Marmeladov broke off once again in the greatest excitement. At that moment, an entire platoon of drunkards, who were already far gone, came in off the street, and the sounds of a rented barrel organ and a cracked, seven-year-old voice singing 'Little Farm'25 carried over from the entrance. It grew noisy. The landlord and the serving boys busied themselves with the new group. Paying the latter no heed, Marmeladov went on with his story. By now, he appeared to have lost all strength, but the drunker he became the more he wanted to talk. The recollection of his recent success at work seemed to have revived him and had even marked his face with a sort of radiance. Raskolnikov listened attentively.
'All this, good sir, happened five weeks ago. Yes . . . The moment those two, Katerina Ivanovna and Sonechka, found out - goodness, I thought I'd been taken up to heaven. Before, you would lie there like a beast and abuse was all you heard! But now they're going round on tiptoe, hushing the little ones: "Semyon Zakharych is tired out from work, he's resting, shhh!" I was being served coffee before work - and hot cream! Real cream, do you hear! And how they scraped together eleven roubles and fifty copecks to fit me out so nicely, I'll never know! Boots, magnificent cotton shirt fronts, a new uniform, all tip-top, for just eleven fifty. I walked in after my first morning at work and what did I find? Katerina Ivanovna had prepared two courses - soup and corned beef with horseradish - something we'd never even heard of before then. She doesn't have a single dress . . . not a single one, sir, but now here she was, got up as if to go to a party; incredible how she does it; incredible how she makes everything from nothing: the hairdo, a nice clean collar, cuffs, and by the end she looks a completely different person - younger, prettier. Sonechka, my precious, only assisted with money. "It's not proper," she says, "for me to come over to your place too often now, not for a while anyway, maybe only at dusk, so nobody sees me." Do you hear? I came home after lunch for forty winks and just imagine what I heard then: only a week before Katerina Ivanovna had had the most almighty row with Amalia Fyodorovna, but here she was inviting her round for coffee. Two hours they sat together, whispering. "So now Semyon Zakharych is working and drawing a salary, and he presented himself before His Excellency, and His Excellency came out in person, told everybody else to wait, took Semyon Zakharych by the hand and led him past everyone to his office." Do you hear? "In view of past services, Semyon Zakharych," said His Excellency, "and though you succumbed for a time to this frivolous weakness, but as you are now making a promise, and besides we have been doing poorly without you" - do you hear? - "then I shall count on your word of honour" - and she'd made the whole thing up, I tell you, and not out of silliness or just to sing my praises! No, sir, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own imaginings, by heaven! And I do not condemn it; no, this I do not condemn! . . . And when, six days ago, I brought home twenty-three roubles and forty copecks - my first salary, in its entirety - she even called me her little boy: "My clever little boy!" she says. And in private, understand? After all, I'm not much to look at and not much of a husband, am I? But no, she pinched my cheek and said, "My clever little boy!"'
Marmeladov paused as if to smile, but his chin suddenly began to quiver. Still, he held himself together. This pothouse, his depraved appearance, the five nights on the hay barges, the vodka and to top it all, this sickly love for wife and family, disorientated his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently, but with a sick feeling. How he wished he hadn't come here.
'My good sir, my good sir!' Marmeladov exclaimed, having recovered. 'Oh, sir, for you, perhaps, as for everyone else, this is all just a joke and I should really stop bothering you with all the idiotic, pathetic details of my domestic life, but it's no joke to me! For I can feel everything . . . Throughout the entire course of that one heavenly day and throughout the entire evening, I, too, was carried away by dreams: how I would arrange everything and clothe the little mites and give her some respite and bring my only-begotten daughter back from disgrace into the bosom of the family . . . And much else besides . . . Quite forgivable, sir. Well, my good man' - Marmeladov suddenly gave a kind of start, raised his head and stared straight at his listener - 'well, sir, on the very next day, after all these reveries (that is to say, precisely five days ago), towards evening, by a clever ruse, like a thief in the night,26 I stole the key to Katerina Ivanovna's chest, took what remained of the salary (I no longer remember how much), and look at me now, sir - kaput! My fifth day away from home and the search party's out, and it's the end of my career; and the uniform, in exchange for which I received these vestments, is in a pothouse by Egypt Bridge . . . and it's the end of everything!'
Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, shut his eyes and planted an elbow on the table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed; glancing at Raskolnikov with an air of slyness and manufactured insolence, he laughed and said:
'Today I went to Sonya, to beg some money - you know, hair of the dog! Heh-heh-heh!'
'Don't tell me she gave it you?' shouted one of the newcomers, then roared with laughter.
'This very pint of vodka was bought with her money, sir,' Marmeladov went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. 'Brought me out thirty copecks, in her own hands, her very last coins; it was all she had, I saw for myself . . . Didn't say a word, just looked at me in silence . . . That's how - up there, not down here - people grieve and weep, but never a word of reproach, not a word! And that hurts even more, sir, when there's no reproach - yes, sir, that hurts more . . . Thirty copecks. She'll be needing them herself now, eh! Wouldn't you say, my dear sir? After all, she has to keep herself immaculate.27 It costs money to be immaculate in that particular way, does it not? Does it not? Then there's lipstick to be bought, no getting away from that, sir, starched skirts, high-heeled shoes with a touch of class, to show a bit of leg when there's a puddle to be crossed. Do you see, sir, what it means to be immaculate - do you? Well, sir, and there's me, her very own father, swiping these thirty copecks to clear a sore head! And here I am spending them! In fact, I've already spent them! . . . So who could ever pity a man like me? Eh? Do you pity me now, sir, or do you not? Tell me, sir, yea or nay? Heh-heh-heh-heh!'
He was about to pour another glass, but there was nothing left. The pot was empty.
'Pity you - what the hell for?' shouted the landlord, who had come back down again.
There was more laughter and even swearing, among those who were listening and even among those who were not - the sight of the retired civil servant was quite enough for them.
'Pity me! Why pity me?' Marmeladov suddenly howled, standing up with his arm outstretched before him, in an access of inspiration, as though he had been waiting for precisely those words. 'Why pity me, you ask? Oh yes! There is nothing to pity me for! I should be crucified, I should be nailed to the cross - not pitied! So crucify, O judge, crucify, and, having crucified, take pity! Then I shall come to you myself to be nailed to the rood, for it is not merriment I crave, but sorrow and tears! . . . Do you imagine, O vendor, that this pot of yours brought me pleasure? It was sorrow I sought at its bottom, sorrow and tears, which I did taste and I did find; and He shall pity us who pitied all, who understood all men and all things, He alone, He the judge. He shall come on that day and He shall ask: "Where is the daughter who did betray herself for a wicked, consumptive stepmother and infant, alien children? Where is the daughter who did take pity on her mortal father, an obscene drunkard whose brutishness did not appal her?" And He will say: "Come! I forgave thee once . . . Yes, I forgave thee . . . Now, too, thy many sins are forgiven, for thou loved much . . ." And He will forgive my Sonya, He will, I know He will . . . I felt it just now, when I visited her, felt it in my heart! . . . He will judge and forgive all, the good and the wicked, the wise and the meek . . . And when He has finished with them He will speak unto us, too: "Come forth," He will say, "even you! Come forth the tipsy, come forth the feeble, come forth the shameless!" And we shall all come forth, without shame, and we shall stand. And
He will say, "You are swine, marked with the image and the stamp of the beast; yet even so - come!" And the wise and the reasonable shall proclaim: "Lord! Why takest Thou these men?" And He will say: "I take them - O men of wisdom, O men of reason - because not one of their number did think himself worthy . . ." And He shall reach out His hands to us, and we shall fall down . . . and we shall weep . . . and we shall understand all things! All things shall we understand! . . . and all will understand . . . even Katerina Ivanovna . . . she, too, will understand . . . May Thy kingdom come,28 O Lord!'
Exhausted, enfeebled, he lowered himself onto the bench, not looking at anyone, as though oblivious to his surroundings and deep in thought. His words made quite an impression; for a moment there was silence, but the laughter and cursing soon resumed:
'Pull the other one!'
'Load of cobblers!'
'Bureaucrat!'
And so on and so forth.
