Crime and Punishment. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror; “My God!” he whispered in despair: “what’s the matter with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?”

      He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place.

      “But now, now, what am I glad of?” he thought, “Is that hiding things? My reason’s deserting me—simply!”

      He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair beside him his old student’s winter coat, which was still warm though almost in rags, covered himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and delirium. He lost consciousness.

      Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again.

      “How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that! Such a piece of evidence!”

      He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits among his linen under the pillow.

      “Pieces of torn linen couldn’t rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I think not, I think not, any way!” he repeated, standing in the middle of the room, and with painful concentration he fell to gazing about him again, at the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten anything. The conviction that all his faculties, even memory, and the simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to be an insufferable torture.

      “Surely it isn’t beginning already! Surely it isn’t my punishment coming upon me? It is!”

      The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them!

      “What is the matter with me!” he cried again, like one distraught.

      Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces… his reason was clouded…. Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the purse too. “Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my pocket!”

      In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!—there were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!

      “So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and memory, since I guessed it of myself,” he thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief; “it’s simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s delirium,” and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with blood;” he must have unwarily stepped into that pool…. “But what am I to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?”

      He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room.

      “In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,” he repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, “and at once, this minute, without lingering…”

      But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.

      And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to “go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!” Several times he tried to rise from the sofa, but could not.

      He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.

      “Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!” shouted Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. “For whole days together he’s snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It’s past ten.”

      “Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice.

      “Ha! that’s the porter’s voice…. What does he want?”

      He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a positive pain.

      “Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya. “He’s taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake up!”

      “What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discovered. Resist or open? Come what may!…”

      He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.

      His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.

      Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded paper sealed with bottle-wax.

      “A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him the paper.

      “From what office?”

      “A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.”

      “To the police?… What for?…”

      “How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.”

      The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to go away.

      “He’s downright ill!” observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a moment. “He’s been in a fever since yesterday,” she added.

      Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without opening it. “Don’t you get up then,” Nastasya went on compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. “You’re ill, and so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What have you got there?”

      He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so fallen asleep again.

      “Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has got hold of a treasure…”

      And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.

      Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that with a person who was going to be arrested. “But… the police?”

      “You’d better have some tea! Yes? I’ll bring it, there’s some left.”

      “No… I’m going; I’ll go at once,” he muttered, getting on to his feet.

      “Why, you’ll never get downstairs!”

      “Yes, I’ll go.”

      “As you please.”

      She followed the porter out.

      At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.

      “There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed, thank God!” Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent.

      “But when has such a thing happened? I never