Raskolnikov: Murder with an Axe

By John Passfield

Raskolnikov: Murder with an Axe a novel This novel is an imaginative re-creation of Dostoyevskys Crime and Punishment. After killing the old pawnbroker, Ilyona Ivanovna, and her sister, Lizabeta, the young student, Raskolnikov, is haunted by the savagery of the double-murder. As he tosses and turns in his misery reviewing his situation, his motives and his view of himself as an "Extraordinary Man" Raskolnikovs preconscious mind forms the image-patterns by which he seeks to understand what he has done.

The Making of Murder with an Axe a reflective journal This journal records my reflections on the process of the crafting of the novel as it evolved through the stages of planning, writing, editing and polishing. It constitutes an effort to be as conscious as possible of the process whereby the single idea that suggested the topic of the novel was expanded into a complex work of art. Topics range from the nuts and bolts of novel-building to the nature of the novel as an art-form.

Planning Murder with an Axe a planning notebook During the writing of the novel, I kept a hand-written notebook which records the day-by-day development of the novel as it found its shape and style. The notebook now in print form reveals how a vast cluster of thoughts was sifted, selected, structured and polished into novel-form.

The Project Together, this novel, journal and notebook comprise the tenth installment in an on-going novel-writing project in which I am exploring the concept of form and meaning in the novel, and of the novel as a form of expression in the 21st Century. All of the published journals and notebooks are available for free download at www.johnpassfield.ca.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481718738

John Passfield

John Passfield was born in St. Thomas, Ontario, Canada, and continues to reside in Southern Ontario, near Cayuga, with his family. He has taught and studied literature, creative writing and drama, and is interested in the development of the novel as an art-form.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Author’s Preface

Chapter One

Revulsion

Chapter Two

Idea

Chapter Three

Experiment

Chapter Four

Trigger

Chapter Five

Noose

Chapter Six

Thirteen Steps

Chapter Seven

Axe

Chapter Eight

Garden

Chapter Nine

Door

Chapter Ten

Ilyona Ivanovna

Chapter Eleven

Keys

Chapter Twelve

Lizaveta Ivanovna

Chapter Thirteen

Latch

Chapter Fourteen

Stairs

Chapter Fifteen

Scraps and Shreds of Thoughts

About the Author

Author’s Preface

Raskolnikov: Murder with an Axe – A novel

This novel is an imaginative re-creation of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. After killing the old pawnbroker, Ilyona Ivanovna, and her sister, Lizabeta, the young student, Raskolnikov, is haunted by the savagery of the double-murder. As he tosses and turns in his misery – reviewing his situation, his motives and his view of himself as an Extraordinary Man – Raskolnikov’s preconscious mind forms the image-patterns by which he seeks to understand what he has done.

The Making of Murder with an Axe – a reflective journal

This journal records my reflections on the process of the crafting of the novel as it evolved through the stages of planning, writing, editing and polishing. It constitutes an effort to be as conscious as possible of the process whereby the single idea that suggested the topic of the novel was expanded into a complex work of art. Topics range from the nuts and bolts of novel-building to the nature of the novel as an art-form.

Planning Murder with an Axe – a planning notebook

During the writing of the novel, I kept a hand-written notebook which records the day-by-day development of the novel as it found its shape and style. The notebook – now in print form – reveals how a vast cluster of thoughts was sifted, selected, structured and polished into novel-form.

The Project

Together, this novel, journal and notebook comprise the tenth installment in an on-going novel-writing project in which I am exploring the concept of form and meaning in the novel, and of the novel as a form of expression in the 21st Century. All of the published journals and notebooks are available for free download at www.johnpassfield.ca.

John Passfield

Cayuga, Ontario, Canada

February, 2013

Chapter One

Revulsion

Raskolnikov woke up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and stood up in terror. Thank God, that was only a dream, he said, sitting down under a tree and drawing deep breaths. But what is it? Is it some fever coming on? Such a hideous dream! He felt utterly broken. Darkness and confusion were in his soul. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands. Good God, he cried, can it be that I shall really take an axe, that I shall strike the old woman on the head, split her skull open? That I shall tread in the sticky, warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble, hide, all spattered in the blood ... With the axe? Good God, can it be? He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.

Lying on my sofa and sweating like a pig. Darkness and confusion in my soul.

Surveying my classroom full of students.

Walking towards the bridge.

Thinking about the sharpness of the axe.

Lying on my sofa and shaking like a leaf.

Wiping away the warm perspiration that is clinging to my neck like an oily film. Hours of wrestling with a phantom. Gasping for breath and clawing at my neck as I loosen my collar.

Lying on my sofa and fighting against my thoughts.

Alone with my ideas. Alone in a bleak room in a bleak building on a bleak street on a bleak day in St. Petersburg. The terror of being alone, cornered by a thousand unsettling thoughts.

A peasant reading a book.

A lady dressed in mourning clothes.