'Let us be off, sir,' said Marmeladov suddenly, raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov. 'You lead the way . . . Kozel's house, facing the courtyard. High time . . . to Katerina Ivanovna . . .'
Raskolnikov had been wanting to leave for a while, and the thought of helping had already occurred to him. Marmeladov proved far weaker on his legs than in his oratory and leant heavily on the young man. It was a walk of two hundred yards or so. The closer they drew to the house, the more troubled and fearful the drunkard became.
'It is not Katerina Ivanovna I fear now,' he muttered nervously, 'nor the fact that she will start pulling my hair. Hair! . . . Hair is nothing! I say so myself! All the better if she starts pulling it, that's not what scares me . . . It's . . . her eyes that scare me . . . yes . . . her eyes . . . The red blotches on her cheeks scare me, too . . . not to mention - her breathing . . . Have you seen how people breathe with this sickness . . . when they are all worked up? And I fear the crying of the children . . . Because if Sonya has not fed them, then . . . well, search me! Search me! But I do not fear a beating . . . Know, sir, that such beatings, far from bringing me pain, often bring me pleasure . . . I cannot live without them. It's for the best. Let her beat me, vent her feelings . . . for the best, I say . . . And here's the house. Kozel's house. A locksmith, a German, very well off . . . lead the way!'
They entered from the courtyard and went up to the fourth floor. The higher they climbed, the darker the stairwell. It was nearly eleven and although night as such never falls at this time of year in Petersburg, the head of the stairwell was very dark.
A small soot-covered door stood open at the very top of the stairs. A candle stub illuminated a wretched room, the whole of which - ten paces or so from one end to the other - was visible from the door. Children's rags and other stuff lay strewn in disarray. A sheet full of holes was stretched across the far corner. Behind it there was probably a bed. The room itself contained just two chairs and a very tattered couch covered with oilcloth, before which stood an old kitchen table made of pine, unpainted and bare. On the edge of the table a tallow candle was guttering out in its iron holder. So Marmeladov did have his own room, not just a 'corner', but it was a connecting one. The door leading into the other lodgings or cells into which Amalia Lippewechsel's apartment was divided stood ajar. It was noisy there. People were shouting and laughing, probably playing cards and drinking tea. Some choice obscenities flew out.
Raskolnikov instantly recognized Katerina Ivanovna. She was terribly thin, quite tall, with a delicate and elegant figure, still-beautiful dark-brown hair and cheeks that had indeed turned red and blotchy. She was pacing her little room with her arms folded on her chest; her lips were crusted, her breathing uneven and broken. Her eyes had a feverish gleam, but their gaze was sharp and still, and her consumptive, distressed face made a painful impression in the last, trembling light of the dying candle. To Raskolnikov she looked about thirty, and she and Marmeladov really did seem ill-matched . . . She neither heard nor noticed them enter; it was as if she were in a kind of trance, neither hearing nor seeing. It was stuffy, but she didn't open the window; there was a stink from the stairwell, but the door to the stairs wasn't closed; waves of tobacco smoke floated in from the inner rooms through the half-closed door - she kept coughing, but didn't shut it. The smallest girl, aged six or so, was asleep on the floor, half-sitting, huddled up, head buried in the couch. The boy, a bit older, was quivering and crying in a corner. He was probably fresh from a beating. The eldest girl, aged nine or so, tall and stick-thin, wearing nothing but a thin, tattered chemise and a decrepit little burnous of drap de dames on bare shoulders (it must have been sewn for her a couple of years before, since now it barely reached to her knees), stood in the corner by her little brother, her long arm, dry as a matchstick, draped around his neck. She seemed to be trying to soothe him; she was whispering something in his ear and doing all she could to stop him snivelling again, while following her mother fearfully with her big dark eyes, which seemed even bigger on her emaciated, frightened little face. Without entering, Marmeladov dropped to his knees right there in the doorway, shoving Raskolnikov into the room. On seeing the stranger, the woman paused absently before him, briefly coming to her senses and appearing to ask herself: what's he doing here? But she must have decided that he was going straight through, to someone else's room. Thinking this and ceasing to pay him any further attention, she made for the entrance door, so as to close it, and suddenly screamed, seeing her husband on his knees on the very threshold.
