So
he
lay
a
very
long
while.
Now
and
then
he
seemed
to
wake
up,
and
at
such
moments
he
noticed
that
it
was
far
into
the
night,
but
it
did
not
occur
to
him
to
get
up.
At
last
he
noticed
that
it
was
beginning
to
get
light.
He
was
lying
on
his
back,
still
dazed
from
his
recent
oblivion. Fearful,
despairing
cries
rose
shrilly
from
the
street,
sounds
which
he
heard
every
night, indeed,
under
his
window
after
two
o'clock.
They
woke
him
up
now. "Ah!
the
drunken
men
are
coming
out
of
the
taverns,"
he
thought, "it's past
two
o'clock,"
and
at
once
he
leaped up,
as
though
someone had
pulled
him
from
the
sofa. "What! Past
two
o'clock!"
He
sat
down
on
the
sofa—and instantly
recollected
everything!
All
at
once,
in
one
flash,
he
recollected
everything.
For
the
first
moment
he
thought
he
was
going mad. A dreadful chill came
over
him;
but
the
chill
was
from
the
fever
that
had begun
long
before
in
his
sleep.
Now
he
was
suddenly taken
with
violent
shivering,
so
that
his
teeth chattered
and
all
his
limbs
were
shaking.
He
opened
the
door
and
began listening—everything
in
the
house
was
asleep.
With
amazement
he
gazed
at
himself
and
everything
in
the
room
around
him,
wondering
how
he
could
have
come
in
the
night
before
without
fastening
the
door,
and
have
flung
himself
on
the
sofa
without
undressing,
without
even
taking
his
hat
off.
It
had fallen
off
and
was
lying
on
the
floor
near
his
pillow. "If
anyone
had
come
in,
what
would
he
have
thought?
That
I'm
drunk
but..."
He
rushed
to
the
window.
There
was
light
enough,
and
he
began hurriedly
looking
himself
all
over
from
head
to
foot,
all
his
clothes;
were
there
no
traces?
But
there
was
no
doing
it
like
that;
shivering
with
cold,
he
began
taking
off
everything
and
looking
over
again.
He
turned
everything
over
to
the
last
threads
and
rags,
and
mistrusting himself, went
through
his
search
three
times.
But
there
seemed
to
be
nothing,
no
trace,
except
in
one
place,
where
some
thick
drops
of
congealed
blood
were
clinging
to
the
frayed
edge
of
his
trousers.
He
picked
up
a
big
claspknife
and
cut
off
the
frayed threads.
There
seemed
to
be
nothing
more. Suddenly
he
remembered
that
the
purse
and
the
things
he
had taken
out
of
the
old
woman's
box
were
still
in
his
pockets!
He
had
not
thought
till
then
of
taking
them
out
and
hiding
them!
He
had
not
even
thought
of
them
while
he
was
examining
his
clothes!
What
next? Instantly
he
rushed
to
take
them
out
and
fling
them
on
the
table.
When
he
had
pulled
out
everything,
and
turned
the
pocket
inside
out
to
be
sure
there
was
nothing
left,
he
carried
the
whole
heap
to
the
corner.
The
paper had
come
off
the
bottom
of
the
wall
and
hung
there
in
tatters.
He
began stuffing
all
the
things
into
the
hole
under
the
paper: "They're in!
All
out
of
sight,
and
the
purse too!"
he
thought
gleefully,
getting
up
and
gazing
blankly
at
the
hole
which
bulged
out
more
than
ever. Suddenly
he
shuddered
all
over
with
horror; "My God!"
he
whispered
in
despair: "what's
the
matter
with
me?
Is
that
hidden?
Is
that
the
way
to
hide
things?"
He
had
not
reckoned
on
having
trinkets
to
hide.
He
had
only
thought
of
money,
and
so
had
not
prepared
a hiding-place. "But now, now,
what
am
I
glad
of?"
he
thought, "Is
that
hiding
things? My reason's
deserting
me—simply!"
He
sat
down
on
the
sofa
in
exhaustion
and
was
at
once
shaken
by
another
unbearable
fit
of
shivering. Mechanically
he
drew
from
a chair
beside
him
his
old
student's
winter
coat,
which
was
still
warm
though
almost
in
rags, covered
himself
up
with
it
and
once
more
sank
into
drowsiness
and
delirium.
He
lost consciousness.
Not
more
than
five
minutes
had
passed
when
he
jumped
up
a
second
time,
and
at
once
pounced
in
a frenzy
on
his
clothes
again. "How
could
I
go
to
sleep
again
with
nothing
done? Yes, yes; I
have
not
taken
the
loop
off
the
armhole! I forgot it, forgot a
thing
like
that!
Such
a
piece
of
evidence!"
He
pulled
off
the
noose, hurriedly
cut
it
to
pieces
and
threw
the
bits
among
his
linen
under
the
pillow. "Pieces
of
torn
linen
couldn't
rouse
suspicion, whatever happened; I
think
not, I
think
not,
any
way!"
he
repeated, standing
in
the
middle
of
the
room,
and
with
painful
concentration
he
fell
to
gazing
about
him
again,
at
the
floor
and
everywhere, trying
to
make
sure
he
had
not
forgotten anything.
