О чем говорят каналы

…Well, let my mother be—so be it, God bless her, she's always been like that—but what about Dunya? Dounia, my dear, I know you! I understood your character even two years ago, when we last met. Mother writes that “Dounia can endure much.” I knew that. I’ve known it for two and a half years, and ever since then I've thought—exactly this—that “Dounia can endure much.” If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigailov, with all that entailed, then indeed, she can endure a great deal. And now, together with Mother, you’ve gone and imagined she can also endure Mr. Luzhin, who preaches a theory about the advantages of marrying women from poverty who are beholden to their husbands for their prosperity—and preaches it, mind you, almost at their very first meeting!

What does she hope to live on in Petersburg later? Has she already guessed, for some reason, that she'll be living with Dunya after the marriage, even at first? Surely that 'dear man' must have revealed himself somehow, although mother waves it off with both hands: 'I'll refuse it myself,' she says. But what, then, does she rely on? On her one hundred and twenty roubles pension, after repaying Afanasy Ivanovich? Knitting winter shawls there, embroidering cuffs, ruining her old eyes. But I know for certain that shawls add only twenty roubles a year to her one hundred and twenty. So they still hope in Mr. Luzhin's noble feelings: 'He'll offer it himself, beg us to accept.' Keep dreaming! This is always how these Shillerian noble souls behave: right up to the last moment, they dress a man in peacock feathers, hope for the best till the very end; though they sense the other side of the coin, they refuse to utter the truth even to themselves—just the thought of it disgusts them; with both hands they push reality away, until the very man they've decorated slaps them in the face himself. And I wonder, does Mr. Luzhin have any decorations? I'd bet my last rupee he's got the Order of Anna in his lapel, and wears it at contractors' and merchants' banquets. Perhaps even at his own wedding! Well, never mind him!..."

"Hm, it's true," he went on, following the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his head, "it's true that one must 'approach a person gradually and cautiously to understand them'; but Mr. Luzhin is clear enough. Most importantly, he's a 'man of business and kind-hearted'—is that a small thing? Taking responsibility upon himself, sending a big trunk at his own expense! Well, how could he not be kind? And yet, both of them—the mother and sister—are arranging for a peasant's cart, covered with a tarpaulin (I remember travelling like that myself)! Never mind! Only ninety versts, and then 'we shall travel comfortably in third class'—a thousand versts. And how prudent: stretch your legs according to your blanket! But you, Mr. Luzhin, what about you? This is your fiancée after all! Could you possibly not know that the mother has taken a loan against her pension for the journey? Of course, here you've got a joint business arrangement, a venture built on mutual benefits and equal shares—so expenses should be split. Bread and salt together, but tobacco separately, as the saying goes. And even here, this 'man of business' has slightly swindled them: the cost of sending the luggage is less than their travel fare, perhaps even free. Don't they see it, or are they deliberately ignoring it? And yet they're happy, perfectly happy! And when you think of it—these are just the first blossoms, the real fruits are yet to come! What matters here isn't just stinginess or meanness, but the whole attitude. This sets the tone for life after marriage, a prophecy of sorts. And what about mother herself—what extravagance is this? What will she arrive in Petersburg with? Three whole roubles? Or two 'little notes', as that old woman—hmm!—what old woman?

When the matter is already understood without naïve questions, and it’s decided there’s no point discussing it anymore. And why does she write to me: "Love Dunya, Rodya, she loves you more than herself"? Could it be secret pangs of guilt tormenting her for agreeing to sacrifice her daughter for her son? "You are our hope, you are our everything!" Oh, Mother!... Anger rose within him, stronger and stronger, and had Mr. Luzhin met him now, he might well have murdered him!

…But it's interesting, though, why Mother wrote to me about the "new generation"? Was it simply to describe the man's character, or with some ulterior motive—to win me over in favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, how cunning they are! I wonder how frank the two of them were with each other—at that time, that day and night, and in all the days after. Did they say everything openly, or did each understand that they both had the same thing in their hearts and minds, so there was no need to speak it aloud and risk saying too much? Probably it was partly like that. From the letter, it’s clear the man seemed harsh to Mother, and the simple-hearted Mother went straight to Dunya with her observations. Naturally, Dunya got angry and "replied with annoyance." Well, who wouldn’t be furious?

"Because it's such a straightforward matter," he muttered to himself, smirking and already savagely triumphing in advance over his decision. "No, mother dear, no, Dounia, you won't deceive me!... And still they apologise for not consulting me and deciding the matter without me! Of course! They think it's all settled now, impossible to break off—but we'll see whether it's possible or not! What a splendid excuse: 'Such a busy man, Pyotr Petrovich, so extremely busy that he can't even get married except on postal terms, almost by railway mail!' No, Dounetchka, I see and understand everything you're planning to say to me; I know too what you thought through all night, pacing the room, and what you prayed about before the Kazan Mother of God, standing in mother's bedroom. It's hard climbing the Mount of Calvary. Hm... So then, it's finally decided: you're marrying a practical, rational man, Avdotya Romanovna, one with means (with means—that sounds more solid, more respectable), holding two positions and sharing the views of our newest generation (as mother writes), and 'kind-hearted' too, as Dounetchka herself observes. That's simply magnificent! And Dounetchka herself is marrying for exactly that!... Magnificent! Magnificent!..."

The letter from his mother had distressed him. But as for the most important, crucial point, he hadn't a moment's doubt, not even while he was reading the letter. The main issue had already been settled in his mind—decisively and finally: "This marriage shall never happen, as long as I live, and to hell with Mr. Luzhin!"

Yours till death, Pulcheria Raskolnikov. Almost throughout the time Raskolnikov was reading the letter, from the very beginning, his face was wet with tears; but by the time he finished, it had grown pale, twisted by a spasm, and a heavy, bitter, malicious smile crept across his lips. He laid his head on his thin, worn-out pillow and thought—long and deeply. His heart throbbed violently, and his thoughts were in turmoil. At last, the yellow cramped room, like a cupboard or a chest, began to feel suffocatingly narrow and oppressive. His gaze and his thoughts craved space. He snatched up his hat and went out, this time no longer fearing to meet anyone on the staircase—he had simply forgotten about it. He headed towards Vasilievsky Island, along V Prospect, as though hurried there on some urgent business, yet, true to habit, walked without noticing the way, muttering to himself, even speaking aloud, which greatly astonished passers-by. Many took him for a drunkard. IV

I embrace you tightly, tightly, and send you countless kisses.

Enough for now—I’ve filled both sides of two sheets, and there’s no space left. That’s our whole story. But so much has happened! Now, my priceless Rodya, I embrace you in anticipation of our soon meeting and bless you with a mother’s blessing. Love Dunya, your sister, Rodya. Love her as she loves you, and know that she loves you boundlessly, more than herself. She is an angel. And you, Rodya, you are our only hope, our entire future. If only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do you still pray to God, Rodya, as you used to? Do you still believe in the kindness of our Creator and Redeemer? In my heart, I fear you may have been touched by the modern fashion of disbelief. If so, I pray for you. Remember, my dear, how, as a child, when your father was alive, you used to murmur your prayers on my lap, and how happy we all were then! Farewell, or rather, until we meet!

I’d send more, but I must be cautious about our travel expenses. Though Pyotr Petrovich has kindly agreed to cover part of our journey to the capital—specifically, he volunteered to arrange, at his own expense, the transport of our luggage and large trunk (through some connection he has)—still, we must account for our arrival in St. Petersburg, where one cannot appear without even a single rupee, even for the first few days. Dunyasha and I have carefully calculated everything, and it turns out the journey will cost only a little. From here to the railway station is just ninety versts, and we’ve already arranged with a familiar peasant driver as a precaution. From there, Dunyasha and I will travel quite comfortably in third class. So perhaps I’ll manage to send you not twenty-five, but certainly thirty rubles.

