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- Федор Достоевский
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- Стр. 424/453
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“
Aïe
!
Damnation
,
these
thoughts
again
!
I
must
put
it
away
!
”
He
was
dozing
off
;
the
feverish
shiver
had
ceased
,
when
suddenly
something
seemed
to
run
over
his
arm
and
leg
under
the
bedclothes
.
He
started
.
“
Ugh
!
hang
it
!
I
believe
it
’
s
a
mouse
,
”
he
thought
,
“
that
’
s
the
veal
I
left
on
the
table
.
”
He
felt
fearfully
disinclined
to
pull
off
the
blanket
,
get
up
,
get
cold
,
but
all
at
once
something
unpleasant
ran
over
his
leg
again
.
He
pulled
off
the
blanket
and
lighted
the
candle
.
Shaking
with
feverish
chill
he
bent
down
to
examine
the
bed
:
there
was
nothing
.
He
shook
the
blanket
and
suddenly
a
mouse
jumped
out
on
the
sheet
.
He
tried
to
catch
it
,
but
the
mouse
ran
to
and
fro
in
zigzags
without
leaving
the
bed
,
slipped
between
his
fingers
,
ran
over
his
hand
and
suddenly
darted
under
the
pillow
.
He
threw
down
the
pillow
,
but
in
one
instant
felt
something
leap
on
his
chest
and
dart
over
his
body
and
down
his
back
under
his
shirt
.
He
trembled
nervously
and
woke
up
.
The
room
was
dark
.
He
was
lying
on
the
bed
and
wrapped
up
in
the
blanket
as
before
.
The
wind
was
howling
under
the
window
.
“
How
disgusting
,
”
he
thought
with
annoyance
.
He
got
up
and
sat
on
the
edge
of
the
bedstead
with
his
back
to
the
window
.
“
It
’
s
better
not
to
sleep
at
all
,
”
he
decided
.
There
was
a
cold
damp
draught
from
the
window
,
however
;
without
getting
up
he
drew
the
blanket
over
him
and
wrapped
himself
in
it
.
He
was
not
thinking
of
anything
and
did
not
want
to
think
.
But
one
image
rose
after
another
,
incoherent
scraps
of
thought
without
beginning
or
end
passed
through
his
mind
.
He
sank
into
drowsiness
.
Perhaps
the
cold
,
or
the
dampness
,
or
the
dark
,
or
the
wind
that
howled
under
the
window
and
tossed
the
trees
roused
a
sort
of
persistent
craving
for
the
fantastic
.
He
kept
dwelling
on
images
of
flowers
,
he
fancied
a
charming
flower
garden
,
a
bright
,
warm
,
almost
hot
day
,
a
holiday
—
Trinity
day
.
A
fine
,
sumptuous
country
cottage
in
the
English
taste
overgrown
with
fragrant
flowers
,
with
flower
beds
going
round
the
house
;
the
porch
,
wreathed
in
climbers
,
was
surrounded
with
beds
of
roses
.
A
light
,
cool
staircase
,
carpeted
with
rich
rugs
,
was
decorated
with
rare
plants
in
china
pots
.
He
noticed
particularly
in
the
windows
nosegays
of
tender
,
white
,
heavily
fragrant
narcissus
bending
over
their
bright
,
green
,
thick
long
stalks
.
He
was
reluctant
to
move
away
from
them
,
but
he
went
up
the
stairs
and
came
into
a
large
,
high
drawing
-
room
and
again
everywhere
—
at
the
windows
,
the
doors
on
to
the
balcony
,
and
on
the
balcony
itself
—
were
flowers
.
The
floors
were
strewn
with
freshly
-
cut
fragrant
hay
,
the
windows
were
open
,
a
fresh
,
cool
,
light
air
came
into
the
room
.
The
birds
were
chirruping
under
the
window
,
and
in
the
middle
of
the
room
,
on
a
table
covered
with
a
white
satin
shroud
,
stood
a
coffin
.
