"Come now… you are harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the table
and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.
"Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
"Write what?" the latter asked, gruffly.
"I will dictate to you."
Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and contemptuously
after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt completely indifferent to
any one's opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in one instant. If
he had cared to think a little, he would have been amazed indeed that he could have
talked to them like that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where
had those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police
officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found one
human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting
solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness
of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter's
triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had
he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German
women, debts, police offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that moment,
he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something
was happening to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood,
but he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could never more
appeal to these people in the police office with sentimental effusion like his recent
outburst, or with anything whatever; and that if they had been his own brothers
and sisters and not police officers, it would have been utterly out of the question
to appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange
and awful sensation. And what was most agonising– it was more a sensation than a
conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the sensations
he had known in his life.
The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that he
could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that he would not leave
the town, nor sell his property, and so on.
"But you can't write, you can hardly hold the pen," observed the head clerk,
looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. "Are you ill?"
"Yes, I am giddy. Go on!"
"That's all. Sign it."
The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.
Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away, he put
his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He felt as if a nail
were being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him, to get
up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened
yesterday, and then to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in
the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat to
carry it out. "Hadn't I better think a minute?" flashed through his mind. "No, better
cast off the burden without thinking." But all at once he stood still, rooted to
the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words
"It's impossible, they'll both be released. To begin with, the whole story contradicts
itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it had been their doing? To inform
against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov,
the student, was seen at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in.
He was walking with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the
porters to direct him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked
his way if he had been going with such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an
hour at the silversmith's below, before he went up to the old woman and he left
him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider…"
"But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state themselves
that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes later when they went
up with the porter, it turned out the door was unfastened."
"That's just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in; and
they'd have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look
for the porter too. He must have seized the interval to get downstairs and slip
by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing himself and saying: "If I had been there, he
would have jumped out and killed me with his axe.' He is going to have a thanksgiving
service– ha, ha!"
"And no one saw the murderer?"
"They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah's Ark," said the head
clerk, who was listening.
"It's clear, quite clear," Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly.
"No, it is anything but clear," Ilya Petrovitch maintained.
Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not reach
When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a chair, supported
by some one on the right side, while some one else was standing on the left, holding
a yellowish glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim Fomitch standing before
him, looking intently at him. He got up from the chair.
"What's this? Are you ill?" Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply.
"He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing," said the head clerk, settling
back in his place, and taking up his work again.
"Have you been ill long?" cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where he, too,
was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at the sick man when
he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.
"Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in reply.
"Did you go out yesterday?"
"Though you were ill?"
"At what time?"
"And where did you go, my I ask?"
"Along the street."
"Short and clear."
Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily, without
dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch's stare.
"He can scarcely stand upright. And you…" Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
"No matter," Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.
Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing at the head
clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There was a sudden silence.
It was strange.
"Very well, then," concluded Ilya Petrovitch, "we will not detain you."
Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his departure,
and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street,
his faintness passed off completely.
"A search– there will be a search at once," he repeated to himself, hurrying
home. "The brutes! they suspect."
His former terror mastered him completely again. CHAPTERTWO Chapter Two
"AND WHAT if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my room?"
But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya
had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have left all those things in the
He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things
out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles in all: two little
boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardly looked to see; then four
small leather cases. There was a chain, too, merely wrapped in newspaper and something
else in newspaper, that looked like a decoration…. He put them all in the different
pockets of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal
them as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room,
leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though he felt shattered,
he had his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that in another
half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would be issued for
his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all traces before then. He must clear
everything up while he still had some strength, some reasoning power left him….
Where was he to go?
That had long been settled: "Fling them into the canal, and all traces hidden
in the water, the thing would be at an end." So he had decided in the night of his
delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get up and go away, to make
haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of it, turned out to be a very difficult
task. He wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or
more and looked several times at the steps running down to the water, but he could
not think of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps' edge, and women
were washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were swarming
everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it
would look suspicious for a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something
into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead of sinking? And of course
they would. Even as it was, every one he met seemed to stare and look round, as
if they had nothing to do but to watch him. "Why is it, or can it be my fancy?"
At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva. There
were not so many people there, he would be less observed, and it would be more convenient
in every way, above all it was further off. He wondered how he could have been wandering
for a good half-hour, worried and anxious in this dangerous part without thinking
of it before. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply because
he had thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent and forgetful and
he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste.
He walked towards the Neva along V Prospect, but on the way another idea struck
him. "Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go somewhere far off, to the Islands
again, and there hide the things in some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush,
and mark the spot perhaps?" And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the
idea seemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. For coming
out of V Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading between
two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed wall
of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding
ran parallel with it for twenty paces into the court, and then turned sharply to
the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of different sorts
was lying. At the end of the court, the corner of a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently
part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage
builder's or carpenter's shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with
coal dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing any one in
the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as is often
put in yards where there are many workmen or cabdrivers; and on the hoarding above
had been scribbled in chalk the time-honoured witticism, "Standing here strictly
forbidden." This was all the better, for there would be nothing suspicious about
his going in. "Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!"
Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed against
the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big unhewn stone, weighing
perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street. He could hear passers-by,
always numerous in that part, but he could not be seen from the entrance, unless
some one came in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there was need
He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands, and using
all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was a small hollow in the ground,
and he immediately emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at the top, and yet
the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the stone again and with one twist
turned it back, so that it was in the same position again, though it stood a very
little higher. But he scraped the earth about it and pressed it at the edges with
his foot. Nothing could be noticed.
Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost unbearable
joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the police office. "I have buried
my tracks! And who, who can think of looking under that stone? It has been lying
there most likely ever since the house was built, and will lie as many years more.
And if it were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!" And he laughed.
Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went
on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he reached the K Boulevard
where two days before he had come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased.
Other ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome
to pass that seat on which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and
that it would be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given
the twenty copecks: "Damn him!"
He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now seemed
to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there really was such a
point, and that now, now, he was left facing that point– and for the first time,
indeed, during the last two months.
"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury. "If it has
begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is!… And what
lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch!
But that is all folly! What do I care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It
is not that at all! It is not that at all!"