"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 hole?
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, everyone 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?" he thought.
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 past 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 anyone 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 cab-drivers; 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 someone came in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there was need of haste.
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!"
Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.
"If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance into the purse and don't know what I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either . . . how's that?"
Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though it could not possibly be otherwise. . . . Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of it. . . . Yes, so it was.
"It is because I am very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I am doing. . . . Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself. . . . I shall get well and I shall not worry. . . . But what if I don't get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!"
He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him. . . .
He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. "Why, he lives here, in that house," he thought, "why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it's the same thing over again. . . . Very interesting to know, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day /after/; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now."
He went up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor.
The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
"Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit down, you are tired, I'll be bound."
And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill.
"Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I have come for this: I have no lessons. . . . I wanted, . . . but I don't really want lessons. . . ."
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed, watching him carefully.
"No, I am not."
Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin's, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin's threshold.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is . . . almost insulting! I won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help . . . to begin . . . because you are kinder than anyone-- cleverer, I mean, and can judge . . . and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all . . . no one's services . . . no one's sympathy. I am by myself . . . alone. Come, that's enough. Leave me alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don't care about that, but there's a bookseller, Heruvimov--and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He's doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text--in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, 'Is woman a human being?' And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I've had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of /Les Confessions/ we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don't contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of '/Is woman a human being?/' If you would, take the German and pens and paper--all those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don't think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it's bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it's sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?"
Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin's again and laying on the table the German article and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too . . . what did you come to see me for, damn you?"
"I don't want . . . translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
"Hey, there! Where are you living?"
No answer.
"Well, confound you then!"
But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses' hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
"Serves him right!"
"A pickpocket I dare say."
"Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him."
"It's a regular profession, that's what it is."
But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him . . . so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all. . . . He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion. . . .