Once, jokingly, she said she would agree to marry Pyotr Petrovich just for the sake of seeing you again. She’s an angel! She sends no letter of her own now, but asked me to write that she has so much to say to you—so very much—that she can’t even bring herself to pick up the pen, as nothing meaningful can be said in a few lines, and only her emotions would be stirred. She sends you her warmest embrace and countless kisses. Yet, despite the likelihood of meeting you in person very soon, I shall still send you some money in the coming days—whatever I can manage. Now that everyone knows Dunyasha is to marry Pyotr Petrovich, my credit has suddenly improved. I’m certain Aphanasy Ivanovich will now advance me, against my pension, even up to seventy-five rubles. So I may be able to send you twenty-five, or even thirty rubles.

For now, the most pleasant news I’ve saved for the end: You see, my dear, it’s quite possible we may soon reunite and embrace all three of us again after nearly three years apart! It’s already decided that Dunya and I will travel to St. Petersburg. I don’t yet know the exact date, but certainly very, very soon—perhaps even in a week. Everything depends on Pyotr Petrovich’s arrangements. As soon as he settles in St. Petersburg, he will inform us immediately. For certain practical reasons, he wishes to expedite the wedding ceremony and even plans to have the marriage solemnized during the current meat-eating season, or, if time is too short, immediately after Lent. Oh, with what joy I shall press you to my heart! Dunya is overcome with excitement at the thought of meeting you.

Tell me, my dearest Rodya—based on certain reflections (not at all related to Pyotr Petrovich, but personal, perhaps even old-fashioned, womanly whims of my own)—I feel I might do better living separately after their marriage, just as I do now, rather than under the same roof. I’m fully confident he will be so noble and considerate as to invite me himself and suggest I never part from my daughter again. If he hasn’t mentioned it yet, it’s surely because it’s assumed without words. But I will decline. In life, I’ve often noticed that mothers-in-law are not always welcome in their sons-in-law’s eyes. And I not only wish to be a burden to no one, even in the smallest way, but also desire to remain entirely free, as long as I have even a modest means of support and such children as you and dear Dunyasha. If possible, I’ll settle near both of you.

We’ve avoided this for two reasons: First, it will naturally happen later, and he will surely offer it without needing to be asked (how could he refuse anything to dear Dunyasha?), especially since you could become his right-hand man at the office and receive such support not as charity, but as earned salary. That’s how Dunyasha wants it arranged, and I fully support her. Second, I particularly wanted to place you on equal footing with him during our upcoming meeting. When Dunya spoke of you with great enthusiasm, he replied that one must first see and get to know a man personally before passing judgment, and that he reserves the right to form his own opinion after meeting you.

Despite Pyotr Petrovich’s current understandable hesitation (since he hasn’t met you yet), Dunya is firmly convinced that through her kind influence over her future husband, she will achieve everything. She is certain of this. Of course, we have been careful not to reveal to Pyotr Petrovich any of our further dreams, especially the idea of your becoming his partner. He is a practical man and might take it rather coldly, as it could appear to him mere fantasy. Likewise, neither Dunya nor I have mentioned a word to him about our strong hope that he will financially assist you during your time at university.

He responded cautiously, saying that of course, as he cannot manage without a secretary, it would naturally be better to pay a relative than a stranger, provided that the relative proves capable for the role (as if you wouldn’t be capable!). However, he also expressed doubt whether your university studies would leave you enough time to work in his office. For now, the matter ended there. But Dunya thinks of nothing else these days. For several days now, she has been practically feverish with excitement and has already drawn up a full plan whereby, in time, you could become not only an assistant but even a partner to Pyotr Petrovich in his legal practice, especially since you yourself are studying law. Rodya, I fully agree with her and share all her hopes and plans, seeing in them every likelihood of success.

I mentioned earlier that Pyotr Petrovich is now leaving for St. Petersburg. He has important matters there and plans to open a public legal practice in the city. He has long been involved in handling various lawsuits and recently won a significant case. His presence in St. Petersburg is also essential due to an important matter pending before the Senate. Thus, dear Rodya, he could be extremely helpful to you—indeed, in every way—and Dunya and I have already decided that you could, from this very day, begin shaping your future career and consider your path clearly laid out. If only this could come true! It would be such a blessing that we can only regard it as direct mercy from the Almighty. Dunya dreams of nothing else. We even ventured to mention this matter briefly to Pyotr Petrovich.

As for minor differences in temperament, old habits, or even some disagreement in views—things impossible to avoid even in the happiest marriages—Dunya assured me she has full confidence in herself. There’s no need to worry, she said, and she can endure much, provided their future relationship remains honest and fair. For example, he seemed somewhat abrupt to me at first. But this likely stems from his straightforward nature—and surely it is so. For instance, on his second visit, already having received our consent, he remarked in conversation that he had long decided, even before knowing Dunya, to marry an honest girl without a dowry—one who had already experienced hardship. As he explained, a husband should owe nothing to his wife, and it is far better if the wife regards her husband as her benefactor. I must add that he expressed himself somewhat more gently and kindly than I’ve written here, as I’ve forgotten his exact words and only recall the idea. Moreover, he said this not deliberately, but clearly slipped in the heat of conversation—and even tried afterward to correct and soften it. Still, it struck me as slightly harsh, and I later told Dunya. But she replied with irritation that “words are not deeds,” and indeed, that is fair. Before deciding, Dunya did not sleep all night. Thinking I was asleep, she rose from her bed and paced the room all night. At last, she knelt before the icon and prayed long and fervently. In the morning, she told me she had made her decision."

True, he is forty-five, but he has a pleasant appearance and can still appeal to women. Overall, he is very respectable and proper, though somewhat stern and slightly proud. But perhaps this is only how he appears at first glance. I must warn you, my dear Rodya, that when you meet him soon in Petersburg, do not judge too hastily or passionately, as is your nature, if something about him doesn’t immediately please you. I say this just in case, though I am confident he will make a pleasant impression on you. Besides, to truly understand any person, one must proceed gradually and cautiously, to avoid error and prejudice—mistakes that are very hard to correct later. At least by many signs, Pyotr Petrovich appears to be a highly respectable man. On his very first visit, he announced to us that he is a practical man, but, as he put it, “shares the views of our newest generation” and despises all prejudices. He said much more, somewhat vain and eager to be listened to—which is hardly a vice. I understood little, but Dunya explained that he is not highly educated but intelligent, and seems kind-hearted. You know your sister’s character, Rodya. She is strong-willed, sensible, patient, and noble, though she has a passionate heart, which I know well. Of course, there is no great love on either side, but Dunya, being not only intelligent but noble as an angel, will regard it as her duty to make her husband happy, who in turn will care for her happiness—a prospect in which we, for now, see little reason to doubt, though the matter moved quickly, I admit. He is a very practical man and, surely, will realize that his own marital happiness depends on Dunya’s well-being.

At every reading, people gathered once more—even those who had already heard it multiple times, both at home and at friends’ houses, in rotation. In my opinion, much of this was unnecessary, but Marfa Petrovna is of such a character. At least, she fully restored Dunya’s honour, and all the disgrace of this affair fell irrevocably upon her husband, the chief culprit. So much so that I even feel pity for him—he was treated too harshly for such an eccentric man. Dunya was immediately invited to give lessons in several homes, but she declined. Generally, people now treated her with special respect. This greatly contributed to the unexpected event that has now changed, one might say, our entire destiny. Know this, my dear Rodya: a suitor has proposed to Dunya, and she has already accepted. I hasten to inform you at once. Though this matter proceeded without your advice, you surely won’t hold it against me or your sister, for you will see from the circumstances that waiting for your reply was impossible. After all, you could not have judged the matter accurately from afar. Here’s how it happened. The gentleman is Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, a Collegiate Assessor, and a distant relative of Marfa Petrovna, who greatly assisted in this. He began by expressing through her a desire to meet us, was properly received, had tea, and the very next day sent a letter, most politely making his proposal and asking for a prompt and definite answer. He is a busy, career-oriented man, now heading to Petersburg, and values every minute. Naturally, we were quite taken aback, as it all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We discussed it together all that day. He is a reliable, well-established man, holding two official positions and already possessing personal wealth.

