Текст книги "Crime and Punishment"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

“Who, me? I'll twist your nose off just for thinking it! Pochinkov's house, number forty-seven, the official Babushkin's apartment . . .”

“I won't come, Razumikhin!” Raskolnikov turned and started to walk away.

“I bet you will!” Razumikhin called after him. “Otherwise you...otherwise I don't want to know you! Hey, wait! Is Zamyotov in there?”

“He is.”

“You saw him?”

“I did.”

“You spoke?”

“We spoke.”

“What about? Ah, devil take you, don't tell me, then! Pochinkov's, forty-seven, Babushkin's, remember!”

Raskolnikov reached Sadovaya and turned the corner. Razumikhin followed him with his eyes, pondering. Finally he threw up his hands, went into the tavern, but stopped halfway up the stairs.

“Devil take it!” he continued, almost aloud. “He talks sense, but it's as if...still, I'm a fool, too! Don't madmen talk sense? I think that's what Zossimov is afraid of!” He tapped himself on the forehead with his finger. “And what if...no, he shouldn't be allowed to go by himself now! He might drown himself...Ech, I messed that one up! Impossible!” And he ran back outside after Raskolnikov, but the trail was already cold. He spat and with quick steps went back to the “Crystal Palace,” hastening to question Zamyotov.

Raskolnikov walked straight to the –sky Bridge, stopped in the middle of it, leaned both elbows on the railing, and began to look along. After parting with Razumikhin he became so weak that he had barely been able to get there. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Leaning over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink gleams of the sunset, at the row of houses, dark in the thickening dusk, at one distant window, somewhere in a garret on the left bank, blazing as if aflame when the last ray of sunlight struck it for a moment, at the dark water of the canal—he stood as if peering intently into the water. Finally, red circles began spinning in his eyes, the houses began to sway, the passers-by, the embankments, the carriages—all began spinning and dancing around him. Suddenly he gave a start, perhaps saved from fainting again by a wild and ugly sight. He sensed that someone was standing next to him, to his right, close by; he looked– and saw a woman, tall, wearing a kerchief, with a long, yellow, wasted face and reddish, sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously saw nothing and recognized no one. Suddenly she leaned her right forearm on the parapet, raised her right leg, swung it over the railing, then her left leg, and threw herself into the canal. The dirty water parted, swallowing its victim for a moment, but a minute later the drowning woman floated up and was gently carried downstream, her head and legs in the water, her back up, her skirt to one side and ballooning over the water like a pillow.

“She's drowned herself! Drowned herself!” dozens of voices were crying; people came running, both embankments were strung with spectators, people crowded around Raskolnikov on the bridge, pushing and pressing him from behind.

“Merciful God, it's our Afrosinyushka!” a woman's tearful cry came from somewhere nearby. “Merciful God, save her! Pull her out, dear people!”

“A boat! A boat!” shouts came from the crowd.

But by then there was no need for a boat; a policeman ran down the stairs, threw off his greatcoat and boots, and plunged into the water. It was not much of a task; the stream carried the drowning woman within two yards of the stairs; he seized her clothes with his right hand, with his left managed to get hold of the pole a fellow policeman held out to him, and the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite slabs of the embankment. She quickly came around, raised herself a little, sat up, and began sneezing and snorting, senselessly wiping off her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.

“Drank herself cockeyed, my dears, she drank herself cockeyed,” the same woman's voice went on howling, next to Afrosinyushka now. “The other day, too, she went and tried to hang herself; we took her out of the noose. And now I had to go to the store, and I left a girl to keep an eye on her, and it all came to grief! She's a tradeswoman, my dear, like us, we're neighbors, second house from the corner, right here . . .”

People began to disperse; the policemen were still fussing over the nearly drowned woman; someone shouted something about the police station...Raskolnikov looked upon it all with a strange feeling of indifference and detachment. It was disgusting to him. “No, it's vile . .. the water...better not,” he was muttering to himself. “Nothing'll come of it,” he added, “no point in waiting. What's that—the police station?...And why isn't Zamyotov there in his office? The office is open past nine...” He turned his back to the railing and looked around him.

“Well, after all, why not!” he said resolutely, left the bridge, and set off in the direction of the police station. His heart was empty and blank. He did not want to reflect. Even his anguish had gone; and not a trace remained of his former energy, when he had left the house determined to “end it all!” Total apathy had taken its place.