It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice--it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps--that's clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. "But why, why, and how could it be?" he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, "for no doubt . . . it's all about that . . . about yesterday. . . . Good God!" He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand . . . besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him. . . . But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses. . . . But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. "Can he have gone away? Good Lord!" Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning . . . and then her door slammed. . . . Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of them--almost all the inmates of the block. "But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!"
Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought--bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You've been trudging about all day, and you're shaking with fever."
"Nastasya . . . what were they beating the landlady for?"
She looked intently at him.
"Who beat the landlady?"
"Just now . . . half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs. . . . Why was he ill-treating her like that, and . . . why was he here?"
Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
"Nastasya, why don't you speak?" he said timidly at last in a weak voice.
"It's the blood," she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.
"Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall.
Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
"Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
"I heard it myself. . . . I was not asleep . . . I was sitting up," he said still more timidly. "I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent came. . . . Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats."
"No one has been here. That's the blood crying in your ears. When there's no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things. . . . Will you eat something?"
He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
"Give me something to drink . . . Nastasya."
She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.
“要是已经搜查过了，那该如何是好？要是刚好在家里碰到他们去搜查，又该怎么办呢？”
不过，这就是他的房间。没发生任何事情，一个人也没有；谁也没来察看过。连娜斯塔西娅也没碰过他的东西。可是，上帝啊！不久前他怎么能把这些东西藏在这个窟窿里？
他赶紧跑到墙角落里，伸手到墙纸后面，把东西全掏出来，装到衣袋里。原来一共有八件：两个小盒子，装的是耳环或这一类的东西，——他没细看；还有四个一精一制山羊皮的小匣子。一条链子，就这么用报纸包着。还有个用报纸包着的东西，好像是勋章……
他把这些东西分别装在大衣口袋和裤子上仍然保留着的右边那个口袋里，尽可能装得不惹人注意。和那些东西一起，他也拿了那个钱袋。然后从屋里出去了，这一次甚至让房门完全敞着。
他走得很快，脚步坚定，虽然感觉到全身疲乏无力，但神智是清醒的。他担心有人追赶，担心再过半个钟头或一刻钟，大概就会发出监视他的指示；所以无论如何得在此以前消灭一切痕迹。趁多少还有点儿力气，还能思考的时候，得赶快把事情办完……去哪里呢？
这已经早就决定了：“把所有东西都扔到运河里，不留下任何痕迹，那么事情就全完了。”昨天夜里，还在梦呓中的时候，他就这样决定了，他记得，当时有好几次他竭力想要起来，跑出去：“快，赶快，把所有东西统统扔掉”。但要扔掉，原来是很困难的。
他在叶卡捷琳娜运河堤岸上徘徊了已经约摸半个钟头了，也许还不止半个钟头，有好几次他仔细看看所碰到的岸边斜坡。但是要实现自己的意图，却是连想也不要去想：要么是有木筏停靠在岸边，还有些女人在木筏上洗衣服，要么是停靠着一些小船，到处熙熙攘攘，人头攒动，而且从堤岸上，从四面八方，到处都可以看到，注意到：有一个人故意下去，站下来，把什么东西扔到水里，这是很可疑的。万一小匣子不沉下去，而在水面上漂流呢？当然是这样。人人都会看到。就是不扔东西，大家都已经这样瞅着他了，碰到的人都要仔细打量他，好像他们就只注意他一个人似的。“为什么会这样呢，还是，也许是我自己觉得如此吧，”他想。
最后，他忽然想到，去涅瓦河边是不是会好些呢？那里人少些，也不大惹人注意，无论如何比较合适，而主要是离这儿远一些。他突然觉得奇怪：他怎么能满腹忧虑，提心吊胆，在这危险的地方徘徊了整整半个钟头，而不能早点儿想出这个主意！为干一件冒冒失失的事一浪一费了整整半个钟头，这都是因为，这一轻率的决定是在梦中，在谵妄状态中作出的！他变得太心不在焉和健忘了，他知道这一点。毫无疑问，得赶快去！
他沿着B大街往涅瓦河走去；但是在路上突然又有一个想法进入他的脑海：“干吗要去涅瓦河？干吗要扔到水里？到一个很远很远的地方去，就是去群岛也可以，在那儿随便什么地方，找个偏僻的去处，在森林里，把这些东西都埋在一棵树底下，或者灌木丛下，而且记住这棵树，这样是不是更好呢？”虽然他感觉到，这时候他不能明确、合理地把一切都考虑得十分周到，但是他觉得这个想法准错不了。
但是命中注定他不会到达群岛，发生的却是另一回事：他从B大街走到广场，突然看到左首有一个院子的入口，院子四周的围墙上完全没有门窗。一进大门，毗邻一幢四层楼房的一道没有粉刷过、也没有门窗的墙壁，从右面一直延伸到院子里很远的地方。左面，也是一进大门，与那道没有门窗的围墙平行，还有一道板墙，深入院子约二十来步，然后又折往左边。这是一个荒凉、僻静、与外部隔绝的地方，里面堆着些不知是什么材料。再往里去，院子深处，板墙后露出一座熏黑了的、低矮难看的建筑物的一角，显然是个什么作坊的一部分。这儿大概是个什么作坊，制造马车的，或者是五金制品装配场，或者是什么其他这一类的作坊；到处，几乎从一进大门，到处都是大量黑煤灰。“哈，这真是个扔东西的好地方，扔下就走！”他不由得想。他发现院子里一个人也没有，于是走进大门，刚好看到，紧一靠大门口，板墙边有一条斜沟（在有许多工厂工人、劳动组合的工匠、马车夫等的这种房子里，常常有这样的斜沟），斜沟上方，就在板墙上，用粉笔写着一句在这种场合常见的俏皮话：“次（此）处金（禁）止站立”①。所以，这真是妙极了，来这儿站一会儿，是不会引起任何怀疑的。“在这儿把所有东西随便扔到垃圾堆里，然后就走！”
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①这样的斜沟本是让人小一便的，“此处禁止站立”的意思是“禁止小一便”，所以说是一句“俏皮话”。
他又朝四下里看了看，已经把手伸进口袋里，突然在外面那道围墙旁边，大门和斜沟之间一俄尺宽的那块空地里，发现了一块没加工过的大石头，大约有一普特①半重，紧一靠着临街的石墙。墙外就是大街，人行道，可以听到行人匆匆行走的脚步声，这里总是有不少行人；可是大门外谁也看不到他，除非有人从街上进来，不过这是很可能的，因此得赶快行动。
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①一普特等于一六·三八千克。
他弯下腰，双手紧紧抱住石头上端，使出全身力气把石头翻转过来。石头底下形成了一个不大的坑：他立刻掏出口袋里的东西，全都扔进这个坑里。钱袋丢在了最上边，而坑里还有空余的地方。然后他又抱住石头，只一滚，就把它滚回原来那个方向，刚好落到原处，只不过稍稍高出了一点儿。不过他扒了些泥土堆到石头边上，又用脚把边上踩实。什么也看不出来了。
