The Continental Classics, Volume XVIII., Mystery Tales by Various

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"Six o'clock struck long ago!"

"Long ago! Good heavens!"

He ran to the door, listened, seized his hat, and went down the stairs
cautiously and stealthily as a cat. He still had the most important
thing to do--to steal the hatchet out of the kitchen. That a hatchet
was the best instrument, he had long since decided. He had an old
garden knife, but on a knife--especially on his own strength--he could
not rely; he finally fixed on the hatchet. A peculiarity was to be
noticed in all these resolutions of his; the more definitely they were
settled, the more absurd and horrible they immediately appeared to his
eyes, and never, for a moment, did he feel sure of the execution of
his project. But even if every question had been settled, every doubt
cleared away, every difficulty overcome, he would probably have
renounced his design on the instant, as something absurd, monstrous,
and impossible. But there were still a host of matters to arrange, of
problems to solve. As to procuring the hatchet, this trifle did not
trouble Raskolnikoff in the least, for nothing was easier. As a matter
of fact Nastasia was scarcely ever at home, especially of an evening.
She was constantly out gossiping with friends or tradespeople, and
that was the reason of her mistress's constant complaints. When the
time came, all he would have to do would be to quietly enter the
kitchen and take the hatchet, and then to replace it an hour
afterwards when all was over. But perhaps this would not be as easy as
he fancied. "Suppose," said the young man to himself, "that when, in
an hour's time, I come to replace the hatchet, Nastasia should have
come in. Now, in that case, I could naturally not enter the kitchen
until she had gone out again. But supposing during this time she
notices the absence of the hatchet, she will grumble, perhaps kick up
a shindy, and that will serve to denounce me, or at least might do
so!"

Before he had got to the bottom of the staircase, a trifling
circumstance came and upset all his plans. On reaching his landlady's
landing, he found the kitchen door wide open, as usual, and he peeped
in, in order to make sure that, in the absence of Nastasia, her
mistress was not there, and that the doors of the other rooms were
closed. But great was his annoyance to find Nastasia there herself,
engaged in hanging clothes on a line. Perceiving the young man, she
stopped and turned to him inquiringly. He averted his eyes and went
away without remark. But the affair was done for. There was no
hatchet, he was frustrated entirely. He felt crushed, nay, humiliated,
but a feeling of brutal vindictiveness at his disappointment soon
ensued, and he continued down the stairs, smiling maliciously to
himself. He stood hesitating at the gate. To walk about the streets or
to go back were equally repugnant. "To think that I have missed such a
splendid opportunity!" he murmured as he stood aimlessly at the
entrance, leaning near the open door of the porter's lodge. Suddenly
he started--something in the dark room attracted his eye. He looked
quietly around. No one was near. He descended the two steps on tiptoe,
and called for the porter. There was no reply, and he rushed headlong
to the hatchet (it was a hatchet), secured it where it lay among some
wood, and hurriedly fastened it to the loop as he made his way out
into the street. No one saw him! "There's more of the devil in this
than my design," he said smiling to himself. The occurrence gave him
fresh courage.

He went away quietly in order not to excite any suspicion, and walked
along the street with his eyes studiously fixed on the ground,
avoiding the faces of the passers-by. Suddenly he recollected his hat.
"Good heavens! the day before yesterday I had money, and not to have
thought of that! I could so easily have bought a cap!" and he began
cursing himself. Glancing casually in a shop, he saw it was ten
minutes past seven. He had yet a long way to go, as he was making a
circuit, not wishing to walk direct to the house. He kept off, as much
as he was able, all thought of his mission, and on the way reflected
upon possible improvements of the public grounds, upon the
desirability of fountains, and why people lived where there were
neither parks nor fountains, but only mud, lime, and bricks, emitting
horrid exhalations and every conceivable foulness. This reminded him
of his own walks about the Cyennaza, and he came to himself.

"How true it is that persons being led to execution interest
themselves in anything that strikes them on the way!" was the thought
that came into his head, but it passed away like lightning to be
succeeded by some other. "Here we are--there is the gate." It struck
half-past seven as he stood near the house.

