Part 1 · Chapter 6

Later, Raskolnikov found out why the pawnbroker and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was pretty normal, nothing crazy about it. A family who’s moved to town and ended up broke were selling off their stuff - furniture, clothes, all women’s things.

Since it wouldn’t fetch much money, they were looking for a dealer. That was Lizaveta’s gig. She helped people out with stuff like that and was always reliable because she was honest, always gave a fair price, and stuck to it.

She usually didn’t talk much, and, like we said before, she was super shy and timid.

But Raskolnikov had gotten superstitious lately. Traces of that stayed with him for a long time, and they were almost impossible to get rid of. And later, he always felt like there was something weird and mysterious going on, like some strange forces and coincidences were at play.

Last winter, a student he knew, Pokorev, who had moved to Harkov, had mentioned Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker’s address, just in case Raskolnikov needed to pawn something. He hadn’t gone to her for a while, because he had classes and was scraping by.

About six weeks ago, he remembered the address; he had two things he could pawn: his dad’s old silver watch and a little gold ring with three red stones, a parting gift from his sister. He decided to pawn the ring.

When he saw the old woman, he instantly felt a strong dislike for her, even though he didn’t know anything special about her. She gave him two rubles, and he went to a really depressing little tavern on the way home. He ordered tea, sat down, and started thinking really hard.

A strange idea kept popping into his head, like a chick pecking at an egg, and it totally consumed him.

Sitting at the next table was a student he didn’t recognize, along with a young officer. They’d been playing billiards and were now drinking tea. Suddenly, he heard the student mention Alyona Ivanovna to the officer and give her address.

That seemed really weird to Raskolnikov; he’s just come from her, and now she’s just been mentioned. Of course, it was just a coincidence, but he couldn’t shake this crazy feeling, like someone was talking directly to him.

The student started telling his friend all sorts of details about Alyona Ivanovna.

"She’s amazing," he said. "You can always get money from her. She’s richer than a bank, she can give you five thousand rubles at a time and she’s not above taking a pledge for just a single ruble. Lots of our friends have dealt with her. But she’s an awful old witch..."

And he started describing how nasty and unpredictable she was, how if you were even a day late with interest, you lost the pledge, how she only gave a quarter of the item’s value and charged five or even seven percent a month.

The student went on and on, saying that she had a sister, Lizaveta, whom the miserable little creature constantly beat and kept in complete control like a little kid, even though Lizaveta was at least six feet tall.

"That’s wild, right?" the student said, laughing.

They started talking about Lizaveta. The student talked about her with a weird kind of excitement, always laughing, and the officer listened intently, asking him to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov didn't miss a thing and learned everything about her.

Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister, having a different mom. She was thirty-five. She worked day and night for her sister, and besides cooking and doing laundry, she sewed and worked as a cleaner, giving her sister all she earned.

She didn’t dare to take on any orders or jobs without her sister’s permission. The old woman had already made a will, and Lizaveta knew about it - she wouldn’t get a single penny; just the furniture, chairs, and stuff like that.

All the money was going to a monastery in the province of N - - , so they could pray for her forever. Lizaveta was lower down on the social ladder than her sister, unmarried, and seriously unglamorous, really tall with long feet that looked like they were angled outwards.

She always wore beat-up goatskin shoes, but she was clean. What the student found most surprising and funny was that Lizaveta was constantly pregnant.

"But you’re saying she’s hideous?" the officer asked.

"Yeah, she’s got dark skin and looks like a soldier in a costume, but you know she’s not ugly at all. She’s got such a sweet face and eyes. Really striking. And the proof is that lots of people are drawn to her."

"She’s such a soft, gentle person, always willing to put up with anything, always willing to do anything. And her smile is really lovely."

"You seem to find her attractive yourself," the officer laughed.

"Because she’s so weird. Nah, I’ll tell you what. I could totally take out that awful old woman and steal her money, I swear, without a second thought," the student added with feeling.