After Dunya’s departure, the letter remained in Mr. Svidrigailov’s possession. In it, she passionately and indignantly rebuked him for his dishonourable behaviour toward Marfa Petrovna, reminded him of his responsibilities as a father and husband, and condemned him for tormenting and making unhappy a girl already unfortunate and defenceless. In short, my dear Rodya, the letter was so noble and moving that I wept while reading it, and even now I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, in Dunya’s defence, the servants eventually testified—people who had seen and known far more than Mr. Svidrigailov himself suspected, as often happens. Marfa Petrovna was utterly shocked and “struck anew,” as she confessed to us, but she now fully believed in Dunya’s innocence. The very next day, on Sunday, she went straight to the cathedral, fell to her knees, and, in tears, begged the Virgin to give her strength to endure this new trial and fulfil her duty. Then, directly from the cathedral and without stopping anywhere else, she came to us, told us everything, wept bitterly, and, in complete repentance, embraced Dunya and begged her forgiveness. That same morning, without delay, she went from house to house across town. Everywhere, in the most flattering terms for Dunya, shedding tears, she restored her innocence and the nobility of her character and conduct. Not only that, she showed and even read aloud Dunya’s handwritten letter to Mr. Svidrigailov and allowed copies to be made (which, I think, was already excessive). Thus, she spent several days visiting everyone in town, as some became offended that others were favoured, leading to queues—people were already waiting in each household, knowing that on such-and-such a day, Marfa Petrovna would come to read this letter.

I did not dare write the truth, knowing you would be heartbroken, distressed, and enraged—and what could you have done? You might have only ruined yourself, and Dunya forbade it. But how could I fill a letter with trivialities, while carrying such sorrow in my heart? For a whole month, gossip about the incident spread throughout the town. It became so bad that Dunya and I couldn’t even go to church without facing scornful glances and whispers, even open remarks made in our hearing. All our acquaintances turned away from us; no one even greeted us. I learned for certain that some shop clerks and certain clerks from offices had planned to humiliate us further by tarred our doorposts, so that our landlords began demanding we vacate the apartment. The cause of all this was Marfa Petrovna, who managed to defame Dunya in every household. She knows everyone here and, that entire month, visited town frequently. Being somewhat talkative and fond of sharing family matters—especially complaining about her husband to anyone and everyone, which is not at all proper—she spread the story far and wide, not only across town but throughout the district. I fell ill. Dunya, however, was stronger than me. If only you could see how she endured it all and still comforted and encouraged me! She is an angel. But, by God’s mercy, our suffering was cut short. Mr. Svidrigailov came to his senses, repented, and, likely out of pity for Dunya, presented Marfa Petrovna with full and undeniable proof of Dunya’s innocence—specifically, a letter Dunya had been forced to write and hand to him *before* Marfa Petrovna caught them in the garden. Dunya had written it to discourage personal conversations and secret meetings, which he had insisted upon.

At last, he could contain himself no longer and dared to make Dunya an open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of rewards and even offering to abandon everything and elope with her to another village, or even abroad. You can imagine her anguish! Leaving her position was impossible—not only because of the financial debt, but also out of consideration for Marfa Petrovna, who might have suddenly suspected the truth and thus brought discord into the household. It would have caused a major scandal for Dunya, with no doubt as to the consequences. There were many such reasons, so Dunya could not hope to escape from that dreadful house for at least six weeks. You know Dunya well—her intelligence, her strength of character. She can endure much and, even in the direst circumstances, finds within herself such nobility as to remain steadfast. She didn’t even write to me about it all, not wanting to upset me, though we regularly exchanged news. The resolution came unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband pleading with Dunya in the garden and, misunderstanding everything, blamed Dunya entirely, thinking she was the cause of it all. A terrible scene erupted right there in the garden: Marfa Petrovna even struck Dunya, refused to listen to anything, screamed for a full hour, and then ordered Dunya to be immediately taken to me in town—on a simple peasant cart. They threw all her belongings—clothes, linen—into it, haphazardly and unpacked. And then came a downpour. Humiliated and disgraced, Dunya had to travel seventeen versts in an open cart with a peasant driver. Now, imagine what I could have written to you in response to your letter, received two months ago? I was in despair myself.

I know your nature and temperament—you would never allow your sister to be wronged. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? At the time, I did not even know the full truth. The main difficulty was that last year, when Dunya joined the Svidrigailovs as a governess, she had received in advance a sum of 100 rupees, with the condition that it be deducted monthly from her salary, so she was unable to quit without first repaying the debt. And that very amount (now, my priceless Rodya, I can finally tell you the truth) she sent you—sixty rupees, which you so desperately needed and actually received from us last year. We deceived you then, claiming it came from Dunya’s past savings, but it was not so. Now I reveal everything, because, by God’s grace, circumstances have suddenly changed for the better, and so you may know how deeply Dunya loves you and what a noble heart she possesses. Indeed, Mr. Svidrigailov treated her very rudely at first, making discourteous remarks and mocking her at the dinner table. But I shall not dwell on these painful details, so as not to unnecessarily distress you, now that all is over. In short, despite the kind and honourable conduct of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigailov’s wife, and the rest of the household, Dunya found it extremely difficult, especially when Mr. Svidrigailov—following his old military habits—indulged excessively in drink. But what happened later? Imagine, this eccentric man had long harboured a passion for Dunya, though he concealed it under a mask of harshness and scorn. Perhaps he was ashamed and horrified at his own feelings, given his age and position as a family man, and so he unconsciously resented Dunya. Or perhaps he used his rudeness and mockery to conceal his true intentions from others.

"My dear Rodya," wrote his mother, "it has been over two months since I last wrote to you, and I myself have suffered greatly during this time, even losing sleep at night, thinking of you. But surely you won't blame me for this involuntary silence. You know how much I love you. You are all we have, you and Dunya—our only hope and support. What pained me when I learned you had left the university months ago due to lack of funds, and that your tutoring and other means of earning had dried up! How could I, with my annual pension of merely 120 rupees, possibly help you? The 15 rupees I sent you four months ago, as you yourself know, I borrowed in advance against that same pension from Aфанasiya Ivanovich Vakhrushin, a kind local merchant here who was also an acquaintance of your late father. Since I had to assign him the right to collect my pension until the debt was cleared—which only just happened—I could not send you anything during this period. But now, thank God, I believe I can send you some money again, and indeed, our fortunes have taken such a turn for the better that I must share the good news with you at once. First of all, can you guess, my dear Rodya, that your sister has been living with me for the past six weeks, and we shall never part again. Praise God, her trials have ended. But let me tell you everything in order, so you may understand fully what has occurred—what until now we kept from you. Two months ago, when you wrote asking for an explanation about rumours you'd heard that Dunya was suffering from harsh treatment in Mr. Svidrigailov’s household, what could I possibly answer? Had I written the full truth, you might have dropped everything and walked all the way to be with us.

The letter trembled in his hands; he didn't want to open it in her presence—he longed to be alone with this letter. When Nastasya left, he quickly raised it to his lips and kissed it; then for a long time gazed at the handwriting on the address, at the familiar, dear, small, slanting script of his mother, who had once taught him to read and write. He hesitated; it was as though he were afraid of something. Finally, he broke the seal: the letter was thick, heavy, weighing about two lots; two large postal sheets were covered with tiny, closely-written handwriting.

– Yes, the entire capital, – he replied firmly after a pause. – Oh, take it easy, or you'll get frightened; it's really quite scary. Shall I go fetch some tea or not? – Whatever you like. – Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday while you were out. – A letter! For me? From whom? – I don't know who from. I paid the postman three kopecks myself. Will you repay me? – Then bring it, for God's sake, bring it at once! – cried Raskolnikov, trembling with agitation. – Good Lord! A minute later, the letter appeared. Just as he thought – from his mother, posted from the R. province. He actually turned pale as he took it. He hadn't received a letter in ages; but now, something else suddenly gripped his heart. – Nastasya, please, for God's sake, go away! Here are your three kopecks – but, I beg you, leave quickly!

