His heart sank, and his limbs trembled nervously, as he came to an immense pile of building facing the canal on one side and the street on the other.  This block was divided into a host of small tenements, tenanted by all sorts of trades.  People were swarming in and out through the two doors.  There were three or four dvorniks[3] belonging to the house, but the young man, to his great satisfaction, came across none of them, and, escaping notice as he entered, mounted at once the stairs on the right hand.  He had already made acquaintance with this dark and narrow staircase, and its obscurity was grateful to him; it was gloomy enough to hide him from prying eyes.  “If I feel so timid now, what will it be when I come to put my plan into execution?” thought he, as he reached the fourth floor.  Here he found the passage blocked; some military porters were removing the furniture from a tenement recently occupied, as the young man knew, by a German official and his family.  “Thanks to the departure of this German, for some time to come there will be no one on this landing but the old woman.  It is as well to know this, at any rate,” thought he to himself, as he rang the old woman’s bell.  It gave a faint sound, as if it were made of tin instead of copper.  In houses of this sort, the smaller lodgings generally have such bells.

He had forgotten this; the peculiar tinkling sound seemed to recall something to his memory, for he gave a shiver—­his nerves were very weak.  In another moment the door was opened part way, and the occupant of the rooms stood examining her visitor through the opening with evident suspicion, her small eyes glimmering through the darkness like luminous points.  But when she saw the people on the landing, she seemed reassured, and flung the door open.  The young man entered a gloomy ante-chamber, divided by a partition, behind which was a small kitchen.  The old woman stood silently in front of him, eying him keenly.  She was a thin little creature of sixty, with a small sharp nose, and eyes sparkling with malice.  Her head was uncovered, and her grizzled locks shone with grease.  A strip of flannel was wound round her long thin neck, and, in spite of the heat, she wore a shabby yellow fur tippet on her shoulders.  She coughed incessantly.  The young man was probably eying her strangely, for the look of mistrust suddenly reappeared on her face.

“The Student Raskolnikoff.  I called on you a month ago,” said the visitor, hurriedly, with a slight bow.  He had suddenly remembered that he must make himself more agreeable.

“I remember, batuchka, I remember it well,” returned the old woman, still fixing her eyes on him suspiciously.

“Well, then, look here.  I have come again on a similar errand,” continued Raskolnikoff, somewhat surprised and uneasy at being received with so much distrust.  “After all, this may be her usual manner, though I did not notice it before,” thought he, unpleasantly impressed.