The officer laughed again while Raskolnikov shivered. How bizarre!

"Listen, I want to ask you a serious question," the student said urgently. "I was kidding, of course, but check this out; on one side, we have a dumb, pointless, worthless, mean, sickly, horrible old woman, not just useless, but actually causing trouble, who has no idea what she’s living for, and who’s going to die in a few days anyway."

"You get it? You get it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the officer answered, watching his excited friend closely.

"Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives being thrown away because they need help, and by the thousands, everywhere you look! A hundred thousand good deeds could be done and funded with that old woman’s money, which will just be buried in a monastery!"

Hundreds, thousands maybe, could be put on the right path; dozens of families saved from being broke, from being destroyed, from getting into trouble, from going to the Lock hospitals - all with her money. Kill her, take her money, and use it to dedicate yourself to helping people and doing good.

What do you think, wouldn’t one tiny crime be balanced 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 math!

Besides, what’s the value of the life of that sickly, stupid, nasty old woman in the grand scheme of things? No more than the life of a bug, of a beetle, less even, because the old woman is hurting others.

"She’s draining the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s finger out of spite; it almost had to be cut off."

"Of course she doesn’t deserve to live," the officer remarked, "but that’s just how things are."

"Oh, well, brother, but we have to fix and guide things, right? Otherwise, we’d be drowning in a ton of biases. Without it, there wouldn't be a single awesome person. They talk about duty, conscience - I’m not saying anything bad about duty and conscience; - but what do they even mean?"

"Hold on, I have another question for you. Listen up!"

"No, you stay, I’m gonna ask you a question. Listen!"

"Well? I am listening, what is it"

"You’re just talking and rambling on, but tell me, would you kill the old woman yourself?"

"Seriously? Of course not! I was just arguing it was the right thing to do... It has nothing to do with me..."

"But if you wouldn't do it yourself, then it’s not really right, is it? Let’s play another game."

Raskolnikov was super stressed. It was all just regular stuff young people talk about, things he’d heard before in different ways. But why did he have to hear it right now, when his own brain was just starting to think... the same ideas?

And why, right when he’s walking away with the first spark of his idea about the old woman, did he stumble into a conversation about her? That felt really weird.

This random chat in the bar had a huge impact on what he did later; like there was something planned, a little nudge in the right direction...

He came back from the Hay Market and just flopped onto the couch, staying there for a whole hour without moving. It got dark, and he didn't even think about lighting a candle. He couldn't even remember if he was thinking about anything.

Finally, he felt that old feverish shake, and he was relieved to realize he could just lie on the couch. Soon, a heavy, crushing sleep took over.

He slept for a crazy long time and didn’t dream at all. Nastasya came into his room around ten the next morning and had a hard time waking him up. She brought him tea and bread. The tea was a second brew, reheated in her own teapot.

"Goodness, how he sleeps!" she complained, annoyed.

"He’s always asleep. Doesn't matter if it's night or day"

He got up with a groan. His head was pounding, so he stood up, paced around his tiny room, and then sank back onto the couch.

"Going back to sleep, huh?" Nastasya said. "Are you feeling okay?"

He didn't answer.

"Do you want some tea maybe?"

"Later," he mumbled, closing his eyes and turning away from her.

Nastasya stood over him.

"Maybe he’s really sick," she muttered, turned and left.

She came back around two with soup. He was still lying there. The tea was untouched. Nastasya was seriously annoyed and started to shake him up.

"Why are you lying there like a lump?" she yelled, looking at him with disgust.

He got up and sat down, but said nothing and stared at the floor.

"Are you sick or what?" Nastasya asked, and again, no answer. "You need to get out and breathe some fresh air," she said after a pause.

"Are you gonna eat it or not?"

"Later," he said weakly. "You can go."

And he waved her away.

She lingered for a bit, looked at him with pity, and left.

A few minutes later, he lifted his eyes and stared at the tea and the soup for a long time. Then he picked up the bread, grabbed a spoon, and started to eat.