Nastasya burst into uncontrollable laughter. She was one of those easily amused souls who, once tickled, would laugh silently, her whole body shaking and jiggling until she almost felt sick. – Thinking of making a lot of money, are you? – she finally managed to say. – Can't teach children without shoes. Not that I care. – Don't spit into the well. – They pay in copper coins for teaching children. What can you do with pennies? – he went on reluctantly, as if answering his own thoughts. – And you'd want the whole fortune at once? He looked at her strangely.

– I'll bring you the bread in a moment. Would you like some soup instead of sausage? Good soup, made yesterday. I kept some aside for you yesterday itself, but you came late. Really nice soup. When the soup arrived and he began eating, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and started chatting. She was a village woman, and very talkative. – Praskovya Pavlovna wants to file a complaint against you at the police station, – she said. He frowned deeply. – To the police? What does she want? – You haven't paid the rent, and you never leave the room. What else would she want, of course? – Oh, this is just what I needed now! – he muttered, grinding his teeth. – No, this couldn't come at a worse time... She's a fool, – he added aloud. – I'll go and talk to her today. – She may be a fool, but so am I, just like her. But you, Mr. Wise Man, why do you just lie there like a sack? Earlier you used to go out to teach children. Now why aren't you doing anything? – I am doing something... – Raskolnikov replied reluctantly and sternly. – What? – Work... – What kind of work? – Thinking, – he answered seriously after a pause.

– Is this tea from the landlady? – he asked, slowly and painfully raising himself on the couch. – From the landlady indeed! She placed before him her own chipped teapot with weak tea and two yellowish pieces of sugar. – Here, Nastasya, please take this – he said, fumbling in his pocket (he had slept fully dressed) and pulling out a handful of copper coins – go and buy me a roll. And get a little sausage from the butcher's, something cheap.

It was hard to sink lower or become more slovenly; but Raskolnikov actually found it pleasant in his present frame of mind. He had withdrawn completely from everyone, like a tortoise into its shell, and even the sight of the maid, who was supposed to serve him and occasionally peeked into his room, filled him with irritation and convulsions. This often happens with certain monomaniacs who are overly absorbed in one thing. His landlady had stopped serving him meals two weeks ago, yet he hadn't even thought of going to talk to her about it, although he'd been going without lunch. Nastasya, the cook and the landlady's only servant, was partly pleased by the lodger's mood and stopped cleaning his room altogether, sweeping only once a week, and even then only by chance. She was the one who woke him now. "Get up, why are you sleeping?" she shouted over him. "It's ten o'clock. I've brought you tea; want some tea? You must be starving by now?" The lodger opened his eyes, shuddered, and recognised Nastasya.

Often he would fall asleep on it fully clothed, without even a sheet, wrapping himself in his old, threadbare student coat, using a small pillow he stuffed with whatever underclothes he owned—clean or worn out—to raise his head a little higher. A small table stood in front of the sofa.

He woke up late the next day, after a restless sleep that had done nothing to refresh him. He awoke feeling bitter, irritable, angry, and looked with hatred at his tiny room. It was a cramped little cubicle, about six paces long, with a wretched appearance: the pale yellow wallpaper was dusty and peeling off the walls in several places. The ceiling was so low that even a slightly tall person would feel uneasy, as though one might bump one’s head at any moment. The furniture matched the room perfectly: three old chairs, somewhat rickety; a painted table in the corner, piled with a few notebooks and books—so thickly covered in dust that it was clear no one had touched them in ages; and finally, a bulky, awkward sofa that stretched nearly the entire length of one wall and took up half the room’s width. Once upholstered in calico, it was now in tatters and served as Raskolnikov’s bed.

"What nonsense I've done," he thought, "they've got Sonia already, yet here I go giving my own money." But after reasoning that it was too late to take it back, and that he wouldn't have anyway, he shrugged and headed back to his room. "Sonia needs pomade too," he went on as he walked down the street, giving a bitter smile— "this purity of hers costs money... Hmm! And who knows, Sonia herself might go bankrupt today, since she's taking the same risk, hunting the red beast... gold mining... so tomorrow they'll all be left high and dry without my money. Good old Sonia! What a well they've managed to dig! And how they use it! Just look how they use it! And how they've grown used to it. A good cry, and then back to business. Man, the scoundrel, gets used to anything!" He fell into thought. "Well, what if I was right?" he suddenly cried out involuntarily. "What if man truly is not a man at all— the whole breed, I mean— then everything else is prejudice, mere artificial terrors, and there are no barriers at all. That's how it ought to be!"

As he left, Raskolnikov managed to slip his hand into his pocket, scoop up all the coppers he had received as change from the rouble he'd exchanged at the tavern, and quietly place them on the window ledge. But on the staircase, he suddenly paused and thought of turning back.

The young man hurried away without uttering a word. By then, the inner door had swung wide open, and several curious faces peeped out. Impudent, laughing heads with cigarettes and pipes, wearing skullcaps, stretched forward. Figures in robes, some wide open, dressed in summer outfits bordering on indecency, others holding playing cards, began to appear. They laughed all the more when Marmeladov, being dragged by the hair, cried out that it gave him pleasure. Some even started entering the room. Finally, a shrill, ominous screech was heard—Amalia Lippeveschel herself was pushing her way through, determined to take matters into her own hands and, for the hundredth time, terrify the poor woman with a foul-mouthed order to vacate the room by tomorrow.

– Where’s the money? – she screamed. – Oh God, has he drunk it all again? There were twelve whole roubles left in the chest! – And suddenly, in a fury, she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov himself eased her efforts, meekly crawling after her on his knees. – It brings me delight! Yes, delight, not pain but de-light, your good-ness! – he shouted, his hair being yanked, even hitting his forehead against the floor once. The child sleeping on the floor woke up crying. The little boy in the corner could bear it no longer, trembled, shrieked, and, terrified almost to a fit, rushed to his sister. The elder girl shook like a leaf, still dazed from sleep. – He’s drunk it all! Everything, everything gone! – cried the wretched woman in despair. – And her clothes in rags! Starving, starving! (And wringing her hands, she pointed at the children.) Oh, cursed life! And you, you ought to be ashamed – she suddenly turned on Raskolnikov – coming from the tavern! You were drinking with him? You’ve been drinking with him too? Get out!

– A! – she screamed in frenzy, – you're back! Convict! Monster!... Where's the money? What's in your pockets? Show me! And that's not the same clothes! Where's your old outfit? Where's the money? Tell me!... She pounced on him to search his pockets. Marmeladov at once obediently and meekly spread his arms wide on either side to make the search easier. Not a single penny was found.

Marmeladov, without stepping into the room, dropped to his knees at the very doorway, while Raskolnikov he pushed forward. The woman paused vaguely before the stranger, briefly rousing herself as if trying to understand—why had he come in? But evidently it immediately occurred to her that he was passing through to another room, since theirs was merely a through-room. Realising this, and no longer concerning herself with him, she turned towards the door leading to the corridor to shut it—and suddenly screamed, seeing her husband on his knees right at the threshold.

