Raskolnikov
was
not
used
to
crowds, and,
as
we
said before,
he
avoided
society
of
every
sort,
more
especially
of
late.
But
now
all
at
once
he
felt a
desire
to
be
with
other
people.
Something
new
seemed
to
be
taking
place
within
him,
and
with
it
he
felt a
sort
of
thirst
for
company.
He
was
so
weary
after
a
whole
month
of
concentrated wretchedness
and
gloomy excitement
that
he
longed
to
rest,
if
only
for
a moment,
in
some
other
world, whatever
it
might
be; and,
in
spite
of
the
filthiness
of
the
surroundings,
he
was
glad
now
to
stay
in
the
tavern.
The
master
of
the
establishment
was
in
another
room,
but
he
frequently came
down
some
steps
into
the
main
room,
his
jaunty,
tarred
boots
with
red
turn-over
tops
coming
into
view
each
time
before
the
rest
of
his
person.
He
wore a
full
coat
and
a horribly greasy
black
satin
waistcoat,
with
no
cravat,
and
his
whole
face
seemed
smeared
with
oil
like
an
iron lock.
At
the
counter
stood a
boy
of
about
fourteen,
and
there
was
another
boy
somewhat
younger
who
handed
whatever
was
wanted.
On
the
counter
lay
some
sliced
cucumber,
some
pieces
of
dried
black
bread,
and
some
fish, chopped
up
small,
all
smelling
very
bad.
It
was
insufferably close,
and
so
heavy
with
the
fumes
of
spirits
that
five
minutes
in
such
an
atmosphere
might
well
make
a
man
drunk.
There
are
chance
meetings
with
strangers
that
interest
us
from
the
first
moment,
before
a
word
is
spoken.
Such
was
the
impression
made
on
Raskolnikov
by
the
person
sitting a
little
distance
from
him,
who
looked
like
a retired clerk.
The
young
man
often
recalled
this
impression
afterwards,
and
even
ascribed
it
to
presentiment.
He
looked
repeatedly
at
the
clerk, partly
no
doubt
because
the
latter
was
staring
persistently
at
him,
obviously
anxious
to
enter
into
conversation.
At
the
other
persons
in
the
room,
including
the
tavern-keeper,
the
clerk
looked
as
though
he
were
used
to
their
company,
and
weary
of
it,
showing
a shade
of
condescending
contempt
for
them
as
persons
of
station
and
culture
inferior
to
his
own,
with
whom
it
would
be
useless
for
him
to
converse.
He
was
a
man
over
fifty,
bald
and
grizzled,
of
medium
height,
and
stoutly built.
His
face, bloated
from
continual
drinking,
was
of
a yellow,
even
greenish, tinge,
with
swollen
eyelids
out
of
which
keen
reddish
eyes
gleamed
like
little
chinks.
But
there
was
something
very
strange
in
him;
there
was
a
light
in
his
eyes
as
though
of
intense
feeling—perhaps
there
were
even
thought
and
intelligence,
but
at
the
same
time
there
was
a gleam
of
something
like
madness.
He
was
wearing
an
old
and
hopelessly
ragged
black
dress coat,
with
all
its
buttons
missing
except
one,
and
that
one
he
had buttoned, evidently
clinging
to
this
last
trace
of
respectability. A
crumpled
shirt
front, covered
with
spots
and
stains,
protruded
from
his
canvas
waistcoat.
Like
a clerk,
he
wore
no
beard,
nor
moustache,
but
had been
so
long
unshaven
that
his
chin
looked
like
a stiff greyish brush.
And
there
was
something
respectable
and
like
an
official
about
his
manner
too.
But
he
was
restless;
he
ruffled
up
his
hair
and
from
time
to
time
let
his
head
drop
into
his
hands
dejectedly
resting
his
ragged
elbows
on
the
stained
and
sticky
table.
At
last
he
looked
straight
at
Raskolnikov,
and
said loudly
and
resolutely: "May I venture,
honoured
sir,
to
engage
you
in
polite
conversation? Forasmuch as,
though
your
exterior
would
not
command
respect, my experience
admonishes
me
that
you
are
a
man
of
education
and
not
accustomed
to
drinking. I
have
always
respected
education
when
in
conjunction
with
genuine
sentiments,
and
I
am
besides a
titular
counsellor
in
rank. Marmeladov—such
is
my name;
titular
counsellor. I
make
bold
to
inquire—have
you
been
in
the
service?" "No, I
am
studying,"
answered
the
young
man,
somewhat
surprised
at
the
grandiloquent style
of
the
speaker
and
also
at
being
so
directly addressed.