He ate a little, maybe three or four spoonfuls, and he didn’t really feel like it, like he was just going through the motions. His head didn't hurt as much. After eating, he flopped onto the couch again, but he couldn't sleep. He just lay there, not moving, his face in the pillow.

He was totally lost in daydreams, and these were weird daydreams. One kept popping up - he was in Africa, in Egypt, in some kind of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were chilling, lying down. Palm trees surrounded them in a perfect circle, and everyone was having dinner.

But he was drinking water from a spring that bubbled nearby. It was so cool, it was amazing, like a magical, icy blue, flowing over colorful stones and clean sand that shimmered like gold... Suddenly, he heard a clock chime.

He jumped, woke up, lifted his head, looked out the window, and realizing how late it was, he suddenly bolted upright, like someone had yanked him off the couch. He tiptoed to the door, peeked out, and started listening on the stairs. His heart was pounding.

But it was quiet on the stairs, like everyone was asleep... It felt totally bizarre that he could have slept through the whole day and done nothing, hadn't prepared anything yet... And meanwhile, it could have already been six. Then, a crazy, feverish, almost frantic energy washed over him.

But there weren’t many things to do. He focused all his energy on remembering everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart was beating so fast he could barely breathe. First, he had to make a loop and sew it into his coat - a quick job.

He dug under his pillow and found, among the linen stuffed underneath, a worn-out, old, unwashed shirt. From the rags, he tore a long strip, about two inches wide and sixteen inches long.

He folded it in half, took off his big, strong summer coat - his only jacket - made of tough cotton, and started sewing the ends of the strip on the inside, under the left arm. His hands were shaking as he sewed, but he did it - nothing showed when he put the coat back on.

He’s had the needle and thread ready for a while; they were on his table in a little paper. As for the loop, it was his own clever design; the loop was meant for the axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe through the street in his hands.

And if he hid it under his coat, he’d still have to support it with his hand, which would be obvious. Now, he just had to put the head of the axe in the loop, 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 it wouldn't swing; and because the coat was so full, like a regular sack, you couldn't tell from the outside that he was holding something with the hand that was in his pocket.

He’d designed this loop two weeks ago.

He finished that, then stuck his hand into a little gap between his couch and the floor. He rummaged around in the left corner and pulled out the thing he’s been prepping for a while, hiding there.

It wasn’t much - just a smooth piece of wood, about the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He’s found it during one of his walks in a courtyard with a workshop. Later, he added a thin, smooth piece of iron he’s also picked up on the street.

He placed the iron - slightly smaller - on the wood and fastened them together really tight, crisscrossing the thread around them. Then, he carefully wrapped them in clean white paper and tied the package up so it's super hard to untie.

This was to distract the old lady for a bit while she struggled with the knot, giving him a moment. The iron strip was added to make it heavier, so she wouldn't immediately realize it was just wood. He’s stashed it all under the couch beforehand.

Just as he got the thing out, he heard someone suddenly moving around in the yard.

"It’s already past six!"

"Seriously? Oh my god!"

He rushed to the door, listened, grabbed his hat, and started down his thirteen steps quietly, like a cat. He still had the most important thing to do - steal the axe from the kitchen. He’s decided long ago that it had to be done with an axe.

He also had a pocket knife, but he couldn’t rely on the knife, let alone his own strength, so he decided on the axe. You know what’s weird?

All the final decisions he made about this whole thing had one strange thing in common: the more final they seemed, the more ridiculous and messed up they felt to him. Even with all his inner turmoil, he never truly believed he’s actually going through with it.

And, honestly, if everything could have been planned out perfectly, with no doubts at all, he probably would have abandoned the whole thing as crazy, monstrous, and impossible. But there were still a ton of unanswered questions and uncertainties.

Getting the axe wasn't a big deal, though - super easy. Nastasya was always out of the house, especially in the evenings; running to the neighbors or to a store, and always leaving the door unlocked. The landlady was always on her case about it.