“After all, it's a way out!” he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the embankment of the canal. “Anyway, I'll end it because I want to...Is it a way out, though? But what's the difference! There'll be a square foot of space—hah! What sort of an end, though? Can it really be the end? Shall I tell them or shall I not tell them? Ah...the devil! Besides, I'm tired; I wish I could lie or sit down somewhere soon! What's most shameful is that it's so stupid! But I spit on that, too. Pah, what stupid things come into one's head . . .”

To get to the police station he had to keep straight on and take the second turn to the left: it was there, two steps away. But having reached the first turn, he stopped, thought, went down the side street, and made a detour through two more streets—perhaps without any purpose, or perhaps to delay for at least another minute and gain time. He walked along looking down. Suddenly it was as if someone whispered something in his ear. He raised his head and saw that he was standing in front of thathouse, right by the gate. He had not gone there, or even passed by, since thatevening.

An irresistible and inexplicable desire drew him on. He went in, passed all the way under the gateway, turned to the first door on the right, and begun going up the familiar stairs to the fourth floor. The narrow and steep stairway was very dark. He stopped on each landing and looked around with curiosity. The entire window frame on the first-floor landing had been taken out: “It wasn't like that then,” he thought. Here was the second-floor apartment where Nikolashka and Mitka had been working then: “Closed and the door has been painted; that must mean it's for rent.” Now it was the third floor...the fourth...”Here!” He was overcome with perplexity: the door to the apartment was wide open, there were people in it, voices could be heard; he had not expected that at all. After a short hesitation, he mounted the last steps and went into the apartment.

It, too, was being redecorated; workmen were there; he seemed to be struck by the fact. He had been imagining for some reason that he would find everything just as he had left it then, perhaps even the corpses in the same places on the floor. Instead, bare walls, no furniture—it was somehow strange! He walked over to the window and sat down on the sill.

There were two workmen, both young fellows, one on the older side, the other much younger. They were hanging fresh wallpaper, white with little purple flowers, in place of the former tattered and torn yellow paper. For some reason Raskolnikov was terribly displeased by this; he looked at the new wallpaper with animosity, as though he were sorry to see everything so changed.

The workmen were obviously late, and were now hastily rolling up their paper in preparation for going home. Raskolnikov's appearance drew almost no notice from them. They were talking about something. Raskolnikov crossed his arms and began to listen.

“So she comes to me in the morning,” the older one was saying to the younger one, “really early, and she's all gussied up. 'What are you doing,' I says, 'sugar-and-spicing in front of me like that?' 'From henceforth, Tit Vasilievich,' she says, 'I want to stay under your complete will.' So that's how it is! And all gussied up, like a magazine, just like a magazine!”

“What's a magazine, pops?” asked the young one. “Pops” was obviously giving him lessons.

“A magazine is pictures, brother, colored pictures, and they get sent here to local tailors, every Saturday, by mail, from abroad, to tell how everybody should dress, the male sex the same as the female. Drawings, I mean. The male sex is shown more in fancy suits, and in the female department, brother, there's such pompadours—give me all you've got and it won't be enough!”

“What you can't find here in Petersburg!” the young one exclaimed enthusiastically. “Except for your old granny, they've got everything!”

“Except for that, brother, there's everything to be found,” the older one concluded didactically.

Raskolnikov stood up and walked into the other room, where the trunk, the bed, and the chest used to be; the room seemed terribly small to him without the furniture. The wallpaper was still the same; the place where the icon-stand had been was sharply outlined on the wallpaper in the corner. He looked around and returned to his window. The older workman was watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“What do you want, sir?” he asked, suddenly addressing him.

Instead of answering, Raskolnikov stood up, walked out to the landing, took hold of the bell-pull, and rang. The same bell, the same tinny sound! He rang a second, a third time; he listened and remembered. The former painfully horrible, hideous sensation began to come back to him more clearly, more vividly; he shuddered with each ring, and enjoyed the feeling more and more.

“What do you want? Who are you?” cried the workman, coming out to him. Raskolnikov walked back in the door.

“I want to rent this apartment,” he said. “I'm looking it over.”

“Nobody rents places at night; and besides, you should have come with the caretaker.”