Imagining a crime without any clues.

Perhaps a teaching post at the university. A lectureship on current issues in society. An opportunity, say, to present a series of dissertations on topics which I consider to be of serious interest.

Perhaps an early afternoon lecture, after a thoughtful discussion and a glass of wine over a pleasant, chatty dinner in the faculty club. Leaning on my lectern. A casual survey of the crowd of eager young students who fill my lecture room.

And now, gentlemen, allow me to introduce a topic which, of late, has come to occupy my thoughts.

But why am I going on like this? Raskolnikov continued, sitting up again, in profound amazement. I knew that I could never bring myself to do it, so what have I been torturing myself for ‘til now? Yesterday, when I went to make that – experiment – I realized completely that I could never bear to do it. Why am I going over it again then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said to myself that it was base... loathsome... vile... The very thought of it made me sick and filled me with horror.

Tossing and turning on my sofa. My hair becoming soaked in perspiration.

Being cornered in a tiny room.

Wondering why my skin is so sticky.

The feeling that all of my clothes are covered in blood.

Lying here on my sofa. Afraid of drifting into reverie again.

Lost and alone in St. Petersburg. There is nothing that is so terrible as to find that there is more than one way that presents itself as one advances ever further in a darkening alley. Trying to think along one way while something in my mind constantly forces me to think in another direction.

A teaching post at the university. The topic of the hypothetically-perfect crime.

My students sitting at rapt attention. Their ears alert to an intriguing topic. Their thoughts focused on every word that leaves my lips.

It would be a very interesting exercise, gentlemen, if one were to contemplate the conditions which would be necessary to allow for the successful perpetration of the perfect crime. And let us make it even more interesting, gentlemen, by proposing that our hypothetically-perfect crime be the most extreme example of the entire field of prohibited human activity: the taking of another person’s life. Let us survey, then, the elements that one would deem essential to the commission of the quintessentially-perfect murder.

Writing a declaration.

Mikolka picking up the whip.

Standing behind the door with the kitchen-axe.

Porfiry Petrovich haunts my dreams. A bloodhound sniffing in the hall outside my room.

Waking up to a violent knocking at my door. Being told that I have been summoned to make an appearance at the police office. Wondering what the police want to see me about. Do they know what I have done? My head is swimming and aching with a fever. Believing that it is all a trick. An attempt to decoy me there and confound me over everything. The heat in the street is insufferable. Not a drop of rain has fallen all these days. Dust and bricks and mortar. The stench from the shops and the pot-houses. The drunken men, the Finish pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shining straight into my eyes. My head going round. Fearing that I might blurt out something stupid. Feeling such misery that I only want to get it over. Feeling that all my clothes are covered in blood. Feeling that there are a great many blood-stains, so many that I cannot possibly see them. Feeling that I don’t notice them because my perceptions are failing. Feeling that my reason is becoming clouded. Worrying that if they question me, perhaps I will tell them everything that I know.

The sound of the balalaika.

Gazing calmly at the Neva as the sun is setting.

Feeling the urge to show them the hole in the wallpaper.

Tossing and turning on my sofa.

A wide-awake delusion or a sweat-soaked nightmare? Knowing that I have done no wrong. Why, then, am I being summoned to appear?

Adjusting my lecture notes on the lectern. The pause that focuses the attention of my students. The sunlight streaming through the window of the university classroom.

And further, gentlemen, I suggest that the blueprint which we are proposing to devise for the hypothetically-perfect murder should include two important requisites for the crime: that the deed would gain pecuniary advantage for the perpetrator and that it would ensure that the perpetrator leaves no clues by which he might be apprehended and punished.

Lying on my sofa. Haunted by my day-dreams. Strange dreams that keep recurring.

In Siberia. In prison. The brutal convicts laugh and talk of crimes that freeze the blood as they note the arrival of the new recruit. I ease my bundle down as I look around and wonder where it is that I will sleep.

Knowing that this dream will come again.

The smell of onions.

The crunch of eggshells.

A steep and narrow stair.

A warm day. Early in the morning. Six o’clock. Working on the river bank, pounding alabaster. Aware of persistent rumours of a distant caravan.

The warm, wet nose of the hated bloodhound. Unable to avoid Porfiry Petrovich in my dreams.

Turning in at the gateway of the police station. Worrying that I will fall on my knees and confess everything that I have done. A flight of stairs. A peasant with a book. Climbing to the fourth floor. Steep and narrow and sloppy with dirty water. Eggshells on the stairs. The doors opening on to the kitchens. A fearful smell and ferocious heat. Crowding on the staircase. Porters, policemen, German women and debtors. The door to the police office standing wide. Stifling heat and a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil. Waiting for a while in one room. Clerks writing at desks. No one paying attention. Remembering that there was blood on the purse! Then there must be blood on my pocket! Remembering that I put the wet purse in my pocket! Moving forward into the next room. A low-pitched ceiling. Approaching a clerk and showing the notice. Being told that I should go into another room and ask for the head clerk. Looking down at my boots! Trying to decide whether there is blood on the sock that is poking out from my boot!