The
conviction
that
all
his
faculties,
even
memory,
and
the
simplest
power
of
reflection
were
failing him, began
to
be
an
insufferable torture. "Surely
it
isn't
beginning
already! Surely
it
isn't my
punishment
coming
upon
me?
It
is!"
The
frayed
rags
he
had
cut
off
his
trousers
were
actually lying
on
the
floor
in
the
middle
of
the
room,
where
anyone
coming
in
would
see
them! "What
is
the
matter
with
me!"
he
cried again,
like
one
distraught.
Then
a
strange
idea
entered
his
head; that, perhaps,
all
his
clothes
were
covered
with
blood, that, perhaps,
there
were
a
great
many
stains,
but
that
he
did
not
see
them,
did
not
notice
them
because
his
perceptions
were
failing,
were
going
to
pieces...
his
reason
was
clouded.... Suddenly
he
remembered
that
there
had been blood
on
the
purse too. "Ah!
Then
there
must
be
blood
on
the
pocket
too,
for
I
put
the
wet
purse
in
my pocket!"
In
a flash
he
had
turned
the
pocket
inside
out
and, yes!—there
were
traces, stains
on
the
lining
of
the
pocket! "So my
reason
has
not
quite
deserted
me,
so
I
still
have
some
sense
and
memory,
since
I guessed
it
of
myself,"
he
thought
triumphantly,
with
a
deep
sigh
of
relief; "it's simply
the
weakness
of
fever, a moment's delirium,"
and
he
tore
the
whole
lining
out
of
the
left
pocket
of
his
trousers.
At
that
instant
the
sunlight
fell
on
his
left boot;
on
the
sock
which
poked
out
from
the
boot,
he
fancied
there
were
traces!
He
flung
off
his
boots; "traces indeed!
The
tip
of
the
sock
was
soaked
with
blood;"
he
must
have
unwarily
stepped
into
that
pool.... "But
what
am
I
to
do
with
this
now?
Where
am
I
to
put
the
sock
and
rags
and
pocket?"
He
gathered
them
all
up
in
his
hands
and
stood
in
the
middle
of
the
room. "In
the
stove?
But
they
would
ransack
the
stove
first
of
all.
Burn
them?
But
what
can
I
burn
them
with?
There
are
no
matches even. No,
better
go
out
and
throw
it
all
away
somewhere. Yes,
better
throw
it
away,"
he
repeated, sitting
down
on
the
sofa
again, "and
at
once,
this
minute,
without
lingering..."
But
his
head
sank
on
the
pillow
instead.
Again
the
unbearable
icy
shivering
came
over
him;
again
he
drew
his
coat
over
him.
And
for
a
long
while,
for
some
hours,
he
was
haunted
by
the
impulse
to
"go
off
somewhere
at
once,
this
moment,
and
fling
it
all
away,
so
that
it
may
be
out
of
sight
and
done
with,
at
once,
at
once!"
Several
times
he
tried
to
rise
from
the
sofa,
but
could
not.
He
was
thoroughly
waked
up
at
last
by
a
violent
knocking
at
his
door. "Open, do,
are
you
dead
or
alive?
He
keeps
sleeping here!" shouted Nastasya,
banging
with
her
fist
on
the
door. "For
whole
days
together
he's snoring
here
like
a dog! A
dog
he
is
too.
Open
I
tell
you. It's past ten." "Maybe he's
not
at
home," said a man's voice. "Ha! that's
the
porter's voice....
What
does
he
want?"
He
jumped
up
and
sat
on
the
sofa.
The
beating
of
his
heart
was
a positive pain. "Then
who
can
have
latched
the
door?" retorted Nastasya. "He's taken
to
bolting
himself
in!
As
if
he
were
worth
stealing! Open,
you
stupid,
wake
up!" "What
do
they
want?
Why
the
porter? All's discovered.
Resist
or
open?
Come
what
may!..."
He
half
rose,
stooped
forward
and
unlatched
the
door.
His
room
was
so
small
that
he
could
undo
the
latch
without
leaving
the
bed. Yes;
the
porter
and
Nastasya
were
standing there. Nastasya stared
at
him
in
a
strange
way.
He
glanced
with
a
defiant
and
desperate
air
at
the
porter,
who
without
a
word
held
out
a grey
folded
paper sealed
with
bottle-wax. "A notice
from
the
office,"
he
announced,
as
he
gave
him
the
paper. "From
what
office?" "A
summons
to
the
police
office,
of
course.
You
know
which
office." "To
the
police?...
What
for?..." "How
can
I tell? You're sent for,
so
you
go."
The
man
looked
at
him
attentively,
looked
round
the
room
and
turned
to
go
away. "He's
downright
ill!"
observed
Nastasya,
not
taking
her
eyes
off
him.
The
porter
turned
his
head
for
a moment. "He's been
in
a
fever
since
yesterday,"
she
added. Raskolnikov
made
no
response
and
held
the
paper
in
his
hands,
without
opening
it. "Don't
you
get
up
then," Nastasya went
on
compassionately,
seeing
that
he
was
letting
his
feet
down
from
the
sofa. "You're ill,
and
so
don't go; there's
no
such
hurry.
What
have
you
got there?"
He
looked;
in
his
right
hand
he
held
the
shreds
he
had
cut
from
his
trousers,
the
sock,
and
the
rags
of
the
pocket.