于是他走出来，往广场上走去。有一瞬间他心中又充满了几乎无法抑制的强烈喜悦，就跟不久前在警察局里的情况一样。“罪证消失了！有谁，有谁会想到来搜查这块石头底下呢？也许从盖房子的时候起，这块石头就放在这儿了，而且还要在这儿放上许多年。即使被人找到：谁能想到我呢？一切都结束了！罪证没有了！”于是他笑了起来。是的，后来他记起，他笑了，这笑是神经质的，不是拖长声音的哈哈大笑，而是无声的笑，不过笑的时间很久，穿过广场的这段时间里他一直在笑。但是当他来到K林荫大道，就是前天遇到那个姑一娘一的地方，他的笑突然停止了。另外一些想法钻进了他的脑子。他突然觉得，现在他怕打那条长椅子旁边走过，那里让他十分反感，而那天，那个姑一娘一走了以后，他曾坐在那条长椅子上东想西想，想了好久，他也害怕再碰到那个小一胡一子，那会使他心情沉重，当时他曾把二十戈比一交一给了小一胡一子：“叫他见鬼去吧！”
他一边走，一边心不在焉地、气愤地望着四周。现在他的全部思想都围绕着一个主要问题旋转，——他自己也感觉到，这当真是个主要问题，而现在，正是现在，他正独自面对这一主要问题，——而且这甚至是这两个月来的第一次。
“让这一切都见鬼去吧！”愤恨如潮水般涌上心头，盛怒之下，他想。“好，开始了，那就开始吧，让它见鬼去，让新的生活见鬼去吧！上帝啊，这是多么愚蠢！……今天我说了多少谎，干了多少卑鄙的事情！不久前我曾多么卑鄙地讨好这个最可恶的伊利亚·彼特罗维奇，跟他一道演戏啊！不过，这也是一胡一说八道！我才瞧不起他们，瞧不起他们大家，也为我讨好他们和演戏感到可耻！完全不是这么回事！完全不是这么回事！……”
他突然站住了；一个完全出乎意外又异常简单的新问题一下子把他弄糊涂了，而且在痛苦地折磨他：
“如果做这一切当真是有意识的，而不是一时糊涂，如果你当真有明确和坚定不移的目的，那么为什么直到现在你连看都没看过那个钱袋，也不知道你弄到了多少钱，不知道你为了什么忍受这些痛苦，为了什么有意识地去干这样卑鄙、丑恶和下流的事情？不是吗，你想立刻把它，把钱袋，连同那些东西一起丢到水里，而你看也没看那是些什么……这是怎么回事呢？”
是的，是这样的；一切的确如此。不过，这些以前他也知道，对他来说，这完全不是什么新问题；昨天夜里决定把一切都扔到水里去的时候，他是毫不犹豫、毫不怀疑地作出决定的，仿佛这是理所当然，仿佛不可能不是这样……不错，这一切他都知道，这一切他都记得；而且几乎是昨天，他蹲在那个箱子旁边，从里面拖出一个个小匣子的时候，就在那个时候，这就已经决定了……
不是这样吗！……
“这是因为我病得很重，”最后他忧郁地断定，“我自寻苦恼，自己折磨自己，连自己也不知道在做什么……昨天，前天，所有这些时间里我一直在折磨自己……等我恢复健康……就不会再折磨自己了……可是我是完全不能恢复健康的了，怎么办？上帝啊！这一切让我多么厌烦了啊！……”他毫不停顿地走着。他很想设法分散一下注意力，但是他不知道该怎么办，该采取什么办法。一种无法克服的前所未有的感觉控制了他，而且这感觉几乎一分钟比一分钟强烈：这是对所遇到的一切、对周围一切事物极端厌恶的一种感觉，几乎是肉一体上感觉得到的一种厌恶，而且这感觉是顽强的，充满了愤恨和憎恶。所有遇到的人，他都觉得是丑恶的，他们的脸，他们走路的姿势，一举一动，他都觉得可恶。他简直想往什么人的脸上啐口唾沫，似乎，如果有人跟他说话，不管是谁，他都会咬他一口……
当他走到小涅瓦河堤岸上的时候，他突然在瓦西利耶夫斯基岛一座桥旁站住了。“瞧，他就住在这儿，住在这所房子里，”他想。“这是怎么回事，我好像自己走到拉祖米欣这儿来了！又像那时候，那一次一样……不过这倒很有意思，是我主动来的呢，还是无意中走到了这里？反正一样；前天……我说过……等干完那件事以后，第二天再来，有什么呢，这不是来了！似乎我现在也不能去……”
他上五楼去找拉祖米欣。
拉祖米欣在家，在他那间小屋里，这时他正在工作，在写什么，亲自来给他开了门。他们有三个多月没见面了。拉祖米欣穿一件已经破烂不堪的睡衣，赤脚穿着便鞋，头发乱蓬蓬的，脸没刮过，也没洗过。他脸上流露出惊讶的神情。
“你怎么了？”他从头到脚细细打量进来的同学，叫喊起来；接着沉默了一会儿，吹了吹口哨。
“莫非情况这么糟吗？可你，老兄，论穿戴，往常你可是比我们大家都强啊，”他瞅着拉斯科利尼科夫那身褴褛的衣服，又加上一句。“你坐啊，大概累了吧！”当拉斯科利尼科夫躺倒在比他自己的沙发更差的漆布面土耳其式沙发上的时候，拉祖米欣突然看出，他的客人有病。
“您病得很严重，你知道吗？”他要摸一他的脉搏；拉斯科利尼科夫把手挣开了。
“用不着……”他说，“我来……是这么回事：教书的工作，我已经没有了……我想要……不过，我根本不需要教课……”
“你知道吗？你在说一胡一话！”凝神细心观察他的拉祖米欣说。
“不，我不是说一胡一话……”拉斯科利尼科夫从沙发上站了起来。他上楼来找拉祖米欣的时候，并没想到必然要面对面地会见拉祖米欣。现在，已经是根据自己的经验，他刹时间想到，目前他最不愿面对面地会见世界上的任何人。他满腔怒火突然爆发。一跨进拉祖米欣家的门坎，由于痛恨自己，他气得几乎喘不过气来。
“再见！”他突然说，于是往门口走去。
“喂，你等一等，等一等，怪人！”
“用不着！……”拉斯科利尼科夫重复说，又把手挣开了。
“那么干吗要来！你发傻了，还是怎么的？……几乎让人感到难堪。这样我不放你走！”
