ation and the hospital. No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed through and leant forward even closer. All of a sudden the lantern lit up the face of the unfortunate man: he recognized him.
'I know him! I know him!' he shouted, pushing right through to the front. 'He's a civil servant, retired, a titular counsellor, Marmeladov! He lives around here, very close, Kozel's house . . . A doctor, quick! I'll pay, look!' He took the money out of his pocket and showed it to a policeman. He was extraordinarily agitated.
The police officers were pleased to learn who the trampled man was. Raskolnikov named himself, too, gave his address and did everything in his power - as if this were his own father - to persuade them to move the unconscious Marmeladov to the latter's apartment.
'Just here, three buildings along,' he chivvied them. 'The house belongs to Kozel, a German, a rich one . . . He must be drunk, expect he was trying to get home. I know him . . . He's a drunkard . . . He's got a family there, wife, children, a daughter. Why drag him all the way to the hospital - there's bound to be a doctor right here in his building! I'll pay for it! . . . At least he'll have his family looking after him and he'll get help straight away - he'd die before he ever got to the hospital . . .'
He even managed to slip one of them a note; but it was a perfectly straightforward and lawful business, and anyway, help was closer at hand here. The trampled man was lifted up and carried off; volunteers were quickly found. Kozel's house was some thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully supporting the head and pointing the way.
'Over here! Over here! We have to carry him up the stairs head first; turn round . . . that's it! I'll pay for it, I'll thank you,' he muttered.
Katerina Ivanovna was pacing her little room, as she always did whenever she had a free moment, from the window to the stove and back again, her arms tightly folded over her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Recently she'd taken to speaking more and more often with her elder girl, ten-year-old Polenka, who, ignorant though she still was of many things, understood perfectly well that her mother needed her, so she always followed her with her big clever eyes and did all she could to seem all-comprehending. Polenka was undressing her little brother, who'd been poorly since the morning, before putting him to bed. While waiting for her to change his shirt, which was to be washed that same night, the boy sat on the chair, all serious and silent, straight-backed and stock-still, extending his little legs with his heels thrust forward and his toes apart. He listened with pouted lips and bulging eyes to what Mummy was telling his sister and didn't move a muscle, just as clever little boys are supposed to sit when being prepared for bed. A girl even smaller than him, wearing the shabbiest rags, was standing by the screen and waiting her turn. The door to the stairs was open, so as to offer at least some relief from the waves of tobacco smoke that blew in from the other rooms and kept provoking long and excruciating coughing fits in the poor consumptive. Katerina Ivanovna seemed even thinner than a week ago and the red blotches on her cheeks burned even brighter than before.
'Polenka, you just wouldn't believe, you can't even imagine,' she was saying as she walked up and down the room, 'how fun and grand life was in Daddy's house and how this drunkard ruined me and will ruin you all! Papa was a state counsellor and very nearly governor; one more step and he was there, so everyone paid him visits, saying: "We already think of you like that, Ivan Mikhailych, as our governor!" When I . . . cuh . . . when I . . . cuh-cuh-cuh . . . oh, damn this life!' she shrieked, coughing up phlegm and clutching her chest. 'When I . . . ach, when at the last ball . . . at the house of the marshal of the nobility . . . when I was spotted by Princess Bezzemelnaya - who later gave me her blessing when I was about to marry your papa, Polya - she immediately asked: "Isn't that the nice girl who danced the pas de chale at the leaving ball?" . . . (That rip needs sewing; you'd better find a needle and darn it right now, the way I taught you, otherwise tomorrow . . . cuh! tomorrow . . . cuh-cuh-cuh! . . . it'll be even bigger!)' she shouted, her voice breaking. 'At the time, Prince Shchegolskoy, a kammerjunker,37 had only just arrived from Petersburg . . . he danced a mazurka with me and wanted to visit me the very next day to propose; but I thanked him myself in the most flattering terms and said that my heart had long belonged to another. That other was your father, Polya. Daddy was terribly angry . . . Is the water ready? Well, give me the shirt, then. What about the stockings? . . . Lida,' she turned to her little daughter, 'you sleep as you are for tonight, without a shirt; you'll manage . . . and lay your stockings out . . . I'll wash them, too . . . What's keeping that tramp, that drunkard? He's worn his shirt to shreds, like some old cloth . . . If I wash it all now I won't have to break my back two nights running! Dear God! Cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh! Again! What's this?' she shrieked, looking over towards the crowd on the landing and the people forcing their way into her room, bearing some kind of burden. 'What's this? What are they carrying? Dear God!'
