myself or else I’d rather not live at all. Well? I just didn’t feel like walking past a hungry mother, gripping a rouble in my pocket and waiting for “universal happiness”. As if to say: “Look at me carrying my little brick for universal happiness32 – so my heart is at peace.” Ha-ha! Why did you have to leave me out, of all people? I’ve only got one life, after all, and I also want . . . Oh, I’m an aesthetic louse, that’s all there is to it,’ he suddenly added with a volley of laughter, like a madman. ‘Yes, I really am a louse,’ he went on, clutching at this thought with grim delight, rummaging around in it, toying and amusing himself with it, ‘if for no other reason than because, firstly, here I am talking about it, secondly, because I’ve been bothering all-gracious Providence this whole month, summoning her as my witness to the fact that I set out on this venture not for my own carnal desires, but with a splendid and pleasing purpose in mind – ha-ha! Thirdly, because I intended to observe in my actions the highest possible degree of justice, to weigh and to measure, to tot it all up; of all the lice in the world I chose the most utterly useless and, having killed her, intended to take from her the precise amount I needed for the first step, no more and no less (so the rest really would have gone to the monastery, in accordance with her will – ha-ha!) . . . Because, because I’m a louse, pure and simple,’ he added, gnashing his teeth, ‘because I myself may be still fouler and more horrid than the louse I killed, and because I sensed in advance that this is what I would tell myself after the murder! Can any horror compare to it? So vulgar! So vile! . . . Oh, how I understand the “prophet”, with his sword, on horseback. Allah commands, so obey, O “quivering” creature!33 How right the “prophet” is when he lines up a top-notch battery34 across the street and fires a salvo at the righteous and the guilty, without even deigning to explain himself! Submit, quivering creature, and – do not desire . . . for desiring is not your business! . . . Oh, never, never will I forgive the old hag!’
His hair was damp with sweat, his trembling lips caked, his gaze riveted to the ceiling.
‘Mother, sister, how I loved them! So why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them. I physically hate them. I can’t bear to have them near me . . . I went up to Mother earlier and kissed her, I remember . . . Embracing her, thinking that if she found out . . . would I really tell her? Wouldn’t put it past me . . . H’m! She must be just like me,’ he added, making an effort to think, as if struggling in the grip of delirium. ‘Oh, how I hate the hag now! I expect I’d murder her all over again if she came to! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she have to turn up? . . . Strange, though – why do I almost never think of her, as if I’d never murdered her? . . . Lizaveta! Sonya! Poor things, meek, meek-eyed . . . So sweet! . . . Why don’t they cry? Why don’t they groan? . . . Always giving . . . and their meek, quiet gaze . . . Sonya, Sonya! Quiet Sonya!’
Oblivion came over him; it seemed strange to him that he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up in the street. It was already late evening. The dusk was gathering, the full moon shone ever more brightly, but somehow it felt even more stifling than usual. People thronged the streets; craftsmen and employees were making their way home; others were out for a walk; it smelled of mortar, dust, stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, sad and preoccupied. He clearly recalled that he’d left home with the intention of doing something and doing it quickly, but what that was he couldn’t remember. Suddenly he stopped and caught sight of a man on the opposite side of the street, on the pavement, standing there, waving to him. He crossed the street towards him, but the man suddenly turned and walked off as if nothing had happened, with