“好，那么你听着：我来找你，是因为，除了你，我不认识旁的能帮助我的人……帮助我开始……因为你比他们大家的心肠都好，也就是说比他们聪明，能够全面地考虑……可现在我看到，我什么也不需要，你听到吗，完全不需要……任何人的帮助和同情……我自己……独自个儿……好，够了！别管我！”
“不过请稍等一等，扫烟囱的工人①！你完全是个疯子！我的意见是，你一爱一怎么着就怎么着。你要知道，我也不教书了，而且教书我也看不上。不过旧货市场上有个书商，姓赫鲁维莫夫，就某一方面来说，给他干，也等于教课。现在我可不愿放弃这个工作，去换取给五个富商当家庭教师的工作。他经营出版业，出版自然科学书籍，——很有销路！单是书名就很值钱！你总是说我傻，真的，老兄，还有比我更傻的呢！现在他也在赶一浪一头，迎一合社会思潮；他自己是一点儿也不懂，我呢，当然鼓励他。这儿有两印张多德文原作，依我看，这是极其愚蠢的招摇撞骗的玩意儿：总而言之，讨论是不是该把女人看作人？当然啦，郑重其事地证明了，女人是人。赫鲁维莫夫打算出版这本关于妇女问题的著作；我正在翻译：他要把这两印张半排成六印张，加上半页印得十分豪华漂亮的书名，每本卖半个卢布。准能卖得出去！给我的稿酬是一印张六个卢布，所以一共可以拿到十五卢布，我已经预支了六个卢布。搞完这一本，我们还要着手译一部关于鲸的书，然后又要从《Confessions》②的第二部里摘译一些最无聊的废话；有人告诉赫鲁维莫夫，似乎就某方面来说，卢梭也就是拉季舍夫③一类的人物。我当然不反对了，管它呢！喂，你愿意译《女人是不是人》的第二印张吗？愿意的话，现在就把原文拿去，笔和纸也都拿去，——这都是免费供给的——再拿三个卢布去；因为我预支的是全部译稿，第一印张和第二印张的稿费，所以三个卢布是应该归你。你译完以后，还可以拿三个卢布。还有，请你别把这看作是我对你的帮助。恰恰相反，你一进来，我就在盘算，你能在哪方面给我帮个忙了。第一，我对正字法不太了解，第二，有时我的德文简直不行，因此，我哪里是翻译啊，多半是自己写作，可以聊以自一慰的是，这样会更好些。唉，谁知道呢，说不定这样不是更好，而是更糟……你干不干？”
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①因为他穿得又破又脏，像个归烟囱的工人。
②《Confessions》（《忏悔录》）是法国作家卢梭（一七一二——一七七八）的自传一性一作品，于一八六五年译成俄文。
③阿·尼·拉季舍夫（一七四九——一八○二），俄罗斯作家，革命家，唯物主义哲学家。
拉斯科利尼科夫默默地拿了几页德文论文，拿了三个卢布，一句话也没说就走了出去。拉祖米欣惊讶地目送着他。拉斯科利尼科夫已经来到了第一条街道上了，却突然转身回去，又上楼去找拉祖米欣，把那儿页德文原著和三个卢布都放到桌子上，又是一言不发，转身就走。
“你是发酒疯，还是怎么了！”终于大发脾气的拉祖米欣高声叫喊起来。“你干吗要演滑稽戏！连我都让你给搞糊涂了……见鬼，你干吗回来？”
“翻译……我不需要……”拉斯科利尼科夫已经在下楼梯的时候，含糊不清地说。
“那么你需要什么呢？”拉祖米欣从楼上大声嚷。拉斯科利尼科夫继续默默地往下走。
“喂，你！你住在哪里？”
没有回答。
“哼，那么你见—鬼去吧！……”
可是拉斯科利尼科夫已经到了街上。在尼古拉耶夫斯基桥上，由于遇到一件对他来说极不愉快的事，他又一次完全清醒过来。一辆四轮马车上的车夫在他背上狠狠地一抽一了一鞭子，因为他险些儿没让马给踩死，虽然车夫对他叫喊了三、四次，可他根本就没听见。这一鞭子打得他冒起火来，赶快跳到了栏杆边（不知为什么他在桥当中走，而那里是车行道，人不能在那里走），气得把牙齿咬得喀喀地响。当然啦，周围爆发了一阵哄笑声。
“该打！”
“是个骗子。”
“当然是假装喝醉了，故意要往车轮底下钻；你却要对他负责。”
“他们就是干这一行的，老兄，你们就是干这一行的……”
但是就在这时，就在他站在栏杆边，一直还在茫然而又愤怒地目送着渐渐远去的四轮马车，一揉一着背部的时候，他突然感觉到，有人往他手里塞钱。他一看，原来是一个上了年纪的商人太太，包着头巾，穿一双山羊皮皮鞋，还有一个戴着帽子、打着绿伞的姑一娘一和她在一起，大概是她女儿。“看在耶稣份上，收下吧，先生。”他接过了钱，她们从一旁过去了。这是一枚二十戈比的钱币。看他的衣服和他的样子，她们很可能把他当成了乞丐，当成了经常在街上讨钱的叫化子，而他得到这二十戈比，大概是多亏了挨的那一鞭子，正是这一鞭子使她们产生了恻隐之心。
他把这二十戈比攥在手里，走了十来步，转过脸去对着涅瓦河，面对皇宫①那个方向。天空中没有一丝云影，河水几乎是蔚蓝的，在涅瓦河里，这是很少见的。大教堂的圆顶光彩四射，无论站在哪里看它，都不像从桥上离钟楼二十来步远的这儿看得这样清楚，透过纯净的空气，甚至可以清晰地看出圆顶上的种种装饰。鞭打的疼痛消失了，拉斯科利尼科夫忘记了挨打的事；一个令人不安、还不十分明确的想法吸引了他的全部注意力。他站在那儿，好长时间凝神远眺；这地方他特别熟悉。以前他去大学上课的时候，常常——多半是在回家的时候，——也许有百来次，他停下来，正是站在这个地方，凝神注视着这的确是辉煌壮丽的景色，而且几乎每次都为一种模模糊糊的、他无法解释的印象感到惊讶。这壮丽的景色仿佛寒气一逼一人，总是会使他有一种无法解释的凄凉感觉；对他来说，这华丽的画面寂静、荒凉，令人心情颓丧……每次他都对自己这种忧郁和难以解释的印象觉得奇怪，由于不相信自己能作出满意的解释，于是就把解一开这不解之谜的任务推迟到未来。