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- Федор Достоевский
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- Преступление и наказание
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- Стр. 425/453
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He
walked
for
some
time
through
a
long
narrow
corridor
without
finding
anyone
and
was
just
going
to
call
out
,
when
suddenly
in
a
dark
corner
between
an
old
cupboard
and
the
door
he
caught
sight
of
a
strange
object
which
seemed
to
be
alive
.
He
bent
down
with
the
candle
and
saw
a
little
girl
,
not
more
than
five
years
old
,
shivering
and
crying
,
with
her
clothes
as
wet
as
a
soaking
house
-
flannel
.
She
did
not
seem
afraid
of
Svidrigaïlov
,
but
looked
at
him
with
blank
amazement
out
of
her
big
black
eyes
.
Now
and
then
she
sobbed
as
children
do
when
they
have
been
crying
a
long
time
,
but
are
beginning
to
be
comforted
.
The
child
’
s
face
was
pale
and
tired
,
she
was
numb
with
cold
.
“
How
can
she
have
come
here
?
She
must
have
hidden
here
and
not
slept
all
night
.
”
He
began
questioning
her
.
The
child
suddenly
becoming
animated
,
chattered
away
in
her
baby
language
,
something
about
“
mammy
”
and
that
“
mammy
would
beat
her
,
”
and
about
some
cup
that
she
had
“
bwoken
.
”
The
child
chattered
on
without
stopping
.
He
could
only
guess
from
what
she
said
that
she
was
a
neglected
child
,
whose
mother
,
probably
a
drunken
cook
,
in
the
service
of
the
hotel
,
whipped
and
frightened
her
;
that
the
child
had
broken
a
cup
of
her
mother
’
s
and
was
so
frightened
that
she
had
run
away
the
evening
before
,
had
hidden
for
a
long
while
somewhere
outside
in
the
rain
,
at
last
had
made
her
way
in
here
,
hidden
behind
the
cupboard
and
spent
the
night
there
,
crying
and
trembling
from
the
damp
,
the
darkness
and
the
fear
that
she
would
be
badly
beaten
for
it
.
He
took
her
in
his
arms
,
went
back
to
his
room
,
sat
her
on
the
bed
,
and
began
undressing
her
.
The
torn
shoes
which
she
had
on
her
stockingless
feet
were
as
wet
as
if
they
had
been
standing
in
a
puddle
all
night
.
When
he
had
undressed
her
,
he
put
her
on
the
bed
,
covered
her
up
and
wrapped
her
in
the
blanket
from
her
head
downwards
.
She
fell
asleep
at
once
.
Then
he
sank
into
dreary
musing
again
.
“
What
folly
to
trouble
myself
,
”
he
decided
suddenly
with
an
oppressive
feeling
of
annoyance
.
“
What
idiocy
!
”
In
vexation
he
took
up
the
candle
to
go
and
look
for
the
ragged
attendant
again
and
make
haste
to
go
away
.
“
Damn
the
child
!
”
he
thought
as
he
opened
the
door
,
but
he
turned
again
to
see
whether
the
child
was
asleep
.
He
raised
the
blanket
carefully
.
The
child
was
sleeping
soundly
,
she
had
got
warm
under
the
blanket
,
and
her
pale
cheeks
were
flushed
.
But
strange
to
say
that
flush
seemed
brighter
and
coarser
than
the
rosy
cheeks
of
childhood
.
“
It
’
s
a
flush
of
fever
,
”
thought
Svidrigaïlov
.
It
was
like
the
flush
from
drinking
,
as
though
she
had
been
given
a
full
glass
to
drink
.
Her
crimson
lips
were
hot
and
glowing
;
but
what
was
this
?
He
suddenly
fancied
that
her
long
black
eyelashes
were
quivering
,
as
though
the
lids
were
opening
and
a
sly
crafty
eye
peeped
out
with
an
unchildlike
wink
,
as
though
the
little
girl
were
not
asleep
,
but
pretending
.
Yes
,
it
was
so
.
Her
lips
parted
in
a
smile
.
The
corners
of
her
mouth
quivered
,
as
though
she
were
trying
to
control
them
.
But
now
she
quite
gave
up
all
effort
,
now
it
was
a
grin
,
a
broad
grin
;
there
was
something
shameless
,
provocative
in
that
quite
unchildish
face
;
it
was
depravity
,
it
was
the
face
of
a
harlot
,
the
shameless
face
of
a
French
harlot
.
Now
both
eyes
opened
wide
;
they
turned
a
glowing
,
shameless
glance
upon
him
;
they
laughed
,
invited
him
.
