Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all women's things. As the things would have fetched little in the market, they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta's business. She undertook such jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have said already, she was very submissive and timid.
But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable. And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something strange and mysterious, as it were, the presence of some peculiar influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered the address; he had two articles that could be pawned: his father's old silver watch and a little gold ring with three red stones, a present from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he knew nothing special about her. He got two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him.
Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here someone seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student began telling his friend various details about Alyona Ivanovna.
"She is first-rate," he said. "You can always get money from her. She is as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand roubles at a time and she is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy. . . ."
And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.
"There's a phenomenon for you," cried the student and he laughed.
They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened with great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about her. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister, being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked day and night for her sister, and besides doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and worked as a charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare to accept an order or job of any kind without her sister's permission. The old woman had already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money was left to a monastery in the province of N----, that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with child.
"But you say she is hideous?" observed the officer.
"Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet."
"You seem to find her attractive yourself," laughed the officer.
"From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill that damned old woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest conscience-prick," the student added with warmth. The officer laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!
"Listen, I want to ask you a serious question," the student said hotly. "I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand? You understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand," answered the officer, watching his excited companion attentively.
"Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman's money which will be buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from vice, from the Lock hospitals--and all with her money. Kill her, take her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in exchange--it's simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence! No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta's finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated."
"Of course she does not deserve to live," remarked the officer, "but there it is, it's nature."
"Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there would never have been a single great man. They talk of duty, conscience--I don't want to say anything against duty and conscience; --but the point is, what do we mean by them. Stay, I have another question to ask you. Listen!"
"No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!"
"Well?"
"You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the old woman /yourself/?"
"Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it. . . . It's nothing to do with me. . . ."
"But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there's no justice about it. . . . Let us have another game."
Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just conceiving . . . /the very same ideas/? And why, just at the moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint. . . .
*****
On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as it were crushing him.
He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o'clock the next morning, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot.
"My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indignantly. "And he is always asleep."
He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his garret and sank back on the sofa again.
"Going to sleep again," cried Nastasya. "Are you ill, eh?"
He made no reply.
"Do you want some tea?"
"Afterwards," he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning to the wall.
Nastasya stood over him.
"Perhaps he really is ill," she said, turned and went out. She came in again at two o'clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing him.
"Why are you lying like a log?" she shouted, looking at him with repulsion.
He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor.
"Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya and again received no answer. "You'd better go out and get a breath of air," she said after a pause. "Will you eat it or not?"
"Afterwards," he said weakly. "You can go."
And he motioned her out.
She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went out.
A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and began to eat.
He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-dreams and such strange day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a complete circle; all the party were at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured stones and over the clean sand which glistened here and there like gold. . . . Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up wide awake as though someone had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening on the staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if everyone was asleep. . . . It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing yet. . . . And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted haste. But the preparations to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on thinking of everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it into his overcoat--a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two, took off his wide, strong summer overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed outside when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got ready long before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still have had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a fortnight before.
When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out the /pledge/, which he had got ready long before and hidden there. This pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron, which he had also picked up at the same time in the street. Putting the iron which was a little the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and tied up the parcel so that it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give weight, so that the woman might not guess the first minute that the "thing" was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard someone suddenly about in the yard.
"It struck six long ago."
"Long ago! My God!"
He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the most important thing to do--to steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans.
And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasya was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her about. And so, when the time came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything was over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry --that would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off trifling details, until /he could believe in it all/. But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get up and simply go there. . . . Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with the object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say "come, let us go and try it--why dream about it!"--and at once he had broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last resort he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were forcing and drawing him to it.
At first--long before indeed--he had been much occupied with one question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He had come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied by something of the nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to decide.
When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the simple reason that his design was "not a crime. . . ." We will omit all the process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far ahead already. . . . We may add only that the practical, purely material difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his mind. "One has but to keep all one's will-power and reason to deal with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the business. . . ." But this preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly.
One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left the staircase. When he reached the landlady's kitchen, the door of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya's absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.
"What made me think," he reflected, as he went under the gateway, "what made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment! Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?"
He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in his anger. . . . A dull animal rage boiled within him.
