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- Федор Достоевский
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- Преступление и наказание
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- Стр. 80/453
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It
was
dusk
when
he
was
waked
up
by
a
fearful
scream
.
Good
God
,
what
a
scream
!
Such
unnatural
sounds
,
such
howling
,
wailing
,
grinding
,
tears
,
blows
and
curses
he
had
never
heard
.
He
could
never
have
imagined
such
brutality
,
such
frenzy
.
In
terror
he
sat
up
in
bed
,
almost
swooning
with
agony
.
But
the
fighting
,
wailing
and
cursing
grew
louder
and
louder
.
And
then
to
his
intense
amazement
he
caught
the
voice
of
his
landlady
.
She
was
howling
,
shrieking
and
wailing
,
rapidly
,
hurriedly
,
incoherently
,
so
that
he
could
not
make
out
what
she
was
talking
about
;
she
was
beseeching
,
no
doubt
,
not
to
be
beaten
,
for
she
was
being
mercilessly
beaten
on
the
stairs
.
The
voice
of
her
assailant
was
so
horrible
from
spite
and
rage
that
it
was
almost
a
croak
;
but
he
,
too
,
was
saying
something
,
and
just
as
quickly
and
indistinctly
,
hurrying
and
spluttering
.
All
at
once
Raskolnikov
trembled
;
he
recognised
the
voice
—
it
was
the
voice
of
Ilya
Petrovitch
.
Ilya
Petrovitch
here
and
beating
the
landlady
!
He
is
kicking
her
,
banging
her
head
against
the
steps
—
that
’
s
clear
,
that
can
be
told
from
the
sounds
,
from
the
cries
and
the
thuds
.
How
is
it
,
is
the
world
topsy
-
turvy
?
He
could
hear
people
running
in
crowds
from
all
the
storeys
and
all
the
staircases
;
he
heard
voices
,
exclamations
,
knocking
,
doors
banging
.
“
But
why
,
why
,
and
how
could
it
be
?
”
he
repeated
,
thinking
seriously
that
he
had
gone
mad
.
But
no
,
he
heard
too
distinctly
!
And
they
would
come
to
him
then
next
,
“
for
no
doubt
.
.
.
it
’
s
all
about
that
.
.
.
about
yesterday
.
.
.
.
Good
God
!
”
He
would
have
fastened
his
door
with
the
latch
,
but
he
could
not
lift
his
hand
.
.
.
besides
,
it
would
be
useless
.
Terror
gripped
his
heart
like
ice
,
tortured
him
and
numbed
him
.
.
.
.
But
at
last
all
this
uproar
,
after
continuing
about
ten
minutes
,
began
gradually
to
subside
.
The
landlady
was
moaning
and
groaning
;
Ilya
Petrovitch
was
still
uttering
threats
and
curses
.
.
.
.
But
at
last
he
,
too
,
seemed
to
be
silent
,
and
now
he
could
not
be
heard
.
“
Can
he
have
gone
away
?
Good
Lord
!
”
Yes
,
and
now
the
landlady
is
going
too
,
still
weeping
and
moaning
.
.
.
and
then
her
door
slammed
.
.
.
.
Now
the
crowd
was
going
from
the
stairs
to
their
rooms
,
exclaiming
,
disputing
,
calling
to
one
another
,
raising
their
voices
to
a
shout
,
dropping
them
to
a
whisper
.
There
must
have
been
numbers
of
them
—
almost
all
the
inmates
of
the
block
.
“
But
,
good
God
,
how
could
it
be
!
And
why
,
why
had
he
come
here
!
”
Raskolnikov
sank
worn
out
on
the
sofa
,
but
could
not
close
his
eyes
.
He
lay
for
half
an
hour
in
such
anguish
,
such
an
intolerable
sensation
of
infinite
terror
as
he
had
never
experienced
before
.
Suddenly
a
bright
light
flashed
into
his
room
.
Nastasya
came
in
with
a
candle
and
a
plate
of
soup
.
Looking
at
him
carefully
and
ascertaining
that
he
was
not
asleep
,
she
set
the
candle
on
the
table
and
began
to
lay
out
what
she
had
brought
—
bread
,
salt
,
a
plate
,
a
spoon
.
“
You
’
ve
eaten
nothing
since
yesterday
,
I
warrant
.
You
’
ve
been
trudging
about
all
day
,
and
you
’
re
shaking
with
fever
.
”
“
Nastasya
.
.
.
what
were
they
beating
the
landlady
for
?
”
She
looked
intently
at
him
.
“
Who
beat
the
landlady
?
”
“
Just
now
.
.
.
half
an
hour
ago
,
Ilya
Petrovitch
,
the
assistant
superintendent
,
on
the
stairs
.
.
.
.
Why
was
he
ill
-
treating
her
like
that
,
and
.
.
.
why
was
he
here
?
”
