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But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street。 On the
Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an
unpleasant incident。 A coachman； after shouting at him two or three
times； gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip； for having
almost fallen under his horses' hoofs。 The lash so infuriated him that
he dashed away to the railing （for some unknown reason he had been
walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic）。 He angrily
clenched and ground his teeth。 He heard laughter； of course。
〃Serves him right！〃
〃A pickpocket I dare say。〃
〃Pretending to be drunk； for sure； and getting under the wheels on
purpose； and you have to answer for him。〃
〃It's a regular profession； that's what it is。〃
But while he stood at the railing； still looking angry and
bewildered after the retreating carriage； and rubbing his back； he
suddenly felt some one thrust money into his hand。 He looked。 It was
an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes； with a girl；
probably her daughter； wearing a hat； and carrying a green parasol。
〃Take it； my good man； in Christ's name。〃
He took it and they passed on。 It was a piece of twenty copecks。
From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a
beggar asking alms in the streets； and the gift of the twenty
copecks he doubtless owed to the blow； which made them feel sorry
for him。
He closed his hand on the twenty copecks； walked on for ten paces；
and turned facing the Neva； looking towards the palace。 The sky was
without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue； which is so rare
in the Neva。 The cupola of the cathedral； which is seen at its best
from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel； glittered in the
sunlight； and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly
distinguished。 The pain from the lash went off； and Raskolnikov forgot
about it； one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now
completely。 He stood still； and gazed long and intently into the
distance； this spot was especially familiar to him。 When he was
attending the university； he had hundreds of times… generally on his
way home… stood still on this spot； gazed at this truly magnificent
spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious
emotion it roused in him。 It left him strangely cold； this gorgeous
picture was for him blank and lifeless。 He wondered every time at
his sombre and enigmatic impression and； mistrusting himself； put
off finding the explanation of it。 He vividly recalled those old
doubts and perplexities； and it seemed to him that it was no mere
chance that he recalled them now。 It struck him as strange and
grotesque； that he should have stopped at the same spot as before；
as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts； be
interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested
him。。。 so short a time ago。 He felt it almost amusing； and yet it
wrung his heart。 Deep down； hidden far away out of sight all that
seemed to him now… all his old past； his old thoughts； his old
problems and theories； his old impressions and that picture and
himself and all； all。。。。 He felt as though he were flying upwards； and
everything were vanishing from his sight。 Making an unconscious
movement with his hand； he suddenly became aware of the piece of money
in his fist。 He opened his hand； stared at the coin； and with a
sweep his arm flung it into the water； then he turned and went home。
It seemed to him； he had cut himself off from every one and from
everything that moment。
Evening was coming on when he reached home； so that he must have
been walking about six hours。 How and where he came back he did not
remember。 Undressing； and quivering like an overdriven horse； he lay
down on the sofa； drew his greatcoat over him； and at once sank into
oblivion。。。。
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 recognized 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；