He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk for appearance' sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for ever!" he muttered, standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter's little dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter's room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right caught his eye. . . . He looked about him--nobody. He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide open." He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood; at once, before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both hands into his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him! "When reason fails, the devil helps!" he thought with a strange grin. This chance raised his spirits extraordinarily.
He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of his hat. "Good heavens! I had the money the day before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!" A curse rose from the bottom of his soul.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the other side. . . .
When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much afraid now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer garden were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit to the town. Then he was interested by the question why in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to reality. "What nonsense!" he thought, "better think of nothing at all!"
"So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that meets them on the way," flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought. . . . And by now he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck once. "What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be fast!"
Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one noticed him and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his head--he had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman's room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was already on the stairs. . . .
Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went on. "Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but . . . it's two storeys above them."
And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman's was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn off--they had gone away! . . . He was out of breath. For one instant the thought floated through his mind "Shall I go back?" But he made no answer and began listening at the old woman's door, a dead silence. Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently . . . then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose. "Am I very pale?" he wondered. "Am I not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful. . . . Had I better wait a little longer . . . till my heart leaves off thumping?"
But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer, he slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly.
No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her habits . . . and once more he put his ear to the door. Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose), or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door. someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as he was doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed to have her ear to the door. . . . He moved a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that he might not have the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly, and without impatience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was almost unconscious of his body. . . . An instant later he heard the latch unfastened.
后来拉斯科利尼科夫有机会得知，那个小市民和他老婆究竟是为什么叫莉扎薇塔上他们那儿去。事情很平常，并没有任何特殊情况。有一家外地来的人家，家境败落，要卖掉旧东西、衣服等等，全都是女人用的。因为在市场上卖不合算，所以要找个代卖东西的女小贩，而莉扎薇塔正是干这一行的：她给人代卖东西，拿点儿佣金，走东家串西家地跑生意，而且经验丰富，因为她为人诚实，不讨价还价：她说个什么价，就照这个价钱成一交一。一般说，她话不多，而且就像已经说过的，她又挺和气，胆子也小……
可是最近一段时间，拉斯科利尼科夫变得迷信起来。过了很久以后，他身上还留有迷信的痕迹，几乎是不可磨灭了。后来他总是倾向于认为，在整个这件事情上，似乎有某种奇怪和神秘的东西，仿佛有某些特殊的影响和巧合。还在去年冬天，他认识的一个大学生波科列夫要去哈尔科夫的时候，有一次在谈话中把老太婆阿廖娜· 伊万诺芙娜的地址告诉了他，以备他如有急需，要去抵押什么东西。很久他都没去找她，因为他在教课，生活还勉强能够过得去。一个半月以前他想起了这个地址；他有两样可以拿去抵押的东西：父亲的一块旧银表和一枚镶着三颗红宝石的小金戒指，这是妹妹在临别时送给他作纪念的。他决定拿戒指去；找到老太婆以后，虽然还不了解她为人有什么特殊的地方，但第一眼看上去，就对她有一种无法克服的厌恶情绪，从她那里拿了两张“一卢布的票子”，顺路去一家很蹩脚的小饭馆吃东西。他要了一杯茶，坐下来，陷入沉思。就像小鸡要破壳而出那样，他的脑子里忽然出现一个奇怪的想法，这想法使他非常、非常感兴趣。
几乎紧挨着他，另一张小桌旁坐着一个大学生和一个年轻军官，他根本不认识这个大学生，也不记得以前见过他。大学生和军官打了一盘台球，然后坐下来喝茶。突然他听到大学生对军官谈起那个放高利贷的阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜，说她是十四等文官的太太，还把她的地址告诉了他。单单是这一点就让拉斯科利尼科夫觉得有点儿奇怪了：他刚刚从她那儿来，恰好这里就在谈论她。当然，这是巧合，然而这时他正无法摆脱一个极不寻常的印象，而这里恰好有人仿佛是在讨好他：那个大学生突然把这个阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜各方面的详细情况都讲给他的朋友听。
“她这个人挺有用，”他说，“总是能从她那儿弄到钱。她很有钱，就跟犹太人一样，可以一下子借出去五千卢布，不过，就是只值一卢布的抵押品，她也不嫌弃。我们有很多人去过她那儿。不过她是个坏透了的缺德鬼……”
于是他开始叙述，她是多么狠心，反复无常，只要抵押品过期一天，这件东西就算完了。她借给的钱只有抵押品价值的四分之一，却要收取百分之五、甚至百分之七的月息，等等。大学生滔一滔一不一绝地说个不停，还告诉那个军官，除此而外，老太婆有个妹妹，叫莉扎薇塔，这个矮小可恶的老太婆经常打她，完全拿她当一奴一隶使唤，当她是个小孩子，可是莉扎薇塔至少有两俄尺八俄寸高……
“不是吗，这也是十分罕见的现象啊！”大学生提高声调说，并且哈哈大笑起来。
他们又谈起莉扎薇塔来了。谈论她的时候，大学生特别高兴，而且一直在笑，那军官很感兴趣地听着，还请大学生让这个莉扎薇塔到他那里去，给他补内一衣。拉斯科利尼科夫连一句话也没听漏，一下子就了解到了一切：莉扎薇塔是妹妹，是老太婆的异母妹妹，她已经三十五岁了。她白天夜里都给姐姐干活，在家里既是厨一娘一，又是洗衣妇，除此而外，还做针钱活儿拿出去卖，甚至去给人家擦地板，挣来的钱全都一交一给姐姐。不经老太婆允许，她不敢自作主张接受任何订做的东西或替人家干活。老太婆已经立下遗嘱，莉扎薇塔自己也知道，根据遗嘱，除了一些动产、椅子以及诸如此类的东西，她连一个钱也得不到；所有的钱都指定捐献给H省的一座修道院，作为永久追荐她亡魂的经费。莉扎薇塔是个普通市民，而不是官太太，她没出嫁，长得不好看，身一体的各部分极不相称，个子高得出奇，一双很长的外八字脚，总是穿一双破羊皮鞋，可是挺一爱一干净。使大学生感到惊奇和好笑的，主要是莉扎薇塔经常怀孕……
“你不是说她是个丑八怪吗？”军官说。
“不错，她皮肤那么黑，真像是个男扮女装的士兵，不过，你要知道，她可根本不是丑八怪。她的脸和眼睛那么善良。甚至是非常善良。证据就是——许多人都喜欢她。她那么安详，一温一顺，唯命是从，很随和，什么她都同意。她笑起来甚至还挺好看呢。”
“这么说你也喜欢她了，不是吗？”军官笑了起来。
“由于她怪。不，我要告诉你一件事。我真想杀了这个该死的老太婆，抢走她的钱，请你相信，我一点儿也不会感到良心的谴责”，大学生激动地又加上了一句。
军官又哈哈大笑起来。拉斯科利尼科夫却不由得颤栗了一下。这多么奇怪！
“对不起，我要向你提一个严肃的问题，”大学生激动起来。“当然，刚才我是开玩笑，不过你看：一方面是个毫无用处、毫无价值、愚蠢凶恶而且有病的老太婆，谁也不需要她，恰恰相反，她对大家都有害，她自己也不知道，她为什么活着，而且要不了多久，老太婆自己就会死掉。你明白我的意思吗？明白吗？”
