II
Raskolnikov was unused to crowds and, as has already been said, he shunned society, recently more than ever. But now, for some reason, he suddenly felt drawn to other people. Something new seemed to be stirring inside him, bringing with it a thirst for human company. A whole month of intense anguish and dismal excitement had left him so exhausted that he yearned for at least a moment’s rest in another world – any world would do – and now he was only too happy to remain in the den, filthy though it was.
The landlord was upstairs somewhere, but he often came down some steps into the bar, and the first that could be seen of him were his foppish blacked boots with their big red tops. He wore a long coat and a badly soiled black satin waistcoat, with no tie, and his whole face looked as if it had been smeared with grease, like an iron lock. A boy of about fourteen stood behind the counter, and another, younger kid was on hand if anyone needed serving. There were chopped-up cucumbers, black rusks and fish cut in little pieces; the smell was awful. It was very stuffy – just sitting there soon became unbearable – and everything was so steeped in alcohol fumes that the air alone, it seemed, could make you drunk in five minutes.
It happens sometimes that we meet people – even perfect strangers – who interest us at first glance, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, before a word has been spoken. Just such an impression was made on Raskolnikov by the customer who sat off to the side and resembled a retired civil servant. Later, the young man would recall this first impression several times and even explain it to himself as a premonition. He couldn’t stop looking over at him – partly, of course, because the latter kept staring at him and was
clearly desperate to strike up a conversation. As for the others in the den, including the landlord, the civil servant looked at them in a familiar and even bored sort of way, though not without a hint of lofty disdain, as if they were people of lesser status and education to whom he could have nothing to say. He was already in his fifties, of average height and stocky build, greying and balding, with a yellow, almost greenish face swollen by constant drinking, and with puffy eyelids hiding a pair of reddish eyes that were as tiny as slits yet beamed with life. Even so, there was something very odd about him; a kind of rapture shone from his eyes – and perhaps even intelligence – yet madness, too, seemed to flicker there. He was dressed in an old, utterly ragged black tailcoat which had shed its buttons. Only one was still clinging on, and, clearly eager to keep up appearances, he made sure to use it. A shirt- front, all crumpled, stained and splattered, stuck out from beneath a nankeen waistcoat. His face had been shaved, civil-servant style, but not for some time, and a thick bluish-grey stubble was poking through. There was something of the respectable state official about his mannerisms, too. But he was uneasy, kept ruffling his hair, and occasionally, in anguish, propped his head in his hands, resting his tattered elbows on the bespattered, sticky table.
Eventually he looked straight at Raskolnikov and said loudly and firmly: ‘My good sir, may I make so bold as to engage you in polite conversation? For though you may be of indifferent appearance, my experience detects in you a man of education and one unaccustomed to drink. I myself have always respected learning, when combined with heartfelt 14sentiment; moreover, I hold the rank of titular counsellor.
Marmeladov’s the name. Titular counsellor. Dare I ask whether you have been in the service?’
‘No, I’m studying . . . ,’ replied the young man, somewhat surprised both by the speaker’s distinctive flowery tone and at being addressed so directly and so bluntly. Despite his recent pang of desire for human company of any kind, the very first word addressed to him in reality instantly elicited his usual, unpleasant and irritable feeling of disgust towards any stranger who came into contact with him, or showed the slightest wish to do so.
15 ‘I knew it – a student or a former student!’the civil servant cried. ‘Experience, my good sir, long years of experience!’ He put a finger to his forehead as if to congratulate himself. ‘Either you were once a student or you were still walking that road! Permit me . . .’ He rose, swayed, grabbed his pot and little glass, moved over to the young man and sat down next to him at a slight angle.
Though drunk, he spoke with a vigorous eloquence, only occasionally tripping over his words and drawling. He threw himself on Raskolnikov almost hungrily, as if he, too, hadn’t spoken to anyone for an entire month. ‘My good sir,’ he began almost solemnly, ‘poverty is no sin – that much is true. And drunkenness is no virtue – that’s even truer. But beggary, sir – yes, beggary – now that is a sin. In poverty, you still retain the nobility of your innate feelings; in beggary, nobody retains it, ever. Beggars are not driven from the fold of humanity with a stick – no, they are swept out with a broom to make the insult all the greater; and rightly so, for in beggary I am the first to insult myself. Hence the public house! My good sir, a month ago Mr Lebezyatnikov gave my spouse a thrashing – and my spouse is nothing likeme! Do you follow, sir? Permit me further to enquire, if for no better reason than mere curiosity: have you ever had occasion to pass the night on the Neva, on the hay barges?’ ‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Raskolnikov. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, sir, that’s where I’ve been, for the fifth night running . . .’ He refilled his glass and drank, lost in thought. Wisps of hay did indeed cling to his clothes here and there, and there was even some in his hair. It was more than likely that five days had passed since he’d last changed his clothes or washed. His hands, in particular, were filthy, greasy and red, the nails black.