'Where should we put him?' asked a police officer, looking around once Marmeladov, blood-stained and unconscious, had been lugged into the room.
'The couch! Straight on the couch, head this way,' Raskolnikov pointed.
'Trampled in the street! Drunk!' someone yelled from the landing.
Katerina Ivanovna stood white-faced, struggling to breathe. The children were petrified. Little Lidochka shrieked, ran over to Polenka, hugged her and began shaking all over.
After laying out Marmeladov, Raskolnikov rushed over to Katerina Ivanovna:
'Calm down, for the love of God, and don't be scared!' he said in a rush. 'He was crossing the street, got trampled by a carriage. Don't worry, he'll come to . . . I told them to bring him here . . . I've been here before, remember . . . He'll come to. I'll pay!'
'Now he's done it!' Katerina Ivanovna shrieked in despair, rushing over to her husband.
Raskolnikov soon realized that this was not the type of woman to faint on the spot. In a flash a pillow appeared beneath the head of the unfortunate man, something which no one had even thought of till then. Katerina Ivanovna set about undressing him and examining him, kept busy and kept her head, forgetting about herself, biting her quivering lips and suppressing the cries ready to burst from her chest.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had persuaded someone to run off for the doctor. The doctor, as it happened, lived in the next house but one.
'I've sent for the doctor,' he kept saying to Katerina Ivanovna. 'Don't worry, I'll pay. Got any water? . . . And bring a napkin, a towel, something, quick. Who knows how bad his injuries are? . . . He's injured, not killed, rest assured of that . . . Let's see what the doctor says!'
Katerina Ivanovna rushed over to the window; there, on a battered chair in the corner, stood a large earthenware basin filled with water, all ready for the nocturnal scrubbing of her children's and husband's clothes. Katerina Ivanovna performed this task herself twice a week, and sometimes even more often than that, for they'd got to the point of having almost no change of linen at all, with only one item of each type per family member, and Katerina Ivanovna couldn't stand dirt and would sooner slave away, in pain and exhaustion, when everyone was asleep, so that by morning the washing would have dried on a cord stretched across the room, than see filth in her home. At Raskolnikov's request she picked up the bowl and was about to bring it over, but nearly fell under her burden. But he'd already found a towel, dipped it in water and begun cleaning Marmeladov's blood-soaked face. Katerina Ivanovna stood beside them, drawing painful breaths and clutching her chest. She herself was in need of help. It began to dawn on Raskolnikov that having the trampled man brought here may have been a mistake. The policeman was also bewildered.
'Polya!' shouted Katerina Ivanovna. 'Run to Sonya, quick. If she's not in, tell them anyway that Father's been trampled by horses and she should come over immediately . . . when she returns. Quick, Polya! Here, cover yourself with a shawl!'
'Run for your life, thithter!' the boy suddenly shouted from the chair and, having done so, relapsed into silence, sitting straight-backed, eyes wide open, his heels thrust forward and his toes apart.
By now, the room had filled to bursting. The police officers had all left apart from one, who'd stayed behind for a while and was trying to drive the spectators who'd come in from the stairs back out again. At the same time, nearly all Mrs Lippewechsel's tenants were spilling out from the inner rooms. At first they seemed content merely to crowd the doorway, then they poured into the room itself. Katerina Ivanovna was beside herself.
'At least let him die in peace!' she yelled at the mob. 'A nice spectacle you've found for yourselves! While you smoke! Cuh-cuh-cuh! Where are your hats, I wonder? . . . Look, there's one! . . . Out! A dead body deserves some respect!'
Her cough was choking her, but the warning did its job. The tenants were clearly a little scared of Katerina Ivanovna. One by one they shuffled back towards the door with that strange inner sense of satisfaction that may always be observed at moments of sudden misfortune, even among people who are as close as can be, and there is not one person, without exception, who is free of it, notwithstanding even the sincerest feelings of pity and sympathy.