In
spite
of
the
momentary
desire
he
had
just
been feeling
for
company
of
any
sort,
on
being actually spoken
to
he
felt immediately
his
habitual
irritable
and
uneasy
aversion
for
any
stranger
who
approached
or
attempted
to
approach him. "A
student
then,
or
formerly
a student," cried
the
clerk. "Just
what
I thought! I'm a
man
of
experience,
immense
experience, sir,"
and
he
tapped
his
forehead
with
his
fingers
in
self-approval. "You've been a
student
or
have
attended
some
learned institution!...
But
allow
me...."
He
got up, staggered,
took
up
his
jug
and
glass,
and
sat
down
beside
the
young
man, facing
him
a
little
sideways.
He
was
drunk,
but
spoke
fluently
and
boldly,
only
occasionally
losing
the
thread
of
his
sentences
and
drawling
his
words.
He
pounced
upon
Raskolnikov
as
greedily
as
though
he
too
had
not
spoken
to
a soul
for
a month. "Honoured sir,"
he
began
almost
with
solemnity, "poverty
is
not
a vice, that's a true saying.
Yet
I
know
too
that
drunkenness
is
not
a virtue,
and
that
that's
even
truer.
But
beggary,
honoured
sir, beggary
is
a vice.
In
poverty
you
may
still
retain
your
innate
nobility
of
soul,
but
in
beggary—never—no one.
For
beggary a
man
is
not
chased
out
of
human
society
with
a stick,
he
is
swept
out
with
a broom,
so
as
to
make
it
as
humiliating
as
possible;
and
quite
right, too, forasmuch
as
in
beggary I
am
ready
to
be
the
first
to
humiliate myself.
Hence
the
pot-house!
Honoured
sir, a
month
ago
Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my
wife
a beating,
and
my
wife
is
a
very
different
matter
from
me!
Do
you
understand?
Allow
me
to
ask
you
another
question
out
of
simple
curiosity:
have
you
ever
spent a
night
on
a
hay
barge,
on
the
Neva?" "No, I
have
not
happened
to,"
answered
Raskolnikov. "What
do
you
mean?" "Well, I've
just
come
from
one
and
it's
the
fifth
night
I've slept so...."
He
filled
his
glass, emptied
it
and
paused.
Bits
of
hay
were
in
fact
clinging
to
his
clothes
and
sticking
to
his
hair.
It
seemed
quite
probable
that
he
had
not
undressed
or
washed
for
the
last
five
days.
His
hands, particularly,
were
filthy.
They
were
fat
and
red,
with
black
nails.
His
conversation
seemed
to
excite
a
general
though
languid
interest.
The
boys
at
the
counter
fell
to
sniggering.
The
innkeeper came
down
from
the
upper
room, apparently
on
purpose
to
listen
to
the
"funny fellow"
and
sat
down
at
a
little
distance,
yawning
lazily,
but
with
dignity. Evidently Marmeladov
was
a
familiar
figure
here,
and
he
had
most
likely
acquired
his
weakness
for
high-flown
speeches
from
the
habit
of
frequently
entering
into
conversation
with
strangers
of
all
sorts
in
the
tavern.
This
habit
develops
into
a
necessity
in
some
drunkards,
and
especially
in
those
who
are
looked
after
sharply
and
kept
in
order
at
home.
Hence
in
the
company
of
other
drinkers
they
try
to
justify
themselves
and
even
if
possible
obtain
consideration. "Funny fellow!" pronounced
the
innkeeper. "And
why
don't
you
work,
why
aren't
you
at
your
duty,
if
you
are
in
the
service?" "Why
am
I
not
at
my duty,
honoured
sir," Marmeladov went on,
addressing
himself
exclusively
to
Raskolnikov,
as
though
it
had been
he
who
put
that
question
to
him. "Why
am
I
not
at
my duty?
Does
not
my
heart
ache
to
think
what
a useless worm I am? A
month
ago
when
Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my
wife
with
his
own
hands,
and
I
lay
drunk, didn't I suffer?
Excuse
me,
young
man, has
it
ever
happened
to
you... hm... well,
to
petition hopelessly
for
a loan?" "Yes,
it
has.
But
what
do
you
mean
by
hopelessly?" "Hopelessly
in
the
fullest
sense,
when
you
know
beforehand
that
you
will
get
nothing
by
it.
You
know,
for
instance, beforehand
with
positive
certainty
that
this
man,
this
most
reputable
and
exemplary
citizen,
will
on
no
consideration
give
you
money;
and
indeed
I
ask
you
why
should
he?
For
he
knows
of
course
that
I shan't
pay
it
back.
From
compassion?
But
Mr. Lebeziatnikov
who
keeps
up
with
modern
ideas
explained
the
other
day
that
compassion
is
forbidden
nowadays
by
science
itself,
and
that
that's
what
is
done
now
in
England,
where
there
is
political
economy. Why, I
ask
you,
should
he
give
it
to
me?