His conversation appeared to arouse a general, if idle interest. The boys behind the bar began to titter. The landlord, it seemed, had come down specially from the room upstairs so as to listen to this ‘entertainer’, and he sat at a distance, yawning lazily and self-importantly.
Marmeladov was clearly an old face here. And his penchant for flowery speech must have derived from his habit of talking to strangers in bars. For some drinkers this habit becomes a need, especially if at home they are ordered about and harshly treated. That’s why, in the company of other drinkers, they always go to such lengths to be vindicated and, if possible, earn their respect. ‘A right entertainer!’ the landlord boomed. ‘Why’s you not working, then? Why, pray, d’you not serve, civil servant?’ ‘Why do I not serve, my dear sir?’ echoed Marmeladov, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it were he who had posed the question. ‘Why do I not serve?
Does my heart not ache to know that I bow and scrape in vain? A month ago, when Mr Lebezyatnikov thrashed my spouse with his own bare hands, while I lay tipsy, did I not suffer? Pray tell me, young man, have you ever had occasion to . . . ahem . . . well, beg for a loan, say, without hope?’ ‘I have . . . but what do you mean, without hope?’ ‘I mean, without any hope at all, sir, knowing in advance that nothing will come of it. For example, you know in advance and with complete certainty that this man, this
most well-intentioned and most helpful citizen, will not give you a copeck, for, I ask you, why should he? After all, he knows full well that I shan’t return it. Out of compassion?
But Mr Lebezyatnikov, who keeps abreast of the latest thinking, was explaining only the other day that in our age even science has prohibited compassion, and that is how they already do things in England, where political 16 economyis all the rage. So, I ask you, why should he?
And yet, knowing in advance that he will not give it to you,
you set out all the same and . . .’ ‘So why go?’ Raskolnikov put in. ‘What if there is nowhere else to go and no one else to go to? After all, every man must have at least somewhere he can go. There are times when one simply has to go somewhere, anywhere! When my only-begotten daughter 17 went off to work for the first time on a “yellow ticket”,I, too, went off . . . (for my daughter lives on a yellow ticket, sir . . . ),’ he added in parenthesis, looking at the young man with a certain unease. ‘Never mind, good sir, never mind!’ he hurriedly continued with apparent equanimity, when the two boys behind the bar snorted and the landlord grinned. ‘Never mind, sir! The mere wagging of heads cannot embarrass me, for now everything is known to all and all that was hidden is made manifest; and I respond not with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! “Behold 18 the Man!”Pray tell me, young man: can you . . . ? No, let’s put it more strongly, more vividly: notcan you, but dare you, gazing at me here and now, state for a fact that I
am not a pig?’ The young man said nothing. ‘Well, sir,’ the orator continued, pausing with an imposing and even, on this occasion, exaggeratedly dignified air for the latest round of sniggering to abate. ‘Well, sir, I may be a pig, but she is a lady! I may bear the likeness of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse, is an
educated person, who was born to a field officer. I may be a scoundrel, but she is endowed with a sublime heart and feelings ennobled by good breeding. And yet . . . oh, would that my lady had pity on me! After all, kindest sir, every man must have at least one place where even he might be pitied! Katerina Ivanovna is high-minded, but unjust . . .
And though I understand myself that even when she seizes me by my forelocks she does so purely from the pity of her heart (for I am not embarrassed to repeat, young man, that she seizes me by my forelocks),’ he reaffirmed with redoubled dignity, after hearing sniggers once more, ‘but heavens – if she could only once, just once . . . But no! No!
All this is vanity! A waste of breath and nothing more! . . .
For my desire has come to pass more than once and I have been pitied more than once, but . . . that’s just how I am: a born brute!’ ‘Not half!’ observed the landlord with a yawn.
Marmeladov banged his fist on the table. ‘Yes, it’s the mark of my character! Are you aware, good sir, that I even drank away her stockings – are you aware of that fact? Not her boots, sir, for at least that would have borne some resemblance to the order of things, but her stockings – yes, sir, her stockings! Her little mohair shawl, I drank that away too – a gift, from before, her very own, not 19 mine; and we live in a chilly little corner,and she caught cold this winter, and now she’s coughing up blood. Not to mention our three little mites: Katerina Ivanovna’s hard at it from dawn till dusk, scrubbing and cleaning and washing the children, for cleanliness has been a habit of hers since infancy, and she is weak of chest and prone to consumption, and I can feel it. Do I not feel? The more I drink, the more I feel. That is why I do it: imbibing, I seek compassion and feeling. It is not merriment I seek, but sorrow, only sorrow . . . I drink that I may suffer more
deeply!’ With that, he lowered his head onto the table, as if in despair. ‘Young man,’ he continued, raising himself once more, ‘I read, as it were, a certain sorrow in your features. I read it there the moment you walked in, which is why I was so quick to address you. For it is not to disgrace myself before these gentlemen of leisure, who already know it all anyway, that I relate the story of my life to you; rather, I seek a man of feeling and education. You should know that my spouse attended an aristocratic school for daughters of the nobility, and at the leaving ball she danced thepas de 20 châlein the presence of the governor and other persons, for which she received a gold medal and a certificate of distinction. The medal . . . well, the medal was sold . . . long ago now . . . H’m! . . . But the certificate of distinction is still in her trunk, and just recently she showed it to our landlady. And though she and the landlady are in perpetual discord, the urge to show off a little before someone – anyone – and reminisce about better, happier days was too strong to resist. And I do not judge her – no, I do not – for this is what has remained in her memory, when all else has turned to dust! Yes, yes; a proud lady, proud and unbending. She scrubs the floor herself and gets by on black bread, but she will not be slighted. That is why she could not let Mr Lebezyatnikov’s rudeness pass unchallenged, and when Mr Lebezyatnikov gave her a beating for it, she took to her bed less from injury to her body than from injury to her feelings. I married her when she was already a widow, with three children, three tiny little mites. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father’s home. She loved him beyond measure, but he started gambling, ended up in court and promptly died. He beat her towards the end; and though she stood up to him, which I know for a fact, with papers to prove it, she
remembers him to this day with tears in her eyes and reproaches me with his example, and I am glad, I am glad, for in her imagination, at least, she once was happy . . . So she was left with three infants in a far-flung, savage district, where I also happened to find myself, and she was left in such hopeless beggary that I, for all that I have seen in my life, am quite incapable of even describing it. Her relations turned their backs on her. And she was proud, too proud . . . So then, my good sir, I, also widowed, with a fourteen-year-old daughter from my first wife, offered my hand in marriage, for I could not bear to look on such suffering. You may judge the depth of her plight from the fact that she, educated, well brought up, the bearer of a famous surname, consented to marry me! She did! Crying and sobbing and wringing her hands – but marry me she did! For she had nowhere else to go. Do you understand, my good sir, do you really understand what that means, to have nowhere left to go? No! This you have yet to understand . . . For an entire year I carried out my duty in godly, pious fashion and not a drop did I touch,’ (he jabbed at his pint-measure of vodka) ‘for I am a man of feeling. Yet even thus I could not please. Then I lost my position, also through no fault of my own: a change of personnel; and then I began to partake! . . . A year and a half must have passed now since we finally found ourselves, after lengthy wanderings and numerous calamities, in this magnificent capital city graced by numerous monuments. And here, I received a position . . . Received it and lost it again.
Understand, sir? This time itwas my own fault; the mark of my character came to the fore . . . So now we occupy a little corner of a house, and Amalia Fyodorovna Lippewechsel is our landlady, and how we get by and how we pay, I do not know. Many others live there, too, of course . . . Sodom, sir, of the foulest kind . . . H’m . . . Yes . . . Meanwhile, my girl from my first marriage has grown up and the things she has had to endure from her stepmother
along the way – well, the less said, the better. For although Katerina Ivanovna’s soul overflows with the noblest sentiments, she is fiery and irritable, and quick to slap you down . . . Yes sir! But what is the use in remembering?
Sonya, as you can well imagine, received no education. I did try, some four years ago, to give her a grounding in geography and world history; but because my own grasp of these fields is uncertain, and due to a lack of decent primers (for what books there were . . . h’m! . . . well, they are no longer even around, those books) that was all the 21 teaching she had. Cyrus the Greatwas as far as we got.
Later, on reaching maturity, she read several books of a romantic bent, and just recently, through the good offices of Mr Lebezyatnikov, she read with great interest a certain 22 little tome, Lewes’sPhysiology– perhaps you know it? – and even conveyed parts of it to us aloud: and that is the sum of her education. Now let me turn to you, my good sir, with a private question of my own: in your view, can a poor but honest girl earn much through honest labour? . . .
She’ll not earn fifteen copecks a day, sir, if she is honest and has no particular talents, and even then only if she works herself into the ground! And even then Counsellor Ivan Ivanovich Klopstok – are you familiar with the name? – not only failed to pay her for sewing half a dozen Holland- cloth shirts, he even insulted her and showed her the door, stamping his feet and calling her all sorts of names, claiming that a collar she’d sewn was the wrong size and not straight. Not to mention the little mites going hungry . . . and Katerina Ivanovna wringing her hands and pacing the room, her cheeks coming out in red blotches, as is always the way with this ailment: “You’re sponging, girl, eating and drinking and keeping yourself warm,” but search me how you can drink and eat when even the little ones don’t see a crust of bread for three days at a time! I had my feet up at the time . . . well, all right, I was tipsy, sir, and I could
hear my Sonya (as tame as they come, with that meek little voice of hers . . . and her fair hair and her little face, always so pale and thin), I could hear her saying: “Well then, Katerina Ivanovna, do I really have to dothat?” Meanwhile Darya Frantsevna, a malicious woman well known to the police, had already made a few enquiries through the landlady. “Well then,” mocked Katerina Ivanovna, “what are you saving exactly? Precious jewels?” But blame her not, my good sir, blame her not! This was said not in soundness of mind, but in a tumult of feeling, in sickness and to the crying of unfed children, and it was said more to offend than for its precise meaning . . . For such is Katerina Ivanovna’s character, and the moment the children start crying, albeit from hunger, she immediately beats them.
Come six o’clock, I saw Sonechka get to her feet, cover her head, put on her little burnous and leave the apartment, and by nine she was back again. She went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and laid out thirty roubles on the table without saying a word. Not a word, not even a glance. She 23 just took our big, greendrap de damesshawl (we have one between us, made ofdrap de dames), buried her head and face in it and lay down on the bed, her face to the wall, her little shoulders and body a-quivering . . . As for me, sir, I was in the same state as before, with my feet up . . . And that, young man, was when I saw Katerina Ivanovna walk over to Sonechka’s little bed, also without saying a word, and kneel at the foot of the bed for the rest of the evening, kissing Sonechka’s feet, not wanting to get up, and, in the end, they both fell asleep just like that, in each other’s arms . . . both of them . . . both . . . yes, sir . . . and as for me . . . I was tipsy and had my feet up.’ Marmeladov fell silent – his voice just seemed to break off. Then, with sudden haste, he poured out a glass, drank it and cleared his throat.
‘And ever since then, good sir,’ he went on after a pause, ‘in consequence of a certain unfavourable circumstance and certain malicious reports, in which activity Darya Frantsevna proved especially zealous, alleging that she had not been shown due respect – ever since then my daughter, Sofya Semyonovna, has been obliged to take the yellow ticket, on account of which she could remain with us no longer. For our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna, would not allow it (though she had previously assisted Darya Frantsevna), and Mr Lebezyatnikov himself . . . H’m . . .
Well, it was on account of Sonya that he had that rumpus with Katerina Ivanovna. First he tried his luck with Sonechka, then he suddenly got up on his high horse: “Am I, a man of considerable education, to live under one roof with the likes of her?” Well, Katerina Ivanovna didn’t let that pass; she stepped in . . . and that was that . . .
Sonechka usually comes by at dusk now, helps out Katerina Ivanovna and brings us what she can . . . She lives at Kapernaumov’s, the tailor’s, rents a room there, and Kapernaumov is lame and tongue-tied, and his entire numerous brood is also tongue-tied. And his wife, she too is tongue-tied . . . They squeeze into a single room, while Sonya has one of her own, with a partition . . . H’m, yes . . .
The poorest of people and tied of tongue . . . yes indeed . . .
So I got up bright and early, put on my rags, raised my hands to heaven and set off to see His Excellency Ivan Afanasyevich. Perhaps you know His Excellency Ivan Afanasyevich? . . . No? Then you do not know a godly man!
He is wax . . . wax before the face of the Lord; as wax 24 melteth!He was even moved to tears after deigning to hear me out. “Well, Marmeladov,” he says, “you’ve already disappointed me once . . . Now I’m giving you a second chance as my personal responsibility,” (those were his very words) “so remember that, and be off with you!” I kissed the dust at his feet – in my mind, of course, for in reality he
would not have allowed it, being a dignitary and a man of the latest thinking in matters of state and education – and when I returned home and announced that I had been taken back into the service and was drawing a salary, well, good heavens, you should have seen what happened then! . . .’ Marmeladov broke off once again in the greatest excitement. At that moment, an entire platoon of drunkards, who were already far gone, came in off the street, and the sounds of a rented barrel organ and a 25cracked, seven-year-old voice singing ‘Little Farm’ carried over from the entrance. It grew noisy. The landlord and the serving boys busied themselves with the new group. Paying the latter no heed, Marmeladov went on with his story. By now, he appeared to have lost all strength, but the drunker he became the more he wanted to talk. The recollection of his recent success at work seemed to have revived him and had even marked his face with a sort of radiance. Raskolnikov listened attentively. ‘All this, good sir, happened five weeks ago. Yes . . . The moment those two, Katerina Ivanovna and Sonechka, found out – goodness, I thought I’d been taken up to heaven.
Before, you would lie there like a beast and abuse was all you heard! But now they’re going round on tiptoe, hushing the little ones: “Semyon Zakharych is tired out from work, he’s resting, shhh!” I was being served coffee before work – and hot cream! Real cream, do you hear! And how they scraped together eleven roubles and fifty copecks to fit me out so nicely, I’ll never know! Boots, magnificent cotton shirt fronts, a new uniform, all tip-top, for just eleven fifty. I walked in after my first morning at work and what did I find? Katerina Ivanovna had prepared two courses – soup and corned beef with horseradish – something we’d never even heard of before then. She doesn’t have a single dress . . . not a single one, sir, but now here she was, got up as if to
go to a party; incredible how she does it; incredible how she makes everything from nothing: the hairdo, a nice clean collar, cuffs, and by the end she looks a completely different person – younger, prettier. Sonechka, my precious, only assisted with money. “It’s not proper,” she says, “for me to come over to your place too often now, not for a while anyway, maybe only at dusk, so nobody sees me.” Do you hear? I came home after lunch for forty winks and just imagine what I heard then: only a week before Katerina Ivanovna had had the most almighty row with Amalia Fyodorovna, but here she was inviting her round for coffee.
Two hours they sat together, whispering. “So now Semyon Zakharych is working and drawing a salary, and he presented himself before His Excellency, and His Excellency came out in person, told everybody else to wait, took Semyon Zakharych by the hand and led him past everyone to his office.” Do you hear? “In view of past services, Semyon Zakharych,” said His Excellency, “and though you succumbed for a time to this frivolous weakness, but as you are now making a promise, and besides we have been doing poorly without you” – do you hear? – “then I shall count on your word of honour” – and she’d made the whole thing up, I tell you, and not out of silliness or just to sing my praises! No, sir, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own imaginings, by heaven! And I do not condemn it; no, this I do not condemn! . . . And when, six days ago, I brought home twenty-three roubles and forty copecks – my first salary, in its entirety – she even called me her little boy: “My clever little boy!” she says. And in private, understand? After all, I’m not much to look at and not much of a husband, am I?
But no, she pinched my cheek and said, “My clever little boy!”’ Marmeladov paused as if to smile, but his chin suddenly began to quiver. Still, he held himself together. This pothouse, his depraved appearance, the five nights on the
hay barges, the vodka and to top it all, this sickly love for wife and family, disorientated his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently, but with a sick feeling. How he wished he hadn’t come here. ‘My good sir, my good sir!’ Marmeladov exclaimed, having recovered. ‘Oh, sir, for you, perhaps, as for everyone else, this is all just a joke and I should really stop bothering you with all the idiotic, pathetic details of my domestic life, but it’s no joke to me! For I can feel everything . . .
Throughout the entire course of that one heavenly day and throughout the entire evening, I, too, was carried away by dreams: how I would arrange everything and clothe the little mites and give her some respite and bring my only- begotten daughter back from disgrace into the bosom of the family . . . And much else besides . . . Quite forgivable, sir. Well, my good man’ – Marmeladov suddenly gave a kind of start, raised his head and stared straight at his listener – ‘well, sir, on the very next day, after all these reveries (that is to say, precisely five days ago), towards evening, by a 26 clever ruse, like a thief in the night,I stole the key to Katerina Ivanovna’s chest, took what remained of the salary (I no longer remember how much), and look at me now, sir – kaput! My fifth day away from home and the search party’s out, and it’s the end of my career; and the uniform, in exchange for which I received these vestments, is in a pothouse by Egypt Bridge . . . and it’s the end of everything!’ Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, shut his eyes and planted an elbow on the table.
But a minute later his face suddenly changed; glancing at Raskolnikov with an air of slyness and manufactured insolence, he laughed and said: ‘Today I went to Sonya, to beg some money – you know, hair of the dog! Heh-heh-heh!’
‘Don’t tell me she gave it you?’ shouted one of the newcomers, then roared with laughter. ‘This very pint of vodka was bought with her money, sir,’ Marmeladov went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. ‘Brought me out thirty copecks, in her own hands, her very last coins; it was all she had, I saw for myself . . . Didn’t say a word, just looked at me in silence . . . That’s how – up there, not down here – people grieve and weep, but never a word of reproach, not a word! And that hurts even more, sir, when there’s no reproach – yes, sir, that hurts more . . . Thirty copecks. She’ll be needing them herself now, eh! Wouldn’t you say, my dear sir? After all, 27 she has to keep herself immaculate.It costs money to be immaculate in that particular way, does it not? Does it not?
Then there’s lipstick to be bought, no getting away from that, sir, starched skirts, high-heeled shoes with a touch of class, to show a bit of leg when there’s a puddle to be crossed. Do you see, sir, what it means to be immaculate – do you? Well, sir, and there’s me, her very own father, swiping these thirty copecks to clear a sore head! And here I am spending them! In fact, I’ve already spent them! . . .
So who could ever pity a man like me? Eh? Do you pity me now, sir, or do you not? Tell me, sir, yea or nay? Heh-heh- heh-heh!’ He was about to pour another glass, but there was nothing left. The pot was empty. ‘Pity you – what the hell for?’ shouted the landlord, who had come back down again.
There was more laughter and even swearing, among those who were listening and even among those who were not – the sight of the retired civil servant was quite enough for them. ‘Pity me! Why pity me?’ Marmeladov suddenly howled, standing up with his arm outstretched before him, in an access of inspiration, as though he had been waiting for
precisely those words. ‘Why pity me, you ask? Oh yes!
There is nothing to pity me for! I should be crucified, I should be nailed to the cross – not pitied! So crucify, O judge, crucify, and, having crucified, take pity! Then I shall come to you myself to be nailed to the rood, for it is not merriment I crave, but sorrow and tears! . . . Do you imagine, O vendor, that this pot of yours brought me pleasure? It was sorrow I sought at its bottom, sorrow and tears, which I did taste and I did find; and He shall pity us who pitied all, who understood all men and all things, He alone, He the judge. He shall come on that day and He shall ask: “Where is the daughter who did betray herself for a wicked, consumptive stepmother and infant, alien children?
Where is the daughter who did take pity on her mortal father, an obscene drunkard whose brutishness did not appal her?” And He will say: “Come! I forgave thee once . . . Yes, I forgave thee . . . Now, too, thy many sins are forgiven, for thou loved much . . .” And He will forgive my Sonya, He will, I know He will . . . I felt it just now, when I visited her, felt it in my heart! . . . He will judge and forgive all, the good and the wicked, the wise and the meek . . .
And when He has finished with them He will speak unto us, too: “Come forth,” He will say, “even you! Come forth the tipsy, come forth the feeble, come forth the shameless!”
And we shall all come forth, without shame, and we shall stand. And He will say, “You are swine, marked with the image and the stamp of the beast; yet even so – come!” And the wise and the reasonable shall proclaim: “Lord! Why takest Thou these men?” And He will say: “I take them – O men of wisdom, O men of reason – because not one of their number did think himself worthy . . .” And He shall reach out His hands to us, and we shall fall down . . . and we shall weep . . . and we shall understand all things! All things shall we understand! . . . and all will understand . . . even
Katerina Ivanovna . . . she, too, will understand . . . May 28 Thy kingdom come,O Lord!’ Exhausted, enfeebled, he lowered himself onto the bench, not looking at anyone, as though oblivious to his surroundings and deep in thought. His words made quite an impression; for a moment there was silence, but the
laughter and cursing soon resumed:
‘Pull the other one!’
‘Load of cobblers!’
‘Bureaucrat!’ And so on and so forth. ‘Let us be off, sir,’ said Marmeladov suddenly, raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov. ‘You lead the way . . .
Kozel’s house, facing the courtyard. High time . . . to Katerina Ivanovna . . .’ Raskolnikov had been wanting to leave for a while, and the thought of helping had already occurred to him.
Marmeladov proved far weaker on his legs than in his oratory and leant heavily on the young man. It was a walk of two hundred yards or so. The closer they drew to the house, the more troubled and fearful the drunkard became. ‘It is not Katerina Ivanovna I fear now,’ he muttered nervously, ‘nor the fact that she will start pulling my hair.
Hair! . . . Hair is nothing! I say so myself! All the better if she starts pulling it, that’s not what scares me . . . It’s . . . her eyes that scare me . . . yes . . . her eyes . . . The red blotches on her cheeks scare me, too . . . not to mention – her breathing . . . Have you seen how people breathe with this sickness . . . when they are all worked up? And I fear the crying of the children . . . Because if Sonya has not fed them, then . . . well, search me! Search me! But I do not fear a beating . . . Know, sir, that such beatings, far from bringing me pain, often bring me pleasure . . . I cannot live without them. It’s for the best. Let her beat me, vent her feelings . . . for the best, I say . . . And here’s the house.
Kozel’s house. A locksmith, a German, very well off . . . lead the way!’ They entered from the courtyard and went up to the fourth floor. The higher they climbed, the darker the stairwell. It was nearly eleven and although night as such never falls at this time of year in Petersburg, the head of the stairwell was very dark.
A small soot-covered door stood open at the very top of the stairs. A candle stub illuminated a wretched room, the whole of which – ten paces or so from one end to the other – was visible from the door. Children’s rags and other stuff lay strewn in disarray. A sheet full of holes was stretched across the far corner. Behind it there was probably a bed.
The room itself contained just two chairs and a very tattered couch covered with oilcloth, before which stood an old kitchen table made of pine, unpainted and bare. On the edge of the table a tallow candle was guttering out in its iron holder. So Marmeladov did have his own room, not just a ‘corner’, but it was a connecting one. The door leading into the other lodgings or cells into which Amalia Lippewechsel’s apartment was divided stood ajar. It was noisy there. People were shouting and laughing, probably playing cards and drinking tea. Some choice obscenities flew out.
Raskolnikov instantly recognized Katerina Ivanovna. She was terribly thin, quite tall, with a delicate and elegant figure, still-beautiful dark-brown hair and cheeks that had indeed turned red and blotchy. She was pacing her little room with her arms folded on her chest; her lips were crusted, her breathing uneven and broken. Her eyes had a feverish gleam, but their gaze was sharp and still, and her consumptive, distressed face made a painful impression in the last, trembling light of the dying candle. To Raskolnikov she looked about thirty, and she and Marmeladov really did seem ill-matched . . . She neither heard nor noticed them enter; it was as if she were in a kind of trance, neither
hearing nor seeing. It was stuffy, but she didn’t open the window; there was a stink from the stairwell, but the door to the stairs wasn’t closed; waves of tobacco smoke floated in from the inner rooms through the half-closed door – she kept coughing, but didn’t shut it. The smallest girl, aged six or so, was asleep on the floor, half-sitting, huddled up, head buried in the couch. The boy, a bit older, was quivering and crying in a corner. He was probably fresh from a beating.
The eldest girl, aged nine or so, tall and stick-thin, wearing nothing but a thin, tattered chemise and a decrepit little burnous ofdrap de dames on bare shoulders (it must have been sewn for her a couple of years before, since now it barely reached to her knees), stood in the corner by her little brother, her long arm, dry as a matchstick, draped around his neck. She seemed to be trying to soothe him; she was whispering something in his ear and doing all she could to stop him snivelling again, while following her mother fearfully with her big dark eyes, which seemed even bigger on her emaciated, frightened little face. Without entering, Marmeladov dropped to his knees right there in the doorway, shoving Raskolnikov into the room. On seeing the stranger, the woman paused absently before him, briefly coming to her senses and appearing to ask herself: what’s he doing here? But she must have decided that he was going straight through, to someone else’s room.
Thinking this and ceasing to pay him any further attention, she made for the entrance door, so as to close it, and suddenly screamed, seeing her husband on his knees on the very threshold. ‘Ha!’ she yelled in sheer frenzy. ‘He’s back! Jailbird!
Monster! . . . So where’s the money? What’s in your pockets? Show me! And your clothes aren’t the same!
Where are your clothes? Where’s the money? Speak! . . .’ She set about searching him. Obediently, submissively, without the slightest delay, Marmeladov flung open his
arms to assist the search of his pockets. Not a copeck was found. ‘So where is the money?’ she shouted. ‘Lord, don’t say he’s gone and drunk it all! There were twelve roubles left in the trunk!’ – and suddenly, in wild fury, she grabbed him by his hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov assisted her, crawling after her meekly on his knees. ‘And I find pleasure in this! Not pain, but pleasure, pleasure, my . . . good . . . sir . . . !’ he cried, while being shaken by the hair, and even knocking his forehead against the floor. The child asleep on the floor woke up and began crying. The boy in the corner couldn’t stand it, started shaking and shouting, and threw himself on his sister in sheer panic, as if he were having a fit. The eldest girl, half- asleep, was trembling like a leaf. ‘Drank it! All of it!’ cried the poor woman in despair. ‘And his clothes aren’t the same! They’re hungry, hungry!’ (She pointed to the children, wringing her hands.) ‘Oh, damn this life! And you, have you no shame?’ she yelled, suddenly pouncing on Raskolnikov. ‘Straight from the bar! You drank with him? You as well! Get out!’ The young man left as quickly as he could, without saying a word. Moreover, the inner door was now wide open and several curious faces were looking in. Insolent 29 laughing heads in skullcaps, smoking papirosiand pipes, poked through the doorway. There were people wearing unbuttoned dressing gowns and outfits that were seasonal to the point of indecency; a few had cards in their hands.
They laughed loudest when Marmeladov, being dragged by the hair, shouted that he found it a pleasure. They even started inching into the room, until at last there came a sinister shriek: Amalia Lippewechsel was elbowing her way through to take charge of the situation after her own fashion and to terrify the poor woman for the hundredth time with a foul-mouthed demand that she vacate the
premises the very next day. As he was leaving, Raskolnikov managed to dig around in his pocket for whatever small change was left from the rouble he’d spent in the drinking den and quietly placed it by the little window. No sooner was he on the stairs than he had second thoughts and almost went back. ‘What a stupid thing to do,’ he thought. ‘They’ve got Sonya and I need it myself.’ But after reasoning that it was too late to take it back now and that he would never have done so anyway, he wished it good riddance and set off home. ‘Anyway, Sonya needs her lipstick, doesn’t she?’ he continued, striding down the street and smirking sarcastically. ‘It costs money to be immaculate . . . H’m!
And who’s to say Sonechka herself won’t be out of pocket by the end of the day? A risk like that, the hunt for big game . . . mining for gold . . . by tomorrow they could all be on their uppers, if not for my money . . . Ah, Sonya! What a well they’ve managed to dig! And they draw from it! Damn me, if they don’t! They’ve got used to it. Had a little cry and got used to it. There’s nothing human scum can’t get used
to!’ He sank into thought. ‘But if that’s not true,’ he suddenly exclaimed without meaning to, ‘if man isn’t actually a scoundrel, isn’t actually scum, the whole human race, I mean, then all else is mere preconception, just fears that have been foisted upon us, and there are no barriers, and that’s exactly how it should be!’
