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This was Elizabeth Ivanovna, or simple Elizabeth, as all called her, the younger sister of the old woman, Alena Ivanovna, to whose rooms Raskolnikoff went the day before for the purpose of pawning his watch to make his rehearsal. He knew all about this Elizabeth, as she knew also a little about him.
She was as much surprised as he was. "Jurgis Rudkus!" she gasped. "And what in the world is the matter with you?" "I I've had hard luck," he stammered. "I'm out of work, and I've no home and no money. And you, Alena are you married?" "No," she answered, "I'm not married, but I've got a good place." They stood staring at each other for a few moments longer. Finally Alena spoke again.
The previous winter, a fellow student, Pokoreff by name, on leaving for Charkoff, had happened to communicate to him in conversation the address of Alena Ivanovna, in case he should ever require to pawn anything. For a long time he did not use it, as he was giving lessons, and managed somehow to get along, but six weeks before this time he had recollected the address.
"This.... We were speaking together, you see.... Forgive me, but you could not speak like that to Alena. She would not understand ... how could she?" "One need not speak a word, yet understand everything. There is something that unites without the aid of speech not only Alena and me, but the world and me. That is a law of God." "So it is," murmured Kseniya. "Forgive me ... poor old Alena."
The wind whistled outside, the blizzard increased in violence, and from some far distance came the dismal, melancholy creaking and grinding of iron. Alena came in, and sat quietly beside her husband, her hands folded in her lap. They were killing time.
In a word, if you remember, you maintained that there are men in existence who can, or more accurately, who have an absolute right to commit all kinds of wicked, and criminal acts men for whom, to a certain extent, laws do not exist." "Is it not very likely that some coming Napoleon did for Alena Ivanovna last week?" suddenly blustered Zametoff from his corner.
But she laughed at his ardour, and her avid lips callously drank in his consuming, protesting passion, only to desert him afterwards, abandoning him for Paris, and leaving behind her the shreds of his pure and passionate love. That June and July had brought joy and sorrow, good and ill. Polunin was already disillusioned when he met Alena, and was living alone with his books.
Polunin sat down beside her, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. They were silent. Kseniya Ippolytovna said at last: "You have grown old, Polunin!" "Yes, I have grown old. People do, but there is nothing terrible in that when they have found what they sought for." "Yes, when they have found it.... But what about now? Why do you say that? Is it Alena?" "Why ask?
She recovered herself, and stood to prevent his entrance, speechless with fright. "Good evening, Alena Ivanovna," he commenced, trying to speak with unconcern, but his voice did not obey him, and he faltered and trembled, "Good evening, I have brought you something, but we had better go into the light." He pushed past her and entered the room uninvited. The old woman followed and found her tongue.
No doubt it was pure chance, but, at the moment he was struggling against an impression he could not overcome, this stranger's words came and gave extra force to it. The student went on talking, and began to give his companion some account of Alena Ivanovna. "She is well known," he said, "and always good for money.
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