And
yet
though
I
know
beforehand
that
he
won't, I
set
off
to
him
and..." "Why
do
you
go?"
put
in
Raskolnikov.
The
young
man
did
not
answer
a word. "Well,"
the
orator
began
again
stolidly
and
with
even
increased dignity,
after
waiting
for
the
laughter
in
the
room
to
subside. "Well,
so
be
it, I
am
a pig,
but
she
is
a lady! I
have
the
semblance
of
a beast,
but
Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse,
is
a
person
of
education
and
an
officer's daughter. Granted, granted, I
am
a scoundrel,
but
she
is
a
woman
of
a
noble
heart,
full
of
sentiments, refined
by
education.
And
yet... oh,
if
only
she
felt
for
me!
Honoured
sir,
honoured
sir,
you
know
every
man
ought
to
have
at
least
one
place
where
people
feel
for
him!
But
Katerina Ivanovna,
though
she
is
magnanimous,
she
is
unjust....
And
yet, although I
realise
that
when
she
pulls
my
hair
she
only
does
it
out
of
pity—for I repeat
without
being ashamed,
she
pulls
my hair,
young
man,"
he
declared
with
redoubled
dignity, hearing
the
sniggering again—"but, my God,
if
she
would
but
once....
But
no, no! It's
all
in
vain
and
it's
no
use
talking!
No
use
talking!
For
more
than
once, my
wish
did
come
true
and
more
than
once
she
has felt
for
me
but...
such
is
my fate
and
I
am
a
beast
by
nature!" "Rather!"
assented
the
innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck
his
fist
resolutely
on
the
table. "Such
is
my fate!
Do
you
know, sir,
do
you
know, I
have
sold
her
very
stockings
for
drink?
Not
her
shoes—that
would
be
more
or
less
in
the
order
of
things,
but
her
stockings,
her
stockings
I
have
sold
for
drink!
Her
mohair
shawl
I
sold
for
drink, a
present
to
her
long
ago,
her
own
property,
not
mine;
and
we
live
in
a cold
room
and
she
caught
cold
this
winter
and
has begun
coughing
and
spitting
blood too.
We
have
three
little
children
and
Katerina Ivanovna
is
at
work
from
morning
till
night;
she
is
scrubbing
and
cleaning
and
washing
the
children,
for
she's been used
to
cleanliness
from
a child.
But
her
chest
is
weak
and
she
has a
tendency
to
consumption
and
I feel it!
Do
you
suppose
I don't feel it?
And
the
more
I
drink
the
more
I feel it. That's
why
I
drink
too. I
try
to
find
sympathy
and
feeling
in
drink.... I
drink
so
that
I
may
suffer
twice
as
much!"
And
as
though
in
despair
he
laid
his
head
down
on
the
table. Marmeladov stopped short,
as
though
his
voice had
failed
him.
Then
he
hurriedly
filled
his
glass, drank,
and
cleared
his
throat. "Since then, sir,"
he
went
on
after
a
brief
pause—"Since then,
owing
to
an
unfortunate
occurrence
and
through
information
given
by
evil-intentioned persons—in
all
which
Darya Frantsovna
took
a leading
part
on
the
pretext
that
she
had been treated
with
want
of
respect—since
then
my
daughter
Sofya Semyonovna has been forced
to
take
a
yellow
ticket,
and
owing
to
that
she
is
unable
to
go
on
living
with
us.
For
our
landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna
would
not
hear
of
it
(though
she
had
backed
up
Darya Frantsovna before)
and
Mr. Lebeziatnikov too... hm....
All
the
trouble
between
him
and
Katerina Ivanovna
was
on
Sonia's account.
At
first
he
was
for
making
up
to
Sonia
himself
and
then
all
of
a
sudden
he
stood
on
his
dignity: 'how,' said he, 'can a
highly
educated
man
like
me
live
in
the
same
rooms
with
a
girl
like
that?'
And
Katerina Ivanovna
would
not
let
it
pass,
she
stood
up
for
her...
and
so
that's
how
it
happened.
And
Sonia
comes
to
us
now,
mostly
after
dark;
she
comforts
Katerina Ivanovna
and
gives
her
all
she
can....
She
has a
room
at
the
Kapernaumovs'
the
tailors,
she
lodges
with
them; Kapernaumov
is
a
lame
man
with
a cleft
palate
and
all
of
his
numerous
family
have
cleft
palates
too.
And
his
wife, too, has a cleft palate.
They
all
live
in
one
room,
but
Sonia has
her
own, partitioned off.... Hm... yes...
very
poor
people
and
all
with
cleft palates... yes.
Then
I got
up
in
the
morning,
and
put
on
my rags, lifted
up
my
hands
to
heaven
and
set
off
to
his
excellency
Ivan
Afanasyvitch.
His
excellency
Ivan
Afanasyvitch,
do
you
know
him? No? Well, then, it's a
man
of
God
you
don't know.