“The floor has been washed; are they going to paint it?” Raskolnikov went on. “Is there any blood?”

“What blood?”

“That old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a whole pool of blood.”

“What sort of man are you?” the workman cried worriedly.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You want to know?...Let's go to the police, I'll tell you there.”

The workman looked at him in perplexity.

“It's time we left, sir, we're late. Let's go, Alyoshka. We'll have to lock up,” the older workman said.

“Let's go, then!” Raskolnikov replied indifferently, and he walked out first and went slowly down the stairs. “Hey, caretaker!” he cried as he passed under the gateway.

Several people were standing just at the street entrance, gazing at the passers-by: the two caretakers, a woman, a tradesman in a smock, and some others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them.

“What do you want?” one of the caretakers responded.

“Have you been to the police?”

“Just came back. So, what do you want?”

“They're all there?”

“They are.”

“The assistant's there?”

“He was for a while. What do you want?”

Raskolnikov did not answer, but stood beside them, pondering.

“He came to look at the place,” the older workman said, coming up.

“What place?”

“Where we're working. 'Why have you washed the blood up?' he said. 'There was a murder here, and I've come to rent the place.' And he started ringing the bell, all but tore it out. 'Let's go to the police,' he says, 'I'll prove it all there.' Just wouldn't leave off.”

The caretaker scrutinized Raskolnikov, perplexed and frowning.

“But who are you?” he cried, a bit more menacingly.

“I am Rodion Romanych Raskolnikov, a former student, and I live at Shil's house, here in the lane, not far away, apartment number fourteen. Ask the caretaker... he knows me.” Raskolnikov said all this somehow lazily and pensively, not turning, but gazing fixedly at the darkened street.

“Why did you go up there?”

“To look.”

“What's there to look at?”

“Why not just take him to the police?” the tradesman suddenly mixed in, and then fell silent.

Raskolnikov cast a sidelong glance at him over his shoulder, looked at him attentively, and said, as slowly and lazily as before:

“Let's go.”

“Just take him, then!” the encouraged tradesman picked up. “Why did he come about that?What's on his mind, eh?”

“God knows, maybe he's drunk, maybe he's not,” the workman muttered.

“But what do you want?” the caretaker shouted again, beginning to get seriously angry. “Quit pestering us!”

“Scared to go to the police?” Raskolnikov said to him mockingly.

“Why scared? Quit pestering us!”

“Scofflaw!” cried the woman.

“Why go on talking to him?” shouted the other caretaker, a huge man in an unbuttoned coat and with keys on his belt. “Clear out! ... Yes, he's a scofflaw! ... Clear out!”

And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder, he threw him into the street. Raskolnikov nearly went head over heels, but did not fall. He straightened himself up, looked silently at all the spectators, and walked away.

“A weird man,” the workman let fall.

“People turned weird lately,” the woman said.

“We still should've taken him to the police,” the tradesman added.

“No point getting involved,” the big caretaker decided. “He's a scofflaw for sure! You could see he was foisting himself on us, but once you get involved, there's no getting out...Don't we know it!”

“Well now, shall I go or not?” thought Raskolnikov, stopping in the middle of the street, at an intersection, and looking around as if he were waiting for the final word from someone. But no reply came from anywhere; everything was blank and dead, like the stones he was walking on, dead for him, for him alone...Suddenly, in the distance, about two hundred paces away, at the end of the street, in the thickening darkness, he made out a crowd, voices, shouts...In the midst of the crowd stood some carriage...A small light started flickering in the middle of the street. “What's going on?” Raskolnikov turned to the right and went towards the crowd. It was as if he were snatching at anything, and he grinned coldly as he thought of it, because he had firmly decided about the police and knew for certain that now it was all going to end.

VII

In the middle of the street stood a jaunty, high-class carriage, harnessed to a pair of fiery gray horses; there were no passengers, and the coachman, having climbed down from his box, was standing by; the horses were being held by their bridles. A great many people were crowding around, the police in front of them all. One of them was holding a lantern and bending down, directing the light at something on the pavement, just by the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, gasping; the coachman looked bewildered and kept repeating every so often:

“What a shame! Lord, what a shame!”