“嗯，我明白，”军官凝神注视着情绪激动的大学生，回答说。
“你听我说下去。另一方面，一些年轻的新生力量，由于得不到帮助，以致陷入绝境，这样的人成千上万，到处都是！千百件好事和创举，可以用注定要让修道院白白拿去的、老太婆的那些钱来兴办，并使之得到改善！成千上万的人也许能走上正路；几十个家庭也许会免于贫困、离散、死亡、堕一落，不至给送进一性一病医院，—— 而这一切都可以用她的钱来办。杀死她，拿走她的钱，为的是日后用这些钱献身于为全人类服务、为大众谋福利的事业：做千万件好事，能不能赎一桩微不足道的小罪，使罪行得到赦免，你认为呢？牺牲一个人的一性一命，成千上万人就可以得救，不至受苦受难，不至妻离子散。一个人的死换来百人的生——这不就是数学吗！再说，以公共利益来衡量，这个害肺病的、愚蠢凶恶的老太婆的生命又有什么意义呢？不过像只虱子，或者蟑螂罢了，而且还不如它们呢，因为老太婆活着是有害的。她吸别人的血，她吃人：前两天她还满怀仇恨地咬了莉扎薇塔的手指头：差点儿给咬断了！”
“当然啦，她不配活着，”军官说，“不过，要知道，这是天意。”
“唉，老兄，要知道，天意也可以改正，可以引导，不然就会陷入偏见。不然的话，那就连一个伟人也不会有了。大家都说：‘责任，良心’，我绝不反对责任和良心，不过，我们是怎样理解责任和良心呢？别忙，我再向你提一个问题。你听着！”
“不，你先别忙；我向你提个问题。你听着！”
“好，提吧！”
“嗯，现在你大发议论，夸夸其谈，可是请你告诉我：你会亲自去杀死这个老太婆吗，还是不会呢？”
“当然不会！我是为了正义……但这不是我的事……”
“可照我看，既然你自己下不了决心，那么这就谈不上什么正义！走，咱们再去打盘台球吧！”
“拉斯科利尼科夫心情异常激动。当然，这些话全都是最普通和最常听到的，他已经听到过不止一次了，只不过是用另外的形式表达出来，谈的也是另外一些话题，都是青年的议论和想法。但为什么恰恰是现在，他自己头脑里刚刚产生了……完全一模一样的想法，他就恰好听到了这样的谈话和这样的想法？而且为什么恰巧是在这个时候，他从老太婆那儿出来，刚刚产生了这个想法，恰好就听到了关于这个老太婆的谈话？……他总觉得，这种巧合是很奇怪的。在事情的继续发展中，小饭馆里这场毫无意义的谈话竟对他产生了极不寻常的影响：仿佛这儿真的有什么定数和上天的指示似的……
从干草广场回来以后，他急忙坐到沙发上，一动不动地坐了整整一个小时。这时天已经黑了；他没有蜡烛，而且根本就没产生点蜡烛的想法。他始终想不起来：那时候他是不是想过什么？最后，他感觉到不久前发作过的热病又发作了，在打冷战，于是怀着喜悦的心情想，可以在沙发上躺下了。不久强烈的睡意袭来，像铅一般沉重，压到了他的身上。
他睡的时间异常久，而且没有作梦。第二天早晨十点钟走进屋里来的娜斯塔西娅好不容易才叫醒了他。她给他送来了茶和面包。茶又是喝过后兑了水，冲淡了的，而且又是盛在她自己的茶壶里。
“瞧你睡得这么熟！”她气呼一呼地叫嚷，“他老是睡！”
他努力欠起身来。他头痛；他本来已经站起来了，在他这间小屋里转了个身，又一头倒到沙发上。
“又睡！”娜斯塔西娅大声喊，“你病了，还是怎么的？”
他什么也没回答。
“要喝茶吗？”
“以后再喝，”他又合上眼，翻身对着墙壁，努力说了这么一句。娜斯塔西娅在他旁边站了一会儿。
“也许真的病了，”她说，于是转身走了。
下午两点她又进来了，端来了汤。他还像不久前那样躺着。茶放在那儿，没有动过。娜斯塔西娅甚至见怪了，恼怒地推他。
“干吗老是睡！”她厌恶地瞅着他，高声叫喊。他欠起身，坐起来，可是什么也没对她说，眼睛看着地下。
“是不是病了？”娜斯塔西娅问，又没得到回答。
“你哪怕出去走走也好哇，”她沉默了一会儿，说，“哪怕去吹吹风也好。要吃点儿东西吗？”
“以后再吃，”他有气无力地说，“你走吧！”说着挥了挥手。
她又站了一会儿，同情地瞅了瞅他，就出去了。
过了几分钟，他抬起眼来，好长时间看着茶和汤。然后拿起面包，拿起汤匙，开始喝汤。