He
is
wax...
wax
before
the
face
of
the
Lord;
even
as
wax
melteth!...
His
eyes
were
dim
when
he
heard
my story. 'Marmeladov,
once
already
you
have
deceived
my expectations... I'll
take
you
once
more
on
my
own
responsibility'—that's
what
he
said, 'remember,'
he
said, 'and
now
you
can
go.' I
kissed
the
dust
at
his
feet—in
thought
only,
for
in
reality
he
would
not
have
allowed
me
to
do
it, being a
statesman
and
a
man
of
modern
political
and
enlightened ideas. I
returned
home,
and
when
I
announced
that
I'd been taken
back
into
the
service
and
should
receive
a salary, heavens,
what
a
to-do
there
was!..." Marmeladov stopped
again
in
violent
excitement.
At
that
moment
a
whole
party
of
revellers
already
drunk
came
in
from
the
street,
and
the
sounds
of
a
hired
concertina
and
the
cracked
piping
voice
of
a
child
of
seven
singing
"The Hamlet"
were
heard
in
the
entry.
The
room
was
filled
with
noise.
The
tavern-keeper
and
the
boys
were
busy
with
the
new-comers. Marmeladov paying
no
attention
to
the
new
arrivals
continued
his
story.
He
appeared
by
now
to
be
extremely weak,
but
as
he
became
more
and
more
drunk,
he
became
more
and
more
talkative.
The
recollection
of
his
recent
success
in
getting
the
situation
seemed
to
revive
him,
and
was
positively
reflected
in
a
sort
of
radiance
on
his
face. Raskolnikov
listened
attentively. "That
was
five
weeks
ago, sir. Yes....
As
soon
as
Katerina Ivanovna
and
Sonia
heard
of
it,
mercy
on
us,
it
was
as
though
I
stepped
into
the
kingdom
of
Heaven.
It
used
to
be:
you
can
lie
like
a beast,
nothing
but
abuse.
Now
they
were
walking
on
tiptoe,
hushing
the
children. 'Semyon Zaharovitch
is
tired
with
his
work
at
the
office,
he
is
resting, shh!'
They
made
me
coffee
before
I went
to
work
and
boiled
cream
for
me!
They
began
to
get
real
cream
for
me,
do
you
hear
that?
And
how
they
managed
to
get
together
the
money
for
a
decent
outfit—eleven roubles,
fifty
copecks, I can't guess. Boots,
cotton
shirt-fronts—most magnificent, a uniform,
they
got
up
all
in
splendid
style,
for
eleven
roubles
and
a half.
The
first
morning
I came
back
from
the
office
I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked
two
courses
for
dinner—soup
and
salt
meat
with
horse
radish—which
we
had
never
dreamed
of
till
then.
She
had
not
any
dresses...
none
at
all,
but
she
got
herself
up
as
though
she
were
going
on
a visit;
and
not
that
she'd
anything
to
do
it
with,
she
smartened
herself
up
with
nothing
at
all, she'd
done
her
hair
nicely,
put
on
a clean collar
of
some
sort, cuffs,
and
there
she
was,
quite
a
different
person,
she
was
younger
and
better
looking. Sonia, my
little
darling, had
only
helped
with
money
'for
the
time,'
she
said, 'it won't
do
for
me
to
come
and
see
you
too
often.
After
dark maybe
when
no
one
can
see.'
Do
you
hear,
do
you
hear? I
lay
down
for
a
nap
after
dinner
and
what
do
you
think:
though
Katerina Ivanovna had
quarrelled
to
the
last
degree
with
our
landlady Amalia Fyodorovna
only
a
week
before,
she
could
not
resist
then
asking
her
in
to
coffee.
For
two
hours
they
were
sitting,
whispering
together. 'Semyon Zaharovitch
is
in
the
service
again, now,
and
receiving
a salary,' says she, 'and
he
went
himself
to
his
excellency
and
his
excellency
himself
came
out
to
him,
made
all
the
others
wait
and
led Semyon Zaharovitch
by
the
hand
before
everybody
into
his
study.'
Do
you
hear,
do
you
hear? 'To
be
sure,' says he, 'Semyon Zaharovitch,
remembering
your
past services,' says he, 'and
in
spite
of
your
propensity
to
that
foolish
weakness,
since
you
promise
now
and
since
moreover we've got
on
badly
without
you,' (do
you
hear,
do
you
hear;) 'and so,' says he, 'I
rely
now
on
your
word
as
a gentleman.'
And
all
that,
let
me
tell
you,
she
has simply
made
up
for
herself,
and
not
simply
out
of
wantonness,
for
the
sake
of
bragging; no,
she
believes
it
all
herself,
she
amuses
herself
with
her
own
fancies,
upon
my
word
she
does!
