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- 262 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
killed, and / felt beforehand that I should tell myself so after
killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that!
The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the 'prophet' with
his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and 'trembling' creation
must obey! The 'prophet' is right, he is right when he sets a
battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the
guilty without deigning to explain! It's for you to obey, trem-
blirrg creation, and not to have desires, for that's not for you!
... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!"
His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were
parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
"Mother, sister — how I loved them! Why do I hate them
now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't
bear them near me. ... I went up to my mother and kissed her,
I remember. . . . To embrace her and think if she only knew
. . . shall I tell her then? That's just what I might do. . . . H'm.
She must be the same as I am," he added, straining himself to
think, as it were struggling with delirium. "Ah, how I hate the
old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life!
Poor Lizaveta! "Why did she come in? . . . It's strange though,
why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn't killed
her! Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes. . . .
Dear women! Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan?
They give up everything . . . their eyes are soft and gentle. . . .
Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!"
He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't
remember how he got into the street. It was late evening. The
twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and
more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the
air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and
business people were making their way home; other people
had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and
stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anx-
ious; hewas distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose,
of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had
forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the
other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to
him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head
hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. "Stay, did he
really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to over-
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