Raskolnikov at once recognised Katerina Ivanovna. She was an extremely thin, emaciated woman—tall, slender, with beautiful dark-brown hair, and indeed with cheeks flushed to a deep red. She was pacing back and forth in her small room, arms pressed tightly to her chest, lips cracked and dry, breathing unevenly and in gasps. Her eyes shone with feverish brightness, yet her gaze was sharp and fixed, and her consumptive, agitated face, lit by the flickering glow of a dying candle-end, gave a deeply painful impression. Raskolnikov thought she was about thirty—and indeed, she seemed no match for Marmeladov. She neither heard nor noticed those entering; she seemed lost in a kind of stupor, not listening, not seeing. The room was stifling, yet she had not opened the window. Foul air drifted in from the staircase, but the door to it remained ajar. Waves of tobacco smoke poured in from the inner rooms through an unfastened door; she coughed, but made no move to shut it. The youngest child, about six years old, lay asleep on the floor, curled up awkwardly, with her head tucked into the sofa. A boy a year older trembled in the corner, weeping—clearly he had just been beaten. The eldest daughter, about nine, tall and thin as a matchstick, stood in the corner beside her little brother. She wore only a shabby, tattered shift, and over her bare shoulders a ragged drab-coloured wrap, probably stitched for her two years earlier, as now it fell well short of her knees. She held her brother's neck with her long, matchstick-thin arm, whispering to soothe him, trying her best to keep him from crying again, while all the while watching her mother anxiously with large, enormous dark eyes that looked even larger in her gaunt and frightened little face.

The most uncouth words could be heard now and then.

At the top of the stairs, a small sooty door stood ajar. A tallow candle-end lit up a wretched room, no more than ten paces long, clearly visible from the entrance. The place was strewn with clutter, especially children’s clothes, scattered everywhere. A torn sheet hung across the back corner—probably hiding a bed behind it. Inside the room stood only two chairs and a shabby, threadbare settee, before which was an old, unpainted pine kitchen table, bare and without a cover. On the edge of the table, a nearly burnt-out tallow candle in an iron candlestick flickered feebly. So Marmeladov had a room of his own, not just a corner, but it was a passageway room. The door leading to the inner rooms or cubicles—into which Amalia Lippeveschel’s apartment was divided—was slightly open. Loud noises and shouting came from within. People were laughing, playing cards, drinking tea.

They entered from the courtyard and climbed up to the fourth floor. The staircase grew darker the higher they went. It was almost eleven o'clock, and though in Petersburg there is no real night at this time of year, it was very dark at the top of the stairs.

The locksmith, the German, a wealthy man… come on in!

– I’m not afraid of Katerina Ivanovna anymore – he muttered anxiously – nor that she’ll start pulling my hair. Hair? Nonsense! What does hair matter? In fact, it might even be better if she does. No, that’s not what I fear… I… I fear her eyes… yes… her eyes… I’m afraid of the red spots on her cheeks too… and her breathing – have you noticed how people breathe in this illness, when emotions run high? I’m afraid of the child’s crying too… because if Sonia hasn’t fed the child, then… I don’t know what I’ll do! Don’t know! But I’m not afraid of blows. Know this, sir – such beatings are not painful to me, they’re almost a relief, even a pleasure. Because without them, I cannot bear it myself. It’s better. Let her beat me, let her vent her soul… it’s better… Here’s the house. Kozel’s house.

He sank onto the bench, exhausted and drained, looking at no one, as if oblivious to his surroundings and deeply lost in thought. His words had made some impression; silence fell for a moment, but soon the same laughter and jeers broke out again: — What logic! — Liar! — Bureaucrat! And so on, and so forth. — Let's go, sir, — suddenly said Marmeladov, lifting his head and turning to Raskolnikov, — please escort me… to Kozel's house, in the courtyard. It's time… time to go to Katerina Ivanovna… Raskolnikov had long wanted to leave; besides, he had already thought of helping him. Marmeladov proved far weaker on his feet than in speech, and leaned heavily on the young man. It was only two to three hundred steps. But with every step closer to home, confusion and fear grew stronger in the drunkard.

And He will say: 'You are swine, bearing the image and mark of the beast—but come forth even you!' Then the wise and the understanding will cry out: 'Lord, why do You accept these?' And He will reply: 'I accept them, O wise ones, I accept them, O understanding ones, because not one among them deemed himself worthy of this…' And He will stretch out His hands to us, and we shall fall down before Him… and weep… and understand everything! Then we shall truly understand!… and all shall understand… even Katerina Ivanovna… yes, she too will understand… O Lord, Thy Kingdom come!"

Where is the daughter who, fearing not the beastliness of her father, a worthless drunkard, yet had mercy on him?' And He will say: 'Come to Me! I have forgiven you once… I forgave you once… Your many sins are forgiven now, because you loved much…' And He will forgive my Sonya, yes, I know He will forgive her—I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge all, forgive all—the good and the wicked, the wise and the meek. And when He has finished with all, He will say to us: 'Come forth, yes, you also! Come forth, you who are drunk, come forth, you who are weak, come forth, you who are ashamed!' And we shall all come forth, unashamed, and stand before Him.

"Pity! Why pity me!" suddenly cried Marmeladov, rising with his hand stretched forward, in a moment of resolute inspiration, as if he had been waiting only for these words. "Why should you pity me? Yes, indeed, there is no reason to pity me! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! But crucify me, O judge, crucify me and, having crucified, then pity him! And then I myself will come to the cross, for I thirst not for joy, but for sorrow and tears! Do you suppose, shopkeeper, that this half-bottle of yours has given me pleasure? It was sorrow, sorrow I sought at the bottom of it—sorrow and tears—and I found it, I tasted it! But He will pity us—the One who pitied all and understood all, He alone is the Judge. On that day He will come and ask: 'Where is the daughter who gave herself up for an ill and spiteful stepmother, for strange and helpless children?

He was about to pour, but there was nothing left. The half-bottle was empty. – What's the use of pitying you anyway? – shouted the landlord, suddenly appearing beside them. Laughter broke out, even curses. People laughed and swore—those who had been listening and those who hadn't—just staring at the figure of the retired official.

Do you understand, do you understand, sir, what this dignity means? Well then, I – her own father – stole those very thirty kopecks from her to spend on drink! And here I am drinking! And already drunk it all away! Who then would pity a man like me? Eh? Do you feel sorry for me now, sir? Or not? Tell me, sir, do you pity me or not? He-he-he-he!

– This very half-bottle was bought with her money, sir, – said Marmeladov, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. – She brought out thirty kopecks, her very last coins, with her own hands, I saw it myself… She said nothing, just looked at me in silence… But people like her don't reproach you here on earth – no, they weep and long for humanity up there! And that's more painful, sir, far more painful when there is no reproach! Thirty kopecks, yes, sir. And now she needs them too, doesn't she? What do you think, my dear sir? She must maintain her dignity now. That dignity costs money, a special kind, you understand? You understand? Well, she needs to buy some cosmetics too – it's simply not possible otherwise; starched skirts, a pair of dainty shoes, stylish enough to show her foot when crossing a puddle.

Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, shut his eyes tight, and leaned heavily on the table with his elbow. But a moment later, his face suddenly changed, and he turned to Raskolnikov with a forced slyness and affected boldness, laughed and said: "Was at Sonya today—went to ask for money to cure my hangover! Hee-hee-hee!" "Actually gave it to you?" someone from the crowd who had just entered shouted out, and burst into loud, full-throated laughter.

Well then, my good sir (Marmeladov suddenly seemed to shudder, raised his head, and stared straight at his listener), the very next day, after all these dreams (that is, exactly five days ago today), by cunning deceit, like a thief in the night, I secretly took the key to Katerina Ivanovna's trunk and took what remained of the salary I had brought home—I no longer remember how much exactly—and here I am, look at me! For five days I’ve been away from home, they are searching for me there, my job is lost, my uniform lies pawned at the tavern near the Egyptian Bridge, and in its place I have received this ragged attire... and all is over!

– Gracious sir, gracious sir! – exclaimed Marmeladov, recovering himself, – oh, my good sir, perhaps all this seems laughable to you, as it does to others, and I only trouble you with foolish details of my wretched home life; but for me, it is no laughing matter! I truly feel it all... Throughout that heavenly day of my life, and all that evening, I wandered in fleeting dreams: how I would set everything right, clothe the children, bring peace to her, and bring back my only daughter into the family fold, saving her from dishonour... So many things, so many... Forgive me, sir.