And
I don't
blame
her
for
it, no, I don't
blame
her!...
Six
days
ago
when
I brought
her
my
first
earnings
in
full—twenty-three roubles
forty
copecks altogether—she
called
me
her
poppet: 'poppet,' said she, 'my
little
poppet.'
And
when
we
were
by
ourselves,
you
understand?
You
would
not
think
me
a beauty,
you
would
not
think
much
of
me
as
a husband,
would
you?... Well,
she
pinched my cheek, 'my
little
poppet,' said she." Marmeladov
broke
off, tried
to
smile,
but
suddenly
his
chin
began
to
twitch.
He
controlled
himself
however.
The
tavern,
the
degraded
appearance
of
the
man,
the
five
nights
in
the
hay
barge,
and
the
pot
of
spirits,
and
yet
this
poignant
love
for
his
wife
and
children bewildered
his
listener. Raskolnikov
listened
intently
but
with
a
sick
sensation.
He
felt
vexed
that
he
had
come
here. "Honoured sir,
honoured
sir," cried Marmeladov
recovering
himself—"Oh, sir,
perhaps
all
this
seems
a laughing
matter
to
you,
as
it
does
to
others,
and
perhaps
I
am
only
worrying
you
with
the
stupidity
of
all
the
trivial
details
of
my
home
life,
but
it
is
not
a laughing
matter
to
me.
For
I
can
feel
it
all....
And
the
whole
of
that
heavenly
day
of
my
life
and
the
whole
of
that
evening
I
passed
in
fleeting
dreams
of
how
I
would
arrange
it
all,
and
how
I
would
dress
all
the
children,
and
how
I
should
give
her
rest,
and
how
I
should
rescue
my
own
daughter
from
dishonour
and
restore
her
to
the
bosom
of
her
family....
And
a
great
deal
more....
Quite
excusable, sir. Well, then, sir" (Marmeladov suddenly gave a
sort
of
start,
raised
his
head
and
gazed
intently
at
his
listener) "well,
on
the
very
next
day
after
all
those
dreams,
that
is
to
say, exactly
five
days
ago,
in
the
evening,
by
a cunning trick,
like
a
thief
in
the
night, I
stole
from
Katerina Ivanovna
the
key
of
her
box,
took
out
what
was
left
of
my earnings,
how
much
it
was
I
have
forgotten,
and
now
look
at
me,
all
of
you! It's
the
fifth
day
since
I left home,
and
they
are
looking
for
me
there
and
it's
the
end
of
my employment,
and
my uniform
is
lying
in
a
tavern
on
the
Egyptian
bridge. I
exchanged
it
for
the
garments
I
have
on...
and
it's
the
end
of
everything!" Marmeladov struck
his
forehead
with
his
fist, clenched
his
teeth, closed
his
eyes
and
leaned
heavily
with
his
elbow
on
the
table.
But
a
minute
later
his
face suddenly
changed
and
with
a
certain
assumed
slyness
and
affectation
of
bravado,
he
glanced
at
Raskolnikov, laughed
and
said: "This
morning
I went
to
see
Sonia, I went
to
ask
her
for
a pick-me-up! He-he-he!" "You don't
say
she
gave
it
to
you?" cried
one
of
the
new-comers;
he
shouted
the
words
and
went
off
into
a guffaw. "This
very
quart
was
bought
with
her
money," Marmeladov declared,
addressing
himself
exclusively
to
Raskolnikov. "Thirty copecks
she
gave
me
with
her
own
hands,
her
last,
all
she
had,
as
I saw....
She
said nothing,
she
only
looked
at
me
without
a word....
Not
on
earth,
but
up
yonder...
they
grieve
over
men,
they
weep,
but
they
don't
blame
them,
they
don't
blame
them!
But
it
hurts more,
it
hurts
more
when
they
don't blame!
Thirty
copecks yes!
And
maybe
she
needs
them
now, eh?
What
do
you
think, my
dear
sir?
For
now
she's got
to
keep
up
her
appearance.
It
costs
money,
that
smartness,
that
special
smartness,
you
know?
Do
you
understand?
And
there's pomatum, too,
you
see,
she
must
have
things; petticoats, starched ones, shoes, too,
real
jaunty
ones
to
show
off
her
foot
when
she
has
to
step
over
a puddle.
Do
you
understand, sir,
do
you
understand
what
all
that
smartness means?
And
here
I,
her
own
father,
here
I
took
thirty
copecks
of
that
money
for
a drink!
And
I
am
drinking it!
And
I
have
already
drunk
it! Come,
who
will
have
pity
on
a
man
like
me, eh?
Are
you
sorry
for
me, sir,
or
not?
Tell
me, sir,
are
you
sorry
or
not? He-he-he!"
He
would
have
filled
his
glass,
but
there
was
no
drink
left.