他吃了不多一点儿，没有胃口，只吃了三、四汤匙，仿佛是不知不觉吃进去的。头痛稍减轻了些。吃过午饭，他又伸直身一子躺到沙发上，可是已经睡不着了，而是脸朝下埋在枕头里，一动不动地趴在沙发上。各种各样的幻想，出现在他的头脑里，都是一些稀奇古怪的幻想：他最经常梦想的是，他在非洲的某个地方，在埃及，在一片绿洲上。商队在休息，骆驼都安安静静地躺着；四周棕榈环绕；大家正在用餐。他却一直在喝水，径直从小溪里舀水喝，小溪就在身旁潺一潺地流着。那么凉爽，不可思议、奇妙无比、清凉的淡蓝色溪水流过五彩斑斓的石头，流过那么干净、金光闪闪的细沙……突然他清清楚楚听到了噹噹的钟声。他颤栗了一下，清醒过来，微微抬起头朝窗子望了望，揣测现在是什么时候，突然他完全清醒了，一下子跳起来，就像是有人把他从沙发上揪了下来。他踮着脚尖走到门前，轻轻地把门打开一条缝，侧耳倾听楼下的动静。他的心在狂跳，跳得可怕。但楼梯上静悄悄的，好像大家都已经睡了……他觉得奇怪和不可思议：他竟能从昨天起就这么迷迷糊糊一直睡到现在，还什么都没做，什么也没准备好……而这时候大概已经打过六点了……睡意和昏昏沉沉的感觉已经消失，代替它们突然控制了他的，是一阵异常狂一热、又有些惊慌失措的忙乱。不过要准备的事情并不多。他集中注意力，尽量把一切都考虑到，什么也不要忘记；而心一直在狂跳，跳得这么厉害，连呼吸都感到困难了。第一，得做个环扣，把它缝到大衣上，——这只要一分钟就够了。他伸手到枕头底下摸了摸，从一胡一乱塞在枕头下的几件内一衣中摸一到一件已经破旧不堪、没洗过的衬衫。他从这件破衬衫上撕下一条一俄寸宽、八俄寸长的破布，再把这条破布对折起来，从身上脱一下那件宽大、结实、用一种厚布做成的夏季大衣（他的唯一一件外衣），动手把布条的两端缝在大衣里子的左腋下面。缝的时候，他两手发一抖，但是尽力克制住，缝上以后，他又把大衣穿上，从外面什么也看不出来。针和线他早就准备好了，用纸包着，放在小桌子上。至于那个环扣，这是他自己很巧妙的发明：环扣是用来挂斧头的。拿着斧头在街上走当然不行。如果把斧头藏在大衣底下，还是得用手扶着它，那就会让人看出来。现在有了环扣，只要把斧头挂进环扣里，斧头就会一路上稳稳地挂在里面，挂在腋下。把一只手伸进大衣侧面的衣袋里，就能扶着斧一柄一，以免它晃来晃去；因为大衣很宽大，真像条口袋，所以从外面看不出他隔着衣袋用手扶着什么东西。这个环扣也是他在两星期前就想好了的。
缝好了环扣，他把几只手指伸进他的“土耳其式”沙发与地板之间的窄缝里，在靠左边的角落上摸索了一阵，掏出早已准备好、藏在那里的那件抵押品。不过这根本不是什么抵押品，只不过是一块刨光的小木板，大小和厚薄很像个银烟盒。这块小木板是他一次出去散步时，在一个院子里偶然拾到的，那院子的厢房里不知有个什么作坊。后来他又给这块小木板加上了一片光滑的薄铁片，——大概是从什么东西上拆下来的破铁片，——也是那时候从街上拾来的。他把小木板和铁片叠放在一起，铁片比木板小些，他用线十字一交一叉把它们牢牢捆在一起；然后用一张干净的白纸把它们整整齐齐、十分考究地包上，再扎起来，扎得很不容易解一开。这是为了在老太婆解结的时候分散她的注意力，这样就可以利用这一短暂的时间了。加上铁片，是为了增加重量，让老太婆至少在头一分钟不至猜到，这“玩意儿”是木头的。这一切都暂时藏在他的沙发底下。他刚把抵押品拿出来，突然院子里什么地方有人一大声喊：
“早就过六点了！”
“早就过了！我的天哪！”
他冲到门口，侧耳谛听，一把抓起帽子，像只猫一样，小心翼翼，悄无声息地走下一共有十三级的楼梯。现在他必须去做的是一件最重要的事情——从厨房里偷一把斧头。干这件事得用斧头，这是他早已决定了的。他还有一把花园里修枝用的折刀；但是他不能指望用折刀去干这件事，尤其不能指望自己会有那么大的力气，因此最后决定要用斧头。顺便指出，在这件事情上，他已经作出的一切最终决定都有一个特点。这些决定都有这么一个特一性一：决定越是已经最终确定下来，在他看来就越觉得它们荒谬，不合理。尽管他一直在进行痛苦的内心斗争，但是在这段时间里，他却始终不能确信自己的计划是可以实现的。
即使他的确已经把一切，直到最后一个细节，都详细研究过，而且作出了最后决定，再也没有任何怀疑了，——可现在似乎他还是会像放弃一件荒谬、骇人听闻、不可能实现的事情一样，放弃这一计划。而实际上尚未解决的难题和疑问还多得不计其数。至于上哪儿去弄斧头，这件不足道的小事却丝毫也不让他担心，因为这再容易不过了。是这么回事：娜斯塔西娅经常不在家，特别是晚上，她要么去邻居家串门，要么上小铺里去买东西，厨房门却总是敞着。就是为此，女房东常跟她吵架。那么到时候只要悄悄溜进厨房，拿了斧头，然后，过了一个钟头（等一切都已经办完以后），再溜进去，放还原处就行了。不过还是有些疑问：就假定说，过一个钟头他就回来，把斧头放回去吧，可是万一娜斯塔西娅突然回来了呢。当然啦，得从门旁走过去，等她再出去。可是万一这时候她发现斧头不见了，动手寻找，大声嚷嚷起来呢，——
那可就要引起怀疑，或者至少也是件会引起猜疑的事。
