第107章

第107章helostconsciousness;itseemedstrangetohimthathedidn’trememberhowhegotintothestreet.itwaslateevening.thetwilighthadfallenandthefullmoonwasshiningmoreandmorebrightly;buttherewasapeculiarbreathlessnessintheair.therewerecrowdsofpeopleinthestreet;workmenandbusinesspeopleweremakingtheirwayhome;otherpeoplehadcomeoutforawalk;therewasasmellofmortar,dustandstagnantwater.raskolnikovwalkedalong,mournfulandanxious;hewasdistinctlyawareofhavingcomeoutwithapurpose,ofhavingtodosomethinginahurry,butwhatitwashehadforgotten.suddenlyhestoodstillandsawamanstandingontheothersideofthestreet,beckoningtohim.hecrossedovertohim,butatoncethemanturnedandwalkedawaywithhisheadhanging,asthoughhehadmadenosigntohim.“stay,didhereallybeckon?”raskolnikovwondered,buthetriedtoovertakehim.whenhewaswithintenpacesherecognisedhimandwasfrightened;itwasthesamemanwithstoopingshouldersinthelongcoat.raskolnikovfollowedhimatadistance;hisheartwasbeating;theywentdownaturning;themanstilldidnotlookround.“doesheknowiamfollowinghim?”thoughtraskolnikov.themanwentintothegatewayofabighouse.raskolnikovhastenedtothegateandlookedintoseewhetherhewouldlookroundandsigntohim.inthecourt-yardthemandidturnroundandagainseemedtobeckonhim.raskolnikovatoncefollowedhimintotheyard,butthemanwasgone.hemusthavegoneupthefirststaircase.raskolnikovrushedafterhim.heheardslowmeasuredstepstwoflightsabove.thestaircaseseemedstrangelyfamiliar.hereachedthewindowonthefirstfloor;themoonshonethroughthepaneswithamelancholyandmysteriouslight;thenhereachedthesecondfloor.bah!thisistheflatwherethepainterswereatwork…buthowwasithedidnotrecogniseitatonce?thestepsofthemanabovehaddiedaway.“sohemusthavestoppedorhiddensomewhere.”hereachedthethirdstorey,shouldhegoon?therewasastillnessthatwasdreadful.…buthewenton.thesoundofhisownfootstepsscaredandfrightenedhim.howdarkitwas!themanmustbehidinginsomecornerhere.ah!theflatwasstandingwideopen,hehesitatedandwentin.itwasverydarkandemptyinthepassage,asthougheverythinghadbeenremoved;hecreptontiptoeintotheparlourwhichwasfloodedwithmoonlight.everythingtherewasasbefore,thechairs,thelooking-glass,theyellowsofaandthepicturesintheframes.ahuge,round,copper-redmoonlookedinatthewindows.“it’sthemoonthatmakesitsostill,weavingsomemystery,”thoughtraskolnikov.hestoodandwaited,waitedalongwhile,andthemoresilentthemoonlight,themoreviolentlyhisheartbeat,tillitwaspainful.andstillthesamehush.suddenlyheheardamomentarysharpcracklikethesnappingofasplinterandallwasstillagain.aflyflewupsuddenlyandstruckthewindowpanewithaplaintivebuzz.atthatmomenthenoticedinthecornerbetweenthewindowandthelittlecupboardsomethinglikeacloakhangingonthewall.“whyisthatcloakhere?”hethought,“itwasn’ttherebefore.…”hewentuptoitquietlyandfeltthattherewassomeonehidingbehindit.hecautiouslymovedthecloakandsaw,sittingonachairinthecorner,theoldwomanbentdoublesothathecouldn’tseeherface;butitwasshe.hestoodoverher.“sheisafraid,”hethought.hestealthilytooktheaxefromthenooseandstruckheroneblow,thenanotherontheskull.butstrangetosayshedidnotstir,asthoughsheweremadeofwood.hewasfrightened,bentdownnearerandtriedtolookather;butshe,too,bentherheadlower.hebentrightdowntothegroundandpeepedupintoherfacefrombelow,hepeepedandturnedcoldwithhorror:theoldwomanwassittingandlaughing,shakingwithnoiselesslaughter,doingherutmostthatheshouldnothearit.suddenlyhefanciedthatthedoorfromthebedroomwasopenedalittleandthattherewaslaughterandwhisperingwithin.hewasovercomewithfrenzyandhebeganhittingtheoldwomanontheheadwithallhisforce,butateveryblowoftheaxethelaughterandwhisperingfromthebedroomgrewlouderandtheoldwomanwassimplyshakingwithmirth.hewasrushingaway,butthepassagewasfullofpeople,thedoorsoftheflatsstoodopenandonthelanding,onthestairsandeverywherebelowtherewerepeople,rowsofheads,alllooking,buthuddledtogetherinsilenceandexpectation.somethinggrippedhisheart,hislegswererootedtothespot,theywouldnotmove.…hetriedtoscreamandwokeup.

hedrewadeepbreath—buthisdreamseemedstrangelytopersist:hisdoorwasflungopenandamanwhomhehadneverseenstoodinthedoorwaywatchinghimintently.

raskolnikovhadhardlyopenedhiseyesandheinstantlyclosedthemagain.helayonhisbackwithoutstirring.

“isitstilladream?”hewonderedandagainraisedhiseyelidshardlyperceptibly;thestrangerwasstandinginthesameplace,stillwatchinghim.

hesteppedcautiouslyintotheroom,carefullyclosingthedoorafterhim,wentuptothetable,pausedamoment,stillkeepinghiseyesonraskolnikov,andnoiselesslyseatedhimselfonthechairbythesofa;heputhishatonthefloorbesidehimandleanedhishandsonhiscaneandhischinonhishands.itwasevidentthathewaspreparedtowaitindefinitely.asfarasraskolnikovcouldmakeoutfromhisstolenglances,hewasamannolongeryoung,stout,withafull,fair,almostwhitishbeard.

tenminutespassed.itwasstilllight,butbeginningtogetdusk.therewascompletestillnessintheroom.notasoundcamefromthestairs.onlyabigflybuzzedandflutteredagainstthewindowpane.itwasunbearableatlast.raskolnikovsuddenlygotupandsatonthesofa.

“come,tellmewhatyouwant.”

“iknewyouwerenotasleep,butonlypretending,”thestrangeransweredoddly,laughingcalmly.“arkadyivanovitchsvidrigailov,allowmetointroducemyself.…”