The
pot
was
empty. "What
are
you
to
be
pitied for?" shouted
the
tavern-keeper
who
was
again
near
them. Shouts
of
laughter
and
even
oaths
followed.
The
laughter
and
the
oaths
came
from
those
who
were
listening
and
also
from
those
who
had
heard
nothing
but
were
simply
looking
at
the
figure
of
the
discharged
government
clerk. "To
be
pitied!
Why
am
I
to
be
pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly declaimed, standing
up
with
his
arm
outstretched,
as
though
he
had been
only
waiting
for
that
question. "Why
am
I
to
be
pitied,
you
say? Yes! there's
nothing
to
pity
me
for! I
ought
to
be
crucified, crucified
on
a cross,
not
pitied!
Crucify
me,
oh
judge,
crucify
me
but
pity
me!
And
then
I
will
go
of
myself
to
be
crucified,
for
it's
not
merry-making I
seek
but
tears
and
tribulation!...
Do
you
suppose,
you
that
sell,
that
this
pint
of
yours has been
sweet
to
me?
It
was
tribulation
I
sought
at
the
bottom
of
it,
tears
and
tribulation,
and
have
found it,
and
I
have
tasted
it;
but
He
will
pity
us
Who
has had
pity
on
all
men,
Who
has understood
all
men
and
all
things,
He
is
the
One,
He
too
is
the
judge.
He
will
come
in
that
day
and
He
will
ask: 'Where
is
the
daughter
who
gave
herself
for
her
cross,
consumptive
step-mother
and
for
the
little
children
of
another?
Where
is
the
daughter
who
had
pity
upon
the
filthy drunkard,
her
earthly
father, undismayed
by
his
beastliness?'
And
He
will
say, 'Come
to
me! I
have
already
forgiven
thee
once.... I
have
forgiven
thee
once.... Thy
sins
which
are
many
are
forgiven
thee
for
thou
hast
loved
much....'
And
he
will
forgive
my Sonia,
He
will
forgive, I
know
it... I felt
it
in
my
heart
when
I
was
with
her
just
now!
And
He
will
judge
and
will
forgive
all,
the
good
and
the
evil,
the
wise
and
the
meek....
And
when
He
has
done
with
all
of
them,
then
He
will
summon
us. 'You
too
come
forth,'
He
will
say, 'Come
forth
ye
drunkards,
come
forth,
ye
weak
ones,
come
forth,
ye
children
of
shame!'
And
we
shall
all
come
forth,
without
shame
and
shall
stand
before
him.
And
He
will
say
unto
us, 'Ye
are
swine,
made
in
the
Image
of
the
Beast
and
with
his
mark;
but
come
ye
also!'
And
the
wise
ones
and
those
of
understanding
will
say, 'Oh Lord,
why
dost
Thou
receive
these
men?'
And
He
will
say, 'This
is
why
I
receive
them,
oh
ye
wise,
this
is
why
I
receive
them,
oh
ye
of
understanding,
that
not
one
of
them
believed
himself
to
be
worthy
of
this.'
And
He
will
hold
out
His
hands
to
us
and
we
shall
fall
down
before
him...
and
we
shall
weep...
and
we
shall
understand
all
things!
Then
we
shall
understand
all!...
and
all
will
understand, Katerina Ivanovna even...
she
will
understand.... Lord, Thy
kingdom
come!"
And
he
sank
down
on
the
bench
exhausted,
and
helpless,
looking
at
no
one, apparently
oblivious
of
his
surroundings
and
plunged
in
deep
thought.
His
words
had
created
a
certain
impression;
there
was
a
moment
of
silence;
but
soon
laughter
and
oaths
were
heard
again. "That's
his
notion!" "Talked
himself
silly!" "A
fine
clerk
he
is!"
And
so
on,
and
so
on. "Let
us
go, sir," said Marmeladov
all
at
once,
raising
his
head
and
addressing
Raskolnikov—"come
along
with
me... Kozel's house,
looking
into
the
yard. I'm going
to
Katerina Ivanovna—time I did." Raskolnikov had
for
some
time been wanting
to
go
and
he
had meant
to
help
him. Marmeladov
was
much
unsteadier
on
his
legs
than
in
his
speech
and
leaned
heavily
on
the
young
man.
They
had
two
or
three
hundred
paces
to
go.
The
drunken
man
was
more
and
more
overcome
by
dismay
and
confusion
as
they
drew
nearer
the
house. "It's
not
Katerina Ivanovna I
am
afraid
of
now,"
he
muttered
in
agitation—"and
that
she
will
begin
pulling
my hair.
What
does
my
hair
matter!
Bother
my hair! That's
what
I say!
Indeed
it
will
be
better
if
she
does
begin
pulling
it, that's
not
what
I
am
afraid
of... it's
her
eyes
I
am
afraid
of... yes,
her
eyes...
the
red
on
her
cheeks, too, frightens me...
and
her
breathing
too....
