to say, was in, but she was suspicious and she was alone. He knew her habits . . . and once again he pressed his ear flush against the door. Whether it was the keenness of his senses (which is rather hard to imagine) or whether it really was very audible, but he suddenly heard what sounded like a hand cautiously feathering the lock and a dress rustling against the door itself. Someone was lurking right by the lock and, just like him here on the outside, was listening hard, crouching, and also, it seemed, pressing an ear to the door . . .
He made a deliberate movement and muttered something rather too loudly, to make it clear he wasn’t hiding; then he rang a third time, but softly, calmly and without the slightest haste. Recalling this afterwards, vividly, clearly – that moment was imprinted on him for all time – he simply could not understand where he’d found such guile, not least because there were moments when his mind seemed to go dark, and as for his body, he could barely feel it . . . Seconds later, someone could be heard lifting the latch.
VII
The tiniest of chinks appeared in the doorway, just like the last time, and two sharp and mistrustful eyes stared out at him once again from the dark. Here Raskolnikov became flustered and nearly made a serious mistake.
Fearing that the old woman would take fright at finding herself alone with him, and far from confident that his appearance would reassure her, he grabbed hold of the door and pulled it towards him, just in case she should think of locking herself in again. Seeing this, she did not yank the door back towards her, but nor did she let go of the handle, and he very nearly ended up dragging her out onto the stairs, together with the door. When he saw that she was blocking the doorway and not letting him pass, he walked straight at her. She leapt back in alarm and was on the point of saying something, but didn’t seem able to and stared at him wide-eyed.
‘Hello, Alyona Ivanovna,’ he began as casually as he could, but his voice refused to obey him, broke off and began to quiver. ‘I’ve . . . brought you . . . the thing . . . but why don’t we go over here . . . towards the light . . . ?’ Leaving her there, and without any invitation, he walked straight through into the main room. The old woman ran after him. She’d recovered her voice.
‘Good Lord! What is it? . . . Who are you? What do you want?’
‘For pity’s sake, Alyona Ivanovna . . . we’ve met before . . . Raskolnikov . . . Here, I’ve brought the pledge I promised you the other day . . .’ And he proffered her the pledge.
The old woman took one glance at the pledge before immediately fixing her eyes on those of her unbidden guest. She looked at him attentively, with malice and mistrust. A minute or so passed. He even thought he detected a hint of mockery in her eyes, as though she’d already worked everything out. He sensed that he was becoming flustered, that he was almost terrified, so terrified that another half-minute of her wordless stare would have been enough to send him running.
‘But why are you staring like this, as if you don’t recognize me?’ he suddenly said, also with malice. ‘If you want it, take it. If not, I’ll take it elsewhere. I’ve no time for this.’
He hadn’t meant to say this; the words just came out.
The old woman collected herself, evidently taking heart from her visitor’s decisive tone.
‘Why all the hurry, sir? . . . What is it?’ she asked, looking at the pledge.
‘A silver cigarette case: I told you last time.’
She stretched out her hand.
‘Why are you so very pale? And look at those trembling hands! You’ve not been for a dip, have you, father?’
‘Fever,’ he replied curtly. ‘Hard not to grow pale . . . when you’ve nothing to eat,’ he added, barely getting the words out. His strength was deserting him once more. But the reply seemed