He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old students overcoat, with his head on one little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of the sofa.
It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively agreeable. He had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of a servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation. He was in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely concentrated upon one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only servant, was rather pleased at the lodgers mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a week or so she would stray into his room with a broom. She waked him up that day.
Get up, why are you asleep? she called to him. Its past nine, I have brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think youre fairly starving?
Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya.
From the landlady, eh? he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa.
From the landlady, indeed!
She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it.
Here, Nastasya, take it please, he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppersrun and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butchers.
The loaf Ill fetch you this very minute, but wouldnt you rather have some cabbage soup instead of sausage? Its capital soup, yesterdays. I saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. Its fine soup.
When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country peasant-woman and a very talkative one.
Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you, she said.
To the police? What does she want?
You dont pay her money and you wont turn out of the room. Thats what she wants, to be sure.
The devil, thats the last straw, he muttered, grinding his teeth, no, that would not suit me just now. She is a fool, he added aloud. Ill go and talk to her to-day.
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