Have
you
noticed
how
people
in
that
disease
breathe...
when
they
are
excited? I
am
frightened
of
the
children's crying, too....
For
if
Sonia has
not
taken
them
food... I don't
know
what's happened! I don't know!
But
blows I
am
not
afraid
of.... Know, sir,
that
such
blows
are
not
a
pain
to
me,
but
even
an
enjoyment.
In
fact
I can't
get
on
without
it.... It's
better
so.
Let
her
strike me,
it
relieves
her
heart... it's
better
so...
There
is
the
house.
The
house
of
Kozel,
the
cabinet-maker... a German, well-to-do. Lead
the
way!"
They
went
in
from
the
yard
and
up
to
the
fourth
storey.
The
staircase got darker
and
darker
as
they
went up.
It
was
nearly
eleven
o'clock
and
although
in
summer
in
Petersburg
there
is
no
real
night,
yet
it
was
quite
dark
at
the
top
of
the
stairs. A grimy
little
door
at
the
very
top
of
the
stairs
stood ajar. A
very
poor-looking
room
about
ten
paces
long
was
lighted
up
by
a candle-end;
the
whole
of
it
was
visible
from
the
entrance.
It
was
all
in
disorder, littered
up
with
rags
of
all
sorts, especially children's garments.
Across
the
furthest
corner
was
stretched a
ragged
sheet.
Behind
it
probably
was
the
bed.
There
was
nothing
in
the
room
except
two
chairs
and
a
sofa
covered
with
American leather,
full
of
holes,
before
which
stood
an
old
deal
kitchen-table, unpainted
and
uncovered.
At
the
edge
of
the
table stood a
smoldering
tallow-candle
in
an
iron candlestick.
It
appeared
that
the
family
had a
room
to
themselves,
not
part
of
a room,
but
their
room
was
practically a passage.
The
door
leading
to
the
other
rooms,
or
rather
cupboards,
into
which
Amalia Lippevechsel's
flat
was
divided
stood
half
open,
and
there
was
shouting,
uproar
and
laughter
within.
People
seemed
to
be
playing
cards
and
drinking
tea
there.
Words
of
the
most
unceremonious
kind
flew
out
from
time
to
time. Raskolnikov
recognised
Katerina Ivanovna
at
once.
She
was
a
rather
tall, slim
and
graceful woman, terribly emaciated,
with
magnificent
dark brown
hair
and
with
a
hectic
flush
in
her
cheeks.
She
was
pacing
up
and
down
in
her
little
room, pressing
her
hands
against
her
chest;
her
lips
were
parched
and
her
breathing
came
in
nervous
broken
gasps.
Her
eyes
glittered
as
in
fever
and
looked
about
with
a
harsh
immovable stare.
And
that
consumptive
and
excited face
with
the
last
flickering
light
of
the
candle-end
playing
upon
it
made
a sickening impression.
She
seemed
to
Raskolnikov
about
thirty
years
old
and
was
certainly a
strange
wife
for
Marmeladov....
She
had
not
heard
them
and
did
not
notice
them
coming in.
She
seemed
to
be
lost
in
thought, hearing
and
seeing
nothing.
The
room
was
close,
but
she
had
not
opened
the
window; a
stench
rose
from
the
staircase,
but
the
door
on
to
the
stairs
was
not
closed.
From
the
inner
rooms
clouds
of
tobacco
smoke
floated
in,
she
kept coughing,
but
did
not
close
the
door.
The
youngest
child, a
girl
of
six,
was
asleep, sitting
curled
up
on
the
floor
with
her
head
on
the
sofa. A
boy
a
year
older stood
crying
and
shaking
in
the
corner, probably
he
had
just
had a beating.
Beside
him
stood a
girl
of
nine
years
old,
tall
and
thin, wearing a
thin
and
ragged
chemise
with
an
ancient
cashmere pelisse flung
over
her
bare
shoulders,
long
outgrown
and
barely
reaching
her
knees.
Her
arm,
as
thin
as
a stick,
was
round
her
brother's neck.
She
was
trying
to
comfort
him,
whispering
something
to
him,
and
doing
all
she
could
to
keep
him
from
whimpering
again.
At
the
same
time
her
large
dark eyes,
which
looked
larger
still
from
the
thinness
of
her
frightened face,
were
watching
her
mother
with
alarm. Marmeladov
did
not
enter
the
door,
but
dropped
on
his
knees
in
the
very
doorway,
pushing
Raskolnikov
in
front
of
him.
The
woman
seeing
a
stranger
stopped indifferently facing him, coming
to
herself
for
a
moment
and
apparently
wondering
what
he
had
come
for.