So
he
had been
asleep
with
them
in
his
hand. Afterwards
reflecting
upon
it,
he
remembered
that
half
waking
up
in
his
fever,
he
had
grasped
all
this
tightly
in
his
hand
and
so
fallen
asleep
again. "Look
at
the
rags
he's
collected
and
sleeps
with
them,
as
though
he
has got
hold
of
a treasure..."
And
Nastasya went
off
into
her
hysterical
giggle. Instantly
he
thrust
them
all
under
his
great
coat
and
fixed
his
eyes
intently
upon
her.
Far
as
he
was
from
being
capable
of
rational
reflection
at
that
moment,
he
felt
that
no
one
would
behave
like
that
with
a
person
who
was
going
to
be
arrested. "But...
the
police?" "You'd
better
have
some
tea! Yes? I'll
bring
it, there's
some
left." "No... I'm going; I'll
go
at
once,"
he
muttered,
getting
on
to
his
feet. "Why, you'll
never
get
downstairs!" "Yes, I'll go." "As
you
please."
She
followed
the
porter out.
At
once
he
rushed
to
the
light
to
examine
the
sock
and
the
rags. "There
are
stains,
but
not
very
noticeable;
all
covered
with
dirt,
and
rubbed
and
already
discoloured.
No
one
who
had
no
suspicion
could
distinguish
anything. Nastasya
from
a distance
could
not
have
noticed,
thank
God!"
Then
with
a
tremor
he
broke
the
seal
of
the
notice
and
began reading;
he
was
a
long
while
reading,
before
he
understood.
It
was
an
ordinary
summons
from
the
district
police-station
to
appear
that
day
at
half-past
nine
at
the
office
of
the
district
superintendent. "But
when
has
such
a
thing
happened? I
never
have
anything
to
do
with
the
police!
And
why
just
to-day?"
he
thought
in
agonising bewilderment. "Good God,
only
get
it
over
soon!"
He
was
flinging
himself
on
his
knees
to
pray,
but
broke
into
laughter—not
at
the
idea
of
prayer,
but
at
himself.
He
began, hurriedly dressing. "If I'm lost, I
am
lost, I don't care!
Shall
I
put
the
sock
on?"
he
suddenly wondered, "it
will
get
dustier
still
and
the
traces
will
be
gone."
But
no
sooner
had
he
put
it
on
than
he
pulled
it
off
again
in
loathing
and
horror.
He
pulled
it
off,
but
reflecting
that
he
had
no
other
socks,
he
picked
it
up
and
put
it
on
again—and
again
he
laughed. "That's
all
conventional, that's
all
relative, merely a
way
of
looking
at
it,"
he
thought
in
a flash,
but
only
on
the
top
surface
of
his
mind,
while
he
was
shuddering
all
over, "there, I've got
it
on! I
have
finished
by
getting
it
on!"
But
his
laughter
was
quickly
followed
by
despair. "No, it's
too
much
for
me..."
he
thought.
His
legs
shook. "From fear,"
he
muttered.
His
head
swam
and
ached
with
fever. "It's a trick!
They
want
to
decoy
me
there
and
confound
me
over
everything,"
he
mused,
as
he
went
out
on
to
the
stairs—"the worst
of
it
is
I'm
almost
light-headed... I
may
blurt
out
something
stupid..."
On
the
stairs
he
remembered
that
he
was
leaving
all
the
things
just
as
they
were
in
the
hole
in
the
wall, "and
very
likely, it's
on
purpose
to
search
when
I'm out,"
he
thought,
and
stopped short.
But
he
was
possessed
by
such
despair,
such
cynicism
of
misery,
if
one
may
so
call
it,
that
with
a
wave
of
his
hand
he
went on. "Only
to
get
it
over!"
In
the
street
the
heat
was
insufferable again;
not
a
drop
of
rain
had fallen
all
those
days.
Again
dust,
bricks
and
mortar,
again
the
stench
from
the
shops
and
pot-houses,
again
the
drunken
men,
the
Finnish pedlars
and
half-broken-down cabs.
The
sun
shone straight
in
his
eyes,
so
that
it
hurt
him
to
look
out
of
them,
and
he
felt
his
head
going round—as a
man
in
a
fever
is
apt
to
feel
when
he
comes
out
into
the
street
on
a
bright
sunny
day. "If
they
question
me,
perhaps
I'll simply tell,"
he
thought,
as
he
drew
near
the
police-station.
The
police-station
was
about
a
quarter
of
a
mile
off.
It
had
lately
been
moved
to
new
rooms
on
the
fourth
floor
of
a
new
house.
He
had been
once
for
a
moment
in
the
old
office
but
long
ago.
Turning
in
at
the
gateway,
he
saw
on
the
right
a
flight
of
stairs
which
a
peasant
was
mounting
with
a
book
in
his
hand. "A house-porter,
no
doubt;
so
then,
the
office
is
here,"
and
he
began
ascending
the
stairs
on
the
chance.
He
did
not
want
to
ask
questions
of
anyone. "I'll
go
in,
fall
on
my knees,
and
confess
everything..."
he
thought,
as
he
reached
the
fourth
floor.
