He reached home only towards evening, which meant he had been walking for about six hours. Of where and how he came back, he remembered nothing. He undressed and, shivering all over like a spent horse, lay down on the sofa, pulled the greatcoat over him, and immediately sank into oblivion . . .
In the dark of evening he was jolted back to consciousness by terrible shouting. God, what shouting it was! Never before had he seen or heard such unnatural noises, such howling, screaming, snarling, tears, blows, and curses. He could never even have imagined such beastliness, such frenzy. In horror, he raised himself and sat up on his bed, tormented, and with his heart sinking every moment. But the fighting, screaming, and swearing grew worse and worse. And then, to his great amazement, he suddenly made out his landlady's voice. She was howling, shrieking, and wailing, hurrying, rushing, skipping over words, so that it was even impossible to make anything out, pleading for something—not to be beaten anymore, of course, because she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant became so terrible in its spite and rage that it was no more than a rasp, yet her assailant was also saying something, also rapidly, indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. Suddenly Raskolnikov began shaking like a leaf: he recognized the voice; it was the voice of Ilya Petrovich. Ilya Petrovich was here, beating the landlady! He was kicking her, pounding her head against the steps—that was clear, one could tell from the sounds, the screaming, the thuds! What was happening? Had the world turned upside down, or what? A crowd could be heard gathering on all the floors, all down the stairs; voices, exclamations could be heard, people coming up, knocking, slamming doors, running. “But what for, what for, and how can it be?” he kept repeating, seriously thinking he had gone completely mad. But no, he could hear it too plainly! ... But in that case it meant they would also come to him, “because...it must he on account of that same...on account of yesterday...Lord!” He would have liked to fasten the hook on his door, but he was unable to raise his arm...besides, it was useless! Fear, like ice, encased his soul, tormented him, numbed him...Then at last all this uproar, which had gone on for a good ten minutes, gradually began to subside. The landlady moaned and groaned; Ilya Petrovich still threatened and swore...Then at last he, too, seemed to grow subdued; then no more was heard from him. “Has he really gone? Lord!” Yes, now the landlady was going, too, still moaning and weeping...that was her door slamming shut...Now the crowd on the stairs was breaking up, going back to their apartments—exclaiming, arguing, calling to each other, raising their voices to a shout, then lowering them to a whisper. There must have been many of them; almost the whole house had gathered. “But, God, how can it all be! And why, why did he come here!”
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 thathe 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?”
50
Apparently his real name is Vrazumikhin, derived from the Russian verb meaning "to bring to reason," but is habitually simplified to Razumikhin, from the verb "to reason." Or else he is simply joking.