Luckily for him, everything again went well at the gates. Moreover, as if by design, a huge hay-wagon drove through the gates at that very moment, just ahead of him, concealing him completely all the while he was passing under the archway, and as soon as the wagon entered the courtyard, he slipped quickly to the right. On the other side of the wagon, several voices could be heard shouting and arguing, but no one noticed him, and he met no one coming his way. Many of the windows looking out onto the huge, square yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his head—he had no strength. The stairway to the old woman's was close by, immediately to the right of the gates. He was already on the stairs . . .

Having caught his breath and pressed his hand to his pounding heart, at the same time feeling for the axe and straightening it once again, he began cautiously and quietly climbing the stairs, pausing every moment to listen. But the stairway also happened to be quite empty at the time; all the doors were shut; he met no one. True, one empty apartment on the second floor stood wide open, and painters were working in it, but they did not even look. He paused, thought for a moment, and went on. “Of course, it would be better if they weren't there at all, but...there are two more flights above them.”

But here was the fourth floor, here was the door, here was the apartment opposite—the empty one. On the third floor, by all tokens, the apartment just under the old woman's was also empty: the calling card nailed to the door with little nails was gone—they had moved out! ... He was gasping for breath. A thought raced momentarily through his mind: “Shouldn't I go away?” But he gave himself no reply and began listening at the old woman's door: dead silence. Then he listened down the stairs again, listened long, attentively...Then he took a last look around, pulled himself together, straightened himself up, and once more felt the axe in its loop. “Am I not pale...too pale?” he thought. “Am I not too excited? She's mistrustful...Shouldn't I wait a little longer...until my heart stops this...?”

But his heart would not stop. On the contrary, as though on purpose, it pounded harder, harder, harder...He could not stand it, slowly reached for the bell, and rang. In half a minute he rang again, louder.

No answer. To go on ringing in vain was pointless, and it did not suit him. The old woman was certainly at home, but she was alone and suspicious. He was somewhat familiar with her habits...and once again pressed his ear to the door. Either his senses were extremely sharp (which in fact is difficult to suppose), or it was indeed quite audible, but he suddenly discerned something like the cautious sound of a hand on the door-latch and something like the rustle of a dress against the door itself. Someone was standing silently just at the latch, hiding inside and listening, in the same way as he was outside, and also, it seemed, with an ear to the door . . .

He purposely stirred and muttered something aloud, so as not to make it seem he was hiding; then he rang for the third time, but quietly, seriously, and without any impatience. Recalling it later, vividly, distinctly—for this moment was etched in him forever—he could not understand where he got so much cunning, especially since his reason seemed clouded at moments, and as for his body, he almost did not feel it on him. . . A second later came the sound of the latch being lifted.

VII

The door, as before, was opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp, mistrustful eyes stared at him from the darkness. Here Raskolnikov became flustered and made a serious mistake.

Fearing the old woman would be frightened that they were alone, and with no hope that his looks would reassure her, he took hold of the door and pulled it towards him so that the old woman should not somehow decide to lock herself in. Seeing this, she did not pull the door back towards her, but did not let go of the handle either, so that he almost pulled her out onto the stairway together with the door. Then, seeing that she was blocking the doorway and not letting him in, he went straight at her. The woman jumped aside in fear, was about to say something, but seemed unable to and only stared at him.

“Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,” he began, as casually as he could, but his voice would not obey him, it faltered and started trembling. “I've brought you...an article...but we'd better go over there...near the light...” And leaving her, he walked straight into the room uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue came untied.

“Lord! What is it?...Who are you? What's your business?”

“For pity's sake, Alyona Ivanovna...you know me...Raskolnikov...here, I've brought you that pledge...the one I promised you the other day...” He was holding the pledge out to her.

The old woman glanced at the pledge, then at once fixed her eyes directly on the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked at him intently, spitefully, mistrustfully. A minute or so passed; he even thought he saw something like mockery in her eyes, as if she had already guessed everything. He felt himself becoming flustered, almost frightened, so frightened that it seemed if she were to look at him like that, without saying a word, for another half minute, he would run away from her.

“But why are you looking at me like that, as if you didn't recognize me?” he suddenly asked, also with spite. “If you want it, take it— otherwise I'll go somewhere else. I have no time.”

He had not even intended to say this, but it suddenly got said, just so, by itself.

The old woman came to her senses, and her visitor's resolute tone seemed to encourage her.

“But what's the matter, dearie, so suddenly...what is it?” she asked, looking at the pledge.

“A silver cigarette case—I told you last time.”

She held out her hand.

“But why are you so pale? Look, your hands are trembling! Did you go for a swim, dearie, or what?”

“Fever,” he answered abruptly. “You can't help getting pale...when you have nothing to eat,” he added, barely able to articulate the words. His strength was abandoning him again. But the answer sounded plausible; the old woman took the pledge.

“What is it?” she asked, once again looking Raskolnikov over intently and weighing the pledge in her hand.

“An article...a cigarette case...silver...take a look.”

“But it doesn't seem like silver...Ehh, it's all wrapped up.”

Trying to untie the string and going to the window, to the light (all her windows were closed, despite the stuffiness), she left him completely for a few seconds and turned her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the loop but did not quite take it out yet; he just held it in his right hand under the coat. His hands were terribly weak; he felt them growing more and more numb and stiff every moment. He was afraid he would let go and drop the axe...suddenly his head seemed to spin.

“Look how he's wrapped it up!” the old woman exclaimed in vexation, and made a move towards him.

He could not waste even one more moment. He took the axe all the way out, swung it with both hands, scarcely aware of himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically, brought the butt-end down on her head. His own strength seemed to have no part in it. But the moment he brought the axe down, strength was born in him.

The old woman was bareheaded as always. Her thin hair, pale and streaked with gray, was thickly greased as usual, plaited into a ratty braid and tucked under a piece of horn comb that stuck up at the back of her head. Because she was short, the blow happened to land right on the crown of her head. She cried out, but very faintly, and her whole body suddenly sank to the floor, though she still managed to raise both hands to her head. In one hand she was still holding the “pledge.” Then he struck her again and yet again with all his strength, both times with the butt-end, both times on the crown of the head. Blood poured out as from an overturned glass, and the body fell backwards. He stepped aside, letting it fall, and immediately bent down to her face; she was already dead. Her eyes bulged as if they were about to pop out, and her forehead and her whole face were contracted and distorted in convulsion.