The
staircase
was
steep,
narrow
and
all
sloppy
with
dirty water.
The
kitchens
of
the
flats
opened
on
to
the
stairs
and
stood
open
almost
the
whole
day.
So
there
was
a fearful
smell
and
heat.
The
staircase
was
crowded
with
porters going
up
and
down
with
their
books
under
their
arms, policemen,
and
persons
of
all
sorts
and
both
sexes.
The
door
of
the
office, too, stood
wide
open.
Peasants
stood
waiting
within. There, too,
the
heat
was
stifling
and
there
was
a sickening
smell
of
fresh
paint
and
stale
oil
from
the
newly
decorated
rooms.
After
waiting
a little,
he
decided
to
move
forward
into
the
next
room.
All
the
rooms
were
small
and
low-pitched. A fearful
impatience
drew
him
on
and
on.
No
one
paid
attention
to
him.
In
the
second
room
some
clerks sat writing, dressed
hardly
better
than
he
was,
and
rather
a queer-looking set.
He
went
up
to
one
of
them. "What
is
it?"
He
showed
the
notice
he
had received. "You
are
a student?"
the
man
asked, glancing
at
the
notice. "Yes,
formerly
a student."
The
clerk
looked
at
him,
but
without
the
slightest interest.
He
was
a particularly
unkempt
person
with
the
look
of
a fixed
idea
in
his
eye. "There
would
be
no
getting
anything
out
of
him,
because
he
has
no
interest
in
anything,"
thought
Raskolnikov. "Go
in
there
to
the
head
clerk," said
the
clerk, pointing
towards
the
furthest room.
He
went
into
that
room—the
fourth
in
order;
it
was
a small
room
and
packed
full
of
people,
rather
better
dressed
than
in
the
outer
rooms.
Among
them
were
two
ladies. One, poorly dressed
in
mourning, sat
at
the
table
opposite
the
chief
clerk,
writing
something
at
his
dictation.
The
other, a
very
stout,
buxom
woman
with
a purplish-red, blotchy face,
excessively
smartly dressed
with
a
brooch
on
her
bosom
as
big
as
a saucer,
was
standing
on
one
side, apparently
waiting
for
something. Raskolnikov thrust
his
notice
upon
the
head
clerk.
The
latter
glanced
at
it, said: "Wait a minute,"
and
went
on
attending
to
the
lady
in
mourning.
He
breathed
more
freely. "It can't
be
that!"
By
degrees
he
began
to
regain
confidence,
he
kept urging
himself
to
have
courage
and
be
calm. "Some foolishness,
some
trifling carelessness,
and
I
may
betray
myself! Hm... it's a
pity
there's
no
air here,"
he
added, "it's stifling....
It
makes
one's
head
dizzier
than
ever...
and
one's
mind
too..."
He
was
conscious
of
a
terrible
inner
turmoil.
He
was
afraid
of
losing
his
self-control;
he
tried
to
catch
at
something
and
fix
his
mind
on
it,
something
quite
irrelevant,
but
he
could
not
succeed
in
this
at
all.
Yet
the
head
clerk
greatly
interested him,
he
kept hoping
to
see
through
him
and
guess
something
from
his
face.
He
was
a
very
young
man,
about
two
and
twenty,
with
a dark mobile face
that
looked
older
than
his
years.
He
was
fashionably dressed
and
foppish,
with
his
hair
parted
in
the
middle,
well
combed
and
pomaded,
and
wore a
number
of
rings
on
his
well-scrubbed
fingers
and
a
gold
chain
on
his
waistcoat.
He
said a
couple
of
words
in
French
to
a
foreigner
who
was
in
the
room,
and
said
them
fairly
correctly. "Luise Ivanovna,
you
can
sit
down,"
he
said
casually
to
the
gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady,
who
was
still
standing
as
though
not
venturing
to
sit
down,
though
there
was
a chair
beside
her. "Ich danke," said
the
latter,
and
softly,
with
a rustle
of
silk
she
sank
into
the
chair.
Her
light
blue dress
trimmed
with
white
lace
floated
about
the
table
like
an
air-balloon
and
filled
almost
half
the
room.
She
smelt
of
scent.
But
she
was
obviously
embarrassed
at
filling
half
the
room
and
smelling
so
strongly
of
scent;
and
though
her
smile
was
impudent
as
well
as
cringing,
it
betrayed
evident
uneasiness.
The
lady
in
mourning
had
done
at
last,
and
got up.
All
at
once,
with
some
noise,
an
officer
walked
in
very
jauntily,
with
a
peculiar
swing
of
his
shoulders
at
each
step.
He
tossed
his
cockaded
cap
on
the
table
and
sat
down
in
an
easy-chair.
The
small
lady
positively skipped
from
her
seat
on
seeing
him,
and
fell
to
curtsying
in
a
sort
of
ecstasy;
but
the
officer
took
not
the
smallest notice
of
her,
and
she
did
not
venture
to
sit
down
again
in
his
presence.
He
was
the
assistant
superintendent.
He
had a reddish moustache
that
stood
out
horizontally
on
each
side
of
his
face,
and
extremely small features,
expressive
of
nothing
much
except
a
certain
insolence.
