lodger, and turned to leave. Raskolnikoff made no
observation, and held the paper unopened in his hand.

"There, stay where you are," said Nastasia, seeing him fall back on
the couch. "If you are ill, do not go. What is that in your
hand?"

He looked down; in his right hand were clutched the pieces of
frayed cloth, his boot, and the lining of his pocket. He had
evidently fallen asleep with them as they were; indeed he
recollected how, thinking deeply about them, he had dozed away.

"The idea of taking a lot of rags to bed and hugging them to you
like a treasure!" laughed the servant in her sickly manner.

In a second he hid all under his coat and looked at her
attentively. Although little was capable of passing in his mind,
he felt she would not talk thus to a man under arrest for a crime.
But then, the police?

"Is there anything you want? You stay here, I will bring it."

"No, I will go. I am going at once," murmured he, rising to his
feet.

"Very well."

She went out after the porter. As soon as she had disappeared, he
rushed to the light to look at his boot. Yes, there were spots,
but not very plain, all covered with mud. But who would
distinguish them? Nastasia could know nothing, thank heavens!
Then with trembling hand he tore open the notice, and began to
read. At last he understood; it was simply the usual notice to
report himself at the office of the district that day at half-past
nine o'clock.

"But why to-day?" cried he. "Lord, let it be over soon." He was
about to fall down on his knees to pray, when a fit of laughter
seized him. "I must trust to myself, not to prayers." He quickly
dressed himself. "Shall I put the boot on?" he thought, "better
throw it away, and hide all traces of it." Nevertheless he put it
on, only, however, to throw it off again with an expression of
horror. As, however, he recollected he had no other, a smile came
to his face, and he drew it on once more. Again his face changed
into deep despair, his limbs shook more and more. "This is not
from exertion," thought he, "it is fear." His head spun round and
round and his temples throbbed visibly.

On the stairs he recollected that all the things were in the hole
in the wall, and then where was his certificate of birth? He
stopped to think. But such despair, and, if it may be so called,
cynicism, took hold of him, that he simply shook his head and went
out. The sooner over, the better. Once again in the open air, he
encountered the same insufferable heat, the dust, and the people in
drink rolling about the streets. The sun caught him full in the
eyes and almost blinded him, while his head spun round and round,
as is usual in fever. On reaching the turning into the street he
had taken the day before, he glanced in great agitation in the
direction of the house, but immediately averted his eyes again.
"If they ask me, I should confess, perhaps," said he to himself, as
he turned away and made for the office. This was not far distant,
in a new house, on the fourth floor. As he entered the court, he
saw to the right of him a staircase, ascending which was a man
carrying some books. "It was evidently there." He did not think
of asking.

"I will go and fall on my knees and confess all," he murmured, and
began to ascend the narrow and very steep stairs. On every floor
the doors of the kitchens of the several apartments stood open to
the staircase, and emitted a suffocating, sickening odor. The
entrance to the office he was in search of was also wide open, and
he walked in. A number of persons were waiting in the anteroom.
The stench was simply intolerable, and was intensified by the smell
of fresh paint. Pausing a little, he decided to advance farther
into the small low room. He became impatient when he found no one
took any notice of him. In an inner room were seated a number of
clerks engaged in writing. He went up to one of these.

"What do you want?" Raskolnikoff showed him the notice.

"You are a student?" asked a clerk, glancing at the notice.

"Yes;--that is, I used to be."

The clerk glanced at him--without, however, any particular
curiosity. He was a man with unkempt hair and an expressionless
face.

"There is nothing to be learned from him, evidently," thought
Raskolnikoff.

"Step in there to the head clerk," said the man, pointing to a
farther room, which was quite full of people, among whom were two
ladies.

The assistant district officer, a man adorned with red whiskers
standing out on either side of his face, and with extremely small
features, looked up impatiently at Raskolnikoff, whose filthy
attire was by no means prepossessing. The latter returned his
glance calmly and straight in the face, and in such a manner as to
give the officer offense.

"What do you want here?" he cried, apparently surprised that such a
ragged beggar was not knocked down by his thunder-bearing glance.

"I am here because I was summoned," stammered Raskolnikoff.

"It is for the recovery of money lent," said the head clerk.
"Here!" and he threw a paper to Raskolnikoff, "Read!"

"Money? What money? It cannot be that," thought the young man,
and he trembled with joy. Everything became clear, and the load
fell off his shoulders.

"At what hour did you receive this, sir?" cried the lieutenant;
"you were told to come at nine o'clock, and now it is nearly
twelve!"

"I received it a quarter of an hour ago," loudly replied
Raskolnikoff, over his shoulder, suddenly angered, "and it is
sufficient to say that I am ill with a fever."

"Please not to bawl!"

"I did not bawl, but spoke plainly; it is you that bawl. I am a
student, and am not going to have you speak to me in that fashion."

The officer became enraged, and fumed so that only splutters flew
out of his mouth. He jumped up from his place. "Please keep
silence. You are in court. Don't be insolent."

"And so are you in court; and, besides bawling, you are smoking, so
you are wanting in politeness to the whole company." As he said
this, Raskolnikoff felt an inexpressible delight at his
maliciousness. The clerk looked up with a smile. The choleric
officer was clearly nonplused.

"That is not your business, sir," he cried at last, unnaturally
loud. "Make the necessary declaration. Show him, Alexander
Gregorivitch. Complaints have been made about you! You don't pay
your debts! You know how to fly the kite evidently!"

Raskolnikoff did not listen, but greedily seized the paper. He
read it through more than once, and could make nothing of it.
"What is this?" he asked of the clerk.

"It is a writ for recovery on a note of hand of yours. Please
write," said the clerk.

"Write what?" asked he rudely.

"As I dictate."

The clerk stood near and dictated to him the usual form of
declaration: that he was unable to pay, that he would not quit the
capital, dispose of his goods in any way, etc., etc.

"You cannot write, your pen is falling from your fingers," said the
clerk, and he looked him in the face. "Are you ill?"

"Yes, my head swims. Go on."

"That is all. Now sign it."

Raskolnikoff let fall the pen, and seemed as if about to rise and
go; but, instead of doing so, he laid both elbows on the table and
supported his head with his hands. A new idea formed in his mind:
to rise immediately, go straight to Nicodemus Thomich the ward
officer and tell him all that had occurred; then to accompany him
to his room, and show him all the things hidden away in the wall
behind the paper. His desire to do all this was of such strength
that he got up from the table to carry his design into execution.
"Reflect, reflect a moment!" ran in his head. "No, better not
think, get it off my shoulders." Suddenly he stood still as if
shot. Nicodemus Thomich was at this moment hotly discussing
something with Elia Petrovitch, the inspector of police, and the
words caught Raskolnikoff's anxious attention. He listened.

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