Sitting terrified under a tree.

Feeling uneasy about my boot.

The sun shining straight into my eyes.

Rolling over on my sofa.

Am I awake or am I asleep? Am I suffering through a fever or a hideous dream? How to tell the police that the suspicions that they are acting on are merely thoughts that have been pressing on my mind? How to tell them that my hands are free of blood? That these thoughts are frivolous theories that only a mad-man would put to the test. That they are far from being a thing that I have done. The very idea of such an experience leaves me writhing on my sofa and soaking in a stew of my own perspiration. Since when, I would ask, has a thought become a crime?

The eyes and ears of my eager students. The pleasant sunlight of an April afternoon.

Let us assume then, gentlemen, that the hypothetically-perfect crime would be possible if one were to eliminate the factors which most often lead to the detection and apprehension of the perpetrator of the crime, and if one were to enhance those elements which, in the past, have most often made it difficult for the authorities to be able to discover the identity of the individual who is responsible for the deed.

Lying on my sofa.

Visiting the old pawnbroker.

Climbing the steep slope of the police-station stairs.

Going into the fourth room. A small room which is packed full of people. Two ladies, the chief clerk. Thrusting my notice at the head clerk who is dictating an item to a lady who is dressed in mourning clothes. Conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. Afraid of losing my self-control. Looking at the head clerk and trying to guess what he is thinking from the look on his face. Wondering why the notice has come just today. Thinking that perhaps they want me here so they can search my room when I am out! Surely, right now, there is someone searching my room! Facing a hostile glare. Being shouted at with unnatural loudness. We have here a writ for the recovery of money on an IOU! An IOU for precisely one hundred and fifteen roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, which has been brought to us for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor, Zarnitsyn, nine months ago! We therefore summon you, hereupon! Being baffled for a moment and then realizing that it is for money which I owe to my landlady! Feeling a tremendous sense of relief! A triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger! An instant of full, direct, purely-instinctive joy!

No, I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t do it! Granted that there is no flaw in all that reasoning. That all that I have concluded this last month is a clear as day – as true as arithmetic. My God! Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to do it! I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t do it! Why, then, am I still ...?

Leaning on my lectern. The sunlight on the notebooks on the desks.

It would seem, then, gentlemen, that the murderer who is most easily apprehended by the authorities is the murderer who is unable to avoid being under the influence of what we might refer to as the emotional component of the process. And, it would follow, conversely, that the murderer who is most difficult of detection is the murderer who is a conscious and deliberate student of what we might refer to as the procedural aspects of the operation.

Raskolnikov rose to his feet, looked around in wonder as though surprised at finding himself in this place, and went towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily.

Sitting and writing in the police station. Being dictated to by the head clerk. Writing a declaration as he is dictating: that I cannot pay my rent; that I undertake to do so at a future date; that I will not leave town nor sell my property. The scratching of the pen. Writing as the head clerk speaks. Wondering what this has to do with someone like me. A gloomy sensation of agonizing, everlasting solitude and remoteness taking conscious form in my soul. Wondering what I have to do with all these petty clerks, these German women, these debtors and these police officers. Feeling completely indifferent to anyone’s opinion. Being asked if I am ill. Being told that it is obvious that I can hardly hold the pen. Signing the paper and handing it to the head clerk who is taking it and turning away. Putting down the pen. Putting my elbows on the table and pressing my head into my hands. Feeling as if a nail is being driven into my skull! Feeling the urge to stand up and make a declaration to everyone in the police station! Feeling the urge to tell everything that happened when I visited the pawnbroker yesterday! Feeling that I should take them to my lodgings and show them the things that I stole from her and stuffed into a hole in the wallpaper! Standing up to do so and then stopping when I hear two police officers speaking nearby.

The sunlight flooding the classroom. The scratching of the pens as my students make their notes.

In order, gentlemen, to derive some successful conclusions from this quite fascinating exercise, it will be necessary to explore the modus operandi of the typical criminal – his thoughts, his behaviour and, of course, his emotions – before, during and after the commission of the crime. The object of the exercise, I am suggesting, is to arrive at a conceptualization of a phenomenon which could then be labeled as the prototype of the perfect criminal.

Standing in the police station with a whirling head and listening to the story of the murder. "It’s impossible! They’ll both be released! To begin with, the whole story contradicts itself! Why should they have called the porter if the murder had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in! He was talking with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct him in the presence of his friends! Now why would he have asked his way if he had been going with such an object as to kill the old woman? As for Koch, he spent an hour at the silversmith’s, below, before he went up to call on the old woman! No, the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in! And they’d have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the porter too! The murderer must have seized the interval to get downstairs and slip by them somehow! Koch keeps saying to himself: ‘If I had