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words clearly。
The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister
look at Raskolnikov。
〃Murderer！〃 he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct
voice。
Raskolnikov went on walking beside him。 His legs felt suddenly weak；
a cold shiver ran down his spine； and his heart seemed to stand
still for a moment； then suddenly began throbbing as though it were
set free。 So they walked for about a hundred paces； side by side in
silence。
The man did not look at him。
〃What do you mean。。。 what is。。。。 Who is a murderer？〃 muttered
Raskolnikov hardly audibly。
〃You are a murderer；〃 the man answered still more articulately and
emphatically； with a smile of triumphant hatred； and again he looked
straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and stricken eyes。
They had just reached the crossroads。 The man turned to the left
without looking behind him。 Raskolnikov remained standing； gazing
after him。 He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him
still standing there。 Raskolnikov could not see clearly； but he
fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and
triumph。
With slow faltering steps； with shaking knees； Raskolnikov made
his way back to his little garret； feeling chilled all over。 He took
off his cap and put it on the table； and for ten minutes he stood
without moving。 Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak
moan of pain he stretched himself on it。 So he lay for half an hour。
He thought of nothing。 Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts；
some images without order or coherence floated before his mind…
faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once；
whom he would never have recalled； the belfry of the church at V。； the
billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards；
the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop； a tavern room； a
back staircase quite dark； all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with
egg shells； and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere。。。。 The
images followed one another； whirling like a hurricane。 Some of them
he liked and tried to clutch at； but they faded and all the while
there was an oppression within him； but it was not overwhelming；
sometimes it was even pleasant。。。。 The slight shivering still
persisted； but that too was an almost pleasant sensation。
He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin； he closed his eyes
and pretended to be asleep。 Razumihin opened the door and stood for
some time in the doorway as though hesitating； then he stepped
softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa。 Raskolnikov
heard Nastasya's whisper：
〃Don't disturb him！ Let him sleep。 He can have his dinner later。〃
〃Quite so；〃 answered Razumihin。 Both withdrew carefully and closed
the door。 Another half…hour passed。 Raskolnikov opened his eyes；
turned on his back again； clasping his hands behind his head。
〃Who is he？ Who is that man who sprang out of the earth？ Where was
he； what did he see？ He has seen it all； that's clear。 Where was he
then？ And from where did he see？ Why has he only now sprung out of the
earth？ And how could he see？ Is it possible？ Hm。。。〃 continued
Raskolnikov； turning cold and shivering； 〃and the jewel case Nikolay
found behind the door… was that possible？ A clue？ You miss an
infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence！
A fly flew by and saw it！ Is it possible？〃 He felt with sudden
loathing how weak； how physically weak he had become。 〃I ought to have
known it；〃 he thought with a bitter smile。 〃And how dared I； knowing
myself； knowing how I should be； take up an axe and shed blood！ I
ought to have known beforehand。。。。 Ah； but I did know！〃 he whispered
in despair。 At times he came to a standstill at some thought。
〃No； those men are not made so。 The real Master to whom all is
permitted storms Toulon； makes a massacre in Paris； forgets an army in
Egypt； wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off
with a jest at Vilna。 And altars are set up to him after his death；
and so all is permitted。 No； such people it seems are not of flesh but
of bronze！〃
One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh。 Napoleon； the
pyramids； Waterloo； and a wretched skinny old woman； a pawnbroker with
a red trunk under her bed… it's a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch
to digest！ How can they digest it！ It's too inartistic。 〃A Napoleon
creep under an old woman's bed！ Ugh； how loathsome！〃
At moments he felt he was raving。 He sank into a state of feverish
excitement。 〃The old woman is of no consequence；〃 he thought； hotly
and incoherently。 〃The old woman was a mistake perhaps； but she is not
what matters！ The old woman was only an illness。。。。 I was in a hurry
to overstep。。。。 I didn't kill a human being； but a principle！ I killed
the principle； but I didn't overstep； I stopped on this side。。。。 I was
only capable of killing。 And it seems I wasn't even capable of that。。。
Principle？ Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists？ They
are industrious； commercial people； 'the happiness of all' is their
case。 No； life is only given to me once and I shall never have it
again； I don't want to wait for 'the happiness of all。' I want to live
myself； or else better not live at all。 I simply couldn't pass by my
mother starving； keeping my trouble in my pocket while I waited for
the 'happiness of all。' I am putting my little brick into the
happiness of all and so my heart is at peace。 Ha…ha！ Why have you
let me slip？ I only live once； I too want。。。。 Ech； I am an aesthetic
louse and nothing more；〃 he added suddenly； laughing like a madman。
〃Yes； I am certainly a louse；〃 he went on； clutching at the idea；
gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive pleasure。 〃In the
first place； because I can reason that I am one； and secondly； because
for a month pa