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No one paid attention to him. In the second room some clerks
sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queer-looking set.
He went up to one of them. "What is it?" He showed the notice he had received.
"You are a student?" the man asked, glancing at the notice. "Yes, formerly a
student." The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a
particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye. "There
would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no interest in
anything," thought Raskolnikov.
"Go in there to the head clerk," said the
clerk, pointing towards the furthest room. He went into that room- the fourth in
order; it was a small room and packed full of people, rather better dressed than
in the outer rooms. Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning,
sat at the table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation.
The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face,
excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer, was
standing on one side, apparently waiting for something.
Raskolnikov
thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced at it, said: "Wait a
minute," and went on attending to the lady in mourning.He breathed more freely.
"It can't be that!" By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging
himself to have courage and be calm. "Some foolishness, some trifling
carelessness, and I may betray myself! Hm... it's a pity there's no air here,"
he added, "it's stifling.... It makes one's head dizzier than ever... and one's
mind too..." He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil.
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