To his delight, he passed in without observation. As if on purpose, at
the very same moment a load of hay was going in, and it completely
screened him. On the other side of the load, a dispute or brawl was
evidently taking place, and he gained the old woman's staircase in a
second. Recovering his breath and pressing his hand to his beating
heart, he commenced the ascent, though first feeling for the hatchet
and arranging it. Every minute he stopped to listen. The stairs were
quite deserted, and every door was closed. No one met him. On the
second floor, indeed, the door of an empty lodging was wide open; some
painters were working there, but they did not look up. He stopped a
moment to think, and then continued the ascent: "No doubt it would be
better if they were not there, but fortunately there are two more
floors above them." At last he reached the fourth floor, and Alena
Ivanovna's door; the lodging facing it was unoccupied. The lodging on
the third floor, just beneath the old woman's, was also apparently
empty. The card that used to be on the door had gone; the lodgers had,
no doubt, moved. Raskolnikoff was stifling. He stood hesitating a
moment: "Had I not better go away?" But without answering the
question, he waited and listened. Not a sound issued from the old
woman's apartments. The staircase was filled with the same silence.
After listening for a long time, the young man cast a last glance
around, and again felt his hatchet. "Do I not look too pale?" thought
he. "Do I not appear too agitated? She is mistrustful. I should do
well to wait a little, to give my emotion time to calm down."

But instead of becoming quieter, his heart throbbed more violently. He
could stand it no longer, and, raising his hand toward the bell rope,
he pulled it toward him. After waiting half a minute, he rang
again--this time a little louder. No answer. To ring like a deaf man
would have been useless, stupid even. The old woman was certainly at
home; but, suspicious by nature, she was likely to be so all the more
then, as she happened to be alone. Raskolnikoff knew something of
Alena Ivanovna's habits. He therefore placed his ear to the door. Had
the circumstances amid which he was placed strangely developed his
power of hearing, which, in general, is difficult to admit, or was the
sound really easily perceptible? Anyhow, he suddenly became aware that
a hand was being cautiously placed on the lock, and that a dress
rustled against the door. Some one inside was going through exactly
the same movements as he on the landing. Some one, standing up against
the lock, was listening while trying to hide her presence, and had
probably her ear also against the door.

In order to avoid all idea of mystery, the young man purposely moved
about rather noisily, and muttered something half aloud; then he rang
a third time, but gently and coolly, without allowing the bell to
betray the least sign of impatience. Raskolnikoff never forgot this
moment of his life. When, in after days, he thought over it, he could
never understand how he had been able to display such cunning,
especially at a time when emotion was now and again depriving him of
the free use of his intellectual and physical faculties. After a short
while he heard the bolt withdrawn.

The door, as before, was opened a little, and again the two eyes, with
mistrustful glance, peeped out of the dark. Then Raskolnikoff lost his
presence of mind and made a serious mistake. Fearing that the old
woman would take alarm at finding they were alone, and knowing that
his appearance would not reassure her, he took hold of the door and
pulled it toward him in order to prevent her shutting it again if she
should be thus minded. Seeing this, she held on to the lock, so that
he almost drew her together with the door on to the staircase. She
recovered herself, and stood to prevent his entrance, speechless with
fright.

"Good evening, Alena Ivanovna," he commenced, trying to speak with
unconcern, but his voice did not obey him, and he faltered and
trembled, "Good evening, I have brought you something, but we had
better go into the light." He pushed past her and entered the room
uninvited. The old woman followed and found her tongue.

"What is it you want? Who are you?" she commenced.

"Pardon me, Alena Ivanovna, your old acquaintance Raskolnikoff. I have
brought a pledge, as I promised the other day," and he held out the
packet to her.

The old woman was about to examine it, when she raised her eyes and
looked straight into those of the visitor who had entered so
unceremoniously. She examined him attentively, distrustfully, for a
minute. Raskolnikoff fancied there was a gleam of mockery in her look
as if she guessed all. He felt he was changing color, and that if she
kept her glance upon him much longer without saying a word he would be
obliged to run away.

"Why are you looking at me thus?" he said at last in anger. "Will you
take it or not? or shall I take it elsewhere? I have no time to
waste." He did not intend to say this, but the words came out. The
tone seemed to quiet her suspicions.

"Why were you so impatient, _batuchka_? What is it?" she asked,
glancing at the pledge.

"The silver cigarette case of which I spoke the other day."

She held out her hand. "But why are you so pale, why do your hands
shake? What is the matter with you, _batuchka_?"

