"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
"But why, my good sir, all of a minute…. What is it?" she asked, looking at the
"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
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
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 some one 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, snatched up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into
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
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 some one 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 some one 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