"And
what
if
there
has been a
search
already?
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?
He
rushed
to
the
corner, slipped
his
hand
under
the
paper,
pulled
the
things
out
and
lined
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?
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.
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
past
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.
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!"
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
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.
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!"
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. "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!" Suddenly
he
stopped; a
new
utterly
unexpected
and
exceedingly
simple
question
perplexed
and
bitterly
confounded
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?" 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. "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!"
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
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. "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."
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. "Why,
you
are
seriously ill,
do
you
know
that?"
He
began feeling
his
pulse. Raskolnikov
pulled
away
his
hand. "Never mind,"
he
said, "I
have
come
for
this: I
have
no
lessons.... I wanted,...
but
I don't really
want
lessons...." "But I say!
You
are
delirious,
you
know!" Razumihin observed,
watching
him
carefully. "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. "Good-bye,"
he
said abruptly,
and
walked
to
the
door. "Stop, stop!
You
queer fish." "I don't
want
to," said
the
other,
again
pulling
away
his
hand. "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." "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." 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. "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?" "I don't want... translation,"
muttered
Raskolnikov
from
the
stairs. "Then
what
the
devil
do
you
want?" shouted Razumihin
from
above. Raskolnikov
continued
descending
the
staircase
in
silence. "Hey, there!
Where
are
you
living?"
No
answer. "Well,
confound
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. "Serves
him
right!" "A pickpocket I
dare
say." "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."
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. "Take it, my
good
man,
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
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.
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....
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.
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!" 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. "You've
eaten
nothing
since
yesterday, I warrant. You've been trudging
about
all
day,
and
you're shaking
with
fever." "Nastasya...
what
were
they
beating
the
landlady for?"
She
looked
intently
at
him. "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?" Nastasya
scrutinised
him,
silent
and
frowning,
and
her
scrutiny
lasted
a
long
time.
He
felt uneasy,
even
frightened
at
her
searching
eyes. "Nastasya,
why
don't
you
speak?"
he
said
timidly
at
last
in
a
weak
voice. "It's
the
blood,"
she
answered
at
last
softly,
as
though
speaking
to
herself. "Blood?
What
blood?"
he
muttered,
growing
white
and
turning
towards
the
wall. Nastasya
still
looked
at
him
without
speaking. "Nobody has been beating
the
landlady,"
she
declared
at
last
in
a firm,
resolute
voice.
He
gazed
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." "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?"
He
made
no
answer. Nastasya
still
stood
over
him,
watching
him. "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.