So, when the time came, he just had to slip into the kitchen and grab the axe, and an hour later (when everything was done) sneak back in and put it back. But what if he returned an hour later and Nastasya was already back? He’d have to wait until she left again.

But what if she noticed the axe was missing and started looking for it - that would raise suspicion, at least.

But those were all minor things he hadn’t even started to think about, and honestly, he didn’t have time. He was focused on the big picture, putting off the little stuff until he could really believe it. But that felt totally impossible. At least, that's how it felt to him.

He couldn't even imagine just stopping thinking, getting up, and just going there... Even his recent attempt (basically, his visit to check out the place one last time) was just a test run, not the real deal.

It was like saying, "Come on, let’s go try it out - why dream about it?" - and then he just bailed, freaking out and cursing himself.

Meanwhile, as far as the moral side of things went, it seemed like his analysis was complete; his reasoning was sharp as a razor, and he couldn’t find any good reasons to doubt himself.

But deep down, he just stopped believing in himself, and desperately searched for arguments in every direction, grasping at them like someone was forcing him.

At first - way before this - he’d been really focused on one question: why are almost all crimes so badly covered up and so easy to catch, and why do almost all criminals leave such obvious clues?

He'd gradually come to a bunch of different and weird conclusions, and he thought the main reason wasn’t really about the material impossibility of hiding the crime, but about the criminal themselves.

Almost every criminal messes up because of a total failure of willpower and common sense, a childish and unbelievable lack of awareness, right when caution and planning are most important.

He was convinced that this loss of reason and willpower attacked a person like an illness, slowly developing and reaching its peak right before the crime, continuing with the same intensity during the crime, and then fading away for a longer or shorter time, depending on the person.

He wasn't sure yet whether the illness caused the crime, or if the crime itself was always accompanied by something like an illness.

When he reached those conclusions, he decided that he wouldn’t have that kind of mental breakdown, that his reason and willpower would stay strong when he carried out his plan, because his plan wasn’t "a crime."

We’ll skip over all the steps he took to get to that last conclusion - we’re already too far ahead. We can just add that the practical, everyday challenges of the whole thing weren’t really on his mind.

"You just need to keep your willpower and reason, and you can handle them, especially once you’ve figured out every single detail."

But he hadn’t even started preparing. He’s started to trust his final decisions the least, and when the time came, it all went down totally differently, almost like an accident.

One small thing messed up his plans before he’s even left the staircase.

When he got to the landlady’s kitchen, which was open as usual, he peeked in cautiously to see if the landlady was there, since Nastasya wasn’t, or if not, whether the door to her room was closed so she wouldn’t peek out when he went in for the axe.

But he was shocked to see that Nastasya wasn’t just at home in the kitchen, but was busy there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she stopped hanging the clothes, turned to him, and stared at him the whole time he was passing.

He looked away, and walked past as if he noticed nothing. But that was it - he didn’t have the axe! He was totally overwhelmed.

"What made me think," he reflected, as he walked through the gate, "what made me think she wouldn’t be home right now! Why, why, why did I assume that so confidently?"

He felt totally crushed and even embarrassed. He could have laughed at himself, even though he was angry... A surge of raw anger boiled up inside him.

He stood there, hesitating in the gate. Going out into the street, just to look like he was doing something, felt awful; going back to his room felt even worse.

"And what a chance I’ve totally blown!" he muttered, standing around aimlessly in the gate, right across from the porter’s tiny, dark room, which was also open.

Suddenly he froze. From the porter’s room, just two steps away, something shiny under the bench on the right caught his eye... He looked around - nobody there. He tiptoed into the room, went down two steps, and called out to the porter in a quiet voice.

"Yeah, she’s not home! Somewhere nearby though, in the yard, because the door is wide open."

He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it was lying between two pieces of wood; right away, before leaving, he secured it with a rope. He shoved both hands into his pockets and walked out of the room; nobody had noticed him!

"When you’re not thinking straight, the devil takes over!" he thought with a weird grin.