Marmeladov stopped, as if wanting to smile, but suddenly his chin began to tremble. Still, he managed to control himself. This tavern, the degraded appearance, five nights on hay bales, and the bottle of liquor—yet along with it all, this painful love for his wife and family—left his listener utterly confused. Raskolnikov listened intently, but with a sense of discomfort. He regretted having come here.

And I don’t blame her; no, I wouldn’t dream of blaming her!… Then, six days ago, when I brought home my first full salary—twenty-three roubles forty kopecks—she called me “little one”: “You’re such a little one,” she said. And in private, mind you, do you understand? Well, what charm could there possibly be in me? What kind of husband am I? But she pinched my cheek: “You’re such a little one,” she said.

They sat chatting for two hours, whispering: “Semyon Zakharovich now holds such a position at work, receives such a salary, personally met the chief, and the chief himself came out, told everyone else to wait, but took Semyon Zakharovich by the hand and led him straight into the office.” Hear it, hear it? “Of course,” she says, “I remember your services, Semyon Zakharovich, and though you did have that frivolous weakness, but since you’ve now promised to reform, and besides, things haven’t gone well without you (hear that, hear it!), I now place my trust in your noble word.” All this, I tell you, she just made up—not from folly or mere boasting, mind you! No, sir, she truly believes it herself, delights in her own daydreams, by God!

She’s got no clothes at all—none whatsoever, sir—and yet now she dresses up as if going to a party, looks completely different. They manage to create something out of nothing: fix their hair, wear a clean little collar, fresh cuffs, and suddenly she’s a totally different person—young again, prettier too. My little dove Sonya helped only with money, says it wouldn’t be proper for her to visit us too often for now, only now and then at dusk, so nobody sees. Hear that, hear it? After dinner I went to take a nap, and what do you think—Katerina Ivanovna couldn’t resist: a week earlier she’d quarrelled bitterly with the landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna, and now she actually invited her over for coffee.

– It happened, sir, about five weeks ago. Yes… The moment both of them, Katerina Ivanovna and Sonya, found out, dear Lord, it was as if I’d been carried straight into the Kingdom of Heaven! Before, I’d lie like a beast, nothing but abuse all day. But now they tiptoe around, hush the children: “Semyon Zakharovich is tired from work, he’s resting—shhh!” They brew me coffee before office, boil cream for me! Started buying real cream, sir, can you believe it? And where did they get eleven roubles fifty kopecks for a decent uniform—I can’t fathom! Boots, linen shirts, fine cotton collars—all top quality, a frock coat too, everything stitched up splendidly for just eleven and a half! One morning I come back from duty, and look—Katerina Ivanovna has cooked two dishes: soup and salted pork with horseradish, something I never even dreamed of before.

Marmeladov stopped again, deeply agitated. Just then, a group of drunkards, already intoxicated, entered from the street. A hired barrel organ began playing near the entrance, accompanied by a cracked, childlike voice—hardly seven years old—singing "The Little Farmstead." The place grew noisy. The landlord and staff turned their attention to the newcomers. Marmeladov, paying no heed to the arrivals, continued his story. He seemed visibly weakened, yet the more he drank, the more talkative he became. Recollections of his recent success at work seemed to revive him, even lighting up his face with a kind of glow. Raskolnikov listened attentively.

'Well,' said he, 'Marmeladov, you've already deceived my expectations once… But I'll take you back again, on my personal responsibility,' – those were his very words – 'remember that, go now!' I kissed the dust beneath his feet in spirit, for in truth they wouldn't have allowed it, him being a high official and a man of modern, educated views. When I returned home and announced that I'd been reinstated in service and would receive my salary again… oh Lord, what a scene it was!..

Now Sonia visits us only in the evenings, helps Katerina Ivanovna, and provides what little support she can. She lives in a room rented from the tailor Karpunamov; the whole Karpunamov family is lame and stutters – even the wife stutters too. They all live in one room, while Sonia has a separate little space partitioned off… er, yes… A very poor, stuttering lot… yes… That morning, I rose early, put on my rags, raised my hands to heaven, and went straight to His Excellency Ivan Afanasyevich. You know His Excellency Ivan Afanasyevich, sir? No? Then you don't know a man of God! He is wax… wax before the Lord; like wax, he melts! He was moved to tears after graciously hearing me out.

– Ever since then, sir – he continued after a brief silence – owing to an unfortunate circumstance and reports by ill-intentioned people, particularly instigated by Darya Frantsevna, who was offended because she hadn't been shown proper respect – ever since then, my daughter, Sofya Semyonovna, has been forced to obtain the yellow ticket, and could no longer stay with us on that account. For our landlady, Amalia Fedorovna, refused to allow it (though earlier she had actually supported Darya Frantsevna), and Mr. Lebezyatnikov too… er… well, it was because of Sonia that his whole quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna arose. At first, he himself was pursuing Sonia, but then suddenly took offence: 'How,' says he, 'can I, an enlightened man, live in the same house with such a person?' But Katerina Ivanovna wouldn't tolerate it and stood up for her… and so the whole incident happened.

Marmeladov fell silent, as if his voice had suddenly failed him. Then, abruptly, he quickly poured himself a drink, downed it, and grunted.

And I, as before, lay there drunk… And then, young man, I saw—I saw how Katya Ivanovna, likewise without speaking, approached Sonia’s bed and stood on her knees all evening at her feet, kissing her feet, refusing to rise, until finally they both fell asleep together, embracing… both… both… yes, sir… and I… lay there drunk.

She wasn't in her right mind, she spoke in distress, while ill and with children crying from hunger, and said it more in bitterness than in earnest… For Katya Ivanovna has such a nature—whenever the children cry, even from hunger, she immediately starts beating them. And so I saw, around six o'clock, Sonia get up, put on her kerchief, wrap herself in her little shawl, and leave the apartment. At nine, she returned. Came straight to Katya Ivanovna and silently laid thirty whole roubles on the table. Not a word did she utter, not even a glance; she simply took our large green drab silk shawl—the one we all share—and covered her head and face completely, then lay down on the bed, facing the wall, her shoulders and body trembling silently.

Meanwhile, the children go hungry… And Katya Ivanovna paces the room, wringing her hands, red spots appearing on her cheeks—as always happens in her illness—saying, 'So you live here, you good-for-nothing, eating and drinking, enjoying warmth,' when even the children haven't seen a crust of bread for three days! I lay there then… well, never mind… I lay drunk, and I hear my Sonia saying (she's so gentle, such a soft little voice… fair-haired, pale little face, so thin), 'Well then, Katya Ivanovna, must I really resort to such a thing?' Darya Frantsevna, a malicious woman known to the police, had already come three times through the landlady. 'What of it?' Katya Ivanovna replied mockingly, 'What is there to preserve? What a treasure!' But do not blame her, do not blame her, sir, do not blame her!

well, they're gone now anyway—so our lessons came to nothing. We stopped at Cyrus the Great. Later, upon reaching maturity, she read several novels of a romantic nature. More recently, through Mr. Lebezyatnikov, she read a book called Lewis's "Physiology," do you know it, sir? She read it with great interest and even shared parts aloud to us—that's the sum of her education. Now, sir, allow me to ask you personally a private question: how much, in your opinion, can a poor but honest girl earn through honest work? Fifteen kopecks a day, sir, and not even that, unless she has special talent and works without rest! And even then, the civil councillor Klopstock, Ivan Ivanovich—have you heard of him?—not only has not paid her yet for sewing half a dozen Dutch shirts, but actually chased her away, stamping his feet and using foul language, claiming the shirt collars were crooked.

Here I found a position… found it, and then lost it again. Do you understand, sir? This time I lost it through my own fault, for my weakness overcame me… We now live in a corner room with the landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevexel, though I do not know how we survive or pay our rent. Many others live there too… It's a den, the most disgraceful… hm… yes… Meanwhile, my daughter from my first marriage, Sonia, grew up, and what she endured from her stepmother I shall not describe. Though Katya Ivanovna is full of noble sentiments, she is a hot-tempered and irritable woman, quick to scold… Yes, sir! Well, there's no use dwelling on it! Sonia received no real education, as you can well imagine. Four years ago, I tried teaching her geography and world history, but my own knowledge was weak, and we had no proper textbooks—our few books… hm!...

