time, when there are jewellers selling new ones for a rouble fifty.’
‘Four roubles, then. I’ll buy it back – it’s my father’s. I’m being paid soon.’
‘One rouble fifty and the interest in advance, if you’re so very keen.’
‘One rouble fifty!’ the young man shrieked.
‘As you wish.’ The old woman passed the watch back to him. The young man took it, so angry that he was on the verge of leaving; but he immediately thought better of it, remembering that there was nowhere else for him to go and that he had another reason for being there anyway.
‘All right!’ he said roughly.
The old woman rummaged in her pocket for her keys and went off behind the curtain into the other room. The young man was left standing in the middle of the room, straining his ears and concentrating hard. He could hear a drawer being opened. ‘Must be the top one,’ he thought. ‘So she carries the keys in her right pocket . . . All in one bunch, on a steel ring . . . And one key’s bigger than the rest, three times bigger, with a jagged end – can’t be for the chest of drawers . . . So there must be some casket or other as well, or perhaps a box . . . Now that’s interesting. Strongboxes always have keys like that . . . But how vile this all is . . .’
The old woman came back.
‘Here you are, father: ten copecks a rouble each month,11 so that’s fifteen copecks from you for a rouble and a half, for a month in advance. And for the two roubles from before that’s twenty copecks advance payment by the same calculation. Thirty-five copecks altogether. Leaving you with just one rouble fifteen for your watch. There you are.’
‘What? So now it’s a rouble fifteen copecks?’
‘Exactly, sir.’
The young man took the money without arguing. He looked at the old woman and was in no hurry to leave, as though there were something else he wanted to say or do, though what that was he didn’t seem to know himself . . .
‘I might bring you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna . . . silver . . . good quality . . . a cigarette case . . . just as soon as I get it back from a friend.’
He lost his thread and fell silent.
‘So we’ll talk about it then, father.’
‘Well, I’ll be off . . . Seems you’re always at home on your own – what about your sister?’ he asked in as casual a tone as he could manage, stepping out into the hall.
‘And what business might you have with her, father?’
‘Oh, nothing much. I just asked. Really, Alyona Ivanovna, you . . . Well, goodbye!’
Raskolnikov left in a state of complete confusion. This confusion merely grew and grew. Walking down the stairs, he even stopped several times, as though suddenly struck by something. Finally, already outside, he exclaimed:
‘God! How revolting it all is! And am I really? Am I really? . . . No, it’s absurd. It’s ridiculous!’ he added with conviction. ‘How could I ever think of something so awful? What filth my heart can sink to! That’s the main thing: it’s all so filthy, so nasty, so foul! And there was I, for a whole month . . .’
But neither words nor cries could fully express his agitation. The feeling of infinite disgust that had begun to oppress and stir up his heart even before, while walking over to the old woman’s apartment, was now so much greater and so much more vivid that there seemed no escape from his anguish. He went along the pavement as if drunk, not noticing passers-by and walking straight into them, and it was only on the next street that he recovered his senses. Looking around, he noticed that he was standing by a drinking den, the entrance to which lay down a flight of steps, below ground. Two drunks were coming out that very moment; supporting and cursing one another, they staggered up onto the street. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov immediately went