Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 7 page

on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in

passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by

him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final

they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in

his eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for

a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his

plans.

And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point

could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of

any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all

as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of

unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe,

that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier.

Nastasya was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings;

she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and always left the

door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her

about. And so, when the time came, he would only have to go quietly into

the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything

was over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points.

Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had

come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait

till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss

the axe, look for it, make an outcry--that would mean suspicion or at

least grounds for suspicion.

But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and

indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off

trifling details, until _he could believe in it all_. But that seemed

utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not

imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get

up and simply go there.... Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with

the object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at

an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say

"come, let us go and try it--why dream about it!"--and at once he

had broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself.

Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his

analysis was complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he

could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last resort

he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought

arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were

forcing and drawing him to it.

At first--long before indeed--he had been much occupied with one

question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily

detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He

had come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his

opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility

of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every

criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a

childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence

and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse

of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a disease,

developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the

perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment

of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, according to the

individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The

question whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the

crime from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied by something of

the nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to decide.

When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there

could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would

remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the

simple reason that his design was "not a crime...." We will omit all the

process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have

run too far ahead already.... We may add only that the practical, purely

material difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his

mind. "One has but to keep all one's will-power and reason to deal

with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has

familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the business...." But

this preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he

came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite

differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly.

One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even

left the staircase. When he reached the landlady's kitchen, the door

of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in

Nastasya's absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether

the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when

he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly

saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied

there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing

him, she left off hanging the clothes, turned to him and stared at him

all the time he was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as

though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything; he had not

the axe! He was overwhelmed.

"What made me think," he reflected, as he went under the gateway, "what

made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment!

Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?"

He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in

his anger.... A dull animal rage boiled within him.

He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk

for appearance' sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more

revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for ever!" he muttered,

standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter's little

dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter's

room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the

right caught his eye.... He looked about him--nobody. He approached the

room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called

the porter. "Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for

the door is wide open." He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled

it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood;

at once, before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both

hands into his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him!

"When reason fails, the devil helps!" he thought with a strange grin.

This chance raised his spirits extraordinarily.

He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening

suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking

at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible.

Suddenly he thought of his hat. "Good heavens! I had the money the day

before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!" A curse rose

from the bottom of his soul.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on

the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at

the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the

other side....

When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes

thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much

afraid now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied

by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov

garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great

fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all

the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer

garden were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the

garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a

great benefit to the town. Then he was interested by the question why

in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some

peculiar way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there

are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all

sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back

to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to reality. "What nonsense!"

he thought, "better think of nothing at all!"

"So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that

meets them on the way," flashed through his mind, but simply flashed,

like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought.... And by now

he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock

somewhere struck once. "What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it

must be fast!"

Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very

moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had

just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under

the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into

the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other

side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one

noticed him and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge

quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his

head--he had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old

woman's room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was

already on the stairs....

Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and

once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly

and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the

stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no

one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were

at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought

a minute and went on. "Of course it would be better if they had not been

here, but... it's two storeys above them."

And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the

flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman's was

apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been

torn off--they had gone away!... He was out of breath. For one instant

the thought floated through his mind "Shall I go back?" But he made no

answer and began listening at the old woman's door, a dead silence. Then

he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently...

then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew

himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose. "Am I very pale?"

he wondered. "Am I not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful.... Had I

better wait a little longer... till my heart leaves off thumping?"

But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite

him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer,

he slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he

rang again, more loudly.

No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman

was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some

knowledge of her habits... and once more he put his ear to the door.

Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to

suppose), or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly

heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the

rustle of a skirt at the very door. Someone was standing stealthily

close to the lock and just as he was doing on the outside was secretly

listening within, and seemed to have her ear to the door.... He moved

a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that he might not have

the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly,

and without impatience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out

in his mind vividly, distinctly, for ever; he could not make out how he

had had such cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and

he was almost unconscious of his body.... An instant later he heard the

latch unfastened.

CHAPTER VII

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.

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.

"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...."

And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old

woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.

"Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?"

"Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought you

the pledge I promised the other day..." And he held out the pledge.

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.

"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."

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.

"But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?" she asked,

looking at the pledge.

"The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know."

She held out her hand.

"But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too?

Have you been bathing, or what?"

"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale... if you've

nothing to eat," he added, with difficulty articulating the words.

His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the

truth; the old woman took the pledge.

"What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and

weighing the pledge in her hand.

"A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it."

"It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!"

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.

"But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with

vexation and moved towards him.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 675