Chapter 2

“And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my room?”

“And what if they’ve already searched? What if I find them in my room?”

But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have left all those things in the hole?

But here was his room. Nothing and no one was in it. No one had looked inside. Even Nastasya had not touched it. But good heavens! How could he have left all those things in the hole?

He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things out and filled his pockets with them. There were eight articles in all: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardly looked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too, merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked like a decoration.... He put them all in the different pockets of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal them as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room, leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would be issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all traces before then. He must clear everything up while he still had some strength, some reasoning power left him.... Where was he to go?

He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things out, and filled his pockets with them. There were eight items in all. Two were little boxes containing earrings or something like them. He hardly looked to see. Then there were four small leather cases. There was also a chain, simply wrapped in newspaper, and something else wrapped in newspaper that looked like a decoration.... He put them all in different pockets of his overcoat and in the remaining pocket of his trousers. He tried to hide them as well as he could. He took the purse, too. Then he left his room, leaving the door open. He walked quickly and with determination. Though he felt shattered, he still had his wits about him. He was afraid he would be pursued. He feared that in another half hour, perhaps even fifteen minutes, orders would be given to pursue him. So he had to hide all traces before then, no matter what. He had to take care of everything while he still had some strength and some ability to reason.... Where was he to go?

That had long been settled: “Fling them into the canal, and all traces hidden in the water, the thing would be at an end.” So he had decided in the night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more and looked several times at the steps running down to the water, but he could not think of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps’ edge, and women were washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious for a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was, everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to do but to watch him. “Why is it, or can it be my fancy?” he thought.

He had decided that long ago: “Throw them into the canal, and the water will hide all traces. That will be the end of it.” He had decided this during the night, while delirious. Several times he had felt the urge to get up, hurry away, and get rid of everything. But getting rid of it all turned out to be very difficult. He wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more. Several times he looked at the steps leading down to the water, but he could not bring himself to carry out his plan. Either rafts stood beside the steps, with women washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there. People were swarming everywhere. Besides, he could be seen and noticed from all the banks. It would look suspicious for a man to go down deliberately, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes floated instead of sinking? Of course they would. As it was, everyone he met seemed to stare at him and look back. It was as if they had nothing to do but watch him. “Why is that? Or am I imagining it?” he thought.

At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva. There were not so many people there, he would be less observed, and it would be more convenient in every way, above all it was further off. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half-hour, worried and anxious in this dangerous part without thinking of it before. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply because he had thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent and forgetful and he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste.

At last, it occurred to him that it might be better to go to the Neva. There were fewer people there, so he would be less noticed. It would be more convenient in every way, and above all, it was farther away. For half an hour, he had wandered through this dangerous area, worried and anxious. How could he have gone so long without thinking of the Neva? He had wasted that half-hour on an irrational plan, simply because it had come to him in a delirium! He knew he had become extremely distracted and forgetful. He certainly had to hurry.

He walked towards the Neva along V—— Prospect, but on the way another idea struck him. “Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the things in some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot perhaps?” And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. For coming out of V—— Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twenty paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of different sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the corner of a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage builder’s or carpenter’s shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone in the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as is often put in yards where there are many workmen or cab-drivers; and on the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk the time-honoured witticism, “Standing here strictly forbidden.” This was all the better, for there would be nothing suspicious about his going in. “Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!”

He walked toward the Neva along V—— Prospect, but another idea struck him on the way. “Why go to the Neva? Wouldn't it be better to go somewhere far away, to the Islands again? I could hide the things somewhere secluded, in a wood or under a bush, and perhaps mark the spot.” Though he felt unable to think clearly, the idea seemed sound. But he was not destined to go there. As he came out of V—— Prospect toward the square, he saw a passage on the left. It ran between two blank walls and led to a courtyard. On the right, the bare, unwhitewashed wall of a four-story house stretched far into the courtyard. On the left, a wooden fence ran parallel to the wall for twenty paces, then turned sharply left. Behind the fence was a deserted area littered with all kinds of rubbish. At the far end of the courtyard, the corner of a low, soot-blackened stone shed showed behind the fence. It seemed to be part of a workshop, probably a carriage builder's or carpenter's shed. The whole place was black with coal dust, starting at the entrance. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Seeing no one in the yard, he slipped inside. Near the gate he immediately saw a sink, the kind often found in yards used by many workmen or cab drivers. Above it, someone had scrawled the old joke on the fence in chalk: “Standing here strictly forbidden.” That was all the better, because there would be nothing suspicious about his going in. “Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!”

Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big unhewn stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street. He could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but he could not be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there was need of haste.

He looked around once more, his hand already in his pocket. Against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, he noticed a large, rough stone. It weighed perhaps sixty pounds. There was a street on the other side of the wall. He could hear passersby, who were always numerous in that area. But he could not be seen from the entrance unless someone came in from the street. That could easily happen, so he had to hurry.

He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands, and using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was a small hollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was in the same position again, though it stood a very little higher. But he scraped the earth about it and pressed it at the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed.

He bent over the stone, gripped the top with both hands, and turned it over with all his strength. There was a small hollow in the ground beneath it. He immediately emptied his pocket into the hollow. The purse lay on top, but the hollow still wasn't full. Then he grabbed the stone again and turned it back in one twist. It was in the same position, though it sat a little higher. But he scraped earth around the stone and pressed it down at the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed.

Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the police-office. “I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of looking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!” And he laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he reached the K—— Boulevard where two days before he had come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seat on which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it would be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given the twenty copecks: “Damn him!”

Then he went out and turned into the square. Again, an intense, almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for a moment, just as it had at the police station. “I’ve covered my tracks! And who, who would think to look under that stone? It’s probably been lying there ever since the house was built, and it will lie there as many years more. And if it were found, who would think of me? It’s all over! No clue!” And he laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began to laugh, a thin, nervous, silent laugh. He kept laughing all the way across the square. But when he reached K—— Boulevard, where he had come across that girl two days earlier, his laughter suddenly stopped. Other thoughts crept into his mind. He suddenly felt that he would hate to pass the bench where he had sat thinking after the girl left. He would also hate to meet the whiskered policeman he had given the twenty copecks to: “Damn him!”

He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that point—and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.

He walked along, looking around angrily, lost in thought. All his thoughts now seemed to circle around a single point. He felt that there really was such a point and that now, at last, he was facing it. It was the first time he had faced it in two months.

“Damn it all!” he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury. “If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It is not that at all!”

“Damn it all!” he thought suddenly, overcome with rage. “If it has begun, then it has begun. To hell with the new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is!... And what lies I told today! How disgustingly I fawned over that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that’s all nonsense! What do I care about any of them, or about fawning over them! That’s not it at all! That’s not it at all!”

Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.

Suddenly he stopped. A new question, completely unexpected and extremely simple, puzzled and deeply troubled him.

“If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance into the purse and don’t know what I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either... how’s that?”

“If I really did it all deliberately, and not out of stupidity, if I really had a clear, definite purpose, why didn’t I even look inside the purse? Why don’t I know what was in it? I went through all this agony and deliberately took on this base, filthy, degrading business for what was in that purse. And now I wanted to throw the purse straight into the water, along with all the things I hadn’t even looked at... how does that make sense?”

Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of it.... Yes, so it was.

Yes, that was true. It was all true. Yet he had known it all before. The question was not new to him, even when he decided it that night without hesitation or thought. It was as if it had to be that way, as if it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known and understood it all. Surely it had all been settled yesterday, as he bent over the box and pulled out the jewel cases.... Yes, that was how it was.

“It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing.... Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not worry.... But what if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”

“It’s because I’m very ill,” he concluded grimly at last. “I’ve been worrying and fretting, and I don’t know what I’m doing.... Yesterday, the day before, and all this time, I’ve been worrying.... I’ll get well, and I won’t worry anymore.... But what if I never get well? Good God, I’m so sick of it all!”

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him—he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him....