But
evidently
she
decided
that
he
was
going
into
the
next
room,
as
he
had
to
pass
through
hers
to
get
there.
Taking
no
further
notice
of
him,
she
walked
towards
the
outer
door
to
close
it
and
uttered
a
sudden
scream
on
seeing
her
husband
on
his
knees
in
the
doorway. "Ah!"
she
cried
out
in
a frenzy, "he has
come
back!
The
criminal!
the
monster!...
And
where
is
the
money? What's
in
your
pocket,
show
me!
And
your
clothes
are
all
different!
Where
are
your
clothes?
Where
is
the
money! Speak!"
And
she
fell
to
searching
him. Marmeladov
submissively
and
obediently
held
up
both
arms
to
facilitate
the
search.
Not
a
farthing
was
there. "Where
is
the
money?"
she
cried—"Mercy
on
us,
can
he
have
drunk
it
all?
There
were
twelve
silver
roubles left
in
the
chest!"
and
in
a
fury
she
seized
him
by
the
hair
and
dragged
him
into
the
room. Marmeladov
seconded
her
efforts
by
meekly
crawling
along
on
his
knees. "And
this
is
a
consolation
to
me!
This
does
not
hurt me,
but
is
a positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,"
he
called
out, shaken
to
and
fro
by
his
hair
and
even
once
striking
the
ground
with
his
forehead.
The
child
asleep
on
the
floor
woke up,
and
began
to
cry.
The
boy
in
the
corner
losing
all
control began
trembling
and
screaming
and
rushed
to
his
sister
in
violent
terror,
almost
in
a fit.
The
eldest
girl
was
shaking
like
a leaf. "He's
drunk
it! he's
drunk
it
all,"
the
poor
woman
screamed
in
despair—"and
his
clothes
are
gone!
And
they
are
hungry, hungry!"—and
wringing
her
hands
she
pointed
to
the
children. "Oh, accursed life!
And
you,
are
you
not
ashamed?"—she
pounced
all
at
once
upon
Raskolnikov—"from
the
tavern!
Have
you
been drinking
with
him?
You
have
been drinking
with
him, too!
Go
away!"
The
young
man
was
hastening
away
without
uttering
a word.
The
inner
door
was
thrown
wide
open
and
inquisitive
faces
were
peering
in
at
it.
Coarse
laughing faces
with
pipes
and
cigarettes
and
heads
wearing
caps
thrust
themselves
in
at
the
doorway.
Further
in
could
be
seen
figures
in
dressing
gowns
flung open,
in
costumes
of
unseemly
scantiness,
some
of
them
with
cards
in
their
hands.
They
were
particularly diverted,
when
Marmeladov,
dragged
about
by
his
hair, shouted
that
it
was
a
consolation
to
him.
They
even
began
to
come
into
the
room;
at
last
a
sinister
shrill outcry
was
heard:
this
came
from
Amalia Lippevechsel
herself
pushing
her
way
amongst
them
and
trying
to
restore
order
after
her
own
fashion
and
for
the
hundredth
time
to
frighten
the
poor
woman
by
ordering
her
with
coarse
abuse
to
clear
out
of
the
room
next
day.
As
he
went out, Raskolnikov had time
to
put
his
hand
into
his
pocket,
to
snatch
up
the
coppers
he
had received
in
exchange
for
his
rouble
in
the
tavern
and
to
lay
them
unnoticed
on
the
window. Afterwards
on
the
stairs,
he
changed
his
mind
and
would
have
gone back. "What a
stupid
thing
I've done,"
he
thought
to
himself, "they
have
Sonia
and
I
want
it
myself."
But
reflecting
that
it
would
be
impossible
to
take
it
back
now
and
that
in
any
case
he
would
not
have
taken it,
he
dismissed
it
with
a
wave
of
his
hand
and
went
back
to
his
lodging. "Sonia
wants
pomatum too,"
he
said
as
he
walked
along
the
street,
and
he
laughed malignantly—"such smartness
costs
money.... Hm!
And
maybe Sonia
herself
will
be
bankrupt to-day,
for
there
is
always
a risk,
hunting
big
game...
digging
for
gold...
then
they
would
all
be
without
a
crust
to-morrow
except
for
my money.
Hurrah
for
Sonia!
What
a
mine
they've dug there!
And
they're
making
the
most
of
it! Yes,
they
are
making
the
most
of
it! They've wept
over
it
and
grown used
to
it.
Man
grows used
to
everything,
the
scoundrel!"
He
sank
into
thought. "And
what
if
I
am
wrong,"
he
cried suddenly
after
a moment's thought. "What
if
man
is
not
really a scoundrel,
man
in
general, I mean,
the
whole
race
of
mankind—then
all
the
rest
is
prejudice, simply
artificial
terrors
and
there
are
no
barriers
and
it's
all
as
it
should
be."