不过这还都是些他没开始考虑、也没时间考虑的小事。他考虑的是主要问题，至于那些小事，留待以后，等他自己对一切都已深信不疑的时候再说。但要对一切深信不疑，这似乎是根本不可能实现的。至少他自己觉得是这样。例如，他无论如何也不能设想，有朝一日他会结束考虑，站起来，真的上那里去……就连不久前他作的那次试探（也就是为了最后察看那个地方而作的访问），他也只不过是去试探一下而已，而远不是当真的，而是这样：“让我”，他这样对自己说，“让我去试试看吧，干吗只是幻想呢！”——可是他立刻感到受不了了，十分痛恨自己，唾弃这一切，并逃之夭夭。然而，以道德观点来看，是否允许做这样的事，就这方面的问题所作的一切分析却已经结束了：诡辩犹如剃刀一般锋利，论据丝毫不容反驳，他自己已经没有有意识的反对意见了。但是尽管如此，他还是简直不相信自己，并执拗地、盲目地试探着从各方面寻找反驳的理由，仿佛有人强迫他、诱使他去这么做。最后一天来得这么突然，一切好像一下子都决定了，这一天几乎完全是在机械地影响他：仿佛有人拉住他的手，无法抗拒地、盲目地、以一种超自然的力量不容反对地拉着他跟随着自己。就好像他衣服的一角让车轮轧住，连他也给拖到火车底下去了。
最初，——不过，已经是很久以前了，——有一个问题使他很感兴趣：为什么几乎一切罪行都这么容易被发觉和败露，而且几乎所有罪犯都会留下如此明显的痕迹？他逐渐得出各种各样很有意思的结论，照他看，最主要的原因与其说在于掩盖罪行，实际上是不可能的，不如说在于犯罪者本人；罪犯本人，而且几乎是每一个罪犯，在犯罪的那一瞬间都会意志衰退，丧失理智，恰恰相反，正是在最需要理智和谨慎的那一瞬间，幼稚和罕见的轻率却偏偏取代了意志和理智。根据他的这一信念，可以得出结论：这种一时糊涂和意志衰退犹如疾病一般控制着人，渐渐发展，到犯罪的不久前达到顶点；在犯罪的那一瞬间以及此后若干时间内，仍然保持这种状态不变，至于这会持续多久，就要看各人的情况了；以后也会像各种疾病一样消失。问题是：是疾病产生犯罪呢，还是犯罪本身，由于它的特殊一性一质，总是伴随着某种类似疾病的现象？他尚未感觉到自己能解决这个问题。
得出这样的结论以后，他断定，他本人，在他这件事情上，不可能发生这一类病态心理变化，在实行这一经过深思熟虑的计划时，他绝不会失去理智和意志，而这仅仅是因为，他所筹划的——“不是犯罪”……使他得以作出最终决定的整个过程，我们就略而不谈了吧；就是不谈这些，我们也已经扯得太远了……我们只补充一点，这件事情中那些实际的、纯粹技术一性一的困难，在他的头脑里只起最次要的作用。“只要对这些困难保持清醒的头脑和意志，到时候，到必须了解一切细节，了解事情的一切微妙之处的时候，一切困难都会克服的……”但事情并未开始。他一直完全不相信自己的最后决定，而当时候到了，却一切都不是那么一回事，不知怎的似乎那么突然，甚至几乎是出乎意料。
他还没下完楼梯，一个最微不足道的意外情况就使他束手无策，不知所措了。他走到和往常一样总是敞着的、女房东的厨房门前，小心翼翼地往厨房里瞟了一眼，想事先看清：娜斯塔西娅不在的时候，女房东本人是不是在那儿？如果她不在厨房里，那么她的房门是不是关好了？以免他进去拿斧头的时候，她从自己屋里朝外张望，恰好看见。但是当他突然看到，这一次娜斯塔西娅不但在家，在厨房里，而且还在干活，正从篮子里拿出几件内一衣，分别晾到绳子上去，这时他感到多么惊讶！她一看到他，立刻停住不晾衣服了，回过头来望着他，一直到他走了过去。他转眼望着别处，走了过去，装作什么也没看见。但事情已经完了，因为没有斧子！他受到了一次可怕的打击。
“我凭什么，”走到大门口的时候，他想，“我凭什么断定这个时候她一定不在家？为什么，为什么，为什么我想当然作出这样的判断？”他仿佛吃了一次败仗，甚至感到自尊心受了伤害。由于愤怒，他想嘲笑自己……他心中隐隐升起一股兽一性一的怒火。
在大门口他犹豫不决地站住了。他不愿为了作作样子，就这样到街上去散步；回家去吧——他就更不愿意了。“而且失去了一个多好的机会啊！”他含糊不清地说，无目的地站在大门口，正对着管院子的人那间一陰一暗的小屋，小屋的门也在敞着。突然他颤栗了一下。离他两步远的管院子的人的小屋里，一条长凳底下，靠右边有个什么东西亮闪闪的，闯入他的眼帘……他向四面张望了一下，一个人也没有。他踮着脚尖走到管院子的人住房门前，下了两级台阶，用微弱的声音喊了一声管院子的。“果然，不在家！不过，就在附近什么地方，就在院子里，因为房门大敞着。”他飞速奔向斧头（这是一把斧头），从长凳子底下把放在两块劈柴之间的斧头拖了出来；他没出屋，就在那儿把斧头挂到环扣上，双手插一进衣袋，然后走出管院子的人的小屋；谁也没有发觉！“理智不管用，魔鬼来帮忙！”他古怪地冷笑着想。这一机会使他受到极大的鼓舞。