现在他突然清清楚楚想起了自己从前的这些问题和困惑，而且觉得，现在他想起这些来并不是偶然的。现在他恰好站在从前站着的那个地方，仿佛当真认为现在可以像从前一样思考那些同样的问题，对以前，……还完全是不久前感兴趣的那些论题和画面同样很感兴趣，单是这一点就让他感到奇怪和不可思议了。他甚至几乎觉得有点儿好笑，而同时又感到压抑，压得胸部都觉得疼痛。他好像觉得，这全部过去，这些以前的想法，以前的任务，以前的印象，还有这全部景色，以及他自己，一切、一切……全都在下面，在他脚下隐约可见的，一个很深很深的地方。似乎他已离地飞升，不知往什么地方飞去，一切都从他眼中消失了……他用手做了个不由自主的动作，突然感觉到了拳头里攥着的那枚二十戈比的硬币。他松开手，凝神看了看那枚钱币，一挥手把它扔进水里；然后转身回家。他觉得，这时他好像是用剪刀把他与一切人和一切事物都剪断了。
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①指冬宫。
他回到家里，已经是傍晚时分，这么说，他一共走了六个钟头。他是从哪里回来，又是怎样回来的，这些他什么也不记得。他脱掉衣服，像一匹给赶得筋疲力尽的马，浑身发一抖，躺到沙发上，拉过大衣盖在身上，立刻昏昏沉沉进入梦乡……
天色已经完全昏暗的时候，他被一阵可怕的叫喊声惊醒了。天哪，这喊声多么吓人！这样的号哭和哀号，这样的咬牙切齿、眼泪、毒打和咒骂，这样一些极不正常的声音，他还从未听过，从未见过。他不能想象会有这样残暴的行为和这样的狂怒。他惊恐地欠起身来，坐到自己一床一上，一直呆呆地一动不动，痛苦万分。但打架、号哭和咒骂却越来越凶了。使他极为惊讶的是，他突然听出了女房东的声音。她哀号、尖一叫，数数落落地边哭边嚷，匆忙而又急促地述说着，以致无法听清，女房东在哀求什么，——当然是哀求人家别再打她，因为有人正在楼梯上毫不留情地毒打她。由于愤恨和气得发狂，打人的人的声音听起来是那么可怕，已经只听到嘶哑的叫喊，不过打人的人还是在说什么，说得也很快，听不清楚，急急匆匆，上气不接下气。突然拉斯科利尼科夫像片树叶样簌簌发一抖了：他听出了这个声音；这是伊利亚·彼特罗维奇的声音。伊利亚·彼特罗维奇在这里，而且在打女房东！他用脚踢她，把她的头用力往楼梯上撞，——这是很显然的，从响声，从哭声，从殴打的声音上都可以听得出来！这是怎么回事，天翻地覆了吗？可以听到，每层楼、每道楼梯上都挤满了人，听到人们的说话声，惊呼声，许多人上楼来，敲门，砰砰啪啪的开门关门声，大家都跑到一起来了。“可这是为什么，为什么……这怎么可能呢！”他反复说，并且认真地想，他准是完全疯了。可是，不，他听得太清楚了！……这么说，既然如此，他们马上就要到他这儿来了，“因为……没错儿，全是为了那桩事……由于昨天的……上帝啊！”他想扣上门钩，可是手抬不起来……再说，也没有用！恐惧像冰一样包围了他的心，使他痛苦异常，仿佛把他给冻僵了……不过，这阵持续了足有十来分钟的吵闹声终于渐渐平静下来了。女房东还在呻一吟，还在哼，伊利亚·彼特罗维奇一直还在吓唬她，骂她……不过，好像他也终于安静下来了；喏，已经听不到声音了；“莫非他走了吗！上帝啊！”对，女房东也走了，她一直还在呻一吟，还在哭……听，她的房门也砰地一声关上了……人群也散了，下楼回各人的房间里去了，——他们叹息着，争论着，互相呼唤着，有时提高声音，像是在叫喊，有时压低声音，好似窃窃私语。想必有很多人；几乎整幢房子里的人都跑来了。“不过，天哪，难道这是可能的吗！而且为什么，他为什么到这儿来呢！”
拉斯科利尼科夫浑身瘫一软无力地倒到沙发上，可是已经不能合眼了；他十分痛苦地躺了约摸半个钟头，感到极端恐惧，简直无法忍受，这样的痛苦和恐惧，以前他还从未经受过。突然一道亮光照亮了他的小屋：娜斯塔西娅拿着蜡烛、端着一盘汤走了进来。她仔细看了看他，看清他没有睡觉，于是把蜡烛放到桌子上，把拿来的东西一一摆了出来：面包、盐、盘子、调羹。
“你大概从昨儿个就没吃东西了。在外面转悠了整整一天，人却在发烧。”
“娜斯塔西娅……为什么要打女房东啊？”
她留心瞅了瞅他。
“谁打女房东了？”
“刚才…………半个钟头以前，伊利亚·彼特罗维奇，警察分局的副局长，在楼梯上……他为什么这样毒打她？还有……他来干什么？……”
娜斯塔西娅一声不响，皱起眉头，细细打量着他，这样看了好久。这样细细打量他，使他感到很不愉快，甚至感到害怕。
“娜斯塔西娅，你为什么不说话？”最后，他声音微弱地、怯生生地说。
“这是血，”她终于轻轻地回答，仿佛自言自语。
“血！……什么血？……”他含糊不清地说，脸色煞白，并且往墙那边躲开一些。娜斯塔西娅继续默默地瞅着他。
“谁也没打女房东，”她又用严厉和坚定的声音说。他看着她，几乎喘不过气来。
“我亲耳听到的……我没睡，……我在坐着，”他更加忐忑不安地说。“我听了很久……副局长来了……大家都跑到楼梯上来了，从所有住房里……”
“谁也没来过。这是你身上的血在叫喊。血没处流的时候，就会凝成血块，于是就会好像看见什么，听见什么……你要吃点儿东西吗？”
他没回答。娜斯塔西娅一直站在他身边，凝神注视着他，没有走。
“给我点儿水喝……娜斯塔西尤什卡。”
她下去了，两分钟后，用一个带把的白瓷杯端了一杯水回来；他已经记不得以后的事了。他只记得，他喝了一口冷水，把杯里的水都洒到了胸膛上。以后就失去了知觉。