The Continental Classics, Volume XVIII., Mystery Tales. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.
language. The young man barely paused before he descended the steps. He had never before entered such a place, but he felt dizzy and was also suffering from intense thirst. He had a craving for some beer, partly because he attributed his weakness to an empty stomach. Seating himself in a dark and dirty corner, in front of a filthy little table, he called for some beer, and eagerly drank off a glass.
He felt instantly relieved, and his brain began to clear: "How absurd I have been!" said he to himself, "there was really nothing to make me uneasy! It was simply physical! A glass of beer and a mouthful of biscuit were all that was necessary to restore my strength of mind and make my thoughts clear and resolution fixed. How paltry all this is!"
The next morning Raskolnikoff awoke late, after disturbed and unrefreshing slumbers. He felt very cross and glanced angrily round his room. It was a tiny place, not more than six feet in length, and its dirty buff paper hung in shreds, giving it a most miserable aspect; besides which, the ceiling was so low that a tall man would have felt in danger of bumping his head. The furniture was quite in harmony with the room, consisting of three old rickety chairs, a painted table in one corner, on which lay books and papers thick with dust (showing how long it was since they had been touched), and, finally, a large and very ugly sofa with ragged covers. This sofa, which filled nearly half the room, served Raskolnikoff as a bed. He often lay down on it in his clothes, without any sheets, covering himself with his old student's coat, and using instead of a pillow a little cushion, which he raised by keeping under it all his clean or dirty linen. Before the sofa stood a small table.
Raskolnikoff's misanthropy did not take offense at the dirty state of his den. Human faces had grown so distasteful to him, that the very sight of the servant whose business it was to clean the rooms produced a feeling of exasperation.
To such a condition may monomaniacs come by continually brooding over one idea. For the last fortnight, the landlady had ceased to supply her lodger with provisions, and he had not yet thought of demanding an explanation. Nastasia, who had to cook and clean for the whole house, was not sorry to see the lodger in this state of mind, as it diminished her labors: she had quite given up tidying and dusting his room; the utmost she did was to come and sweep it once a week. She it was who was arousing him at this moment.
"Come, get up, why are you sleeping so late?" she exclaimed. "It is nine o'clock. I have brought up some tea, will you take a cup? How pale you look!"
Raskolnikoff opened his eyes, shook himself, and recognized Nastasia. "Has the landlady sent me this tea?" asked he, making a painful effort to sit up.
"Not much chance of that!" And the servant placed before him her own teapot, in which there was still some tea left, and laid two small lumps of brownish sugar on the table.
"Here, Nastasia, take this, please," said Raskolnikoff, fumbling in his pocket and drawing out a handful of small change (for he had again lain down in his clothes), "and fetch me a white roll. Go to the pork shop as well, and buy me a bit of cheap sausage."
"I will bring you the roll in a minute, but had you not better take some shtchi7 instead of the sausage? We make it here, and it is capital. I kept some for you last night, but it was so late before you came in! You will find it very good." She went to fetch the shtchi, and, when Raskolnikoff had begun to eat, she seated herself on the sofa beside him and commenced to chatter, like a true country girl as she was. "Prascovia Paulovna means to report you to the police," said she.
The young man's brow clouded. "To the police? Why?"
"Because you don't pay and won't go. That's why."
"The deuce!" growled he between his teeth, "that is the finishing stroke; it comes at a most unfortunate juncture. She is a fool," added he aloud. "I shall go and talk to her to-morrow."
"She is, of course, just as much of a fool as I am; but why do you, who are so intelligent, lie here doing nothing? How is it you never seem to have money for anything now? You used to give lessons, I hear; how is it you do nothing now?"
"I am engaged on something," returned Raskolnikoff dryly and half reluctantly.
"On what?"
"Some work—"
"What sort of work?"
"Thinking," replied he gravely, after a short silence.
Nastasia was convulsed. She was of a merry disposition, but her laughter was always noiseless, an internal convulsion which made her actually writhe with pain. "And does your thinking bring you any money?" asked she, as soon as she could manage to speak.
"Well! I can't give lessons when I have no boots to go out in?
Besides, I despise them."
"Take care lest you suffer for it."
"There is so little to be made by giving lessons! What can one do with a few kopecks?" said he in an irritable tone, rather to himself than the servant.
"So you wish to make your fortune at one stroke?"
He looked at her rather strangely, and was silent for a moment. "Yes, my fortune," rejoined he impressively.
"Hush! you frighten me, you look terrible. Shall I go and fetch you a roll?"
"Just as you like."
Later in the day, Raskolnikoff went out and wandered about the streets. At last he sat down under a tree to rest, and fell into a reverie. His limbs felt disjointed, and his mind was in darkness and confusion. He placed his elbows on his knees and held his head with his hands.
"God! Am I to stand beating in her skull with a hatchet or something, wade in warm blood, break open the lock and rob and tremble, blood flowing all around, and hide myself, with the hatchet? O God! is this indeed possible, and must it be?" He trembled like a leaf as he said this.
"What am I thinking of?" he cried in some astonishment. "I know well I could not endure that with which I have been torturing myself. I saw that clearly yesterday when I tried to rehearse it. Perfectly plain. Then what am I questioning? Did I not say yesterday as I went up the stairs how disgusting and mean and low it all was, and did not I run away in terror?"
He stood up and looked all round, wondering how he got there, and moved off toward the T– bridge. He was pale and his eyes were hot, and feebleness was in all his members, but he seemed to breathe easier. He felt that he had thrown off the old time which had been so oppressive; and in its place had come peace and light. "Lord!" he prayed, "show me my way, that I may renounce these horrid thoughts of mine!"
Going across the bridge, he quietly gazed on the Neva, and the clear red sunset. He did not feel himself tired now, notwithstanding his weakness, and the load which had lain upon his heart seemed to be gone. Liberty! Liberty! he was free from those enchantments and all their vile instigations. In later times when he recalled this period of his existence, and all that happened to him in those days, minute by minute and point by point, he recollected how each circumstance, although in the main not very unusual, constantly appeared to his mind as an evidence of the predetermination of his fate, so superstitious was he. Especially he could never understand why he, weary and harassed as he was, could not have returned home by the shortest route, instead of across the Haymarket, which was quite out of the way. Certainly, a dozen times before, he had reached his lodgings by most circuitous routes, and never known through which streets he had come. But why (he always asked) should such a really fateful meeting have taken place in the market (through which there was no need to go), and happen, too, at exactly such a time and at a moment of his life when his mind was in the state it was, and the event, in these circumstances, could only produce the most definite and decided effect upon his fate? Surely he was the instrument of some purpose!
It was about nine o'clock as he stood in the Haymarket. All the dealers had closed their establishments or cleared away their goods and gone home. About this place, with its tattered population, its dirty and nauseous courtyards and numerous alleys, Raskolnikoff dearly loved to roam in his aimless wanderings. He attracted no notice there. At the corner of K– Lane were a dealer and his wife, who were engaged in packing up their wares, consisting of tapes, handkerchiefs, cotton, &c., preparatory to going home. They were lingering over their work, and conversing with an acquaintance. This
Cabbage soup.