.
.
.
There
was
something
infinitely
hideous
and
shocking
in
that
laugh
,
in
those
eyes
,
in
such
nastiness
in
the
face
of
a
child
.
“
What
,
at
five
years
old
?
”
Svidrigaïlov
muttered
in
genuine
horror
.
“
What
does
it
mean
?
”
And
now
she
turned
to
him
,
her
little
face
all
aglow
,
holding
out
her
arms
.
.
.
.
“
Accursed
child
!
”
Svidrigaïlov
cried
,
raising
his
hand
to
strike
her
,
but
at
that
moment
he
woke
up
.
He
was
in
the
same
bed
,
still
wrapped
in
the
blanket
.
The
candle
had
not
been
lighted
,
and
daylight
was
streaming
in
at
the
windows
.
“
I
’
ve
had
nightmare
all
night
!
”
He
got
up
angrily
,
feeling
utterly
shattered
;
his
bones
ached
.
There
was
a
thick
mist
outside
and
he
could
see
nothing
.
It
was
nearly
five
.
He
had
overslept
himself
!
He
got
up
,
put
on
his
still
damp
jacket
and
overcoat
.
Feeling
the
revolver
in
his
pocket
,
he
took
it
out
and
then
he
sat
down
,
took
a
notebook
out
of
his
pocket
and
in
the
most
conspicuous
place
on
the
title
page
wrote
a
few
lines
in
large
letters
.
Reading
them
over
,
he
sank
into
thought
with
his
elbows
on
the
table
.
The
revolver
and
the
notebook
lay
beside
him
.
Some
flies
woke
up
and
settled
on
the
untouched
veal
,
which
was
still
on
the
table
.
He
stared
at
them
and
at
last
with
his
free
right
hand
began
trying
to
catch
one
.
He
tried
till
he
was
tired
,
but
could
not
catch
it
.
At
last
,
realising
that
he
was
engaged
in
this
interesting
pursuit
,
he
started
,
got
up
and
walked
resolutely
out
of
the
room
.
A
minute
later
he
was
in
the
street
.
A
thick
milky
mist
hung
over
the
town
.
Svidrigaïlov
walked
along
the
slippery
dirty
wooden
pavement
towards
the
Little
Neva
.
He
was
picturing
the
waters
of
the
Little
Neva
swollen
in
the
night
,
Petrovsky
Island
,
the
wet
paths
,
the
wet
grass
,
the
wet
trees
and
bushes
and
at
last
the
bush
.
.
.
.
He
began
ill
-
humouredly
staring
at
the
houses
,
trying
to
think
of
something
else
.
There
was
not
a
cabman
or
a
passer
-
by
in
the
street
.
The
bright
yellow
,
wooden
,
little
houses
looked
dirty
and
dejected
with
their
closed
shutters
.
The
cold
and
damp
penetrated
his
whole
body
and
he
began
to
shiver
.
From
time
to
time
he
came
across
shop
signs
and
read
each
carefully
.
At
last
he
reached
the
end
of
the
wooden
pavement
and
came
to
a
big
stone
house
.
A
dirty
,
shivering
dog
crossed
his
path
with
its
tail
between
its
legs
.
A
man
in
a
greatcoat
lay
face
downwards
;
dead
drunk
,
across
the
pavement
.
He
looked
at
him
and
went
on
.
A
high
tower
stood
up
on
the
left
.
“
Bah
!
”
he
shouted
,
“
here
is
a
place
.
Why
should
it
be
Petrovsky
?
It
will
be
in
the
presence
of
an
official
witness
anyway
.
.
.
.
”
He
almost
smiled
at
this
new
thought
and
turned
into
the
street
where
there
was
the
big
house
with
the
tower
At
the
great
closed
gates
of
the
house
,
a
little
man
stood
with
his
shoulder
leaning
against
them
,
wrapped
in
a
grey
soldier
’
s
coat
,
with
a
copper
Achilles
helmet
on
his
head
.
He
cast
a
drowsy
and
indifferent
glance
at
Svidrigaïlov
.
His
face
wore
that
perpetual
look
of
peevish
dejection
,
which
is
so
sourly
printed
on
all
faces
of
Jewish
race
without
exception
.
They
both
,
Svidrigaïlov
and
Achilles
,
stared
at
each
other
for
a
few
minutes
without
speaking
.
At
last
it
struck
Achilles
as
irregular
for
a
man
not
drunk
to
be
standing
three
steps
from
him
,
staring
and
not
saying
a
word
.