This chance totally boosted his spirits.

He walked along quietly and calmly, without rushing, to avoid looking suspicious. He barely looked at the people passing by, tried to avoid looking at their faces at all, and to be as unnoticeable as possible. Suddenly he remembered his hat.

"Seriously! I had the money the day before yesterday and didn’t grab a cap to wear instead!"

A curse shot up from deep inside him.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw a clock on the wall that said it was ten minutes past seven. He had to hurry and also go around a bit, so he could approach the house from the other side...

When he’d imagined all this beforehand, he’d sometimes thought he’d be super scared. But he wasn’t really scared now, not scared at all, actually. His mind was even wandering to random stuff, but nothing for long.

As he passed the Yusupov garden, he was totally absorbed in thinking about building amazing fountains, and how refreshing they’d make the air in all the squares.

Then he started to think about how cool it would be if the Summer Garden was extended to the Field of Mars, and maybe even joined to the garden of the Mikhailovsky Palace - it would be an awesome thing and a huge benefit to the city.

Then he wondered why in all big cities people aren’t just forced by necessity, but somehow really want to live in those parts of town where there are no gardens or fountains; where there’s the most dirt and stink and all sorts of gross stuff.

Then his own walks through the Hay Market popped into his head, and for a moment he snapped back to reality.

"What a load of nonsense!" he thought, "better not think about anything at all!"

"So probably people led to the execution clutch onto every object they see on the way," flashed through his mind, but just flashed, like lightning; he quickly dismissed the thought...

And by now he was close; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere chimed once.

"Wait! can it be half-past seven? No way, it must be fast!"

Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very moment, as if on purpose, a huge hay wagon had just rolled in, totally hiding him as he ducked under the gate. The wagon barely made it into the yard before he slipped in fast to the right.

On the other side of the wagon he could hear yelling and arguing, but no one noticed him, no one stopped him. Lots of windows overlooking that huge courtyard were open at the moment, but he didnn't lift his head - he didn’t have the energy.

The stairs leading to the old woman’s room were close by, just to the right of the gate. He was already on the stairs...

Taking a deep breath, pressing his hand against his pounding heart, and once more checking for the axe and straightening it, he started slowly and carefully climbing the stairs, listening every minute. But the stairs were deserted too; all the doors were closed; he didn’t meet anyone.

One apartment on the first floor was wide open and painters were working in it, but they didn’t even glance at him. He stood still, thought for a minute, and went on.

"It would’ve been better if they weren’t here, but... it’s two floors above them."

And there was the fourth floor, here was the door, here was the apartment opposite, the empty one. The apartment below the old woman’s was apparently empty too; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn off - they’d left! He was winded.

For a second, the thought popped into his head, "Should I go back?" But he didn’t answer and started listening at the old woman’s door, complete silence.

Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and carefully... then looked around for one last time, pulled himself together, stood up straight, and checked the axe in the noose again.

"Am I super pale?" he wondered.

"Do I look obviously nervous? She’s suspicious... Should I wait a little longer... until my heart stops pounding?"

But his heart didn’t stop. On the contrary, as if to annoy him, it throbbed even more violently. He couldn’t take it anymore, he slowly reached out and rang the bell. Half a minute later, he rang again, louder.

No answer. Ringing again was pointless and out of place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He knew a bit about her habits... and once more he put his ear to the door.

Either his hearing was really sharp (which was hard to believe), or the sound was really clear. Either way, he suddenly heard something like a quiet touch on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door.

Someone was standing secretly close to the lock and, just like he was on the outside, was quietly listening from within, and seemed to have her ear to the door...

He moved a little on purpose and mumbled something out loud so he wouldn’t seem like he was hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, calmly, and without rushing.

Remembering it later, that moment stuck out in his mind vividly, clearly, forever; he couldn’t figure out where he’d gotten such cleverness, because his mind felt fuzzy at times and he was almost unaware of his body... An instant later, he heard the latch unfastened.