From the other side of the door, though, came talk of the hospital and what a pain it was to be disturbed for no reason.
'It's death that's a pain!' shouted Katerina Ivanovna, and she'd already rushed over to fling open the door and let them have it when she collided in the doorway with Mrs Lippewechsel herself, who'd only just heard about the misfortune and was hurrying over to restore order. A more cantankerous and disorderly German would be hard to imagine.
'Oh my God!' she cried, clasping her hands. 'Your husband drunken trampled by horse. To ze hospital! I - landlady!'
'Amalia Ludwigovna! Please think before you speak,' Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (speaking to the landlady, she always took a haughty tone, so that the latter would 'know her place', and even now she could not deny herself this pleasure). 'Amalia Ludwigovna . . .'
'I told you for-once-and-for-twice: don't dare you call me Amal Ludwigovna; it's Amal-Ivan!'
'Your name is not Amal-Ivan, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and since I am not one of your vile flatterers, like Mr Lebezyatnikov, who is laughing as we speak on the other side of the door,' - laughter rang out from there as if on cue, along with the cry, 'They're at it again!' - 'I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, although why you should dislike this name so much is quite beyond me. You can see what's happened to Semyon Zakharovich: he is dying. Be so kind as to close this door immediately and not let anyone in. Let him die in peace, at least! I assure you that otherwise the Governor General will be informed of your behaviour by tomorrow at the latest. The prince38 has known me from even before my marriage and remembers Semyon Zakharovich very well, having bestowed his kindness on him on many occasions. It is widely known that Semyon Zakharovich had many friends and patrons, whom he, in his noble pride, forsook of his own accord, conscious of his unfortunate weakness, but now' - she pointed to Raskolnikov - 'we are being helped by a young and generous soul, well-off and well-connected, whom Semyon Zakharovich has known since childhood, and rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna . . .'
All this was said at extraordinary, ever-increasing speed, but a fit of coughing instantly put paid to Katerina Ivanovna's oratory. That same moment, the dying man came to and groaned, and she ran over towards him. He opened his eyes and, still not recognizing or understanding, began to stare at the man standing over him - Raskolnikov. He was breathing heavily, deeply and sporadically; the edges of his lips were marked with blood; his forehead was beaded with sweat. Failing to recognize Raskolnikov, he began anxiously looking round. Katerina Ivanovna fixed him with a sad but severe gaze, and tears ran down her face.
'Dear God! His whole chest has been crushed! The blood, the blood!' she despaired. 'His outer clothing has to come off, all of it! Turn a little, Semyon Zakharovich, if you can!' she shouted at him.
Marmeladov recognized her.
'A priest!' he croaked.
Katerina Ivanovna stepped back towards the window, rested her forehead on the frame and cried despairingly:
'Damn this life!'
'A priest!' the dying man repeated after a moment's silence.
'They've already gone!' Katerina Ivanovna yelled back. He obeyed and fell silent. He sought her out with timid, sorrowful eyes; she returned to him and stood by his bedside. He calmed down a little, but not for long. Soon his eyes came to rest on little Lidochka (his favourite), who was shaking in the corner as if she were having a fit and looking at him with her surprised, childish stare.
'Ah . . . ah . . . ,' he stammered anxiously in her direction. He wanted to say something.
'Now what?' shouted Katerina Ivanovna.
'No shoes! No shoes!' he muttered, staring wild-eyed at the little girl's bare feet.
'Just shut up!' Katerina Ivanovna shouted with irritation. 'You know damned well why!'
'Thank God, the doctor!' Raskolnikov rejoiced.
In came the doctor, a little, neatly dressed old German, looking around with a mistrustful air. He walked over to the patient, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and, with Katerina Ivanovna's help, undid all the buttons on the blood-soaked shirt, baring the patient's chest. It was thoroughly mangled, crumpled and mutilated; several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left, right over the heart, was a sinister, large, yellow-black mark, where a hoof had struck him hard. The doctor frowned. The police officer told him that the trampled man had got caught in the wheel and was dragged, spinning, some thirty paces along the road.