"Fever," replied he abruptly. "You would be pale too if you had
nothing to eat." He could hardly speak the words and felt his strength
falling. But there was some plausibility in his reply; and the old
woman took the pledge.

"What is it?" she asked once more, weighing it in her hand and looking
straight at her visitor.

"Cigarette case, silver, look at it."

"It doesn't feel as though it were silver. Oh! what a dreadful knot!"

She began to untie the packet and turned to the light (all the windows
were closed in spite of the heat). Her back was turned toward
Raskolnikoff, and for a few seconds she paid no further attention to
him. He opened his coat, freed the hatchet from the loop, but did not
yet take it from its hiding place; he held it with his right hand
beneath the garment. His limbs were weak, each moment they grew more
numbed and stiff. He feared his fingers would relax their hold of the
hatchet. Then his head turned giddy.

"What is this you bring me?" cried Alena Ivanovna, turning to him in a
rage.

There was not a moment to lose now. He pulled out the hatchet, raised
it with both hands, and let it descend without force, almost
mechanically, on the old woman's head. But directly he had struck the
blow his strength returned. According to her usual habit, Alena
Ivanovna was bareheaded. Her scanty gray locks, greasy with oil, were
gathered in one thin plait, which was fixed to the back of her neck by
means of a piece of horn comb. The hatchet struck her just on the
sinciput, and this was partly owing to her small stature. She scarcely
uttered a faint cry and collapsed at once all in a heap on the floor;
she was dead.

The murderer laid his hatchet down and at once began to search the
corpse, taking the greatest precaution not to get stained with the
blood; he remembered seeing Alena Ivanovna, on the occasion of his
last visit, take her keys from the right-hand pocket of her dress. He
was in full possession of his intellect; he felt neither giddy nor
dazed, but his hands continued to shake. Later on, he recollected that
he had been very prudent, very attentive, that he had taken every care
not to soil himself. It did not take him long to find the keys; the
same as the other day, they were all together on a steel ring. Having
secured them, Raskolnikoff at once passed into the bedroom. It was a
very small apartment; on one side was a large glass case full of holy
images, on the other a great bed looking very clean with its
quilted-silk patchwork coverlet. The third wall was occupied by a
chest of drawers. Strange to say, the young man had no sooner
attempted to open them, he had no sooner commenced to try the keys,
than a kind of shudder ran through his frame. Again the idea came to
him to give up his task and go away, but this weakness only lasted a
second: it was now too late to draw back.

He was even smiling at having for a moment entertained such a thought,
when he was suddenly seized with a terrible anxiety: suppose the old
woman were still alive, suppose she recovered consciousness. Leaving
at once the keys and the drawers, he hastened to the corpse, seized
the hatchet, and prepared to strike another blow at his victim, but he
found there was no necessity to do so. Alena Ivanovna was dead beyond
all doubt. Leaning over her again to examine her closer, Raskolnikoff
saw that the skull was shattered. He was about to touch her with his
fingers, but drew back, as it was quite unnecessary. There was a pool
of blood upon the floor. Suddenly noticing a bit of cord round the old
woman's neck, the young man gave it a tug, but the gory stuff was
strong, and did not break. The murderer then tried to remove it by
drawing it down the body. But this second attempt was no more
successful than the first, the cord encountered some obstacle and
became fixed. Burning with impatience, Raskolnikoff brandished the
hatchet, ready to strike the corpse and sever the confounded string at
the same blow. However, he could not make up his mind to proceed with
such brutality. At last, after trying for two minutes, and staining
his hands with blood, he succeeded in severing the cord with the blade
of the hatchet without further disfiguring the dead body. As he had
imagined, there was a purse suspended to the old woman's neck. Besides
this there was also a small enameled medal and two crosses, one of
cypress wood, the other of brass. The greasy purse, a little
chamois-leather bag, was as full as it could hold. Raskolnikoff thrust
it in his pocket without examining the contents. He then threw the
crosses on his victim's breast, and hastily returned to the bedroom,
taking the hatchet with him.

