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, trembling 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.... _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