You can judge how desperate her plight must have been, that she, a woman of education and refinement, of a well-known family, agreed to marry me! But she did agree! Crying and weeping, wringing her hands—she went through with it! Because she had nowhere else to go. Do you understand, do you understand, sir, what it means when there is nowhere left to turn? No! You cannot yet understand that… For a whole year I fulfilled my duties faithfully and honourably, and did not touch this (he pointed a finger at the half-bottle), for I have feelings. Yet even so I could not please her. Then I lost my position—not through fault of mine, but due to administrative changes—and that was when I turned to drink!... It will be a year and a half ago since, after much wandering and misfortune, we finally arrived in this magnificent capital adorned with many monuments.

He used to beat her toward the end; though she never submitted, as I know for certain from documents, she still recalls him to this day with tears, and reproaches me for not being like him—and I am glad, I am glad, for at least in her imagination she sees herself once having been happy… And after his death, left in a remote and savage district where I was stationed then, she remained with three young children in utter, hopeless poverty—so terrible that, though I have seen many hardships in my life, I cannot even describe it. All her relatives had turned her away. She was too proud, far too proud… And then, sir, then I, also a widower with a fourteen-year-old daughter from my first marriage, offered her my hand, for I could not bear to see such suffering.

I do not blame her, I do not blame her, for this is all she has left in memory, while everything else has turned to dust! Yes, yes; she is a passionate, proud, and unyielding woman. She scrubs the floors herself and lives on black bread, yet will not tolerate disrespect. That is why she refused to forgive Mr. Lebezyatnikov for his rudeness, and when he struck her for it, she took to her bed—not so much from the beating as from wounded pride. I married her when she was already a widow with three little children, the youngest still in swaddling clothes. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away from her parents' home with him. She loved him deeply, but he took to gambling, was brought before the court, and died thus.

— Young man, — he continued, straightening up again, — in your face I seem to read a certain sorrow. The moment you came in, I noticed it, and that is why I turned to you at once. For I do not wish to parade my life before these idle onlookers who already know everything, but rather to confide in someone sensitive and educated. Know then that my wife was educated at a noble provincial institute for gentlewomen, and at her graduation she danced with a shawl before the governor and other distinguished guests, for which she received a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The medal… well, we sold that long ago… long ago… hm… but the certificate still lies in her trunk, and she showed it only recently to the landlady. Though she quarrels constantly with the landlady, she still wanted, just once, to feel some pride and speak of her happier days.

– Of course! – remarked the landlord, yawning. Marmeladov struck the table firmly with his fist. – Such is my nature! Do you know, do you know, sir, that I even drank away her stockings? Not the shoes – the shoes would have been somewhat understandable, but her stockings, yes, her very stockings I drank away! And her cashmere shawl too, the one given to her, her old one, her own, not mine! And we live in a cold corner, and this winter she caught a chill and started coughing, already with blood. We have three little children, and Katerina Ivanovna works from morning till night – scrubbing, washing, bathing the children, for she was brought up with a love for cleanliness. But she has a weak chest and is prone to consumption – I feel this, I do! Do I not feel it? The more I drink, the more I feel it! That's why I drink – to find pity, to awaken feeling in myself! Not mirth, but sorrow alone I seek… I drink because I want to suffer doubly! – And, as if in despair, he dropped his head onto the table.

Yet Catherine Ivanovna, though generous by nature, is unjust… And though I myself understand that when she pulls my hair—it is out of heartfelt sympathy (for I repeat, without embarrassment, she does pull my hair, young man – he confirmed with grave dignity, hearing the giggles again)—but, God, what if she would only once… But no! No! All this is in vain, and there's no point in talking, no point at all!… For indeed, what I desired has happened more than once, and I have been pitied before, but… such is my fate, and I am by nature a brute!

– Hy-c, – continued the speaker, with dignified composure, even more solemn than before, waiting patiently as laughter rippled through the room once again. – Very well, I may be a pig, but she is a lady! I may bear the image of a beast, but Catherine Ivanovna, my wife, is a woman of education and born to the daughter of a staff officer. Let me be a scoundrel, still she possesses noble feelings and refined sentiments, shaped by proper upbringing. Yet still… oh, if only she would show me some pity! Your honour, kind sir, surely every man must have at least one person somewhere who would feel compassion for him!

The young man did not utter a word.

But no, let me express it more powerfully, more vividly: not ‘can you’, but ‘dare you’, looking at me this very moment, affirm with certainty that I am not a pig?

– And if there's no one to go to, if there's simply nowhere else to turn! Surely every man must have somewhere he can go. For there comes a time when one absolutely must go somewhere! When my only daughter first took the yellow ticket, I went then too... (for my daughter lives by the yellow ticket, sir...) – he added in parentheses, glancing somewhat anxiously at the young man. – No matter, sir, no matter! – he quickly added, apparently calm, as the two boys behind the counter sniggered and even the landlord himself smiled. – No matter, sir! I am not disturbed by these nods and smirks, for everyone already knows the truth, and all that was hidden is now revealed; I accept it not with shame, but with humility. Let them laugh! Let them! 'Behold the man!' Permit me, young man: can you...

– It's utterly hopeless, going with the full knowledge that nothing will come of it. For example, you know beforehand, perfectly well, that this man, this most respectable and useful citizen, will never lend you any money, because why on earth would he? He knows very well that I won't pay it back. Out of compassion? But Mr. Lebezyatnikov, who keeps up with modern ideas, recently explained to us that compassion is now even prohibited by science, and that this is already the practice in England, where political economy prevails. So why, I ask, would he lend? And yet, knowing in advance that he won't, you still set off on your way... – Then why go at all? – added Raskolnikov.

– Why am I not working, kind sir? – Marmeladov chimed in, addressing himself entirely to Raskolnikov as though he had posed the question, – why am I not working? Doesn't my heart ache knowing I'm grovelling in vain? When, a month ago, Mr. Lebezyatnikov himself beat my wife, while I lay there drunk, wasn't I suffering too? Tell me, young man, have you ever… hmm… well, even tried to borrow money when there was no hope of getting it? – I have… I mean, what do you mean—no hope?

His talk seemed to arouse a general, though sluggish, interest. The boys behind the counter snickered. The landlord, evidently on purpose, had come down from the upper room to listen to the "entertainer," and sat a little apart, yawning lazily yet importantly. Clearly, Marmeladov was well-known here. His fondness for elaborate speech was likely developed from frequent tavern conversations with various strangers. For some drinkers, such a habit turns into a need—especially among those who are treated strictly at home and bossed around. That's why, in drinking company, they always try to somehow earn justification for themselves, and if possible, even respect. "An entertainer, eh!" said the landlord loudly. "Then why don't you work, why don't you serve, if you're an official?"

He poured himself a glass, drank it, and fell into thought. Indeed, his clothes and even his hair had patches of dried hay clinging to them. It was very likely that he hadn't changed or washed in five days. His hands especially were dirty—greasy, red, with blackened nails.

– Kind sir, – he began, almost with solemnity, – poverty is not a vice; this is a truth. I know drunkenness is not a virtue, and even more so. But destitution, kind sir, destitution is a vice. In poverty, you may still retain the nobility of your inborn feelings, but in destitution, never—no one ever does. For poverty, they don't even drive you out with a stick, but sweep you away like rubbish with a broom, just to make it more humiliating; and rightly so, because in destitution, I myself am the first to degrade myself. And hence the drinking! Kind sir, a month ago, Mr. Lebezyatnikov beat up my wife, and my wife is nothing like me—you understand? Allow me to ask you one more thing, merely out of curiosity: have you ever spent the night on the hay barges on the Neva? – No, I haven't had the occasion, – answered Raskolnikov. – What's that about? – Well, I've just come from there, and it's already my fifth night...

