To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second
turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped
and, after a minute's thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out
of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain
time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly some one seemed to whisper in his
ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of the house.
He had not passed it, he had not been near it since that evening. An overwhelming
unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the
gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar
staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped
at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework
of the window had been taken out. "That wasn't so then," he thought. Here was the
flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. "It's shut
up and the door newly painted. So it's to let." Then the third storey and the fourth.
"Here!" He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men
there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he
mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there
were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find
everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor.
And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and
sat down on the window sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one
much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper
covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for
some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike,
as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed
beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting
ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov's coming in; they were talking.
Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened.
"She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very early,
all dressed up. 'Why are you preening and prinking?' says I. 'I am ready to do anything
to please you, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way of going on! And she dressed up like
a regular fashion book!"
"And what is a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the
other as an authority.
"A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the tailors
here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex
as well as the female. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur
coats and for the ladies' fluffles, they're beyond anything you can fancy."
"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger cried enthusiastically,
"except father and mother, there's everything!"
"Except them, there's everything to be found, my boy," the elder declared sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box, the bed,
and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture
in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed where the case of
ikons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked
at him askance.
"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.
Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The
same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened
and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began
to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more
and more satisfaction.
"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out to him.
Raskolnikov went inside again.
"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."
"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the
"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is
there no blood?"
"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool
"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.
"Who am I?"
"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you."
The workmen looked at him in amazement.
"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up,"
said the elder workman.
"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first,
he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway.
At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers-by; the
two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov
went straight up to them.
"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.
"Have you been to the police office?"
"I've just been there. What do you want?"
"Is it open?"
"Is the assistant there?"
"He was there for a time. What do you want?"
Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward.
"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he. 'There
has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.' And he began ringing
at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell
you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us."
The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil's house,
not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said
all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the
"Why have you been to the flat?"
"To look at it."
"What is there to look at?"
"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked in
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow,
"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going into that,
what's in his mind, eh?"
"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered the workman.
"But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest–
"Why are you hanging about?"
"You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"
"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.
"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a
full open coat and with keys on his belt. "Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake.
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched
forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked
"Strange man!" observed the workman.
"There are strange folks about nowadays," said the woman.
"You should have taken him to the police station all the same," said the man
in the long coat.
"Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A regular rogue!
Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you won't get rid of
him…. We know the sort!"
"Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of the
thoroughfare at the cross roads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from
some one a decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent like the stones
on which he walked, dead to him, to him alone…. All at once at the end of the street,
two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and
shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage…. A light gleamed in the middle
of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the
crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it,
for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and knew that it would
all soon be over. CHAPTERSEVEN Chapter Seven
AN ELEGANT carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited grey
horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by;
the horses were being held by the bridle… A mass of people had gathered round, the
police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning
on something lying close to the wheels. Every one was talking, shouting, exclaiming;
the coachman seemed at a loss and kept repeating:
"What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!"
Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in seeing
the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who had been run over
lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he was very badly dressed, but
not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed,
mutilated and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured.
"Merciful heaven!" wailed the coachman, "what more could I do? If I'd been driving
fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Every one
could see I was going along just like everybody else. A drunken man can't walk straight,
we all know…. I saw him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted
again and a second and a third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight
under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy…. The horses
are young and ready to take fright… they started, he screamed… that made them worse.
That's how it happened!"
"That's just how it was," a voice in the crowd confirmed.
"He shouted, that's true, he shouted three times," another voice declared.
"Three times it was, we all heard it," shouted a third.
But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident
that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere;
the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements.
All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital.
No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern
suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man's face. He recognised him.
"I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing to the front. "It's a government
clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel's house….
Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see." He pulled money out of his pocket and
showed it to the policeman. He was in violent agitation.
The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave
his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought
the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at once.
"Just here, three houses away," he said eagerly, "the house belongs to Kozel,
a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard.
He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter…. It will take time
to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll
pay, I'll pay! At least he will be looked after at home… they will help him at once.
But he'll die before you get him to the hospital." He managed to slip something
unseen into the policeman's hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate,
and in any case help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people volunteered
Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding
Marmeladov's head and showing the way.
"This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round! I'll
pay, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered.
Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking
to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again, with her arms
folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun
to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though
there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed
her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to
appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had
been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off
his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless
on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before
him– heels together and toes turned out.
He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly
still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good little boys have to
sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed
literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door on to the
stairs was open to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which
floated in from the other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in
the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner
during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever.