第37章

第37章raskolnikovstoodkeepingtightholdoftheaxe.hewasinasortofdelirium.hewasevenmakingreadytofightwhentheyshouldcomein.whiletheywereknockingandtalkingtogether,theideaseveraltimesoccurredtohimtoenditallatonceandshouttothemthroughthedoor.nowandthenhewastemptedtoswearatthem,tojeeratthem,whiletheycouldnotopenthedoor!“onlymakehaste!”wasthethoughtthatflashedthroughhismind.

“butwhatthedevilisheabout?…”timewaspassing,oneminute,andanother—noonecame.kochbegantoberestless.

“whatthedevil?”hecriedsuddenlyandinimpatiencedesertinghissentryduty,he,too,wentdown,hurryingandthumpingwithhisheavybootsonthestairs.thestepsdiedaway.

“goodheavens!whatamitodo?”

raskolnikovunfastenedthehook,openedthedoor—therewasnosound.abruptly,withoutanythoughtatall,hewentout,closingthedoorasthoroughlyashecould,andwentdownstairs.

hehadgonedownthreeflightswhenhesuddenlyheardaloudvoicebelow—wherecouldhego!therewasnowheretohide.hewasjustgoingbacktotheflat.

“heythere!catchthebrute!”

somebodydashedoutofaflatbelow,shouting,andratherfellthanrandownthestairs,bawlingatthetopofhisvoice.

“mitka!mitka!mitka!mitka!mitka!blasthim!”

theshoutendedinashriek;thelastsoundscamefromtheyard;allwasstill.butatthesameinstantseveralmentalkingloudandfastbegannoisilymountingthestairs.therewerethreeorfourofthem.hedistinguishedtheringingvoiceoftheyoungman.“they!”

filledwithdespairhewentstraighttomeetthem,feeling“comewhatmust!”iftheystoppedhim—allwaslost;iftheylethimpass—allwaslosttoo;theywouldrememberhim.theywereapproaching;theywereonlyaflightfromhim—andsuddenlydeliverance!afewstepsfromhimontheright,therewasanemptyflatwiththedoorwideopen,theflatonthesecondfloorwherethepaintershadbeenatwork,andwhich,asthoughforhisbenefit,theyhadjustleft.itwasthey,nodoubt,whohadjustrundown,shouting.thefloorhadonlyjustbeenpainted,inthemiddleoftheroomstoodapailandabrokenpotwithpaintandbrushes.inoneinstanthehadwhiskedinattheopendoorandhiddenbehindthewallandonlyinthenickoftime;theyhadalreadyreachedthelanding.thentheyturnedandwentonuptothefourthfloor,talkingloudly.hewaited,wentoutontiptoeandrandownthestairs.

noonewasonthestairs,norinthegateway.hepassedquicklythroughthegatewayandturnedtotheleftinthestreet.

heknew,heknewperfectlywellthatatthatmomenttheywereattheflat,thattheyweregreatlyastonishedatfindingitunlocked,asthedoorhadjustbeenfastened,thatbynowtheywerelookingatthebodies,thatbeforeanotherminutehadpassedtheywouldguessandcompletelyrealisethatthemurdererhadjustbeenthere,andhadeededinhidingsomewhere,slippingbythemandescaping.theywouldguessmostlikelythathehadbeenintheemptyflat,whiletheyweregoingupstairs.andmeanwhilehedarednotquickenhispacemuch,thoughthenextturningwasstillnearlyahundredyardsaway.“shouldheslipthroughsomegatewayandwaitsomewhereinanunknownstreet?no,hopeless!shouldheflingawaytheaxe?shouldhetakeacab?hopeless,hopeless!”

atlasthereachedtheturning.heturneddownitmoredeadthanalive.herehewashalfwaytosafety,andheunderstoodit;itwaslessriskybecausetherewasagreatcrowdofpeople,andhewaslostinitlikeagrainofsand.butallhehadsufferedhadsoweakenedhimthathecouldscarcelymove.perspirationrandownhimindrops,hisneckwasallwet.“myword,hehasbeengoingit!”someoneshoutedathimwhenhecameoutonthecanalbank.

hewasonlydimlyconsciousofhimselfnow,andthefartherhewenttheworseitwas.herememberedhowever,thatoncomingoutontothecanalbank,hewasalarmedatfindingfewpeoplethereandsobeingmoreconspicuous,andhehadthoughtofturningback.thoughhewasalmostfallingfromfatigue,hewentalongwayroundsoastogethomefromquiteadifferentdirection.

hewasnotfullyconsciouswhenhepassedthroughthegatewayofhishouse!hewasalreadyonthestaircasebeforeherecollectedtheaxe.andyethehadaverygraveproblembeforehim,toputitbackandtoescapeobservationasfaraspossibleindoingso.hewasofcourseincapableofreflectingthatitmightperhapsbefarbetternottorestoretheaxeatall,buttodropitlateroninsomebody’syard.butitallhappenedfortunately,thedooroftheporter’sroomwasclosedbutnotlocked,sothatitseemedmostlikelythattheporterwasathome.buthehadsocompletelylostallpowerofreflectionthathewalkedstraighttothedoorandopenedit.iftheporterhadaskedhim,“whatdoyouwant?”hewouldperhapshavesimplyhandedhimtheaxe.butagaintheporterwasnotathome,andheeededinputtingtheaxebackunderthebench,andevencoveringitwiththechunkofwoodasbefore.hemetnoone,notasoul,afterwardsonthewaytohisroom;thelandlady’sdoorwasshut.whenhewasinhisroom,heflunghimselfonthesofajustashewas—hedidnotsleep,butsankintoblankforgetfulness.ifanyonehadcomeintohisroomthen,hewouldhavejumpedupatonceandscreamed.scrapsandshredsofthoughtsweresimplyswarminginhisbrain,buthecouldnotcatchatone,hecouldnotrestonone,inspiteofallhisefforts.…