He walked on without stopping. He desperately wanted a distraction, but he did not know what to do or try. A new, overwhelming feeling was taking greater hold of him with every moment. He felt a boundless, almost physical disgust for everything around him, a stubborn, vicious hatred. Everyone he met was repulsive to him. He hated their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had spoken to him, he felt he might have spat at them or bitten them....

He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, he lives here, in that house,” he thought, “why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it’s the same thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day after; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now.”

He stopped suddenly as he reached the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, he lives here, in that house,” he thought. “Why, I didn’t come to Razumihin of my own accord! It’s the same thing all over again.... Still, I wonder if I came here on purpose or just walked here by chance. Never mind, the day before yesterday I said I’d go and see him the day after. Well, so I will! Besides, I really can’t go any farther now.”

He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.

He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.

The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.

Razumihin was at home in his attic room, busy writing, and he opened the door himself. They had not seen each other for four months. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged robe, with slippers on his bare feet. He was untidy, unshaven, and unwashed. His face showed surprise.

“Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you’ve cut me out!” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down, you are tired, I’ll be bound.”

“Is that you?” he cried. He looked his friend up and down, then paused briefly and whistled. “That hard up! Why, brother, you’re worse off than I am!” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come and sit down. You must be tired.”

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill.

He sank onto the American leather sofa. It was in even worse condition than his own. Razumihin immediately saw that his visitor was ill.

“Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.

“Do you know you’re seriously ill?” He began checking Raskolnikov’s pulse. Raskolnikov pulled his hand away.

“Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no lessons.... I wanted,... but I don’t really want lessons....”

“Never mind,” he said. “This is why I came. I have no lessons.... I wanted to,... but I don’t really want lessons....”

“But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin observed, watching him carefully.

“But wait! You’re delirious, you know!” Razumihin said, watching him carefully.

“No, I am not.”

“No, I am not.”

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he climbed the stairs to Razumihin’s place, he had not realized he would be seeing his friend face to face. Now it struck him that he wanted to see no one in the world face to face. His anger rose. As soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold, he nearly choked with rage at himself.

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.

“Goodbye,” he said abruptly, then walked to the door.

“Stop, stop! You queer fish.”

“Stop, stop! You odd fellow.”

“I don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his hand.

“I don’t want to,” the other said, pulling his hand away again.

“Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is... almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.”

“Then why the hell did you come? Are you crazy or what? This is... almost insulting! I won’t let you leave like that.”

“Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help... to begin... because you are kinder than anyone—cleverer, I mean, and can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all... no one’s services... no one’s sympathy. I am by myself... alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”

“Well, I came to you because I don’t know anyone else who could help... to start with... because you’re kinder than anyone. I mean, you’re smarter and can judge... and now I see that I don’t want anything. Do you hear? Nothing at all... no one’s help... no one’s sympathy. I’m by myself... alone. Come on, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”

“Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov—and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘Is woman a human being?’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?”

“Wait a minute, you scoundrel! You’re completely mad. Do as you like, for all I care. I have no tutoring work, you see, and I don’t care about that. But there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov, who makes up for one lesson. I wouldn’t trade him for five lessons. He’s a sort of publisher, putting out natural science manuals. And how they sell! The titles alone are worth the money! You always said I was a fool, but by God, my boy, there are bigger fools than I am! Now he’s trying to pass himself off as progressive. He doesn’t have a clue about anything, of course, but I encourage him. Here are two signatures of German text. In my opinion, it’s the crudest kind of fraud. It tackles the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And of course, it triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to publish it as a contribution to the debate about women. I’m translating it, and he’ll stretch these two and a half signatures into six. We’ll come up with a magnificent title half a page long and sell it for half a rouble. It’ll do! He pays me six roubles per signature, which comes to about fifteen roubles for the job. I’ve already had six in advance. When we finish this, we’re going to start translating something about whales. After that, we’ve marked some of the dullest scandals from the second part of Les Confessions for translation. Someone has told Heruvimov that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You can be sure I don’t contradict him, damn him! Well, would you like to translate the second signature of ‘Is woman a human being?’ If you would, take the German text, pens and paper. They’re all provided. And take three roubles. I’ve had six roubles in advance for the whole job, so three roubles are your share. When you finish the signature, you’ll get another three. And please don’t think I’m doing you a favor. Quite the opposite. As soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me. For one thing, I’m a poor speller. For another, I sometimes get completely lost in German, so I mostly make it up as I go along. The only comfort is that my version is bound to be an improvement. Though who knows? Maybe it’s sometimes worse. Will you take it?”

Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.

Raskolnikov silently took the German sheets and the three roubles, then left without a word. Razumihin stared after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov reached the next street, he turned back and climbed the stairs to Razumihin’s again. He laid the German article and the three roubles on the table, then left again, still without saying a word.

“Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. “What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too... what did you come to see me for, damn you?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Razumihin shouted, finally losing his temper. “What kind of farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too... Why did you come to see me, damn you?”

“I don’t want... translation,” muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.

“I don’t want... translation,” Raskolnikov muttered from the stairs.

“Then what the devil do you want?” shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.

“Then what the devil do you want?” Razumihin shouted from above. Raskolnikov kept walking down the stairs in silence.

“Hey, there! Where are you living?”

“Hey, where do you live?”

No answer.

No answer.

“Well, confound you then!”

“Well, damn you then!”

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge, an unpleasant incident brought him fully to his senses again. He had almost fallen under a coachman’s horses’ hooves. After shouting at him two or three times, the coachman struck him hard across the back with his whip. The blow so enraged him that he rushed to the railing. For some unknown reason, he had been walking in the middle of the bridge, among the traffic. He clenched and ground his teeth in anger. Of course, he heard laughter.

“Serve him right!”

“He deserved it!”

“A pickpocket I dare say.”

“A pickpocket, I suppose.”

“Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.”

“He's pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose. And you have to answer for him.”

“It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”

“It’s a real profession, that’s what it is.”

But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter, wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.

But he stood at the railing, rubbing his back and staring after the departing carriage, still angry and bewildered. Suddenly, he felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman wearing a headscarf and goatskin shoes. She was with a girl, probably her daughter, who wore a hat and carried a green parasol.

“Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”

“Take it, sir, in Christ’s name.”

He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.

He took it, and they moved on. It was a twenty-copeck coin. His clothes and appearance could easily have made them mistake him for a beggar on the street. No doubt they gave him the coin because the blow made them feel sorry for him.

He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times—generally on his way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him... so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all.... He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.

He closed his hand around the twenty copecks, walked ten paces, and turned to face the Neva, looking toward the palace. The sky was cloudless, and the water was almost bright blue, which was rare for the Neva. The cathedral’s dome glittered in the sunlight. It was best seen from the bridge, about twenty paces from the chapel. In the clear air, every ornament on it was visible. The pain from the lash faded, and Raskolnikov forgot about it. Now a troubling, half-formed thought completely occupied him. He stood still and gazed intently into the distance for a long time. He knew this spot especially well. When he was at university, he had stopped here hundreds of times, usually on his way home. He would gaze at the truly magnificent view and almost always wonder at the vague, mysterious feeling it stirred in him. It left him strangely cold. For him, the beautiful scene was empty and lifeless. Each time, he wondered at his gloomy, puzzling reaction. But he distrusted himself and put off trying to explain it. He vividly remembered those old doubts and uncertainties, and it seemed no accident that he remembered them now. He found it strange and absurd that he had stopped at the same spot as before. It was as if he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts and take an interest in the same theories and scenes that had interested him so short a time ago. He found it almost amusing, yet it broke his heart. All of it now seemed buried deep down, far out of sight. His whole past, his old thoughts, problems, and theories, his old impressions, that scene, himself, everything.... He felt as though he were flying upward and everything were disappearing from view. He moved his hand without thinking and suddenly became aware of the coin in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and flung it into the water with a sweep of his arm. Then he turned and went home. It seemed to him that, at that moment, he had cut himself off from everyone and everything.

Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....

Evening was falling when he got home, so he must have been walking for about six hours. He could not remember how or where he had walked on his way back. He undressed, trembling like an overworked horse, and lay down on the sofa. He pulled his coat over himself and immediately fell into a deep sleep....

It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.

It was dusk when a terrifying scream woke him. Good God, what a scream! He had never heard such unnatural sounds: howling, wailing, grinding, crying, blows, and curses.

He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, “for no doubt... it’s all about that... about yesterday.... Good God!” He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand... besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of them—almost all the inmates of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!”

He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. Terrified, he sat up in bed, almost fainting with agony. But the fighting, wailing, and cursing grew louder and louder. Then, to his intense amazement, he recognized his landlady’s voice. She was howling, shrieking, and wailing, speaking so quickly and incoherently that he could not understand her. No doubt she was begging not to be beaten, for someone was beating her mercilessly on the stairs. Her attacker’s voice was so horrible with spite and rage that it was almost a croak. He, too, was saying something, just as quickly and indistinctly, rushing and spluttering over his words. Suddenly Raskolnikov trembled. He recognized the voice. It was Ilya Petrovitch’s. Ilya Petrovitch was here, beating the landlady! He was kicking her, banging her head against the steps. That much was clear from the sounds, the cries and the thuds. How could this be? Was the world upside down? He could hear crowds running from every floor and every staircase. He heard voices, exclamations, knocking, and doors slamming. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, seriously thinking he had gone mad. But no, he heard it all too clearly! And they would come to him next. “For no doubt... it’s all about that... about yesterday.... Good God!” He wanted to latch his door, but he could not lift his hand... besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, torturing and numbing him.... At last, after about ten minutes, the uproar began to die down. The landlady was moaning and groaning. Ilya Petrovitch was still threatening and cursing her.... But at last he, too, seemed to fall silent, and Raskolnikov could no longer hear him. “Can he have gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady was going too, still weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd was leaving the stairs and going back to their rooms. They exclaimed, argued, and called to one another, raising their voices to a shout, then lowering them to a whisper. There must have been many of them, almost everyone who lived in the building. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!”

Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.

Raskolnikov sank onto the sofa, exhausted, but could not close his eyes. He lay there for half an hour in anguish, feeling an unbearable, boundless terror unlike anything he had experienced before. Suddenly, a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. She looked at him carefully and saw that he was awake. Then she set the candle on the table and began laying out what she had brought: bread, salt, a plate, and a spoon.

“You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”

“I bet you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. You’ve been walking around all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”

“Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?”

“Nastasya... why were they beating the landlady?”

She looked intently at him.

She looked at him intently.

“Who beat the landlady?”

“Who beat the landlady?”

“Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating her like that, and... why was he here?”

“Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he treating her so badly, and... why was he here?”

Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.

Nastasya studied him in silence, frowning. She looked at him for a long time. Her searching gaze made him uneasy, even frightened.

“Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last in a weak voice.

“Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he finally asked timidly in a weak voice.

“It’s the blood,” she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.

“It’s the blood,” she said softly at last, as if speaking to herself.

“Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall.

“Blood? What blood?” he muttered, turning pale and facing the wall.

Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.

Nastasya continued to look at him without speaking.

“Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice.

“Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she finally said in a firm, determined voice.

He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.

He stared at her, hardly able to breathe.

“I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up,” he said still more timidly. “I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.”

“I heard it myself.... I wasn’t asleep... I was sitting up,” he said even more timidly. “I listened for a long time. The assistant superintendent came.... Everyone ran out of their apartments onto the stairs.”

“No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things.... Will you eat something?”

“No one has been here. That’s the blood rushing in your ears. When the blood has no outlet and clots, you start imagining things.... Will you eat something?”

He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.

He didn't answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.

“Give me something to drink... Nastasya.”

“Give me something to drink... Nastasya.”

She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.

She went downstairs and came back with a white ceramic jug of water. He remembered only taking one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then he remembered nothing.