“Not much chance of that!” And the servant placed before him her own teapot, in which there was still some tea left, and laid two small lumps of brownish sugar on the table.

“Here, Nastasia, take this, please,” said Raskolnikoff, fumbling in his pocket and drawing out a handful of small change (for he had again lain down in his clothes), “and fetch me a white roll.  Go to the pork shop as well, and buy me a bit of cheap sausage.”

“I will bring you the roll in a minute, but had you not better take some shtchi[5] instead of the sausage?  We make it here, and it is capital.  I kept some for you last night, but it was so late before you came in!  You will find it very good.”  She went to fetch the shtchi, and, when Raskolnikoff had begun to eat, she seated herself on the sofa beside him and commenced to chatter, like a true country girl as she was.  “Prascovia Paulovna means to report you to the police,” said she.

The young man’s brow clouded.  “To the police?  Why?”

“Because you don’t pay and won’t go.  That’s why.”

“The deuce!” growled he between his teeth, “that is the finishing stroke; it comes at a most unfortunate juncture.  She is a fool,” added he aloud.  “I shall go and talk to her to-morrow.”

“She is, of course, just as much of a fool as I am; but why do you, who are so intelligent, lie here doing nothing?  How is it you never seem to have money for anything now?  You used to give lessons, I hear; how is it you do nothing now?”

“I am engaged on something,” returned Raskolnikoff dryly and half reluctantly.

“On what?”

“Some work—­”

“What sort of work?”

“Thinking,” replied he gravely, after a short silence.

Nastasia was convulsed.  She was of a merry disposition, but her laughter was always noiseless, an internal convulsion which made her actually writhe with pain.  “And does your thinking bring you any money?” asked she, as soon as she could manage to speak.

“Well!  I can’t give lessons when I have no boots to go out in?  Besides, I despise them.”

“Take care lest you suffer for it.”

“There is so little to be made by giving lessons!  What can one do with a few kopecks?” said he in an irritable tone, rather to himself than the servant.

“So you wish to make your fortune at one stroke?”

He looked at her rather strangely, and was silent for a moment.  “Yes, my fortune,” rejoined he impressively.

“Hush! you frighten me, you look terrible.  Shall I go and fetch you a roll?”

“Just as you like.”

Later in the day, Raskolnikoff went out and wandered about the streets.  At last he sat down under a tree to rest, and fell into a reverie.  His limbs felt disjointed, and his mind was in darkness and confusion.  He placed his elbows on his knees and held his head with his hands.

“God!  Am I to stand beating in her skull with a hatchet or something, wade in warm blood, break open the lock and rob and tremble, blood flowing all around, and hide myself, with the hatchet?  O God! is this indeed possible, and must it be?” He trembled like a leaf as he said this.