The
coffin
was
covered
with
white
silk
and
edged
with
a
thick
white
frill
;
wreaths
of
flowers
surrounded
it
on
all
sides
.
Among
the
flowers
lay
a
girl
in
a
white
muslin
dress
,
with
her
arms
crossed
and
pressed
on
her
bosom
,
as
though
carved
out
of
marble
.
But
her
loose
fair
hair
was
wet
;
there
was
a
wreath
of
roses
on
her
head
.
The
stern
and
already
rigid
profile
of
her
face
looked
as
though
chiselled
of
marble
too
,
and
the
smile
on
her
pale
lips
was
full
of
an
immense
unchildish
misery
and
sorrowful
appeal
.
Svidrigaïlov
knew
that
girl
;
there
was
no
holy
image
,
no
burning
candle
beside
the
coffin
;
no
sound
of
prayers
:
the
girl
had
drowned
herself
.
She
was
only
fourteen
,
but
her
heart
was
broken
.
And
she
had
destroyed
herself
,
crushed
by
an
insult
that
had
appalled
and
amazed
that
childish
soul
,
had
smirched
that
angel
purity
with
unmerited
disgrace
and
torn
from
her
a
last
scream
of
despair
,
unheeded
and
brutally
disregarded
,
on
a
dark
night
in
the
cold
and
wet
while
the
wind
howled
.
.
.
.
Svidrigaïlov
came
to
himself
,
got
up
from
the
bed
and
went
to
the
window
.
He
felt
for
the
latch
and
opened
it
.
The
wind
lashed
furiously
into
the
little
room
and
stung
his
face
and
his
chest
,
only
covered
with
his
shirt
,
as
though
with
frost
.
Under
the
window
there
must
have
been
something
like
a
garden
,
and
apparently
a
pleasure
garden
.
There
,
too
,
probably
there
were
tea
-
tables
and
singing
in
the
daytime
.
Now
drops
of
rain
flew
in
at
the
window
from
the
trees
and
bushes
;
it
was
dark
as
in
a
cellar
,
so
that
he
could
only
just
make
out
some
dark
blurs
of
objects
.
Svidrigaïlov
,
bending
down
with
elbows
on
the
window
-
sill
,
gazed
for
five
minutes
into
the
darkness
;
the
boom
of
a
cannon
,
followed
by
a
second
one
,
resounded
in
the
darkness
of
the
night
.
“
Ah
,
the
signal
!
The
river
is
overflowing
,
”
he
thought
.
“
By
morning
it
will
be
swirling
down
the
street
in
the
lower
parts
,
flooding
the
basements
and
cellars
.
The
cellar
rats
will
swim
out
,
and
men
will
curse
in
the
rain
and
wind
as
they
drag
their
rubbish
to
their
upper
storeys
.
What
time
is
it
now
?
”
And
he
had
hardly
thought
it
when
,
somewhere
near
,
a
clock
on
the
wall
,
ticking
away
hurriedly
,
struck
three
.
“
Aha
!
It
will
be
light
in
an
hour
!
Why
wait
?
I
’
ll
go
out
at
once
straight
to
the
park
.
I
’
ll
choose
a
great
bush
there
drenched
with
rain
,
so
that
as
soon
as
one
’
s
shoulder
touches
it
,
millions
of
drops
drip
on
one
’
s
head
.
”
He
moved
away
from
the
window
,
shut
it
,
lighted
the
candle
,
put
on
his
waistcoat
,
his
overcoat
and
his
hat
and
went
out
,
carrying
the
candle
,
into
the
passage
to
look
for
the
ragged
attendant
who
would
be
asleep
somewhere
in
the
midst
of
candle
-
ends
and
all
sorts
of
rubbish
,
to
pay
him
for
the
room
and
leave
the
hotel
.
“
It
’
s
the
best
minute
;
I
couldn
’
t
choose
a
better
.
”