— So, a student, then—or perhaps a former student! — exclaimed the official. — Just as I suspected! Experience, my dear sir, repeated experience! — and, as a mark of pride, he tapped his forehead with a finger. — Either you were a student, or at least came from an academic background. If I may ask... — He stood up, swayed slightly, picked up his drink container and glass, and moved closer to the young man, settling down somewhat diagonally across from him. He was tipsy, yet spoke fluently and confidently, only occasionally stumbling over his words or dragging them out. He pounced on Raskolnikov almost eagerly, as though he hadn't spoken to anyone in a whole month.

– No, I'm a student... – answered the young man, partly surprised by the other's unusually elaborate tone and the directness with which he had been addressed. Despite his recent fleeting desire for some kind of human contact, at the first actual word spoken directly to him, he suddenly felt his usual unpleasant and irritable aversion toward any stranger who touched, or even tried to approach, his personal space.

– May I, sir, take the liberty of having a proper conversation with you? For though you may not appear very prominent, my experience tells me you are an educated man and not accustomed to drink. I have always respected education combined with heartfelt sentiments, and moreover, I hold the rank of a Deputy Registrar. Marmeladov—that's my name—a Deputy Registrar. May I venture to ask if you have served in government service?

But he seemed restless, running his fingers through his hair, occasionally propping his head in both hands in despair, resting his torn elbows on the sticky, stained table. Finally, he fixed his gaze directly on Raskolnikov and spoke loudly and firmly:

There are certain encounters, even with complete strangers, where we feel an instant interest the moment we set eyes upon them—suddenly, unexpectedly, even before a single word is spoken. Such was precisely the impression made on Raskolnikov by the guest sitting apart, who resembled a retired government clerk. Later, the young man would often recall this first impression, even attributing it to a premonition. He kept glancing repeatedly at the official, partly because the man himself stared persistently at him, clearly eager to start a conversation. As for the others present in the tavern, including the landlord, the clerk looked at them with a kind of habitual boredom, mixed with a hint of haughty disdain—like someone regarding people of lower station and intellect, unworthy of his words. He was about fifty, of medium height and stout build, with greying hair and a large bald patch, his face yellowish, even slightly greenish, swollen from habitual drinking, with puffy eyelids under which tiny, slit-like but lively reddish eyes sparkled. Yet there was something very strange about him: his gaze seemed almost ecstatic—perhaps even thoughtful and intelligent—but at the same time, madness flickered within it. He was dressed in an old, thoroughly ragged black coat, most of its buttons missing; only one remained, barely hanging on, which he had fastened deliberately, evidently striving to maintain a semblance of decency. From beneath a nankeen waistcoat jutted a crumpled, stained, and liquor-soaked shirt frill. His face was shaved in the clerical style, though not for quite some time, so that a thick, bluish stubble had begun to show. Indeed, there was something dignified and official in his manner.

The landlord of the place was in another room, but he frequently came into the main room, descending to it by some stairs—his flashy, greased boots with large red turn-downs appearing first. He wore a waistcoat and a terribly greasy black satin vest, no tie, and his whole face looked as if it had been smeared with oil, like a rusty iron lock. Behind the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, while another, younger boy served drinks whenever anything was ordered. There were pickled cucumbers, dry black bread, and sliced fish, all of which smelled terribly. The air was so stuffy that it was almost unbearable to sit there, and the whole place was so saturated with the fumes of alcohol that one might get drunk within five minutes just from breathing it.

Raskolnikov was not used to crowds and, as already mentioned, avoided any kind of company, especially of late. But now something suddenly drew him towards people. Something new seemed to be stirring within him, along with a strange craving for human contact. He was so worn out from a whole month of this inward gloom and dark excitement that he longed, even if just for a minute, to breathe in a different world, no matter what it might be. And despite the squalid surroundings, he was content to remain now in the tavern.

But no one shared his joy; his silent companion looked at all these outbursts even with hostility and distrust. There was also another man present, who appeared like a retired official. He sat apart, by his own vessel, sipping occasionally and glancing around. He too seemed somewhat agitated.

At that time, there were few people left in the tavern. Apart from the two drunkards they had met on the stairs, a whole group of about five people had just left together, accompanied by a girl and a harmonium. After their departure, it became quiet and spacious. Only a few remained: one mildly tipsy man, a townsman by appearance, sitting with his beer; and his companion, a fat, hefty fellow in a Siberian coat with a grey beard, quite drunk and dozing off on the bench. He occasionally woke up suddenly, as if from sleep, snapping his fingers, spreading his arms wide, and jerking the upper part of his body while still seated, humming some nonsense and trying to recall verses like: For a whole year I caressed my wife, For a whole y-ear I caressed my w-wife… Or suddenly, waking again: Down Pod'yacheskaya I went, Found my former love again…

He wanted a cold beer, especially since he attributed his sudden weakness to hunger. He sat down in a dark, dirty corner at a sticky table, ordered beer, and eagerly drank the first glass. Immediately, a sense of relief came over him, and his thoughts grew clearer. "All this is nonsense," he said with hope, "nothing to feel disturbed about! Simply physical weakness! One glass of beer, a piece of dry bread—and instantly, the mind grows strong, thoughts grow clear, intentions firm! Pah, what utter triviality!" Yet, despite this scornful spit, he already looked cheerful, as though suddenly freed from some dreadful burden, and glanced warmly at the people around him. But even then, deep inside, he vaguely sensed that this sudden responsiveness to what seemed better was itself a symptom of illness.

But he could not put his agitation into words or even in exclamations. A feeling of infinite loathing, which had begun to oppress and cloud his heart even as he walked towards the old woman, had now grown so intense and become so vivid that he did not know where to turn from the weight of his misery. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man, unaware of passers-by and bumping into them, and only came to his senses in the next street. Looking around, he noticed he was standing beside a tavern, its entrance leading down a staircase from the pavement into the basement. Just then, two drunken men were emerging from the door, supporting each other and cursing as they climbed up to the street. Without a second thought, Raskolnikov immediately went down the steps. He had never entered a tavern before, but now his head was spinning, and a burning thirst was tormenting him.

– Goodbye, then... You’re always alone at home, aren’t you? Where’s your sister? – he asked as casually as he could, stepping into the entryway. – What concern is she to you, father? – Oh, nothing in particular. Just asking. Well then, goodbye, Alyona Ivanovna! Raskolnikov walked out in acute confusion. His confusion kept growing deeper. As he descended the stairs, he stopped several times, as if suddenly struck by something. And finally, once on the street, he exclaimed: "Good heavens! How utterly repulsive! Could I really… no, it's nonsense, sheer absurdity!" he added firmly. "Could such horror actually have entered my mind? How vile my heart can be! The worst part is—it’s dirty, loathsome, disgusting, revolting!... And I’ve been dwelling on this for a whole month..."

The young man did not argue and took the money. He kept looking at the old woman and lingered, as though he wanted to say or do something more, yet even he himself seemed unsure what it was… – Maybe, Alena Ivanovna, in a day or two, I’ll bring you another item… silver… a fine one… a cigarette case… once I get it back from a friend… – He grew flustered and fell silent. – Well then, we shall talk, my dear.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for the keys and went into the next room behind the curtain. Left alone in the middle of the room, the young man listened curiously and thought things over. He could hear her unlocking a chest. "Must be the top drawer," he reasoned. "So she keeps her keys in the right pocket... All on one bunch, on a steel ring... And there's one big key, three times the size, with a notched beard—surely not for the chest... So there must be some box or casket somewhere... That's interesting. Trunks and caskets usually have such keys... But then, how despicable all this is..." The old woman returned. "Here you are, my dear: at one kopek per ruble per month, for one and a half rubles you owe fifteen kopeks, payable in advance. And for the two previous rubles, another twenty kopeks in advance at the same rate. So altogether, thirty-five. Therefore, for your watch, you now receive just one ruble and fifteen kopeks. Here it is." "What! Only one ruble and fifteen kopeks now!" "Just so, my dear."