Raskolnikov pushed his way through as well as he could and finally glimpsed the object of all this bustle and curiosity. A man just run over by the horses was lying on the ground, apparently unconscious, very poorly dressed, but in “gentleman's” clothes, and all covered with blood. Blood was flowing from his face, from his head. His face was all battered, scraped, and mangled. One could see that he had been run over in earnest.

“Saints alive!” wailed the coachman, “how could I help it! If I'd been racing, or if I hadn't hollered to him...but I was driving at a slow, steady pace. Everybody saw it, as true as I'm standing here. A drunk can't see straight, who doesn't know that! ... I saw him crossing the street, reeling, nearly falling over—I shouted once, then again, then a third time, and then I reined in the horses; but he fell right under their feet! Maybe on purpose, or else he was really so drunk...The horses are young, skittish; they reared up, he gave a shout, they took off again...and so we came to grief.”

“That's exactly how it was!” some witness responded from the crowd.

“He did shout, it's true, he shouted three times to him,” another voice responded.

“Three times exactly, everybody heard it!” cried a third.

The coachman, however, was not very distressed or frightened. One could see that the carriage belonged to a wealthy and important owner, who was awaiting its arrival somewhere; how to see to this last circumstance was no small part of the policemen's concern. The trampled man had to be removed to the police station and then to the hospital. No one knew his name.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov pushed ahead and bent down closer. Suddenly the lantern shone brightly on the unfortunate man's face. He recognized him.

“I know him! I know him!” he cried, pushing all the way to the front. “He's an official, a retired official, a titular councillor, Marmeladov! He lives near here, in Kozel's house...A doctor, quickly! Here, I'll pay!” He pulled the money from his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was surprisingly excited.

The police were pleased to have found out who the trampled man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address as well, and began doing his utmost to persuade them, as if it were a matter of his own father, to transport the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodgings.

“It's here, three houses away,” he urged, “the house belongs to Kozel, a German, a rich man...He must have been trying to get home just now, drunk...I know him; he's a drunkard...He has a family, a wife, children, there's a daughter. It'll take too long to bring him to the hospital, and I'm sure there's a doctor there in the house! I'll pay, I'll pay...Anyway they'll take care of him, they'll help him at once, otherwise he'll die before he gets to the hospital . . .”

He even managed to slip them something unobserved; it was, however, a clear and lawful case, and in any event help was closer here. The trampled man was picked up and carried; people lent a hand. Kozel's house was about thirty steps away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully supporting the head and showing the way.

“This way, this way! Carry him head first up the stairs; turn him around...there! I'll pay, I'll thank you well for it,” he muttered.

Katerina Ivanovna, as soon as she had a free moment, would immediately begin pacing her small room, from window to stove and back, her arms crossed tightly on her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Lately she had begun talking more and more often to her older daughter, the ten-year-old Polenka, who, though she understood little as yet, still understood very well that her mother needed her, and therefore always followed her with her big, intelligent eyes, and used all her guile to pretend that she understood everything. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had not been feeling very well all day, getting him ready for bed. The boy, waiting for her to change his shirt, which was to be washed that same night, was sitting silently on the chair, with a serious mien, straight-backed and motionless, his little legs stretched out in front of him, pressed together, heels to the public and toes apart. He was listening to what his mama was saying to his sister, with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, sitting perfectly still, as all smart little boys ought to do when they are being undressed for bed. The even smaller girl, in complete rags, stood by the screen waiting her turn. The door to the stairs was open, to afford at least some protection from the waves of tobacco smoke that issued from the other rooms and kept sending the poor consumptive woman into long and painful fits of coughing. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner over the past week, and the flushed spots on her cheeks burned even brighter than before.

“You wouldn't believe, you can't even imagine, Polenka,” she was saying, pacing the room, “how great was the gaiety and splendor of our life in papa's house, and how this drunkard has ruined me and will ruin you all! Father had the state rank of colonel <sup>[64]64
  The civil equivalent of the military rank of colonel.


[Закрыть]</sup> and was nearly a governor by then, he only had one more step to go, so that everyone that called on him used to say, 'Even now, Ivan Mikhailovich, we already regard you as our governor!' When I...hem! ... when I...hem, hem, hem...oh, curse this life!” she exclaimed, coughing up phlegm and clutching her chest. “When I...ah, at the marshal's last ball <sup>[65]65
  A provincial marshal of nobility was, prior to the reforms of the 1860s, the highest elected officer in a province.


