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- 110 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
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 uncon-
scious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of
the piece of money in his fist. He op>ened his hand, stared at the
coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then
he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself
oflF from every one and from everything at 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 over-driven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his great-
coat 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 brutaUty, 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 land-
lady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly,
incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talk-
ing 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 Raskol-
nikov 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
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