第105章

第105章“ican’thelpit.…iwillcomeinhalfanhour.tellthem.”

“saywhatyoulike,iwillcomewithyou.”

“you,too,wanttotortureme!”hescreamed,withsuchbitterirritation,suchdespairinhiseyesthatrazumihin’shandsdropped.hestoodforsometimeonthesteps,lookinggloomilyatraskolnikovstridingrapidlyawayinthedirectionofhislodging.atlast,grittinghisteethandclenchinghisfist,hesworehewouldsqueezeporfirylikealemonthatveryday,andwentupthestairstoreassurepulcheriaalexandrovna,whowasbynowalarmedattheirlongabsence.

whenraskolnikovgothome,hishairwassoakedwithsweatandhewasbreathingheavily.hewentrapidlyupthestairs,walkedintohisunlockedroomandatoncefastenedthelatch.theninsenselessterrorherushedtothecorner,tothatholeunderthepaperwherehehadputthethings;puthishandin,andforsomeminutesfeltcarefullyinthehole,ineverycrackandfoldofthepaper.findingnothing,hegotupanddrewadeepbreath.ashewasreachingthestepsofbakaleyev’s,hesuddenlyfanciedthatsomething,achain,astudorevenabitofpaperinwhichtheyhadbeenwrappedwiththeoldwoman’shandwritingonit,mightsomehowhaveslippedoutandbeenlostinsomecrack,andthenmightsuddenlyturnupasunexpected,conclusiveevidenceagainsthim.

hestoodasthoughlostinthought,andastrange,humiliated,halfsenselesssmilestrayedonhislips.hetookhiscapatlastandwentquietlyoutoftheroom.hisideaswerealltangled.hewentdreamilythroughthegateway.

“hereheishimself,”shoutedaloudvoice.

heraisedhishead.

theporterwasstandingatthedoorofhislittleroomandwaspointinghimouttoashortmanwholookedlikeanartisan,wearingalongcoatandawaistcoat,andlookingatadistanceremarkablylikeawoman.hestooped,andhisheadinagreasycaphungforward.fromhiswrinkledflabbyfacehelookedoverfifty;hislittleeyeswerelostinfatandtheylookedoutgrimly,sternlyanddiscontentedly.

“whatisit?”raskolnikovasked,goinguptotheporter.

themanstolealookathimfromunderhisbrowsandhelookedathimattentively,deliberately;thenheturnedslowlyandwentoutofthegateintothestreetwithoutsayingaword.

“whatisit?”criedraskolnikov.

“why,hetherewasaskingwhetherastudentlivedhere,mentionedyournameandwhomyoulodgedwith.isawyoucomingandpointedyououtandhewentaway.it’sfunny.”

theportertooseemedratherpuzzled,butnotmuchso,andafterwonderingforamomentheturnedandwentbacktohisroom.

raskolnikovranafterthestranger,andatoncecaughtsightofhimwalkingalongtheothersideofthestreetwiththesameeven,deliberatestepwithhiseyesfixedontheground,asthoughinmeditation.hesoonovertookhim,butforsometimewalkedbehindhim.atlast,movingontoalevelwithhim,helookedathisface.themannoticedhimatonce,lookedathimquickly,butdroppedhiseyesagain;andsotheywalkedforaminutesidebysidewithoututteringaword.

“youwereinquiringforme…oftheporter?”raskolnikovsaidatlast,butinacuriouslyquietvoice.

themanmadenoanswer;hedidn’tevenlookathim.againtheywerebothsilent.

“whydoyou…comeandaskforme…andsaynothing.…what’sthemeaningofit?”

raskolnikov’svoicebrokeandheseemedunabletoarticulatethewordsclearly.

themanraisedhiseyesthistimeandturnedagloomysinisterlookatraskolnikov.

“murderer!”hesaidsuddenlyinaquietbutclearanddistinctvoice.

raskolnikovwentonwalkingbesidehim.hislegsfeltsuddenlyweak,acoldshiverrandownhisspine,andhisheartseemedtostandstillforamoment,thensuddenlybeganthrobbingasthoughitweresetfree.sotheywalkedforaboutahundredpaces,sidebysideinsilence.

themandidnotlookathim.

“whatdoyoumean…whatis.…whoisamurderer?”mutteredraskolnikovhardlyaudibly.

“youareamurderer,”themanansweredstillmorearticulatelyandemphatically,withasmileoftriumphanthatred,andagainhelookedstraightintoraskolnikov’spalefaceandstrickeneyes.

theyhadjustreachedthecross-roads.themanturnedtotheleftwithoutlookingbehindhim.raskolnikovremainedstanding,gazingafterhim.hesawhimturnroundfiftypacesawayandlookbackathimstillstandingthere.raskolnikovcouldnotseeclearly,buthefanciedthathewasagainsmilingthesamesmileofcoldhatredandtriumph.

withslowfalteringsteps,withshakingknees,raskolnikovmadehiswaybacktohislittlegarret,feelingchilledallover.hetookoffhiscapandputitonthetable,andfortenminuteshestoodwithoutmoving.thenhesankexhaustedonthesofaandwithaweakmoanofpainhestretchedhimselfonit.sohelayforhalfanhour.

hethoughtofnothing.somethoughtsorfragmentsofthoughts,someimageswithoutorderorcoherencefloatedbeforehismind—facesofpeoplehehadseeninhischildhoodormetsomewhereonce,whomhewouldneverhaverecalled,thebelfryofthechurchatv.,thebilliardtableinarestaurantandsomeofficersplayingbilliards,thesmellofcigarsinsomeundergroundoshop,atavernroom,abackstaircasequitedark,allsloppywithdirtywaterandstrewnwithegg-shells,andthesundaybellsfloatinginfromsomewhere.…theimagesfollowedoneanother,whirlinglikeahurricane.someofthemhelikedandtriedtoclutchat,buttheyfadedandallthewhiletherewasanoppressionwithinhim,butitwasnotoverwhelming,sometimesitwasevenpleasant.…theslightshiveringstillpersisted,butthattoowasanalmostpleasantsensation.

heheardthehurriedfootstepsofrazumihin;heclosedhiseyesandpretendedtobeasleep.razumihinopenedthedoorandstoodforsometimeinthedoorwayasthoughhesitating,thenhesteppedsoftlyintotheroomandwentcautiouslytothesofa.raskolnikovheardnastasya’swhisper:

“don’tdisturbhim!lethimsleep.hecanhavehisdinnerlater.”