Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 10 page

the sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.

"Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in reply.

"Did you go out yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Though you were ill?"

"Yes."

"At what time?"

"About seven."

"And where did you go, my I ask?"

"Along the street."

"Short and clear."

Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily,

without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch's stare.

"He can scarcely stand upright. And you..." Nikodim Fomitch was

beginning.

"No matter," Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.

Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing at

the head clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There

was a sudden silence. It was strange.

"Very well, then," concluded Ilya Petrovitch, "we will not detain you."

Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his

departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim

Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely.

"A search--there will be a search at once," he repeated to himself,

hurrying home. "The brutes! they suspect."

His former terror mastered him completely again.

CHAPTER II

"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.

CHAPTER III

He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he

was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious.

He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though

there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away

somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about

him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid

of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him;

they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked

at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished

another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could

not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 625