Exhausted, Raskolnikov fell back on the sofa, but could no longer close his eyes; he lay for about half an hour in such suffering, such an unbearable feeling of boundless horror, as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light shone in his room: Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him closely and seeing that he was not asleep, she put the candle on the table and began setting out what she had brought: bread, salt, plate, spoon.

“I bet you haven't eaten since yesterday. You spent the whole day loafing about, and you shaking all over with fever.”

“Nastasya...why were they beating the landlady?”

She looked at him intently.

“Who was beating the landlady?”

“Just now...half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovich, the police chief's assistant, on the stairs...Why was he beating her so? And...why was he here?”

Nastasya studied him silently, frowning, and went on looking at him like that for a long time. He began feeling very unpleasant, even frightened, under this scrutiny.

“Nastasya, why are you silent?” he finally said timidly, in a weak voice.

“It's the blood,” she finally answered softly, as if speaking to herself.

“Blood! ... What blood? . . .” he murmured, turning pale and drawing back towards the wall. Nastasya went on looking at him silently.

“No one was beating the landlady,” she said, again in a stern and resolute voice. He looked at her, scarcely breathing.

“I heard it myself... I wasn't asleep, I was sitting up,” he said even more timidly. “I listened for a long time...The police chief's assistant was here...Everyone came running out to the stairs, from all the apartments...”

“No one was here. It's the blood clamoring in you. When it can't get out and starts clotting up into these little clots, that's when you start imagining things...Are you going to eat, or what?”

He did not reply. Nastasya went on standing over him, looking at him steadily, and would not go away.

“Give me water...Nastasyushka.”

She went downstairs and came back about two minutes later with water in a white earthenware mug; but he no longer remembered what happened next. He only remembered taking one sip of cold water and spilling some from the mug onto his chest. Then came unconsciousness.

III

However, it was not that he was totally unconscious during the whole time of his illness: it was a feverish condition, with moments of delirium and semi-awareness. Afterwards he remembered a good deal. Once it seemed to him that many people were gathered around him and wanted to take him and carry him away somewhere, and there was much arguing and quarreling about him. Then suddenly he was alone in the room, everyone was gone, they were afraid of him, and only opened the door a crack from time to time to look at him, threaten him, arrange something among themselves, laugh and tease him. He remembered Nastasya being often with him; he also made out another person, who seemed very familiar, but precisely who it was he simply could not figure out, and he grieved over it, and even wept. At times it seemed to him that he had been lying there for at least a month, at other times that it was still the same day. But about that—about that he forgot completely; instead, he remembered every minute having forgotten something that must not be forgotten—he agonized, suffered, trying to remember, moaned, fell into a rage, or into terrible, unbearable fear. Then he tried to tear himself away, wanted to run, but there was always someone who stopped him by force, and he would fall into weakness and unconsciousness again. At last he fully recovered his senses.

This occurred in the morning, at ten o'clock. At that hour of the morning, on clear days, sunlight always came in a long stripe across the right wall of his room and lit up the corner by the door. Nastasya was standing at his bedside with another person, a man completely unknown to him, who was studying him with great curiosity. He was a young fellow in a caftan, with a little beard, and had the look of a company agent. The landlady was peeking through the half-opened door. Raskolnikov raised himself slightly.

“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the fellow.

“Look, he's come to!” she said.

“He's come to!” echoed the agent. Realizing that he had come to, the landlady, who was peeking through the door, immediately closed it and hid herself. She had always been shy, and it was burdensome for her to endure conversations and explanations; she was about forty, round and fat, dark-browed, dark-eyed, kind out of fatness and laziness, and even quite comely. But unnecessarily bashful.

“Who...are you?” he continued to ask, addressing the agent himself. But at that moment the door was flung open again and Razumikhin came in, stooping a little because of his height.

“What a ship's cabin,” he shouted, coming in. “I always bump my head; and they call it an apartment! So you've come to, brother? Pashenka just told me.”

“He just came to,” said Nastasya.

“He just came to,” the agent agreed again, with a little smile.

“And who are you, sir, if you please?” Razumikhin asked, suddenly turning to him. “I, you may be pleased to know, am Vrazumikhin;^[50]not Razumikhin, as everyone calls me, but Vrazumikhin, a student and a gentleman's son, and this is my friend. Well, sir, and who are you?”

“And I am the merchant Shelopaev's office agent, sir, here on business, sir.”

“Take this chair, if you please.” Razumikhin himself took the other, on the opposite side of the table. “So you've come to, brother, and it's a good thing you have,” he went on, addressing Raskolnikov. “You hardly ate or drank anything for four days. Really, we gave you tea from a spoon. I brought Zossimov to you twice. Remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and immediately said it was all trifles— something went to your head, or whatever. Some nervous nonsense, he says, or poor rations—they didn't dish you up enough beer and horseradish, hence the illness—but it's nothing, it'll go away, it'll all get through the hopper. Good old Zossimov! He's become quite a doctor! Well, sir, I don't want to keep you,” he again turned to the agent, “will you kindly explain your errand? Note, Rodya, it's the second time they've sent someone from that office; only it wasn't this one before, it was someone else, and I talked with him. Who was it that came before?”

“Presuming it was two days ago, sir, that's right, sir, it would have been Alexei Semyonovich; he's also employed by our office, sir.”

“And he seems to have a bit more sense than you do, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, sir, he surely is a solider man, sir.”

“Admirable. Well, sir, go on.”

“Now then, sir, there's an order come through our office, by your mother's request, through Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, of whom I judge you've heard more than once, if you please, sir,” the agent began, addressing Raskolnikov directly, “in the case that you're now in your right understanding, sir, to hand you over thirty-five rubles, sir, since Semyon Semyonovich, by your mother's request, received a notice to that effect from Afanasy Ivanovich, in the same way as before. You do know him, if you please, sir?”

“Yes...I remember...Vakhrushin . . .” Raskolnikov said pensively.

“You hear? He knows the merchant Vakhrushin!” Razumikhin exclaimed. “Of course he's in his right understanding! As a matter of fact, I see now that you, too, are a man of sense. Well, sir! It's always pleasant to hear intelligent talk.”

“That same man, sir, Vakhrushin, Afanasy Ivanovich, by the request of your mama, who already did it once in the same way, through him, and he did not refuse this time either, sir, so the other day he sent notice from his parts to Semyon Semyonovich to give you thirty-five rubles, sir, in expectation of better things to come, sir.”