He
looked
askance
and
rather
indignantly
at
Raskolnikov;
he
was
so
very
badly dressed,
and
in
spite
of
his
humiliating position,
his
bearing
was
by
no
means
in
keeping
with
his
clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a
very
long
and
direct
look
on
him,
so
that
he
felt positively affronted. "What
do
you
want?"
he
shouted, apparently
astonished
that
such
a
ragged
fellow
was
not
annihilated
by
the
majesty
of
his
glance. "I
was
summoned...
by
a notice..." Raskolnikov faltered.
And
he
trembled
with
joy.
He
felt
sudden
intense
indescribable
relief. A load
was
lifted
from
his
back. "And pray,
what
time
were
you
directed
to
appear, sir?" shouted
the
assistant
superintendent, seeming
for
some
unknown
reason
more
and
more
aggrieved. "You
are
told
to
come
at
nine,
and
now
it's twelve!" "The notice
was
only
brought
me
a
quarter
of
an
hour
ago," Raskolnikov
answered
loudly
over
his
shoulder.
To
his
own
surprise
he, too,
grew
suddenly
angry
and
found a
certain
pleasure
in
it. "And it's
enough
that
I
have
come
here
ill
with
fever." "Kindly
refrain
from
shouting!" "I'm
not
shouting, I'm
speaking
very
quietly, it's
you
who
are
shouting
at
me. I'm a student,
and
allow
no
one
to
shout
at
me."
The
assistant
superintendent
was
so
furious
that
for
the
first
minute
he
could
only
splutter inarticulately.
He
leaped
up
from
his
seat. "Be silent!
You
are
in
a
government
office. Don't
be
impudent, sir!" "You're
in
a
government
office, too," cried Raskolnikov, "and you're
smoking
a
cigarette
as
well
as
shouting,
so
you
are
showing
disrespect
to
all
of
us."
He
felt
an
indescribable
satisfaction
at
having
said this.
The
head
clerk
looked
at
him
with
a smile.
The
angry
assistant
superintendent
was
obviously
disconcerted. "That's
not
your
business!"
he
shouted
at
last
with
unnatural loudness. "Kindly
make
the
declaration
demanded
of
you.
Show
him. Alexandr Grigorievitch.
There
is
a
complaint
against you!
You
don't
pay
your
debts! You're a
fine
bird!"
But
Raskolnikov
was
not
listening
now;
he
had
eagerly
clutched
at
the
paper,
in
haste
to
find
an
explanation.
He
read
it
once,
and
a
second
time,
and
still
did
not
understand. "What
is
this?"
he
asked
the
head
clerk. "It
is
for
the
recovery
of
money
on
an
I O U, a writ.
You
must
either
pay
it,
with
all
expenses,
costs
and
so
on,
or
give
a written
declaration
when
you
can
pay
it,
and
at
the
same
time
an
undertaking
not
to
leave
the
capital
without
payment,
and
nor
to
sell
or
conceal
your
property.
The
creditor
is
at
liberty
to
sell
your
property,
and
proceed
against
you
according
to
the
law." "But I...
am
not
in
debt
to
anyone!" "That's
not
our
business. Here,
an
I O U
for
a
hundred
and
fifteen
roubles,
legally
attested,
and
due
for
payment, has been brought
us
for
recovery,
given
by
you
to
the
widow
of
the
assessor
Zarnitsyn,
nine
months
ago,
and
paid
over
by
the
widow
Zarnitsyn
to
one
Mr. Tchebarov.
We
therefore
summon
you, hereupon." "But
she
is
my landlady!" "And
what
if
she
is
your
landlady?"
The
head
clerk
looked
at
him
with
a condescending
smile
of
compassion,
and
at
the
same
time
with
a
certain
triumph,
as
at
a
novice
under
fire
for
the
first
time—as
though
he
would
say: "Well,
how
do
you
feel now?"
But
what
did
he
care
now
for
an
I O U,
for
a
writ
of
recovery!
Was
that
worth
worrying
about
now,
was
it
worth
attention
even!
He
stood,
he
read,
he
listened,
he
answered,
he
even
asked
questions
himself,
but
all
mechanically.
The
triumphant
sense
of
security,
of
deliverance
from
overwhelming
danger,
that
was
what
filled
his
whole
soul
that
moment
without
thought
for
the
future,
without
analysis,
without
suppositions
or
surmises,
without
doubts
and
without
questioning.
It
was
an
instant
of
full, direct, purely
instinctive
joy.
But
at
that
very
moment
something
like
a thunderstorm
took
place
in
the
office.
The
assistant
superintendent,
still
shaken
by
Raskolnikov's disrespect,
still
fuming
and
obviously
anxious
to
keep
up
his
wounded
dignity,
pounced
on
the
unfortunate smart lady,
who
had been gazing
at
him
ever
since
he
came
in
with
an
exceedingly
silly
smile. "You
shameful
hussy!"
he
shouted suddenly
at
the
top
of
his
voice. (The
lady
in
mourning
had left
the
office.) "What
was
going
on
at
your
house
last
night? Eh! A
disgrace
again, you're a
scandal
to
the
whole
street. Fighting
and
drinking again.
Do
you
want
the
house
of
correction? Why, I
have
warned
you
ten
times
over
that
I
would
not
let
you
off
the
eleventh!