'Incredible he came round after that,' the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov.
'So what's your verdict?' the latter asked.
'He'll die any moment.'
'There's no hope at all?'
'None! His last gasp . . . Not to mention the terrible injury to his head . . . H'm. I suppose we could let some blood . . . but . . . it won't help. In five or ten minutes he'll be dead, I'm certain.'
'Well let some blood, then!'
'All right . . . But I warn you: it won't help.'
At that moment there came the sound of more footsteps, the crowd around the door parted and a priest, a grey old man, appeared on the threshold with the last sacraments. A police officer, one of those from before, followed him in. The doctor immediately yielded his place and gave the priest a meaningful look. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to wait a bit longer. The doctor shrugged his shoulders and stayed.
Everyone took a step back. The confession was very brief. The dying man could scarcely have taken much in; he was capable only of broken, indistinct sounds. Katerina Ivanovna grabbed Lidochka, picked the boy up off the chair, took them over towards the stove in the corner and kneeled, making the children kneel down in front of her. The girl merely shook, but the boy, kneeling on his bare little knees, steadily raised his hand, made the full sign of the cross and bowed down to the ground until he knocked his forehead, which evidently gave him particular pleasure. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lip and fought back tears; she too was praying, adjusting the boy's shirt every now and again and covering the girl's exposed shoulders with a shawl, which she'd taken from the chest of drawers while still praying on her knees. In the meantime the doors to the inner rooms were being opened again by curious residents, while by the entrance the crush of spectators - tenants from every floor - swelled and swelled, though without crossing the threshold. Just one candle stub illuminated the entire scene.
At that moment Polenka, who had run off to fetch her sister, quickly squeezed back through to the room. She was completely out of breath from sprinting, took off her shawl, sought out her mother, walked up to her and said: 'She's coming! I found her in the street.' Her mother got her to kneel down next to her. Soundlessly and timidly, a girl squeezed through the crowd, and strange was her sudden appearance in this room, amidst the beggary, rags, death and despair. She too wore rags; her get-up was cheap, but it came with all the adornments of the street, as the rules and etiquette of that special world demanded, with its shamingly flagrant purpose. Sonya stopped on the threshold; she didn't cross it and looked quite lost, as if her mind had gone blank. She'd quite forgotten about her fourth-hand, colourful silk dress, utterly out of place here with its ridiculously long train, and about her enormous crinoline obstructing the doorway, and her bright shoes and her parasol, which she'd taken with her even though it was night, and the ridiculous round straw hat with a feather the colour of fire.39 From beneath its boyish tilt there peered a thin, pale, frightened little face with a wide-open mouth and eyes frozen in horror. Sonya, a shortish girl of eighteen or so, was a skinny but pretty enough blonde, with marvellous blue eyes. She stared at the bed, at the priest; she too was out of breath. Eventually, a whispered word or two from the crowd must have reached her ears. Eyes lowered, she took one step over the threshold and stood in the room, though still in the doorway.
Confession and communion were over. Katerina Ivanovna returned to her husband's bed. The priest stepped back and tried, as he was leaving, to offer a few words of counsel and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna.
'And what'll I do with this lot?' she broke in sharply, pointing at the little ones.
'God is kind. Trust in the help of the Almighty,' the priest began.
'Ha! Kind, just not to us!'
'That's a sin, ma'am, a sin,' the priest remarked, shaking his head.
'And this isn't a sin?' shouted Katerina Ivanovna, pointing at the dying man.
'Perhaps those who were the unwitting cause will agree to recompense you, at least for the lost income . . .'
'That's not what I mean!' Katerina Ivanovna shouted irritably with a flap of her hand. 'Recompense for what? He got himself run over when he was drunk! What income? There was no income from him, only pain. He spent whatever there was on booze. Robbed us, then straight to the pothouse, wasting their life and mine on drink! Thank God he's dying! We can cut our losses!'
'Forgiveness is called for in the hour of death, but this is a sin, ma'am; such feelings as these are truly a sin!'
Katerina Ivanovna was fussing around the patient, giving him water, wiping