His impatience was now intense, he seized the keys, and again set to
work. But all his attempts to open the drawers were unavailing, and
this was not so much owing to the shaking of his hands as to his
continual misconceptions. He could see, for instance, that a certain
key would not fit the lock, and yet he continued to try and insert it.
All on a sudden he recalled a conjecture he had formed on the occasion
of his preceding visit: the big key with the toothed wards, which was
attached to the ring with the smaller ones, probably belonged, not to
the drawers, but to some box in which the old woman, no doubt, hoarded
up her valuables. Without further troubling about the drawers, he at
once looked under the bed, aware that old women are in the habit of
hiding their treasures in such places. And there indeed was a trunk
with rounded lid, covered with red morocco and studded with steel
nails. Raskolnikoff was able to insert the key in the lock without the
least difficulty. When he opened the box he perceived a hareskin cloak
trimmed with red lying on a white sheet; beneath the fur was a silk
dress, and then a shawl, the rest of the contents appeared to be
nothing but rags. The young man commenced by wiping his bloodstained
hands on the red trimming. "It will not show so much on red." Then he
suddenly seemed to change his mind: "Heavens! am I going mad?" thought
he with fright.

But scarcely had he touched these clothes than a gold watch rolled
from under the fur. He then overhauled everything in the box. Among
the rags were various gold trinkets, which had all probably been
pledged with the old woman: bracelets, chains, earrings, scarf pins,
&c. Some were in their cases, while the others were tied up with tape
in pieces of newspaper folded in two. Raskolnikoff did not hesitate,
he laid hands on these jewels, and stowed them away in the pockets of
his coat and trousers, without opening the cases or untying the
packets; but he was soon interrupted in his work------

Footsteps resounded in the other room. He stopped short, frozen with
terror. But the noise having ceased, he was already imagining he had
been mistaken, when suddenly he distinctly heard a faint cry, or
rather a kind of feeble interrupted moan. At the end of a minute or
two, everything was again as silent as death. Raskolnikoff had seated
himself on the floor beside the trunk and was waiting, scarcely daring
to breathe; suddenly he bounded up, caught up the hatchet, and rushed
from the bedroom. In the center of the apartment, Elizabeth, a huge
bundle in her hands, stood gazing in a terror-stricken way at her dead
sister; white as a sheet, she did not seem to have the strength to
call out. On the sudden appearance of the murderer, she began to quake
in every limb, and nervous twitches passed over her face; she tried to
raise her arm, to open her mouth, but she was unable to utter the
least cry, and, slowly retreating, her gaze still riveted on
Raskolnikoff, she sought refuge in a corner. The poor woman drew back
in perfect silence, as though she had no breath left in her body. The
young man rushed upon her, brandishing the hatchet; the wretched
creature's lips assumed the doleful expression peculiar to quite young
children when, beginning to feel frightened of something, they gaze
fixedly at the object which has raised their alarm, and are on the
point of crying out. Terror had so completely stupefied this
unfortunate Elizabeth, that, though threatened by the hatchet, she did
not even think of protecting her face by holding her hands before her
head, with that mechanical gesture which the instinct of
self-preservation prompts on such occasions. She scarcely raised her
left arm, and extended it slowly in the direction of the murderer, as
thought to keep him off. The hatchet penetrated her skull, laying it
open from the upper part of the forehead to the crown. Elizabeth fell
down dead. No longer aware of what he did, Raskolnikoff took the
bundle from his victim's hand, then dropped it and ran to the
anteroom.

He was more and more terrified, especially after this second murder,
entirely unpremeditated by him. He was in a hurry to be gone; had he
then been in a state to see things more clearly, had he only been able
to form an idea of the difficulties besetting his position, to see how
desperate, how hideous, how absurd it was, to understand how many
obstacles there still remained for him to surmount, perhaps even
crimes to commit, to escape from this house and return home, he would
most likely have withdrawn from the struggle, and have gone at once
and given himself up to justice; it was not cowardice which would have
prompted him to do so, but the horror of what he had done. This last
impression became more and more powerful every minute. Nothing in the
world could now have made him return to the trunk, nor even reenter
the room in which it lay. Little by little his mind became diverted by
other thoughts, and he lapsed into a kind of reverie; at times the
murderer seemed to forget his position, or rather the most important
part of it, and to concentrate his attention on trifles. After a
while, happening to glance in the kitchen, he observed a pail half
full of water, standing on a bench, and that gave him the idea of
washing his hands and the hatchet. The blood had made his hands
sticky. After plunging the blade of the hatchet in the water, he took
a small piece of soap which lay on the window sill, and commenced his
ablutions. When he had washed his hands, he set to cleaning the iron
part of his weapon; then he devoted three minutes to soaping the
wooden handle, which was also stained with blood.

