hurrying, rushing to get the words out, so that they all came out as one, begging for something – for the beating to cease, of course, for she was being beaten without mercy on the stairs. The voice of the man doing the beating had become so dreadful in its malice and fury that by now it was no more than a hoarse wheeze, but he too was saying something, he too was speaking quickly and unintelligibly, in a breathless rush. Suddenly Raskolnikov began trembling all over. He recognized this voice. It was the voice of Ilya Petrovich. Ilya Petrovich was here and he was beating the landlady! He was kicking her, banging her head against the step – that was obvious from the sounds, the howls, the blows! Was the world upside down? He could hear crowds gathering on every floor; all the way up the stairs he could hear voices, cries, footsteps, knocking, doors banging, people running over. ‘But why is this happening? Why? And how is it possible?’ he kept repeating, seriously thinking that he’d gone quite crazy. But no, he could hear too clearly for that! But in that case they would be coming to him too now, ‘because . . . this must all be to do with that . . . yesterday . . . Lord!’ He was about to reach for the hook and lock himself in, but his hand wouldn’t move . . . and what was the use? Fear enveloped his soul like ice, exhausting him, numbing him . . . But now, finally, this whole racket, having lasted a good ten minutes, was gradually subsiding. The landlady groaned and sighed. Ilya Petrovich still threatened and swore . . . But now, at last he, too, seemed to quieten down; there was no sound from him at all. ‘Can he really have gone? God!’ Yes, and that was the landlady going too, still groaning and crying . . . and that was her door banging shut . . . And that was all the people going back into their apartments from the stairs – gasping, bickering, calling out to each other, shouting, whispering. How many there seemed to be; as if the whole building had gathered. ‘God, can this really be happening? And why on earth did he come here?’
Raskolnikov collapsed onto the couch in exhaustion, but he was no longer able to close his eyes. He lay there for half an hour or so, experiencing such suffering and such boundless, unbearable horror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly, bright light poured into his room: Nastasya came in with a candle and a bowl of soup. Looking at him closely and seeing that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began laying out what she’d brought: bread, salt, the bowl, a spoon.
‘Expect you’ve not eaten since yesterday. Fancy knocking about town all day when you’ve got the shakes!’
‘Nastasya . . . why was the landlady beaten?’
She stared at him.
‘Who beat the landlady?’
‘Just now . . . half an hour ago. Ilya Petrovich, the district superintendent’s assistant, on the stairs . . . Why did he have to beat her like that? And . . . why did he come?’
Frowning, Nastasya studied him in silence, for a very long time. Such scrutiny began to make him very uncomfortable, even frightened.
‘Nastasya, why aren’t you saying anything?’ he said at last in a timid, faint voice.
‘That’s blood,’ she finally answered softly, as though speaking to herself.
‘Blood! What blood?’ he mumbled, turning pale and backing away towards the wall. Nastasya carried on looking at him in silence.
‘No one beat the landlady,’ she said again in a stern, decisive voice.
He looked at her, barely breathing.
‘I heard it myself . . . I wasn’t asleep . . . I was sitting up,’ he said, more timidly still. ‘I listened for ages . . . The superintendent’s assistant came . . . Everyone gathered on the stairs, from every apartment . . .’
‘No one came. That’s your blood yelling inside you.10 That’s when it can’t get out and clots up your insides and you start seeing things . . . So are you eating or not?’
He didn’t