'Ha!' she yelled in sheer frenzy. 'He's back! Jailbird! Monster! . . . So where's the money? What's in your pockets? Show me! And your clothes aren't the same! Where are your clothes? Where's the money? Speak! . . .'
She set about searching him. Obediently, submissively, without the slightest delay, Marmeladov flung open his arms to assist the search of his pockets. Not a copeck was found.
'So where is the money?' she shouted. 'Lord, don't say he's gone and drunk it all! There were twelve roubles left in the trunk!' - and suddenly, in wild fury, she grabbed him by his hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov assisted her, crawling after her meekly on his knees.
'And I find pleasure in this! Not pain, but pleasure, pleasure, my . . . good . . . sir . . . !' he cried, while being shaken by the hair, and even knocking his forehead against the floor. The child asleep on the floor woke up and began crying. The boy in the corner couldn't stand it, started shaking and shouting, and threw himself on his sister in sheer panic, as if he were having a fit. The eldest girl, half-asleep, was trembling like a leaf.
'Drank it! All of it!' cried the poor woman in despair. 'And his clothes aren't the same! They're hungry, hungry!' (She pointed to the children, wringing her hands.) 'Oh, damn this life! And you, have you no shame?' she yelled, suddenly pouncing on Raskolnikov. 'Straight from the bar! You drank with him? You as well! Get out!'
The young man left as quickly as he could, without saying a word. Moreover, the inner door was now wide open and several curious faces were looking in. Insolent laughing heads in skullcaps, smoking papirosi29 and pipes, poked through the doorway. There were people wearing unbuttoned dressing gowns and outfits that were seasonal to the point of indecency; a few had cards in their hands. They laughed loudest when Marmeladov, being dragged by the hair, shouted that he found it a pleasure. They even started inching into the room, until at last there came a sinister shriek: Amalia Lippewechsel was elbowing her way through to take charge of the situation after her own fashion and to terrify the poor woman for the hundredth time with a foul-mouthed demand that she vacate the premises the very next day. As he was leaving, Raskolnikov managed to dig around in his pocket for whatever small change was left from the rouble he'd spent in the drinking den and quietly placed it by the little window. No sooner was he on the stairs than he had second thoughts and almost went back.
'What a stupid thing to do,' he thought. 'They've got Sonya and I need it myself.' But after reasoning that it was too late to take it back now and that he would never have done so anyway, he wished it good
riddance and set off home. 'Anyway, Sonya needs her lipstick, doesn't she?' he continued, striding down the street and smirking sarcastically. 'It costs money to be immaculate . . . H'm! And who's to say Sonechka herself won't be out of pocket by the end of the day? A risk like that, the hunt for big game . . . mining for gold . . . by tomorrow they could all be on their uppers, if not for my money . . . Ah, Sonya! What a well they've managed to dig! And they draw from it! Damn me, if they don't! They've got used to it. Had a little cry and got used to it. There's nothing human scum can't get used to!'
He sank into thought.
'But if that's not true,' he suddenly exclaimed without meaning to, 'if man isn't actually a scoundrel, isn't actually scum, the whole human race, I mean, then all else is mere preconception, just fears that have been foisted upon us, and there are no barriers, and that's exactly how it should be!'
III
He woke up late the next day, unrefreshed, after a troubled night's sleep. He woke up sour, irritable and angry, and looked with loathing at his garret. It was a tiny little cell, about six paces in length, and a truly wretched sight with its dusty, yellowy, peeling wallpaper and a ceiling low enough to terrify even the modestly tall - you could bang your head at any moment. The furniture was no better: three old chairs, not in the best repair; a painted table in the corner, on which lay several books and notebooks, under a layer of dust so thick that no hand could have touched them for many a day; and, lastly, a large ungainly couch which took up virtually the entire length of the wall and half the width of the room. Once upholstered in chintz, now in tatters, it served Raskolnikov for his bed. He often slept on it without bothering to undress and without sheets, covering himself in his old threadbare student coat and resting his head on a small pillow, which he bolstered by placing all the linen he had, clean or worn, beneath it. In front of the couch stood a little table.