After this he wiped it with a cloth which had been hung up to dry on a
line stretched across the kitchen. This done, he drew near the window
and carefully examined the hatchet for some minutes. The accusing
stains had disappeared, but the handle was still damp. Raskolnikoff
carefully hid the weapon under his coat by replacing it in the loop;
after which, he minutely inspected his clothes, that is to say so far
as the dim light of the kitchen allowed him to do so. He saw nothing
suspicious about the coat and trousers, but there were bloodstains on
the boots. He removed them with the aid of a damp rag. But these
precautions only half reassured him, for he knew that he could not see
properly and that certain stains had very likely escaped him. He stood
irresolute in the middle of the room, a prey to a somber, agonizing
thought, the thought that he was going mad, that at that moment he was
not in a fit state to come to a determination and to watch over his
security, that his way of going to work was probably not the one the
circumstances demanded. "Good heavens! I ought to go, to go away at
once!" murmured he, and he rushed to the anteroom where the greatest
terror he had yet experienced awaited him.

He stood stock-still, not daring to believe his eyes: the door of the
lodging, the outer door which opened on to the landing, the same one
at which he had rung a little while before and by which he had
entered, was open; up till then it had remained ajar, the old woman
had no doubt omitted to close it by way of precaution; it had been
neither locked nor bolted! But he had seen Elizabeth after that. How
was it that it had not occurred to him that she had come in by way of
the door? She could not have entered the lodging through the wall. He
shut the door and bolted it. "But no, that is not what I should do? I
must go away, go away." He drew back the bolt and, after opening the
door again, stood listening on the landing.

He stood thus a long while. Down below, probably at the street door,
two noisy voices were vociferating insults. "Who can those people be?"
He waited patiently. At last the noise ceased, the brawlers had taken
their departure. The young man was about to do the same, when a door
on the floor immediately below was noisily opened and some one went
downstairs, humming a tune. "Whatever are they all up to?" wondered
Raskolnikoff, and closing the door again he waited a while. At length
all became silent as before; but just as he was preparing to go down,
he suddenly became aware of a fresh sound, footsteps as yet far off,
at the bottom of the staircase; and he no sooner heard them than he
guessed the truth:--some one was coming _there_, to the old woman's on
the fourth floor. Whence came this presentiment? What was there so
particularly significant in the sound of these footsteps? They were
heavy, regular, and rather slow than hurried. _He_ has now reached the
first floor, he still continues to ascend. The sound is becoming
plainer and plainer. He pants as though with asthma at each step he
takes. He has commenced the third flight. He will soon be on the
fourth! And Raskolnikoff felt suddenly seized as with a general
paralysis, the same as happens when a person has the nightmare and
fancies himself pursued by enemies; they are on the point of catching
him, they will kill him, and yet he remains spellbound, unable to move
a limb.

The stranger was now ascending the fourth flight. Raskolnikoff, who
until then had been riveted to the landing with fright, was at length
able to shake off his torpor, and hastily reentered the apartment,
closing the door behind him. Then he bolted it, being careful to make
as little noise as possible. Instinct rather than reason prompted him
to do this. When he had finished, he remained close to the door,
listening, scarcely daring to breathe. The visitor was now on the
landing. Only the thickness of the door separated the two men. The
unknown was in the same position toward Raskolnikoff as the latter had
been a little while before toward the old woman. The visitor stood
panting for some little time. "He must be stout and big," thought the
young man as he clasped the hatchet firmly in his hand. It was all
like a dream to him. The visitor gave a violent pull at the bell. He
immediately fancied he heard something move inside. He listened
attentively during a few seconds, then he gave another ring and again
waited; suddenly losing patience, he began to shake the door handle
with all his might. Raskolnikoff watched with terror the bolt
trembling in the socket, expecting to see it shoot back at any moment,
so violent were the jerks given to the door. It occurred to him to
hold the bolt in its place with his hand, but the _man_ might have
found it out. His head was turning quite dizzy again. "I shall betray
myself!" thought he; but he suddenly recovered his presence of mind as
the unknown broke the silence.

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