And
here
you
are
again, again, you... you...!"
The
paper
fell
out
of
Raskolnikov's hands,
and
he
looked
wildly
at
the
smart
lady
who
was
so
unceremoniously treated.
But
he
soon
saw
what
it
meant,
and
at
once
began
to
find positive
amusement
in
the
scandal.
He
listened
with
pleasure,
so
that
he
longed
to
laugh
and
laugh...
all
his
nerves
were
on
edge. "Ilya Petrovitch!"
the
head
clerk
was
beginning
anxiously,
but
stopped short,
for
he
knew
from
experience
that
the
enraged
assistant
could
not
be
stopped
except
by
force.
As
for
the
smart lady,
at
first
she
positively
trembled
before
the
storm. But,
strange
to
say,
the
more
numerous
and
violent
the
terms
of
abuse
became,
the
more
amiable
she
looked,
and
the
more
seductive
the
smiles
she
lavished
on
the
terrible
assistant.
She
moved
uneasily,
and
curtsied incessantly,
waiting
impatiently
for
a
chance
of
putting
in
her
word:
and
at
last
she
found it. "Then
he
was
an
author?" "Yes, Mr. Captain,
and
what
an
ungentlemanly
visitor
in
an
honourable
house...." "Now then! Enough! I
have
told
you
already..." "Ilya Petrovitch!"
the
head
clerk repeated significantly.
The
assistant
glanced
rapidly
at
him;
the
head
clerk slightly shook
his
head. "...
So
I
tell
you
this,
most
respectable Luise Ivanovna,
and
I
tell
it
you
for
the
last
time,"
the
assistant
went on. "If
there
is
a
scandal
in
your
honourable
house
once
again, I
will
put
you
yourself
in
the
lock-up,
as
it
is
called
in
polite
society.
Do
you
hear?
So
a
literary
man,
an
author
took
five
roubles
for
his
coat-tail
in
an
'honourable house'? A
nice
set,
these
authors!"
And
he
cast a
contemptuous
glance
at
Raskolnikov. "There
was
a
scandal
the
other
day
in
a restaurant, too.
An
author had
eaten
his
dinner
and
would
not
pay; 'I'll
write
a satire
on
you,' says he.
And
there
was
another
of
them
on
a steamer
last
week
used
the
most
disgraceful
language
to
the
respectable
family
of
a
civil
councillor,
his
wife
and
daughter.
And
there
was
one
of
them
turned
out
of
a confectioner's shop
the
other
day.
They
are
like
that, authors,
literary
men, students, town-criers.... Pfoo!
You
get
along! I
shall
look
in
upon
you
myself
one
day.
Then
you
had
better
be
careful!
Do
you
hear?"
With
hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna
fell
to
curtsying
in
all
directions,
and
so
curtsied
herself
to
the
door.
But
at
the
door,
she
stumbled backwards against a good-looking
officer
with
a fresh,
open
face
and
splendid
thick
fair
whiskers.
This
was
the
superintendent
of
the
district
himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna
made
haste
to
curtsy
almost
to
the
ground,
and
with
mincing
little
steps,
she
fluttered
out
of
the
office. "Again
thunder
and
lightning—a hurricane!" said Nikodim Fomitch
to
Ilya Petrovitch
in
a
civil
and
friendly
tone. "You
are
aroused again,
you
are
fuming
again! I
heard
it
on
the
stairs!" "Well,
what
then!" Ilya Petrovitch
drawled
with
gentlemanly nonchalance;
and
he
walked
with
some
papers
to
another
table,
with
a
jaunty
swing
of
his
shoulders
at
each
step. "Here,
if
you
will
kindly
look:
an
author,
or
a student, has been
one
at
least,
does
not
pay
his
debts, has
given
an
I O U, won't clear
out
of
his
room,
and
complaints
are
constantly being
lodged
against him,
and
here
he
has been pleased
to
make
a
protest
against my
smoking
in
his
presence!
He
behaves
like
a cad himself,
and
just
look
at
him, please. Here's
the
gentleman,
and
very
attractive
he
is!" "Poverty
is
not
a vice, my friend,
but
we
know
you
go
off
like
powder,
you
can't
bear
a slight, I daresay
you
took
offence
at
something
and
went
too
far
yourself,"
continued
Nikodim Fomitch,
turning
affably
to
Raskolnikov. "But
you
were
wrong
there;
he
is
a
capital
fellow, I
assure
you,
but
explosive, explosive!
He
gets
hot,
fires
up,
boils
over,
and
no
stopping him!
And
then
it's
all
over!
And
at
the
bottom he's a
heart
of
gold!
His
nickname
in
the
regiment
was
the
Explosive
Lieutenant...." "And
what
a regiment
it
was, too," cried Ilya Petrovitch,
much
gratified
at
this
agreeable
banter,
though
still
sulky. Raskolnikov had a
sudden
desire
to
say
something
exceptionally
pleasant
to
them
all. "Excuse me, Captain,"
he
began easily, suddenly
addressing
Nikodim Fomitch, "will
you
enter
into
my position?... I
am
ready
to
ask
pardon,
if
I
have
been ill-mannered. I
am
a
poor
student,
sick
and
shattered
(shattered
was
the
word
he
used)
by
poverty. I
am
not
studying,
because
I cannot
keep
myself
now,
but
I
shall
get
money.... I
have
a mother
and
sister
in
the
province
of
X.
