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He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In

terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the

fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to

his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She

was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly,

incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking

about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she

was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her

assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost

a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly

and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once

Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice--it was the voice

of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the

landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the

steps--that's clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the

cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy?