An
elegant
carriage
stood
in
the
middle
of
the
road
with
a pair
of
spirited grey horses;
there
was
no
one
in
it,
and
the
coachman had got
off
his
box
and
stood by;
the
horses
were
being
held
by
the
bridle.... A
mass
of
people
had
gathered
round,
the
police
standing
in
front.
One
of
them
held
a
lighted
lantern
which
he
was
turning
on
something
lying close
to
the
wheels. Everyone
was
talking, shouting, exclaiming;
the
coachman
seemed
at
a
loss
and
kept repeating: "What a misfortune!
Good
Lord,
what
a misfortune!" Raskolnikov
pushed
his
way
in
as
far
as
he
could,
and
succeeded
at
last
in
seeing
the
object
of
the
commotion
and
interest.
On
the
ground a
man
who
had been
run
over
lay
apparently unconscious,
and
covered
with
blood;
he
was
very
badly dressed,
but
not
like
a workman. Blood
was
flowing
from
his
head
and
face;
his
face
was
crushed,
mutilated
and
disfigured.
He
was
evidently badly injured. "Merciful heaven!" wailed
the
coachman, "what
more
could
I do?
If
I'd been
driving
fast
or
had
not
shouted
to
him,
but
I
was
going quietly,
not
in
a hurry. Everyone
could
see
I
was
going
along
just
like
everybody else. A
drunken
man
can't walk straight,
we
all
know.... I
saw
him
crossing
the
street, staggering
and
almost
falling. I shouted
again
and
a
second
and
a
third
time,
then
I
held
the
horses
in,
but
he
fell
straight
under
their
feet!
Either
he
did
it
on
purpose
or
he
was
very
tipsy....
The
horses
are
young
and
ready
to
take
fright...
they
started,
he
screamed...
that
made
them
worse. That's
how
it
happened!" "That's
just
how
it
was," a voice
in
the
crowd confirmed. "He shouted, that's true,
he
shouted
three
times,"
another
voice declared. "Three times
it
was,
we
all
heard
it," shouted a third.
But
the
coachman
was
not
very
much
distressed
and
frightened.
It
was
evident
that
the
carriage
belonged
to
a
rich
and
important
person
who
was
awaiting
it
somewhere;
the
police,
of
course,
were
in
no
little
anxiety
to
avoid
upsetting
his
arrangements.
All
they
had
to
do
was
to
take
the
injured
man
to
the
police
station
and
the
hospital.
No
one
knew
his
name. Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed
in
and
stooped
closer
over
him.
The
lantern
suddenly
lighted
up
the
unfortunate man's face.
He
recognised
him. "I
know
him! I
know
him!"
he
shouted,
pushing
to
the
front. "It's a
government
clerk retired
from
the
service, Marmeladov.
He
lives
close
by
in
Kozel's house....
Make
haste
for
a doctor! I
will
pay, see?"
He
pulled
money
out
of
his
pocket
and
showed
it
to
the
policeman.
He
was
in
violent
agitation.
The
police
were
glad
that
they
had found
out
who
the
man
was. Raskolnikov gave
his
own
name
and
address, and,
as
earnestly
as
if
it
had been
his
father,
he
besought
the
police
to
carry
the
unconscious
Marmeladov
to
his
lodging
at
once. "Just here,
three
houses
away,"
he
said eagerly, "the
house
belongs
to
Kozel, a
rich
German.
He
was
going home,
no
doubt
drunk. I
know
him,
he
is
a drunkard.
He
has a
family
there, a wife, children,
he
has
one
daughter....
It
will
take
time
to
take
him
to
the
hospital,
and
there
is
sure
to
be
a doctor
in
the
house. I'll pay, I'll pay!
At
least
he
will
be
looked
after
at
home...
they
will
help
him
at
once.
But
he'll
die
before
you
get
him
to
the
hospital."
He
managed
to
slip
something
unseen
into
the
policeman's hand.
But
the
thing
was
straightforward
and
legitimate,
and
in
any
case
help
was
closer here.
They
raised
the
injured
man;
people
volunteered
to
help. Kozel's
house
was
thirty
yards
away. Raskolnikov walked behind,
carefully
holding Marmeladov's
head
and
showing
the
way. "This way,
this
way!
We
must
take
him
upstairs
head
foremost.
Turn
round! I'll pay, I'll
make
it
worth
your
while,"
he
muttered. Katerina Ivanovna had
just
begun,
as
she
always
did
at
every
free
moment, walking
to
and
fro
in
her
little
room
from
window
to
stove
and
back
again,
with
her
arms
folded
across
her
chest, talking
to
herself
and
coughing.
Of
late
she
had begun
to
talk
more
than
ever
to
her
eldest
girl, Polenka, a
child
of
ten, who,
though
there
was
much
she
did
not
understand, understood
very
well
that
her
mother
needed
her,
and
so
always
watched
her
with
her
big
clever
eyes
and
strove
her
utmost
to
appear
to
understand.
This
time Polenka
was
undressing
her
little
brother,
who
had been
unwell
all
day
and
was
going
to
bed.
The
boy
was
waiting
for
her
to
take
off
his
shirt,
which
had
to
be
washed
at
night.
He
was
sitting straight
and
motionless
on
a chair,
with
a silent,
serious
face,
with
his
legs
stretched
out
straight
before
him—heels
together
and
toes
turned
out.
He
was
listening
to
what
his
mother
was
saying
to
his
sister, sitting perfectly
still
with
pouting
lips
and
wide-open eyes,
just
as
all
good
little
boys
have
to
sit
when
they
are
undressed
to
go
to
bed. A
little
girl,
still
younger, dressed literally
in
rags, stood
at
the
screen,
waiting
for
her
turn.
The
door
on
to
the
stairs
was
open
to
relieve
them
a
little
from
the
clouds
of
tobacco
smoke
which
floated
in
from
the
other
rooms
and
brought
on
long
terrible
fits
of
coughing
in
the
poor,
consumptive
woman. Katerina Ivanovna
seemed
to
have
grown
even
thinner
during
that
week
and
the
hectic
flush
on
her
face
was
brighter
than
ever. "You wouldn't believe,
you
can't imagine, Polenka,"
she
said, walking
about
the
room, "what a
happy
luxurious
life
we
had
in
my papa's
house
and
how
this
drunkard
has brought me,
and
will
bring
you
all,
to
ruin!
Papa
was
a
civil
colonel
and
only
a
step
from
being a governor;
so
that
everyone
who
came
to
see
him
said, 'We
look
upon
you,
Ivan
Mihailovitch,
as
our
governor!'
When
I... when..."
she
coughed
violently, "oh,
cursed
life,"
she
cried,
clearing
her
throat
and
pressing
her
hands
to
her
breast, "when I...
when
at
the
last
ball...
at
the
marshal's...
Princess
Bezzemelny
saw
me—who gave
me
the
blessing
when
your
father
and
I
were
married, Polenka—she
asked
at
once
'Isn't
that
the
pretty
girl
who
danced
the
shawl
dance
at
the
breaking-up?' (You
must
mend
that
tear,
you
must
take
your
needle
and
darn
it
as
I
showed
you,
or
to-morrow—cough, cough, cough—he
will
make
the
hole
bigger,"
she
articulated
with
effort.) "Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had
just
come
from
Petersburg then...
he
danced
the
mazurka
with
me
and
wanted
to
make
me
an
offer
next
day;
but
I
thanked
him
in
flattering
expressions
and
told
him
that
my
heart
had
long
been another's.
That
other
was
your
father, Polya;
papa
was
fearfully angry....
Is
the
water
ready?
Give
me
the
shirt,
and
the
stockings! Lida," said
she
to
the
youngest
one, "you
must
manage
without
your
chemise
to-night...
and
lay
your
stockings
out
with
it... I'll
wash
them
together....
How
is
it
that
drunken
vagabond
doesn't
come
in?
He
has
worn
his
shirt
till
it
looks
like
a dish-clout,
he
has
torn
it
to
rags! I'd
do
it
all
together,
so
as
not
to
have
to
work
two
nights
running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What's this?"
she
cried, noticing a crowd
in
the
passage
and
the
men,
who
were
pushing
into
her
room, carrying a burden. "What
is
it?
What
are
they
bringing?
Mercy
on
us!" "Where
are
we
to
put
him?"
asked
the
policeman,
looking
round
when
Marmeladov,
unconscious
and
covered
with
blood, had been carried in. "On
the
sofa!
Put
him
straight
on
the
sofa,
with
his
head
this
way," Raskolnikov
showed
him. "Run
over
in
the
road! Drunk!" someone shouted
in
the
passage. Katerina Ivanovna stood,
turning
white
and
gasping
for
breath.
The
children
were
terrified.
Little
Lida screamed,
rushed
to
Polenka
and
clutched
at
her,
trembling
all
over.
Having
laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew
to
Katerina Ivanovna. "For God's sake
be
calm, don't
be
frightened!"
he
said,
speaking
quickly, "he
was
crossing
the
road
and
was
run
over
by
a carriage, don't
be
frightened,
he
will
come
to, I
told
them
bring
him
here... I've been
here
already,
you
remember?
He
will
come
to; I'll pay!" "He's
done
it
this
time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly
and
she
rushed
to
her
husband. Raskolnikov noticed
at
once
that
she
was
not
one
of
those
women
who
swoon
easily.
She
instantly
placed
under
the
luckless man's
head
a pillow,
which
no
one
had
thought
of
and
began undressing
and
examining
him.
She
kept
her
head,
forgetting
herself,
biting
her
trembling
lips
and
stifling
the
screams
which
were
ready
to
break
from
her. Raskolnikov meanwhile
induced
someone
to
run
for
a doctor.
There
was
a doctor,
it
appeared,
next
door
but
one. "I've sent
for
a doctor,"
he
kept
assuring
Katerina Ivanovna, "don't
be
uneasy, I'll pay. Haven't
you
water?...
and
give
me
a
napkin
or
a towel, anything,
as
quick
as
you
can....
He
is
injured,
but
not
killed,
believe
me....
We
shall
see
what
the
doctor says!" Katerina Ivanovna
ran
to
the
window; there,
on
a
broken
chair
in
the
corner, a
large
earthenware
basin
full
of
water
had been stood,
in
readiness
for
washing
her
children's
and
husband's
linen
that
night.
This
washing
was
done
by
Katerina Ivanovna
at
night
at
least
twice
a week,
if
not
oftener.
For
the
family
had
come
to
such
a pass
that
they
were
practically
without
change
of
linen,
and
Katerina Ivanovna
could
not
endure
uncleanliness
and,
rather
than
see
dirt
in
the
house,
she
preferred
to
wear
herself
out
at
night, working
beyond
her
strength
when
the
rest
were
asleep,
so
as
to
get
the
wet
linen
hung
on
a line
and
dry
by
the
morning.
She
took
up
the
basin
of
water
at
Raskolnikov's request,
but
almost
fell
down
with
her
burden.
But
the
latter
had
already
succeeded
in
finding
a towel,
wetted
it
and
began
washing
the
blood
off
Marmeladov's face. Katerina Ivanovna stood by,
breathing
painfully
and
pressing
her
hands
to
her
breast.
She
was
in
need
of
attention
herself. Raskolnikov began
to
realise
that
he
might
have
made
a mistake
in
having
the
injured
man
brought here.
The
policeman, too, stood
in
hesitation. "Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run
to
Sonia,
make
haste.
If
you
don't find
her
at
home,
leave
word
that
her
father has been
run
over
and
that
she
is
to
come
here
at
once...
when
she
comes
in. Run, Polenka! there,
put
on
the
shawl." "Run
your
fastest!" cried
the
little
boy
on
the
chair suddenly,
after
which
he
relapsed
into
the
same
dumb
rigidity,
with
round eyes,
his
heels thrust forward
and
his
toes
spread
out. Meanwhile
the
room
had
become
so
full
of
people
that
you
couldn't
have
dropped
a pin.
The
policemen left,
all
except
one,
who
remained
for
a time, trying
to
drive
out
the
people
who
came
in
from
the
stairs.
Almost
all
Madame
Lippevechsel's lodgers had
streamed
in
from
the
inner
rooms
of
the
flat;
at
first
they
were
squeezed
together
in
the
doorway,
but
afterwards
they
overflowed
into
the
room. Katerina Ivanovna flew
into
a fury. "You
might
let
him
die
in
peace,
at
least,"
she
shouted
at
the
crowd, "is
it
a
spectacle
for
you
to
gape
at?
With
cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!)
You
might
as
well
keep
your
hats
on....
And
there
is
one
in
his
hat!...
Get
away!
You
should
respect
the
dead,
at
least!"
Her
cough
choked her—but
her
reproaches
were
not
without
result.
They
evidently stood
in
some
awe
of
Katerina Ivanovna.
The
lodgers,
one
after
another, squeezed
back
into
the
doorway
with
that
strange
inner
feeling
of
satisfaction
which
may
be
observed
in
the
presence
of
a
sudden
accident,
even
in
those
nearest
and
dearest
to
the
victim,
from
which
no
living
man
is
exempt,
even
in
spite
of
the
sincerest
sympathy
and
compassion. Voices outside
were
heard, however,
speaking
of
the
hospital
and
saying
that
they'd
no
business
to
make
a
disturbance
here. "No
business
to
die!" cried Katerina Ivanovna,
and
she
was
rushing
to
the
door
to
vent
her
wrath
upon
them,
but
in
the
doorway came face
to
face
with
Madame
Lippevechsel
who
had
only
just
heard
of
the
accident
and
ran
in
to
restore
order.
She
was
a particularly quarrelsome
and
irresponsible German. "Ah, my God!"
she
cried,
clasping
her
hands, "your husband
drunken
horses
have
trampled!
To
the
hospital
with
him! I
am
the
landlady!" "Amalia Ludwigovna, I
beg
you
to
recollect
what
you
are
saying," Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she
always
took
a
haughty
tone
with
the
landlady
that
she
might
"remember
her
place"
and
even
now
could
not
deny
herself
this
satisfaction). "Amalia Ludwigovna..." "I
have
you
once
before
told
that
you
to
call
me
Amalia Ludwigovna
may
not
dare; I
am
Amalia Ivanovna." "You
are
not
Amalia Ivanovna,
but
Amalia Ludwigovna,
and
as
I
am
not
one
of
your
despicable
flatterers
like
Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's laughing
behind
the
door
at
this
moment
(a laugh
and
a
cry
of
'they
are
at
it
again'
was
in
fact
audible
at
the
door)
so
I
shall
always
call
you
Amalia Ludwigovna,
though
I
fail
to
understand
why
you
dislike
that
name.
You
can
see
for
yourself
what
has
happened
to
Semyon Zaharovitch;
he
is
dying. I
beg
you
to
close
that
door
at
once
and
to
admit
no
one.
Let
him
at
least
die
in
peace!
Or
I
warn
you
the
Governor-General, himself,
shall
be
informed
of
your
conduct
to-morrow.
The
prince
knew
me
as
a girl;
he
remembers
Semyon Zaharovitch
well
and
has
often
been a
benefactor
to
him. Everyone
knows
that
Semyon Zaharovitch had
many
friends
and
protectors,
whom
he
abandoned
himself
from
an
honourable
pride, knowing
his
unhappy weakness,
but
now
(she pointed
to
Raskolnikov) a
generous
young
man
has
come
to
our
assistance,
who
has
wealth
and
connections
and
whom
Semyon Zaharovitch has known
from
a child.
You
may
rest
assured, Amalia Ludwigovna..."
All
this
was
uttered
with
extreme
rapidity,
getting
quicker
and
quicker,
but
a
cough
suddenly
cut
short
Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence.
At
that
instant
the
dying
man
recovered
consciousness
and
uttered
a groan;
she
ran
to
him.
The
injured
man
opened
his
eyes
and
without
recognition
or
understanding
gazed
at
Raskolnikov
who
was
bending
over
him.
He
drew
deep, slow, painful breaths; blood
oozed
at
the
corners
of
his
mouth
and
drops
of
perspiration
came
out
on
his
forehead.
Not
recognising
Raskolnikov,
he
began
looking
round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna
looked
at
him
with
a
sad
but
stern face,
and
tears
trickled
from
her
eyes. "My God!
His
whole
chest
is
crushed!
How
he
is
bleeding,"
she
said
in
despair. "We
must
take
off
his
clothes.
Turn
a little, Semyon Zaharovitch,
if
you
can,"
she
cried
to
him. Marmeladov
recognised
her. "A priest,"
he
articulated huskily. Katerina Ivanovna walked
to
the
window, laid
her
head
against
the
window
frame
and
exclaimed
in
despair: "Oh,
cursed
life!" "A priest,"
the
dying
man
said
again
after
a moment's silence. "They've gone
for
him," Katerina Ivanovna shouted
to
him,
he
obeyed
her
shout
and
was
silent.
With
sad
and
timid
eyes
he
looked
for
her;
she
returned
and
stood
by
his
pillow.
He
seemed
a
little
easier
but
not
for
long.
Soon
his
eyes
rested
on
little
Lida,
his
favourite,
who
was
shaking
in
the
corner,
as
though
she
were
in
a fit,
and
staring
at
him
with
her
wondering
childish
eyes. "A-ah,"
he
signed
towards
her
uneasily.
He
wanted
to
say
something. "What now?" cried Katerina Ivanovna. "Barefoot, barefoot!"
he
muttered,
indicating
with
frenzied
eyes
the
child's
bare
feet. "Be silent," Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, "you
know
why
she
is
barefooted." "Thank God,
the
doctor,"
exclaimed
Raskolnikov, relieved.
The
doctor came in, a
precise
little
old
man, a German,
looking
about
him
mistrustfully;
he
went
up
to
the
sick
man,
took
his
pulse,
carefully
felt
his
head
and
with
the
help
of
Katerina Ivanovna
he
unbuttoned
the
blood-stained shirt,
and
bared
the
injured
man's chest.
It
was
gashed, crushed
and
fractured,
several
ribs
on
the
right
side
were
broken.
On
the
left side,
just
over
the
heart,
was
a large, sinister-looking yellowish-black bruise—a
cruel
kick
from
the
horse's hoof.
The
doctor frowned.
The
policeman
told
him
that
he
was
caught
in
the
wheel
and
turned
round
with
it
for
thirty
yards
on
the
road. "It's
wonderful
that
he
has
recovered
consciousness,"
the
doctor whispered softly
to
Raskolnikov. "What
do
you
think
of
him?"
he
asked. "He
will
die
immediately." "Is
there
really
no
hope?" "Not
the
faintest!
He
is
at
the
last
gasp....
His
head
is
badly injured, too... Hm... I
could
bleed
him
if
you
like, but...
it
would
be
useless.
He
is
bound
to
die
within
the
next
five
or
ten
minutes." "Better
bleed
him
then." "If
you
like....
But
I
warn
you
it
will
be
perfectly useless."
At
that
moment
other
steps
were
heard;
the
crowd
in
the
passage
parted,
and
the
priest, a little, grey
old
man,
appeared
in
the
doorway bearing
the
sacrament. A policeman had gone
for
him
at
the
time
of
the
accident.
The
doctor
changed
places
with
him,
exchanging
glances
with
him. Raskolnikov
begged
the
doctor
to
remain
a
little
while.
He
shrugged
his
shoulders
and
remained.
All
stepped
back.
The
confession
was
soon
over.
The
dying
man
probably understood little;
he
could
only
utter
indistinct
broken
sounds. Katerina Ivanovna
took
little
Lida, lifted
the
boy
from
the
chair, knelt
down
in
the
corner
by
the
stove
and
made
the
children
kneel
in
front
of
her.
The
little
girl
was
still
trembling;
but
the
boy,
kneeling
on
his
little
bare
knees, lifted
his
hand
rhythmically, crossing
himself
with
precision
and
bowed
down, touching
the
floor
with
his
forehead,
which
seemed
to
afford
him
especial
satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna
bit
her
lips
and
held
back
her
tears;
she
prayed, too,
now
and
then
pulling
straight
the
boy's shirt,
and
managed
to
cover
the
girl's
bare
shoulders
with
a kerchief,
which
she
took
from
the
chest
without
rising
from
her
knees
or
ceasing
to
pray. Meanwhile
the
door
from
the
inner
rooms
was
opened
inquisitively
again.
In
the
passage
the
crowd
of
spectators
from
all
the
flats
on
the
staircase
grew
denser
and
denser,
but
they
did
not
venture
beyond
the
threshold. A single candle-end
lighted
up
the
scene.
At
that
moment
Polenka forced
her
way
through
the
crowd
at
the
door.
She
came
in
panting
from
running
so
fast,
took
off
her
kerchief,
looked
for
her
mother, went
up
to
her
and
said, "She's coming, I met
her
in
the
street."
Her
mother
made
her
kneel
beside
her.
Timidly
and
noiselessly a
young
girl
made
her
way
through
the
crowd,
and
strange
was
her
appearance
in
that
room,
in
the
midst
of
want, rags,
death
and
despair. She, too,
was
in
rags,
her
attire
was
all
of
the
cheapest,
but
decked
out
in
gutter finery
of
a
special
stamp, unmistakably
betraying
its
shameful
purpose. Sonia stopped
short
in
the
doorway
and
looked
about
her
bewildered,
unconscious
of
everything.
She
forgot
her
fourth-hand,
gaudy
silk
dress,
so
unseemly
here
with
its
ridiculous
long
train,
and
her
immense
crinoline
that
filled
up
the
whole
doorway,
and
her
light-coloured shoes,
and
the
parasol
she
brought
with
her,
though
it
was
no
use
at
night,
and
the
absurd
round straw
hat
with
its
flaring flame-coloured feather.
Under
this
rakishly-tilted
hat
was
a pale, frightened
little
face
with
lips
parted
and
eyes
staring
in
terror. Sonia
was
a small
thin
girl
of
eighteen
with
fair
hair,
rather
pretty,
with
wonderful
blue eyes.
She
looked
intently
at
the
bed
and
the
priest;
she
too
was
out
of
breath
with
running.
At
last
whispers,
some
words
in
the
crowd probably, reached her.
She
looked
down
and
took
a
step
forward
into
the
room,
still
keeping
close
to
the
door.
The
service
was
over. Katerina Ivanovna went
up
to
her
husband again.
The
priest
stepped
back
and
turned
to
say
a
few
words
of
admonition
and
consolation
to
Katerina Ivanovna
on
leaving. "What
am
I
to
do
with
these?"
she
interrupted
sharply
and
irritably, pointing
to
the
little
ones. "God
is
merciful;
look
to
the
Most
High
for
succour,"
the
priest
began. "Ach!
He
is
merciful,
but
not
to
us." "That's a sin, a sin, madam,"
observed
the
priest, shaking
his
head. "And isn't
that
a sin?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing
to
the
dying man. "Perhaps
those
who
have
involuntarily
caused
the
accident
will
agree
to
compensate
you,
at
least
for
the
loss
of
his
earnings." "You don't understand!" cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily
waving
her
hand. "And
why
should
they
compensate
me? Why,
he
was
drunk
and
threw
himself
under
the
horses!
What
earnings?
He
brought
us
in
nothing
but
misery.
He
drank
everything away,
the
drunkard!
He
robbed
us
to
get
drink,
he
wasted
their
lives
and
mine
for
drink!
And
thank
God
he's dying!
One
less
to
keep!" "You
must
forgive
in
the
hour
of
death, that's a sin, madam,
such
feelings
are
a
great
sin." Katerina Ivanovna
was
busy
with
the
dying man;
she
was
giving
him
water, wiping
the
blood
and
sweat
from
his
head,
setting
his
pillow
straight,
and
had
only
turned
now
and
then
for
a
moment
to
address
the
priest.
Now
she
flew
at
him
almost
in
a frenzy. "Ah, father! That's
words
and
only
words! Forgive!
If
he'd
not
been
run
over, he'd
have
come
home
to-day
drunk
and
his
only
shirt
dirty
and
in
rags
and
he'd
have
fallen
asleep
like
a log,
and
I
should
have
been
sousing
and
rinsing
till
daybreak,
washing
his
rags
and
the
children's
and
then
drying
them
by
the
window
and
as
soon
as
it
was
daylight I
should
have
been
darning
them. That's
how
I
spend
my nights!... What's
the
use
of
talking
of
forgiveness! I
have
forgiven
as
it
is!" A
terrible
hollow
cough
interrupted
her
words.
She
put
her
handkerchief
to
her
lips
and
showed
it
to
the
priest, pressing
her
other
hand
to
her
aching
chest.
The
handkerchief
was
covered
with
blood.
The
priest
bowed
his
head
and
said nothing. Marmeladov
was
in
the
last
agony;
he
did
not
take
his
eyes
off
the
face
of
Katerina Ivanovna,
who
was
bending
over
him
again.
He
kept trying
to
say
something
to
her;
he
began
moving
his
tongue
with
difficulty
and
articulating
indistinctly,
but
Katerina Ivanovna,
understanding
that
he
wanted
to
ask
her
forgiveness,
called
peremptorily
to
him: "Be silent!
No
need! I
know
what
you
want
to
say!"
And
the
sick
man
was
silent,
but
at
the
same
instant
his
wandering
eyes
strayed
to
the
doorway
and
he
saw
Sonia.
Till
then
he
had
not
noticed her:
she
was
standing
in
the
shadow
in
a corner. "Who's that? Who's that?"
he
said suddenly
in
a
thick
gasping
voice,
in
agitation,
turning
his
eyes
in
horror
towards
the
door
where
his
daughter
was
standing,
and
trying
to
sit
up. "Lie down!
Lie
do-own!" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
With
unnatural
strength
he
had
succeeded
in
propping
himself
on
his
elbow.
He
looked
wildly
and
fixedly
for
some
time
on
his
daughter,
as
though
not
recognising
her.
He
had
never
seen
her
before
in
such
attire. Suddenly
he
recognised
her, crushed
and
ashamed
in
her
humiliation
and
gaudy
finery, meekly
awaiting
her
turn
to
say
good-bye
to
her
dying father.
His
face
showed
intense
suffering. "Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!"
he
cried,
and
he
tried
to
hold
out
his
hand
to
her,
but
losing
his
balance,
he
fell
off
the
sofa, face
downwards
on
the
floor.
They
rushed
to
pick
him
up,
they
put
him
on
the
sofa;
but
he
was
dying. Sonia
with
a faint
cry
ran
up,
embraced
him
and
remained
so
without
moving.
He
died
in
her
arms. "He's got
what
he
wanted," Katerina Ivanovna cried,
seeing
her
husband's
dead
body. "Well, what's
to
be
done
now?
How
am
I
to
bury
him!
What
can
I
give
them
to-morrow
to
eat?" Raskolnikov went
up
to
Katerina Ivanovna. "Katerina Ivanovna,"
he
began, "last
week
your
husband
told
me
all
his
life
and
circumstances....
Believe
me,
he
spoke
of
you
with
passionate
reverence.
From
that
evening,
when
I learnt
how
devoted
he
was
to
you
all
and
how
he
loved
and
respected
you
especially, Katerina Ivanovna,
in
spite
of
his
unfortunate weakness,
from
that
evening
we
became friends....
Allow
me
now...
to
do
something...
to
repay
my
debt
to
my
dead
friend.
Here
are
twenty
roubles, I think—and
if
that
can
be
of
any
assistance
to
you, then... I...
in
short, I
will
come
again, I
will
be
sure
to
come
again... I shall, perhaps,
come
again
to-morrow.... Good-bye!"
And
he
went
quickly
out
of
the
room, squeezing
his
way
through
the
crowd
to
the
stairs.
But
in
the
crowd
he
suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch,
who
had
heard
of
the
accident
and
had
come
to
give
instructions
in
person.
They
had
not
met
since
the
scene
at
the
police
station,
but
Nikodim Fomitch
knew
him
instantly. "Ah,
is
that
you?"
he
asked
him. "He's dead,"
answered
Raskolnikov. "The doctor
and
the
priest
have
been,
all
as
it
should
have
been. Don't worry
the
poor
woman
too
much,
she
is
in
consumption
as
it
is.
Try
and
cheer
her
up,
if
possible...
you
are
a kind-hearted man, I know..."
he
added
with
a smile,
looking
straight
in
his
face. "But
you
are
spattered
with
blood,"
observed
Nikodim Fomitch, noticing
in
the
lamplight
some
fresh
stains
on
Raskolnikov's waistcoat. "Yes... I'm covered
with
blood," Raskolnikov said
with
a
peculiar
air;
then
he
smiled,
nodded
and
went downstairs.
He
walked
down
slowly
and
deliberately,
feverish
but
not
conscious
of
it, entirely
absorbed
in
a
new
overwhelming
sensation
of
life
and
strength
that
surged
up
suddenly
within
him.
This
sensation
might
be
compared
to
that
of
a
man
condemned
to
death
who
has suddenly been pardoned.
Halfway
down
the
staircase
he
was
overtaken
by
the
priest
on
his
way
home; Raskolnikov
let
him
pass,
exchanging
a
silent
greeting
with
him.
He
was
just
descending
the
last
steps
when
he
heard
rapid
footsteps
behind
him. Someone overtook him;
it
was
Polenka.
She
was
running
after
him, calling "Wait! wait!"
He
turned
round.
She
was
at
the
bottom
of
the
staircase
and
stopped
short
a
step
above
him. A
dim
light
came
in
from
the
yard. Raskolnikov
could
distinguish
the
child's
thin
but
pretty
little
face,
looking
at
him
with
a
bright
childish
smile.
She
had
run
after
him
with
a
message
which
she
was
evidently
glad
to
give. "Tell me,
what
is
your
name?...
and
where
do
you
live?"
she
said hurriedly
in
a breathless voice.
He
laid
both
hands
on
her
shoulders
and
looked
at
her
with
a
sort
of
rapture.
It
was
such
a
joy
to
him
to
look
at
her,
he
could
not
have
said why. "Who sent you?" "Sister Sonia sent me,"
answered
the
girl,
smiling
still
more
brightly. "I
knew
it
was
sister
Sonia sent you." "Mamma sent me, too...
when
sister
Sonia
was
sending
me,
mamma
came up, too,
and
said 'Run fast, Polenka.'" "Do
you
love
sister
Sonia?" "I
love
her
more
than
anyone," Polenka
answered
with
a
peculiar
earnestness,
and
her
smile
became graver. "And
will
you
love
me?"
By
way
of
answer
he
saw
the
little
girl's face approaching him,
her
full
lips
naďvely
held
out
to
kiss
him. Suddenly
her
arms
as
thin
as
sticks
held
him
tightly,
her
head
rested
on
his
shoulder
and
the
little
girl
wept softly, pressing
her
face against him. "I
am
sorry
for
father,"
she
said a
moment
later,
raising
her
tear-stained face
and
brushing
away
the
tears
with
her
hands. "It's
nothing
but
misfortunes now,"
she
added suddenly
with
that
peculiarly
sedate air
which
children
try
hard
to
assume
when
they
want
to
speak
like
grown-up people. "Did
your
father
love
you?" "He
loved
Lida most,"
she
went
on
very
seriously
without
a smile, exactly
like
grown-up people, "he
loved
her
because
she
is
little
and
because
she
is
ill, too.
And
he
always
used
to
bring
her
presents.
But
he
taught
us
to
read
and
me
grammar
and
scripture, too,"
she
added
with
dignity. "And mother
never
used
to
say
anything,
but
we
knew
that
she
liked
it
and
father
knew
it, too.
And
mother
wants
to
teach
me
French,
for
it's time my
education
began." "And
do
you
know
your
prayers?" "Of course,
we
do!
We
knew
them
long
ago. I
say
my
prayers
to
myself
as
I
am
a
big
girl
now,
but
Kolya
and
Lida
say
them
aloud
with
mother.
First
they
repeat
the
'Ave Maria'
and
then
another
prayer: 'Lord,
forgive
and
bless
sister
Sonia,'
and
then
another, 'Lord,
forgive
and
bless
our
second
father.'
For
our
elder
father
is
dead
and
this
is
another
one,
but
we
do
pray
for
the
other
as
well." "Polenka, my
name
is
Rodion.
Pray
sometimes
for
me, too. 'And Thy
servant
Rodion,'
nothing
more." "I'll
pray
for
you
all
the
rest
of
my life,"
the
little
girl
declared
hotly,
and
suddenly
smiling
again
she
rushed
at
him
and
hugged
him
warmly
once
more. Raskolnikov
told
her
his
name
and
address
and
promised
to
be
sure
to
come
next
day.
The
child
went
away
quite
enchanted
with
him.
It
was
past
ten
when
he
came
out
into
the
street.
In
five
minutes
he
was
standing
on
the
bridge
at
the
spot
where
the
woman
had jumped in. "Enough,"
he
pronounced
resolutely
and
triumphantly. "I've
done
with
fancies,
imaginary
terrors
and
phantoms!
Life
is
real! haven't I
lived
just
now? My
life
has
not
yet
died
with
that
old
woman!
The
Kingdom
of
Heaven
to
her—and
now
enough, madam,
leave
me
in
peace!
Now
for
the
reign
of
reason
and
light...
and
of
will,
and
of
strength...
and
now
we
will
see!
We
will
try
our
strength!"
he
added defiantly,
as
though
challenging
some
power
of
darkness. "And I
was
ready
to
consent
to
live
in
a
square
of
space! "I
am
very
weak
at
this
moment, but... I
believe
my illness
is
all
over. I
knew
it
would
be
over
when
I went out.
By
the
way, Potchinkov's
house
is
only
a
few
steps
away. I certainly
must
go
to
Razumihin
even
if
it
were
not
close by...
let
him
win
his
bet!
Let
us
give
him
some
satisfaction, too—no matter! Strength,
strength
is
what
one
wants,
you
can
get
nothing
without
it,
and
strength
must
be
won
by
strength—that's
what
they
don't know,"
he
added
proudly
and
self-confidently
and
he
walked
with
flagging
footsteps
from
the
bridge.
Pride
and
self-confidence
grew
continually
stronger
in
him;
he
was
becoming a
different
man
every
moment.
What
was
it
had
happened
to
work
this
revolution
in
him?
He
did
not
know
himself;
like
a
man
catching
at
a straw,
he
suddenly felt
that
he, too, 'could live,
that
there
was
still
life
for
him,
that
his
life
had
not
died
with
the
old
woman.'
Perhaps
he
was
in
too
great
a hurry
with
his
conclusions,
but
he
did
not
think
of
that. "But I
did
ask
her
to
remember
'Thy
servant
Rodion'
in
her
prayers,"
the
idea
struck him. "Well,
that
was...
in
case
of
emergency,"
he
added
and
laughed
himself
at
his
boyish sally.
He
was
in
the
best
of
spirits.
He
easily found Razumihin;
the
new
lodger
was
already
known
at
Potchinkov's
and
the
porter
at
once
showed
him
the
way. Half-way upstairs
he
could
hear
the
noise
and
animated
conversation
of
a
big
gathering
of
people.
The
door
was
wide
open
on
the
stairs;
he
could
hear
exclamations
and
discussion. Razumihin's
room
was
fairly
large;
the
company
consisted
of
fifteen
people. Raskolnikov stopped
in
the
entry,
where
two
of
the
landlady's
servants
were
busy
behind
a
screen
with
two
samovars, bottles,
plates
and
dishes
of
pie
and
savouries, brought
up
from
the
landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent
in
for
Razumihin.
He
ran
out
delighted.
At
the
first
glance
it
was
apparent
that
he
had had a
great
deal
to
drink
and,
though
no
amount
of
liquor
made
Razumihin
quite
drunk,
this
time
he
was
perceptibly affected
by
it. "Listen," Raskolnikov hastened
to
say, "I've
only
just
come
to
tell
you
you've won
your
bet
and
that
no
one
really
knows
what
may
not
happen
to
him. I can't
come
in; I
am
so
weak
that
I
shall
fall
down
directly.
And
so
good
evening
and
good-bye!
Come
and
see
me
to-morrow." "Do
you
know
what? I'll
see
you
home.
If
you
say
you're
weak
yourself,
you
must..." "And
your
visitors?
Who
is
the
curly-headed
one
who
has
just
peeped out?" "He?
Goodness
only
knows!
Some
friend
of
uncle's, I expect,
or
perhaps
he
has
come
without
being invited... I'll
leave
uncle
with
them,
he
is
an
invaluable person,
pity
I can't
introduce
you
to
him
now.
But
confound
them
all
now!
They
won't notice me,
and
I
need
a
little
fresh
air,
for
you've
come
just
in
the
nick
of
time—another
two
minutes
and
I
should
have
come
to
blows!
They
are
talking
such
a
lot
of
wild stuff...
you
simply can't
imagine
what
men
will
say!
Though
why
shouldn't
you
imagine? Don't
we
talk
nonsense
ourselves?
And
let
them... that's
the
way
to
learn
not
to!...
Wait
a minute, I'll fetch Zossimov." Zossimov
pounced
upon
Raskolnikov
almost
greedily;
he
showed
a
special
interest
in
him;
soon
his
face brightened. "You
must
go
to
bed
at
once,"
he
pronounced,
examining
the
patient
as
far
as
he
could, "and
take
something
for
the
night.
Will
you
take
it? I got
it
ready
some
time ago... a powder." "Two,
if
you
like,"
answered
Raskolnikov.
The
powder
was
taken
at
once. "It's a
good
thing
you
are
taking
him
home,"
observed
Zossimov
to
Razumihin—"we
shall
see
how
he
is
to-morrow, to-day he's
not
at
all
amiss—a
considerable
change
since
the
afternoon.
Live
and
learn..." "Do
you
know
what
Zossimov whispered
to
me
when
we
were
coming out?" Razumihin blurted out,
as
soon
as
they
were
in
the
street. "I won't
tell
you
everything, brother,
because
they
are
such
fools. Zossimov
told
me
to
talk
freely
to
you
on
the
way
and
get
you
to
talk
freely
to
me,
and
afterwards I
am
to
tell
him
about
it,
for
he's got a
notion
in
his
head
that
you
are...
mad
or
close
on
it.
Only
fancy!
In
the
first
place, you've
three
times
the
brains
he
has;
in
the
second,
if
you
are
not
mad,
you
needn't
care
a
hang
that
he
has got
such
a wild idea;
and
thirdly,
that
piece
of
beef
whose
specialty
is
surgery
has gone
mad
on
mental
diseases,
and
what's brought
him
to
this
conclusion
about
you
was
your
conversation
to-day
with
Zametov." "Zametov
told
you
all
about
it?" "Yes,
and
he
did
well.
Now
I
understand
what
it
all
means
and
so
does
Zametov.... Well,
the
fact
is, Rodya...
the
point
is... I
am
a
little
drunk
now....
But
that's...
no
matter...
the
point
is
that
this
idea...
you
understand?
was
just
being
hatched
in
their
brains...
you
understand?
That
is,
no
one
ventured
to
say
it
aloud,
because
the
idea
is
too
absurd
and
especially
since
the
arrest
of
that
painter,
that
bubble's
burst
and
gone
for
ever.
But
why
are
they
such
fools? I gave Zametov a
bit
of
a thrashing
at
the
time—that's
between
ourselves, brother;
please
don't
let
out
a hint
that
you
know
of
it; I've noticed
he
is
a ticklish subject;
it
was
at
Luise Ivanovna's.
But
to-day, to-day it's
all
cleared up.
That
Ilya Petrovitch
is
at
the
bottom
of
it!
He
took
advantage
of
your
fainting
at
the
police
station,
but
he
is
ashamed
of
it
himself
now; I
know
that..." Raskolnikov
listened
greedily. Razumihin
was
drunk
enough
to
talk
too
freely. "I fainted
then
because
it
was
so
close
and
the
smell
of
paint," said Raskolnikov. "No
need
to
explain
that!
And
it
wasn't
the
paint only:
the
fever
had been coming
on
for
a month; Zossimov
testifies
to
that!
But
how
crushed
that
boy
is
now,
you
wouldn't believe! 'I
am
not
worth
his
little
finger,'
he
says. Yours,
he
means.
He
has
good
feelings
at
times, brother.
But
the
lesson,
the
lesson
you
gave
him
to-day
in
the
Palais
de
Cristal,
that
was
too
good
for
anything!
You
frightened
him
at
first,
you
know,
he
nearly went
into
convulsions!
You
almost
convinced
him
again
of
the
truth
of
all
that
hideous
nonsense,
and
then
you
suddenly—put
out
your
tongue
at
him: 'There now,
what
do
you
make
of
it?'
It
was
perfect!
He
is
crushed,
annihilated
now!
It
was
masterly,
by
Jove, it's
what
they
deserve! Ah,
that
I wasn't there!
He
was
hoping
to
see
you
awfully. Porfiry, too,
wants
to
make
your
acquaintance..." "Ah!...
he
too...
but
why
did
they
put
me
down
as
mad?" "Oh,
not
mad. I
must
have
said
too
much, brother....
What
struck him,
you
see,
was
that
only
that
subject
seemed
to
interest
you;
now
it's clear
why
it
did
interest
you; knowing
all
the
circumstances...
and
how
that
irritated
you
and
worked
in
with
your
illness... I
am
a
little
drunk, brother, only,
confound
him,
he
has
some
idea
of
his
own... I
tell
you, he's
mad
on
mental
diseases.
But
don't
you
mind
him..."
For
half
a
minute
both
were
silent. "Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I
want
to
tell
you
plainly: I've
just
been
at
a death-bed, a clerk
who
died... I gave
them
all
my money...
and
besides I've
just
been
kissed
by
someone who,
if
I had
killed
anyone,
would
just
the
same...
in
fact
I
saw
someone
else
there...
with
a flame-coloured feather...
but
I
am
talking nonsense; I
am
very
weak, support me...
we
shall
be
at
the
stairs
directly..." "What's
the
matter? What's
the
matter
with
you?" Razumihin
asked
anxiously. "I
am
a
little
giddy,
but
that's
not
the
point, I
am
so
sad,
so
sad...
like
a woman. Look, what's that? Look, look!" "What
is
it?" "Don't
you
see? A
light
in
my room,
you
see?
Through
the
crack..."
They
were
already
at
the
foot
of
the
last
flight
of
stairs,
at
the
level
of
the
landlady's door,
and
they
could,
as
a fact,
see
from
below
that
there
was
a
light
in
Raskolnikov's garret. "Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,"
observed
Razumihin. "She
is
never
in
my
room
at
this
time
and
she
must
be
in
bed
long
ago, but... I don't care! Good-bye!" "What
do
you
mean? I
am
coming
with
you, we'll
come
in
together!" "I
know
we
are
going
in
together,
but
I
want
to
shake
hands
here
and
say
good-bye
to
you
here.
So
give
me
your
hand, good-bye!" "What's
the
matter
with
you, Rodya?" "Nothing...
come
along...
you
shall
be
witness."
They
began
mounting
the
stairs,
and
the
idea
struck Razumihin
that
perhaps
Zossimov
might
be
right
after
all. "Ah, I've upset
him
with
my chatter!"
he
muttered
to
himself.
When
they
reached
the
door
they
heard
voices
in
the
room. "What
is
it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov
was
the
first
to
open
the
door;
he
flung
it
wide
and
stood
still
in
the
doorway, dumbfoundered.
His
mother
and
sister
were
sitting
on
his
sofa
and
had been
waiting
an
hour
and
a
half
for
him.
Why
had
he
never
expected,
never
thought
of
them,
though
the
news
that
they
had started,
were
on
their
way
and
would
arrive
immediately, had been repeated
to
him
only
that
day?
They
had spent
that
hour
and
a
half
plying
Nastasya
with
questions.
She
was
standing
before
them
and
had
told
them
everything
by
now.
They
were
beside
themselves
with
alarm
when
they
heard
of
his
"running away" to-day,
ill
and,
as
they
understood
from
her
story, delirious! "Good Heavens,
what
had
become
of
him?"
Both
had been weeping,
both
had been
in
anguish
for
that
hour
and
a half. A
cry
of
joy,
of
ecstasy,
greeted
Raskolnikov's entrance.
Both
rushed
to
him.
But
he
stood
like
one
dead; a
sudden
intolerable
sensation
struck
him
like
a thunderbolt.
He
did
not
lift
his
arms
to
embrace
them,
he
could
not.
His
mother
and
sister
clasped
him
in
their
arms,
kissed
him, laughed
and
cried.
He
took
a step, tottered
and
fell
to
the
ground, fainting. Anxiety,
cries
of
horror, moans... Razumihin
who
was
standing
in
the
doorway flew
into
the
room,
seized
the
sick
man
in
his
strong
arms
and
in
a
moment
had
him
on
the
sofa. "It's nothing, nothing!"
he
cried
to
the
mother
and
sister—"it's
only
a faint, a
mere
trifle!
Only
just
now
the
doctor said
he
was
much
better,
that
he
is
perfectly well! Water! See,
he
is
coming
to
himself,
he
is
all
right
again!"
And
seizing
Dounia
by
the
arm
so
that
he
almost
dislocated
it,
he
made
her
bend
down
to
see
that
"he
is
all
right
again."
The
mother
and
sister
looked
on
him
with
emotion
and
gratitude,
as
their
Providence.
They
had
heard
already
from
Nastasya
all
that
had been
done
for
their
Rodya
during
his
illness,
by
this
"very
competent
young
man,"
as
Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov
called
him
that
evening
in
conversation
with
Dounia.