CHAPTER VII

<h2><a id="link2HCH0007"/>
  CHAPTER VII
</h2>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  “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....”
 </p>
<p>
  And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman
  ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.
</p>
<p>
  “Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought you
  the pledge I promised the other day...” And he held out the pledge.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  “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.”
 </p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  “But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?” she asked, looking
  at the pledge.
</p>
<p>
  “The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know.”
 </p>
<p>
  She held out her hand.
</p>
<p>
  “But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too?
  Have you been bathing, or what?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Fever,” he answered abruptly. “You can’t help getting pale... if you’ve
  nothing to eat,” he added, with difficulty articulating the words.
</p>
<p>
  His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth;
  the old woman took the pledge.
</p>
<p>
  “What is it?” she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and
  weighing the pledge in her hand.
</p>
<p>
  “A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it.”
 </p>
<p>
  “It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!”
 </p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  “But what has he tied it up like this for?” the old woman cried with
  vexation and moved towards him.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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....
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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!
</p>
<p>
  He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
</p>
<p>
  “But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away....”
 </p>
<p>
  He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the
  staircase.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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 <i>there</i>, to
  the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar,
  significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now <i>he</i> 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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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 <i>he</i> 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.
</p>
<p>
  “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?”
 </p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  “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.”
 </p>
<p>
  “From his voice he must be quite young,” thought Raskolnikov.
</p>
<p>
  “Who the devil can tell? I’ve almost broken the lock,” answered Koch. “But
  how do you come to know me?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiards
  at Gambrinus’.”
 </p>
<p>
  “Oh!”
 </p>
<p>
  “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.”
 </p>
<p>
  “Yes; and I have business with her, too.”
 </p>
<p>
  “Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie—aie! And I was hoping
  to get some money!” cried the young man.
</p>
<p>
  “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!”
 </p>
<p>
  “Hadn’t we better ask the porter?”
 </p>
<p>
  “What?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Where she’s gone and when she’ll be back.”
 </p>
<p>
  “Hm.... Damn it all!... We might ask.... But you know she never does go
  anywhere.”
 </p>
<p>
  And he once more tugged at the door-handle.
</p>
<p>
  “Damn it all. There’s nothing to be done, we must go!”
 </p>
<p>
  “Stay!” cried the young man suddenly. “Do you see how the door shakes if
  you pull it?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Well?”
 </p>
<p>
  “That shows it’s not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how
  the hook clanks?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Well?”
 </p>
<p>
  “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!”
 </p>
<p>
  “Well! And so they must be!” cried Koch, astonished. “What are they about
  in there?” And he began furiously shaking the door.
</p>
<p>
  “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...”
 </p>
<p>
  “What?”
 </p>
<p>
  “I tell you what. Let’s go fetch the porter, let him wake them up.”
 </p>
<p>
  “All right.”
 </p>
<p>
  Both were going down.
</p>
<p>
  “Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter.”
 </p>
<p>
  “What for?”
 </p>
<p>
  “Well, you’d better.”
 </p>
<p>
  “All right.”
 </p>
<p>
  “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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  “But what the devil is he about?...” Time was passing, one minute, and
  another—no one came. Koch began to be restless.
</p>
<p>
  “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.
</p>
<p>
  “Good heavens! What am I to do?”
 </p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  “Hey there! Catch the brute!”
 </p>
<p>
  Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran
  down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.
</p>
<p>
  “Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!”
 </p>
<p>
  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. “Hey!”
 </p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through
  the gateway and turned to the left in the street.
</p>
<p>
  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!”
 </p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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.
</p>
<p>
  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....
</p>