They
will
send
it
to
me,
and
I
will
pay. My landlady
is
a good-hearted woman,
but
she
is
so
exasperated
at
my
having
lost my lessons,
and
not
paying
her
for
the
last
four
months,
that
she
does
not
even
send
up
my dinner...
and
I don't
understand
this
I O U
at
all.
She
is
asking
me
to
pay
her
on
this
I O U.
How
am
I
to
pay
her?
Judge
for
yourselves!..." "But
that
is
not
our
business,
you
know,"
the
head
clerk
was
observing. "Yes, yes. I perfectly
agree
with
you.
But
allow
me
to
explain..." Raskolnikov
put
in
again,
still
addressing
Nikodim Fomitch,
but
trying
his
best
to
address
Ilya Petrovitch also,
though
the
latter
persistently
appeared
to
be
rummaging
among
his
papers
and
to
be
contemptuously
oblivious
of
him. "Allow
me
to
explain
that
I
have
been
living
with
her
for
nearly
three
years
and
at
first...
at
first...
for
why
should
I
not
confess
it,
at
the
very
beginning
I
promised
to
marry
her
daughter,
it
was
a
verbal
promise,
freely
given...
she
was
a girl... indeed, I
liked
her,
though
I
was
not
in
love
with
her... a
youthful
affair
in
fact...
that
is, I
mean
to
say,
that
my landlady gave
me
credit
freely
in
those
days,
and
I led a
life
of... I
was
very
heedless..." "Nobody
asks
you
for
these
personal
details, sir, we've
no
time
to
waste," Ilya Petrovitch
interposed
roughly
and
with
a
note
of
triumph;
but
Raskolnikov stopped
him
hotly,
though
he
suddenly found
it
exceedingly
difficult
to
speak. "But
excuse
me,
excuse
me.
It
is
for
me
to
explain...
how
it
all
happened...
In
my turn...
though
I
agree
with
you...
it
is
unnecessary.
But
a
year
ago,
the
girl
died
of
typhus. I
remained
lodging
there
as
before,
and
when
my landlady
moved
into
her
present
quarters,
she
said
to
me...
and
in
a
friendly
way...
that
she
had complete
trust
in
me,
but
still,
would
I
not
give
her
an
I O U
for
one
hundred
and
fifteen
roubles,
all
the
debt
I
owed
her.
She
said
if
only
I gave
her
that,
she
would
trust
me
again,
as
much
as
I liked,
and
that
she
would
never, never—those
were
her
own
words—make
use
of
that
I O U
till
I
could
pay
of
myself...
and
now,
when
I
have
lost my
lessons
and
have
nothing
to
eat,
she
takes
action
against me.
What
am
I
to
say
to
that?" "All
these
affecting
details
are
no
business
of
ours." Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You
must
give
a written
undertaking
but
as
for
your
love
affairs
and
all
these
tragic
events,
we
have
nothing
to
do
with
that." "Come now...
you
are
harsh,"
muttered
Nikodim Fomitch, sitting
down
at
the
table
and
also
beginning
to
write.
He
looked
a
little
ashamed. "Write!" said
the
head
clerk
to
Raskolnikov. "Write what?"
the
latter
asked, gruffly. "I
will
dictate
to
you." Raskolnikov fancied
that
the
head
clerk treated
him
more
casually
and
contemptuously
after
his
speech,
but
strange
to
say
he
suddenly felt completely
indifferent
to
anyone's opinion,
and
this
revulsion
took
place
in
a flash,
in
one
instant.
If
he
had
cared
to
think
a little,
he
would
have
been amazed
indeed
that
he
could
have
talked
to
them
like
that
a
minute
before,
forcing
his
feelings
upon
them.
And
where
had
those
feelings
come
from?
Now
if
the
whole
room
had been filled,
not
with
police
officers,
but
with
those
nearest
and
dearest
to
him,
he
would
not
have
found
one
human
word
for
them,
so
empty
was
his
heart. A gloomy
sensation
of
agonising, everlasting
solitude
and
remoteness,
took
conscious
form
in
his
soul.
It
was
not
the
meanness
of
his
sentimental
effusions
before
Ilya Petrovitch,
nor
the
meanness
of
the
latter's
triumph
over
him
that
had
caused
this
sudden
revulsion
in
his
heart. Oh,
what
had
he
to
do
now
with
his
own
baseness,
with
all
these
petty
vanities, officers,
German
women, debts, police-offices?
If
he
had been sentenced
to
be
burnt
at
that
moment,
he
would
not
have
stirred,
would
hardly
have
heard
the
sentence
to
the
end.
Something
was
happening
to
him
entirely new,
sudden
and
unknown.
It
was
not
that
he
understood,
but
he
felt clearly
with
all
the
intensity
of
sensation
that
he
could
never
more
appeal
to
these
people
in
the
police-office
with
sentimental
effusions
like
his
recent
outburst,
or
with
anything
whatever;
and
that
if
they
had been
his
own
brothers
and
sisters
and
not
police-officers,
it
would
have
been
utterly
out
of
the
question
to
appeal
to
them
in
any
circumstance
of
life.