[Закрыть]</sup> ... when Princess Bezzemelny saw me—the one who blessed me afterwards when I was marrying your father, Polya—she asked at once: 'Isn't this that nice young lady who danced with a shawl at the graduation?'...That rip should be mended; why don't you take the needle and darn it now, the way I taught you, otherwise tomorrow...hem, hem, hem! ...  it'll tear wo-o-orse!” she cried, straining herself. “At that same time, a kammerjunker, Prince Shchegolskoy, <sup>[66]66
  The names in Katerina Ivanovna's account are allegorical but plausible: Be/./.e-melny means "landless," and Shchegolskoy means "foppish." This lends an air of fantasy to her memories. "Kammerjunker," borrowed by Russian from the German, was an honorary court title.


[Закрыть]</sup> had just come from Petersburg...he danced a mazurka with me, and the very next day wanted to come with a proposal; but I thanked him personally in flattering terms and said that my heart had long belonged to another. That other was your father, Polya; papa was terribly cross with me...Is the water ready? Now, give me the shirt; and the stockings?...Lida,” she turned to the little daughter, “you'll just have to sleep without your shirt tonight, somehow...and lay out your stockings, too...so they can be washed together...Why doesn't that ragtag come home, the drunkard! He's worn his shirt out like some old dustcloth, it's all torn...I could wash it with the rest and not have to suffer two nights in a row! Lord! Hem, hem, hem, hem! Again! What's this?” she cried out, looking at the crowd in the entry-way and the people squeezing into her room with some burden. “What's this? What are they carrying? Lord!”

“Is there somewhere to put him?” the policeman asked, looking around, when the bloodstained and unconscious Marmeladov had already been lugged into the room.

“On the sofa! Lay him out on the sofa, head this way,” Raskolnikov pointed.

“Run over in the street! Drunk!” someone shouted from the entry-way.

Katerina Ivanovna stood all pale, breathing with difficulty. The children were completely frightened. Little Lidochka cried out, rushed to Polenka, threw her arms around her, and began shaking all over.

Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov rushed to Katerina Ivanovna.

“For God's sake, calm yourself, don't be afraid!” he spoke in a quick patter. “He was crossing the street and was run over by a carriage; don't worry, he'll come round; I told them to bring him here...I was here once, you remember...He'll come round, I'll pay!”

“He finally got it!” Katerina Ivanovna cried desperately, and rushed to her husband.

Raskolnikov quickly noted that she was not one of those women who immediately fall into a faint. Instantly there was a pillow under the unfortunate man's head, something no one had thought of yet; Katerina Ivanovna began undressing him, examining him, fussing over him, not losing her presence of mind, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips, and suppressing the cries that were about to burst from her breast.

Raskolnikov meanwhile persuaded someone to run and get a doctor. As it turned out, there was a doctor living two houses away.

“I've sent for a doctor,” he kept saying to Katerina Ivanovna, “don't worry, I'll pay. Is there any water?...And bring a napkin, a towel, something, quickly; we don't know yet what his injuries are...He's been injured, not killed...rest assured...The doctor will say!”

Katerina Ivanovna rushed to the window; there, on a broken-seated chair, in the corner, a big clay bowl full of water had been set up, ready for the nighttime washing of her children's and husband's linen. This nighttime washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna herself, with her own hands, at least twice a week and sometimes more often, for it had reached a point where they no longer had any changes of linen, each member of the family had only one, and Katerina Ivanovna, who could not bear uncleanliness, preferred to wear herself out at night and beyond her strength, while everyone was asleep, so that the laundry would have time to dry on the line by morning and she could give them all clean things, rather than to see dirt in the house. She tried to lift the bowl and bring it over, as Raskolnikov had requested, but almost fell with the burden. But he had already managed to find a towel, and he wet it and began washing Marmeladov's bloodstained face. Katerina Ivanovna stood right there, painfully catching her breath and clutching her chest with her hands. She herself was in need of help. Raskolnikov began to realize that he had perhaps not done well in persuading them to bring the trampled man there. The policeman also stood perplexed.

“Polya!” Katerina Ivanovna cried, “run to Sonya, quickly. If you don't find her there, never mind, tell them that her father has been run over by a carriage and that she should come here at once...as soon as she gets back. Quickly, Polya! Here, put on a kerchief!”