他在路上慢慢地走着，神情庄重，不慌不忙，以免引起怀疑。他很少看过路的行人，甚至竭力完全不看他们的脸，尽可能不惹人注意。这时他想起了他那顶帽子。“我的天哪！前天我就有钱了，可是没能换一顶制帽！”他从心里咒骂自己。
他偶然往一家小铺里望了一眼，看到壁上的挂钟已经七点过十分了。得赶快走，可同时又得绕个弯儿：从另一边绕到那幢房子那儿去……
从前他偶然想象这一切的时候，有时他想，他会很害怕。但现在他并不十分害怕，甚至完全不觉得害怕。此时此刻，他感兴趣的甚至是一些不相干的想法，不过感兴趣的时间都不久。路过尤苏波夫花园①的时候，他想起建造高大喷泉的计划，甚至对此很感兴趣，他还想到，这些喷泉会使所有广场上的空气都变得十分清新。渐渐地他产生了这样的信念：如果把夏季花园②扩大到马尔索广场，甚至和米哈依洛夫宫周围的花园连成一片，那么对于城市将是一件十分美好、极其有益的好事。这时他突然对这样一种现象发生了兴趣：为什么恰恰是在所有大城市里，人们并不是由于需要，但不知为什么却特别喜欢住在城市里那些既无花园，又无喷泉，又脏又臭，堆满各种垃圾的地区？这时他想起自己在干草广场上散步的情况，刹时间清醒起来。“一胡一思乱想，”他想，“不，最好什么也别想！”
--------
①尤苏波夫花园是尤苏波夫公爵的私人花园，在叶卡捷林戈夫斯基大街（现在的李姆斯基—科萨科夫大街）对面的花园街上，现在是儿童公园。
②最有名的古老花园之一。
“大概那些给押赴刑场的人就是像这样恋恋不舍地想着路上碰到的一切东西吧，”这个想法在他脑子里忽然一闪，不过仅仅是一闪而过，就像闪电一样；他自己赶快熄灭了这个想法的火花……不过，已经不远了，瞧，就是这幢房子，就是这道大门。不知什么地方钟噹地一声响。“怎么，莫非已经七点半了吗？不可能，大概这钟快了！”
他运气不错，进大门又很顺利。不仅如此，甚至好像老天帮忙似的，就在这一瞬间，刚刚有一辆装干草的大车在他前面驶进了大门，他从门口进去的这段时间，大车完全遮住了他，大车刚从大门驶进院子，一眨眼的工夫，他就从右边溜了进去。可以听到，大车的另一边有好几个人的声音在叫喊、争吵，可是谁也没有发觉他，迎面也没遇到任何人。冲着这个正方形大院子的许多窗户这时候全都敞着，不过他没抬头——没有力气抬头。去老太婆那儿的楼梯离得不远，一进大门往右拐就是。他已经到了楼梯上……
他松了口气，用一只手按住怦怦狂跳不已的心，马上摸了摸那把斧头，又一次把它扶正，然后小心翼翼、悄悄地上楼，不时侧耳倾听。不过那时候楼梯上也阒无一人；所有房门都关着；没遇到任何人。不错，二楼一套空房子的房门大敞着，有几个油漆工在里面干活，不过他们也没看他。他站了一会儿，想了想，然后继续往上走。“当然啦，最好这儿根本没有这些人，不过……上面还有两层楼呢。”
啊，这就是四楼了，这就是房门，这就是对面那套房子；那套房子是空着的。三楼上，老太婆住房底下的那套房子，根据一切迹象来看，也是空着的：用小钉钉在门上的名片取下来了——搬走了！……他感到呼吸困难。有一瞬间一个想法在他脑子里一闪而过： “是不是回去呢？”可是他没有回答自己的问题，却侧耳倾听老太婆住房里的动静：死一般的寂静。随后他又仔细听听楼梯底下有没有动静，很用心地听了很久…… 然后，最后一次朝四下里望了望，悄悄走到门前，让自己心情平静下来，再一次摸一摸挂在环扣上的斧头。“我脸色是不是发白……白得很厉害吗？”他不由得想， “我是不是显得特别激动不安？她很多疑……是不是再等一等……等心不跳了？……”
但心跳没有停止。恰恰相反，好像故意为难似的，跳得越来越厉害，越来越厉害……他忍不住了，慢慢把手伸向门铃，拉了拉铃。过了半分钟，又拉了拉门铃，拉得更响一些。
没有反应。可别一胡一乱拉铃，而且他这样做也不合适。老太婆当然在家，不过她疑心重重，而且就只有她独自一个人。他多少有点儿了解她的一习一惯……于是又一次把耳朵紧一贴在门上。是他的听觉如此敏锐呢（一般说这是难以设想的），还是当真可以听清里面的声音，不过他突然听到了仿佛是手摸一到门锁把手上的小心翼翼的轻微响声，还听到了仿佛是衣服碰到门上的窸窸窣窣的响声。有人不动声色地站在门锁前，也像他在外面这样，躲在里面侧耳谛听，而且好像也把耳朵贴到了门上……
他故意稍动了动，稍微提高声音含糊不清地说了句什么，以免让人看出他在躲躲藏藏；然后又第三次拉了拉门铃，不过拉得很轻，大模大样地，让人听不出有任何急不可耐的情绪。后来回想起这一切，清晰地、鲜明地回忆起这一切时，这一分钟已永远铭刻在他的心中；他不能理解，他打哪儿来的这么多花招，何况他的头脑这时已失去思考能力，连自己的身躯他也几乎感觉不到了……稍过了一会儿，听到了开门钩的响声。
