Read Online Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Free Book Online

That’s good . . . just in case . . .’ – and thinking this, he rang the bell of the old woman’s apartment. It jangled weakly, as if made of tin, not brass. Small apartments like these always seem to have bells like that. He’d already forgotten the sound of this particular one, and now the ring suddenly seemed to remind him of something, bringing it clearly before him . . . He even shuddered, so weak had his nerves now become. A few moments later the tiniest of chinks appeared in the doorway: through it the occupant examined her visitor with evident mistrust, and all that could be seen of her were little eyes twinkling in the dark. But, noticing a lot of people on the landing, she took heart and opened the door fully. The young man crossed the threshold into a dark entrance hall with a partition, behind which lay a tiny kitchen. The old woman stood before him in silence, fixing him with a questioning look. She was a tiny, dry old thing of about sixty, with sharp, evil little eyes and a small sharp nose. Her head was uncovered and her whitish-blonde hair, touched by grey, was thickly greased. Her long thin neck, which resembled a chicken leg, was wrapped up in an old flannel rag, and despite the heat a fraying, fur-wadded jacket, yellow with age, hung from her shoulders. The little hag kept coughing and groaning. The young man must have glanced at her in some particular way, because the same mistrust suddenly flickered in her eyes once more.
    â€˜Raskolnikov, the student. Visited you a month ago,’ he muttered with a hasty bow, making an effort to be polite.
    â€˜I remember, father, 9 I remember that very well,’ said the old woman distinctly, keeping her questioning eyes fixed on his face.
    â€˜Well, ma’am . . . it’s the same kind of business . . . ,’ Raskolnikov continued, rather disconcerted and surprised by the old woman’s mistrust.
    â€˜Maybe she’s always like this, I just didn’t notice that time,’ he thought uneasily.
    The old woman paused, as if hesitating, then stepped aside and, pointing to the main room, let her guest go first:
    â€˜Come through, father.’
    The small room into which the young man stepped, with its yellow wallpaper, geraniums and muslin curtains over the windows, was brightly lit at that moment by the setting sun. ‘So
then
, too, the sun will shine just like this!’ The thought flashed unbidden across Raskolnikov’s mind and he cast a quick glance over the entire room, so as to study and remember its layout as best he could. But there was nothing special about it. The furniture, all very old and made of yellow wood, consisted of a couch with a massive curved back, an oval table in front of the couch, a dressing-table with a little mirror between the windows, chairs along the walls, a few two-copeck prints in yellow frames depicting young German ladies with birds in their hands – and nothing else. In the corner, before a small icon, a lamp was burning. Everything was immaculate: furniture and floor had been rubbed to a shine. Everything sparkled. ‘Lizaveta’s work,’ thought the young man. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen in the entire apartment. ‘Only nasty old widows keep everything so clean,’ Raskolnikov carried on to himself, throwing a curious glance at the chintz curtain hanging in front of the door into the second, tiny room, in which the old woman had her bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never even peeked. These two rooms made up the entire apartment.
    â€˜What do you want?’ the little hag asked sternly, entering the room and standing right in front of him, as before, so as to look straight into his face.
    â€˜Something to pawn: there!’ – and he took out an old flat silver watch from his pocket. A globe was depicted on its reverse. The chain was of steel.
    â€˜But the last