“Run fas' as you can!” the boy suddenly cried from his chair, and, having said it, relapsed into his former silent, straight-backed sitting, wide-eyed, heels together, toes apart.

Meanwhile the room had become so crowded that there was no space for an apple to fall. The police had left, except for one who stayed for a time and tried to chase the public thronging in from the stairs back out to the stairs again. In their stead, almost all of Mrs. Lippewechsel's tenants came pouring from the inner rooms, crowding in the doorway at first, but then flooding into the room itself. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a rage.

“You might at least let him die in peace!” she shouted at the whole crowd. “A fine show you've found for yourselves! With cigarettes!

Hem, hem, hem! Maybe with your hats on, too! ... Really, there's one in a hat...Out! At least have respect for a dead body!”

Coughing stopped her breath, but the tongue-lashing had its effect. Obviously, Katerina Ivanovna even inspired some fear; the tenants, one by one, squeezed back through the door, with that strange feeling of inner satisfaction which can always be observed, even in those who are near and dear, when a sudden disaster befalls their neighbor, and which is to be found in all men, without exception, however sincere their feelings of sympathy and commiseration.

Outside the door, however, voices were raised about the hospital, and how one ought not to disturb people unnecessarily.

“So one ought not to die!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she rushed for the door, to loose a blast of thunder at them, but in the doorway she ran into Mrs. Lippewechsel herself, who had just managed to learn of the accident and came running to re-establish order. She was an extremely cantankerous and disorderly German woman.

“Ach, my God!” she clasped her hands. “Your trunken husband has a horse trampled! To the hospital mit him! I am the landlady!”

“Amalia Ludwigovna! I ask you to consider what you are saying,” Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily. (She always spoke in a haughty tone with the landlady, so that she would “remember her place,” and even now she could not deny herself the pleasure.) “Amalia Ludwigovna...”

“I have told you how-many-times before that you muss never dare say to me Amal Ludwigovna. I am Amal-Ivan!”

“You are not Amal-Ivan, you are Amalia Ludwigovna, and since I am not one of your base flatterers, like Mr. Lebezyatnikov, who is now laughing outside the door” (outside the door there was indeed laughter, and someone cried: “A cat-fight!”), “I shall always address you as Amalia Ludwigovna, though I decidedly fail to understand why you so dislike this appellation. You see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zakharovich; he is dying. I ask you to close this door at once and not allow anyone in. Let him at least die in peace! Otherwise, I assure you, tomorrow your action will be made known to the governor-general himself. The prince knew me as a young girl, and very well remembers Semyon Zakharovich, to whom he has shown favor many times. Everyone knows that Semyon Zakharovich had many friends and protectors, whom he himself abandoned out of noble pride, aware of his unfortunate weakness, but now” (she pointed to Raskolnikov) “we are being helped by a magnanimous young man who has means and connections, and whom Semyon Zakharovich knew as a child, and rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna . . .”

All this was spoken in a rapid patter, faster and faster, but coughing all at once interrupted Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At that moment the dying man came to and moaned, and she ran to him. He opened his eyes and, still without recognition or understanding, began peering at Raskolnikov, who was standing over him. He breathed heavily, deeply, rarely; blood oozed from the corners of his mouth; sweat stood out on his forehead. Not recognizing Raskolnikov, he began looking around anxiously. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him sadly but sternly, and tears flowed from her eyes.

“My God! His whole chest is crushed! And the blood, so much blood!” she said in despair. “We must take all his outer clothes off! Turn over a little, Semyon Zakharovich, if you can,” she cried to him.

Marmeladov recognized her.

“A priest!” he said in a hoarse voice.

Katerina Ivanovna went over to the window, leaned her forehead against the window frame, and exclaimed in desperation:

“Oh, curse this life!”

“A priest!” the dying man said again, after a moment's silence.

“They've go-o-one!” Katerina Ivanovna cried at him; he obeyed the cry and fell silent. He was seeking for her with timid, anguished eyes; she went back to him and stood by his head. He calmed down somewhat, but not for long. Soon his eyes rested on little Lidochka (his favorite), who was shaking in the corner as if in a fit and stared at him with her astonished, childishly attentive eyes.

“A...a...” he pointed to her worriedly. He wanted to say something.