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- Федор Достоевский
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- Преступление и наказание
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- Стр. 440/453
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“
There
’
s
no
knowing
who
’
s
a
gentleman
and
who
isn
’
t
nowadays
.
”
These
exclamations
and
remarks
checked
Raskolnikov
,
and
the
words
,
“
I
am
a
murderer
,
”
which
were
perhaps
on
the
point
of
dropping
from
his
lips
,
died
away
.
He
bore
these
remarks
quietly
,
however
,
and
,
without
looking
round
,
he
turned
down
a
street
leading
to
the
police
office
.
He
had
a
glimpse
of
something
on
the
way
which
did
not
surprise
him
;
he
had
felt
that
it
must
be
so
.
The
second
time
he
bowed
down
in
the
Hay
Market
he
saw
,
standing
fifty
paces
from
him
on
the
left
,
Sonia
.
She
was
hiding
from
him
behind
one
of
the
wooden
shanties
in
the
market
-
place
.
She
had
followed
him
then
on
his
painful
way
!
Raskolnikov
at
that
moment
felt
and
knew
once
for
all
that
Sonia
was
with
him
for
ever
and
would
follow
him
to
the
ends
of
the
earth
,
wherever
fate
might
take
him
.
It
wrung
his
heart
.
.
.
but
he
was
just
reaching
the
fatal
place
.
He
went
into
the
yard
fairly
resolutely
.
He
had
to
mount
to
the
third
storey
.
“
I
shall
be
some
time
going
up
,
”
he
thought
.
He
felt
as
though
the
fateful
moment
was
still
far
off
,
as
though
he
had
plenty
of
time
left
for
consideration
.
Again
the
same
rubbish
,
the
same
eggshells
lying
about
on
the
spiral
stairs
,
again
the
open
doors
of
the
flats
,
again
the
same
kitchens
and
the
same
fumes
and
stench
coming
from
them
.
Raskolnikov
had
not
been
here
since
that
day
.
His
legs
were
numb
and
gave
way
under
him
,
but
still
they
moved
forward
.
He
stopped
for
a
moment
to
take
breath
,
to
collect
himself
,
so
as
to
enter
like
a
man
.
“
But
why
?
what
for
?
”
he
wondered
,
reflecting
.
“
If
I
must
drink
the
cup
what
difference
does
it
make
?
The
more
revolting
the
better
.
”
He
imagined
for
an
instant
the
figure
of
the
“
explosive
lieutenant
,
”
Ilya
Petrovitch
.
Was
he
actually
going
to
him
?
Couldn
’
t
he
go
to
someone
else
?
To
Nikodim
Fomitch
?
Couldn
’
t
he
turn
back
and
go
straight
to
Nikodim
Fomitch
’
s
lodgings
?
At
least
then
it
would
be
done
privately
.
.
.
.
No
,
no
!
To
the
“
explosive
lieutenant
”
!
If
he
must
drink
it
,
drink
it
off
at
once
.
Turning
cold
and
hardly
conscious
,
he
opened
the
door
of
the
office
.
There
were
very
few
people
in
it
this
time
—
only
a
house
porter
and
a
peasant
.
The
doorkeeper
did
not
even
peep
out
from
behind
his
screen
.
Raskolnikov
walked
into
the
next
room
.
“
Perhaps
I
still
need
not
speak
,
”
passed
through
his
mind
.
Some
sort
of
clerk
not
wearing
a
uniform
was
settling
himself
at
a
bureau
to
write
.
In
a
corner
another
clerk
was
seating
himself
.
Zametov
was
not
there
,
nor
,
of
course
,
Nikodim
Fomitch
.
“
No
one
in
?
”
Raskolnikov
asked
,
addressing
the
person
at
the
bureau
.
“
Whom
do
you
want
?
”
“
A
-
ah
!
Not
a
sound
was
heard
,
not
a
sight
was
seen
,
but
I
scent
the
Russian
.
.
.
how
does
it
go
on
in
the
fairy
tale
.
.
.
I
’
ve
forgotten
!
‘
At
your
service
!
’
”
a
familiar
voice
cried
suddenly
.