He
had
never
experienced
such
a
strange
and
awful
sensation.
And
what
was
most
agonising—it
was
more
a
sensation
than
a
conception
or
idea, a
direct
sensation,
the
most
agonising
of
all
the
sensations
he
had known
in
his
life.
The
head
clerk began
dictating
to
him
the
usual
form
of
declaration,
that
he
could
not
pay,
that
he
undertook
to
do
so
at
a
future
date,
that
he
would
not
leave
the
town,
nor
sell
his
property,
and
so
on. "But
you
can't write,
you
can
hardly
hold
the
pen,"
observed
the
head
clerk,
looking
with
curiosity
at
Raskolnikov. "Are
you
ill?" "Yes, I
am
giddy.
Go
on!" "That's all.
Sign
it."
The
head
clerk
took
the
paper,
and
turned
to
attend
to
others. Raskolnikov gave
back
the
pen;
but
instead
of
getting
up
and
going away,
he
put
his
elbows
on
the
table
and
pressed
his
head
in
his
hands.
He
felt
as
if
a
nail
were
being driven
into
his
skull. A
strange
idea
suddenly
occurred
to
him,
to
get
up
at
once,
to
go
up
to
Nikodim Fomitch,
and
tell
him
everything
that
had
happened
yesterday,
and
then
to
go
with
him
to
his
lodgings
and
to
show
him
the
things
in
the
hole
in
the
corner.
The
impulse
was
so
strong
that
he
got
up
from
his
seat
to
carry
it
out. "Hadn't I
better
think
a minute?" flashed
through
his
mind. "No,
better
cast
off
the
burden
without
thinking."
But
all
at
once
he
stood still,
rooted
to
the
spot. Nikodim Fomitch
was
talking
eagerly
with
Ilya Petrovitch,
and
the
words
reached him: "It's impossible, they'll
both
be
released.
To
begin
with,
the
whole
story
contradicts
itself.
Why
should
they
have
called
the
porter,
if
it
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
walking
with
three
friends,
who
left
him
only
at
the
gate,
and
he
asked
the
porters
to
direct
him,
in
the
presence
of
the
friends. Now,
would
he
have
asked
his
way
if
he
had been going
with
such
an
object?
As
for
Koch,
he
spent
half
an
hour
at
the
silversmith's below,
before
he
went
up
to
the
old
woman
and
he
left
him
at
exactly a
quarter
to
eight.
Now
just
consider..." "But
excuse
me,
how
do
you
explain
this
contradiction?
They
state
themselves
that
they
knocked
and
the
door
was
locked;
yet
three
minutes
later
when
they
went
up
with
the
porter,
it
turned
out
the
door
was
unfastened." "And
no
one
saw
the
murderer?" "They
might
well
not
see
him;
the
house
is
a regular Noah's Ark," said
the
head
clerk,
who
was
listening. "It's clear,
quite
clear," Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly. "No,
it
is
anything
but
clear," Ilya Petrovitch maintained. Raskolnikov picked
up
his
hat
and
walked
towards
the
door,
but
he
did
not
reach it....
When
he
recovered
consciousness,
he
found
himself
sitting
in
a chair, supported
by
someone
on
the
right
side,
while
someone
else
was
standing
on
the
left, holding a yellowish glass
filled
with
yellow
water,
and
Nikodim Fomitch standing
before
him,
looking
intently
at
him.
He
got
up
from
the
chair. "What's this?
Are
you
ill?" Nikodim Fomitch asked,
rather
sharply. "He
could
hardly
hold
his
pen
when
he
was
signing," said
the
head
clerk,
settling
back
in
his
place,
and
taking
up
his
work
again. "Have
you
been
ill
long?" cried Ilya Petrovitch
from
his
place,
where
he, too,
was
looking
through
papers.
He
had,
of
course,
come
to
look
at
the
sick
man
when
he
fainted,
but
retired
at
once
when
he
recovered. "Since yesterday,"
muttered
Raskolnikov
in
reply. "Did
you
go
out
yesterday?" "Yes." "Though
you
were
ill?" "Yes." "At
what
time?" "About seven." "And
where
did
you
go,
may
I ask?" "Along
the
street." "Short
and
clear." Raskolnikov,
white
as
a handkerchief, had
answered
sharply, jerkily,
without
dropping
his
black
feverish
eyes
before
Ilya Petrovitch's stare. "He
can
scarcely
stand
upright.
And
you..." Nikodim Fomitch
was
beginning. "No matter," Ilya Petrovitch pronounced
rather
peculiarly. Nikodim Fomitch
would
have
made
some
further
protest,
but
glancing
at
the
head
clerk
who
was
looking
very
hard
at
him,
he
did
not
speak.
There
was
a
sudden
silence.
It
was
strange. "Very well, then,"
concluded
Ilya Petrovitch, "we
will
not
detain
you." Raskolnikov went out.
He
caught
the
sound
of
eager
conversation
on
his
departure,
and
above
the
rest
rose
the
questioning
voice
of
Nikodim Fomitch.
In
the
street,
his
faintness
passed
off
completely. "A search—there
will
be
a
search
at
once,"
he
repeated
to
himself, hurrying home. "The brutes!
they
suspect."
His
former
terror
mastered
him
completely again.