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- Федор Достоевский
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- Преступление и наказание
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- Стр. 15/453
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“
And
what
if
I
am
wrong
,
”
he
cried
suddenly
after
a
moment
’
s
thought
.
“
What
if
man
is
not
really
a
scoundrel
,
man
in
general
,
I
mean
,
the
whole
race
of
mankind
—
then
all
the
rest
is
prejudice
,
simply
artificial
terrors
and
there
are
no
barriers
and
it
’
s
all
as
it
should
be
.
”
He
waked
up
late
next
day
after
a
broken
sleep
.
But
his
sleep
had
not
refreshed
him
;
he
waked
up
bilious
,
irritable
,
ill
-
tempered
,
and
looked
with
hatred
at
his
room
.
It
was
a
tiny
cupboard
of
a
room
about
six
paces
in
length
.
It
had
a
poverty
-
stricken
appearance
with
its
dusty
yellow
paper
peeling
off
the
walls
,
and
it
was
so
low
-
pitched
that
a
man
of
more
than
average
height
was
ill
at
ease
in
it
and
felt
every
moment
that
he
would
knock
his
head
against
the
ceiling
.
The
furniture
was
in
keeping
with
the
room
:
there
were
three
old
chairs
,
rather
rickety
;
a
painted
table
in
the
corner
on
which
lay
a
few
manuscripts
and
books
;
the
dust
that
lay
thick
upon
them
showed
that
they
had
been
long
untouched
.
A
big
clumsy
sofa
occupied
almost
the
whole
of
one
wall
and
half
the
floor
space
of
the
room
;
it
was
once
covered
with
chintz
,
but
was
now
in
rags
and
served
Raskolnikov
as
a
bed
.
Often
he
went
to
sleep
on
it
,
as
he
was
,
without
undressing
,
without
sheets
,
wrapped
in
his
old
student
’
s
overcoat
,
with
his
head
on
one
little
pillow
,
under
which
he
heaped
up
all
the
linen
he
had
,
clean
and
dirty
,
by
way
of
a
bolster
.
A
little
table
stood
in
front
of
the
sofa
.
It
would
have
been
difficult
to
sink
to
a
lower
ebb
of
disorder
,
but
to
Raskolnikov
in
his
present
state
of
mind
this
was
positively
agreeable
.
He
had
got
completely
away
from
everyone
,
like
a
tortoise
in
its
shell
,
and
even
the
sight
of
a
servant
girl
who
had
to
wait
upon
him
and
looked
sometimes
into
his
room
made
him
writhe
with
nervous
irritation
.
He
was
in
the
condition
that
overtakes
some
monomaniacs
entirely
concentrated
upon
one
thing
.
His
landlady
had
for
the
last
fortnight
given
up
sending
him
in
meals
,
and
he
had
not
yet
thought
of
expostulating
with
her
,
though
he
went
without
his
dinner
.
Nastasya
,
the
cook
and
only
servant
,
was
rather
pleased
at
the
lodger
’
s
mood
and
had
entirely
given
up
sweeping
and
doing
his
room
,
only
once
a
week
or
so
she
would
stray
into
his
room
with
a
broom
.
She
waked
him
up
that
day
.
“
Get
up
,
why
are
you
asleep
?
”
she
called
to
him
.
“
It
’
s
past
nine
,
I
have
brought
you
some
tea
;
will
you
have
a
cup
?
I
should
think
you
’
re
fairly
starving
?
”
Raskolnikov
opened
his
eyes
,
started
and
recognised
Nastasya
.
“
From
the
landlady
,
eh
?
”
he
asked
,
slowly
and
with
a
sickly
face
sitting
up
on
the
sofa
.
“
From
the
landlady
,
indeed
!
”
She
set
before
him
her
own
cracked
teapot
full
of
weak
and
stale
tea
and
laid
two
yellow
lumps
of
sugar
by
the
side
of
it
.
“
Here
,
Nastasya
,
take
it
please
,
”
he
said
,
fumbling
in
his
pocket
(
for
he
had
slept
in
his
clothes
)
and
taking
out
a
handful
of
coppers
—
“
run
and
buy
me
a
loaf
.
And
get
me
a
little
sausage
,
the
cheapest
,
at
the
pork
-
butcher
’
s
.
”
