Crime and Punishment (9 page)

‘Well, my dear sir, that was five weeks ago. Yes… As soon as the two of them, Katerina Ivanovna and Sonechka, heard the news – Lord, it was as though I'd been spirited away to Paradise. Before, I'd lie around like a brute, and get nothing but abuse.
But now they went around on tiptoe, keeping the children quiet: “Semyon Zakharych is tired after his work, he's having a rest, shh!” They'd bring me coffee before I went off in the morning, they even boiled cream for me! They began serving me with real cream, can you imagine? And how they managed to scrape together the money to buy me a decent uniform – eleven roubles and fifty copecks, it cost – I simply do not understand. Boots, calico shirtfronts of the most magnificent quality, a uniform jacket – they got together the whole lot for eleven roubles fifty, and all in the most excellent condition, sir. On the first day I got back from work, I saw that Katerina Ivanovna had made two courses for dinner, soup and salt beef with horseradish sauce, something previously quite unheard-of. She has no dresses… I mean none at all, sir, yet now she looked as though she were going out visiting, all dressed up smart, and it wasn't that she'd made do with what she had, she'd quite simply made it all from nothing: she'd done her hair up nicely, put on a clean little collar and over-sleeves, and she looked quite a different person, younger and prettier. My little dove Sonechka had only been helping us out with money, but now she said she didn't think it was a good idea for her to come and see us too often, and she'd only drop in after dark, when no one would see her. Can you imagine, can you imagine? I went to have a nap after dinner, and would you believe it, Katerina Ivanovna hadn't been able to resist temptation: a week earlier she'd quarrelled in the worst kind of way with Amalia Ivanovna, our landlady, yet now she'd asked her in for a cup of coffee. Two hours they sat, whispering all the time: “Semyon Zakharych is working again and drawing his salary; he went to see His Excellency, and His Excellency came out in person, told all the others to wait, and led Semyon Zakharych by the arm past them all into his office.” Can you imagine, can you imagine? “‘Well, of course, Semyon Zakharych,’ he said, ‘bearing in mind the services you have rendered to us in the past, and even though you've been indulging in that frivolous foible of yours, since you're now ready to make a promise, and since moreover things have been going badly for us in your absence (can you imagine, can you imagine?), I now rely upon your word of honour,’ he said.” In other words, I tell
you, she'd gone and made up a whole long story, and not out of silliness but solely because she wanted to do a bit of boasting, sir! No, sir, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own imaginings, I swear to God, sir! And I don't condemn her; no, that I don't condemn!… And a week ago, when I brought my first pay-packet – twenty-three roubles and forty copecks – home with me intact, she called me her little minnow: “There, my little minnow!” she said.’

Marmeladov broke off, and was about to smile, but suddenly his chin began to work up and down spasmodically. He managed, however, to bring himself under control. This drinking-house, the man's air of debauchery, his five nights on the hay barges, the jug of vodka, together with his morbid affection for his wife and family, had thrown his listener off balance. Raskolnikov had been listening intently, but with a sense of unhealthy discomfort. He was annoyed at himself for having come here.

‘My dear sir, my dear sir!’ Marmeladov exclaimed, having recovered himself. ‘Oh my dear respected sir, you probably think this is ridiculous, like everyone else, and I'm just upsetting you with the stupidity of all these insignificant details of my domestic life, but they're no laughing matter for me. For I feel it all… And I spent the whole of that most heavenly day of my life, and all the evening as well, in transient reveries: of how I would organize everything, buy clothes for the children, give her rest and tranquillity, and turn back my only-begotten daughter from the ways of dishonour unto the bosom of her family… And much, much else… It's permissible, sir. Well, my dear sir…’ Marmeladov suddenly seemed to give a start; he raised his head and stared at his listener. ‘Well, the very next day after all those reveries (just five days ago, in other words), towards evening, I managed to filch the key to Katerina Ivanovna's travelling-box, took out what was left of the salary I'd brought home, how much it was in all I don't remember, and now here I am, take a look at me, everyone! My fifth day away from home, and they're looking for me, and it's all over with my job, and my uniform jacket's lying in the drinking den next to Egypt Bridge, where I exchanged it for my present apparel… and it's all over!’

Marmeladov struck himself on the forehead with his fist, gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and leaned one elbow mightily on the table. But a moment later his features suddenly altered, and with a sort of unnatural cunning and manufactured insolence he looked at Raskolnikov, laughed and said:

‘I went over to Sonya's today, to ask her for money so I could treat my hangover. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘You don't mean to say she gave it to you?’ someone shouted from the direction of the new arrivals, following this up with a roar of laughter.

‘This very jug of vodka was purchased with her money,’ Marmeladov enunciated, addressing himself solely to Raskolnikov. ‘Thirty copecks she gave me, with her own hands, the last money she had, I could see it for myself… She didn't say anything, just looked at me in silence… That's what it's like, not here upon earth, but up there… where people are grieved over and wept for, but not reproached, not reproached! But it hurts even worse, even worse, sir, if one isn't reproached!… Thirty copecks, yes, sir. But I mean, she'll be needing them now, won't she, eh? What do you think, my dear, dear sir? After all, she has to keep herself clean nowadays. Cleanliness like that costs money, it's of a particular sort, if you take my meaning. Do you take my meaning? Yes, and she also has to buy facecream and lipstick, I mean she can't manage without them, sir; starched petticoats, a certain style of shoe, high-heeled, to show off her foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do you understand, do you understand, sir, what cleanliness like that involves? Well, sir, and there I went, her own natural father, and swiped those thirty copecks for my hangover! And I'm drinking them away, sir! I've already drunk them!… Well, who would ever take pity on someone like myself? Eh, sir? Do you feel pity for me now, sir? Eh? Ha, ha, ha, ha!’

He tried to pour himself another glass, but the effort was in vain. The half-
shtof
was empty.

‘Why would anyone feel pity for you?’ shouted the owner, who had once more reappeared to one side of them.

There was a burst of laughter, mixed with swear words. The laughter and abuse came from people who had been listening,
but also from those who had not, but were simply staring at the extraordinary figure presented by this unemployed civil servant.

‘Pity for me? Why should anyone feel pity for me?’ Marmeladov suddenly began to wail, rising to his feet with one arm stretched in front of him, in a state of positive inspiration, as though these were precisely the words he had been waiting for. ‘Why should anyone feel pity for me, you say? Indeed! There's nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified upon a cross, not pitied! Crucify him, O Heavenly Judge, crucify him and, when it is done, take pity on him! And then I myself will come to thee for mortification, for it is not merrymaking that I seek, but sorrow and tears!… Do you think, master publican, that I drank this jug of vodka of yours for the sake of enjoyment? Sorrow, sorrow is what I sought at its bottom, sorrow and tears, and of those have I partaken and those have I found; and the one who will take pity on me is him that hath pity for all men and whose wisdom passeth all understanding, he alone, he is our judge. He will come this day, and inquire: “And where is the daughter that hath not spared herself for the sake of her harsh-tongued and consumptive stepmother and for young children that are not her own kith and kin? Where is the daughter who took pity on her earthly father, an obscene drunkard, undismayed by his bestial nature?” And he will say unto her: “Come unto me! I have already forgiven thee once… Forgiven thee once… Thy sins, which are many, are forgiven; for thou lovest much…” And he'll forgive my Sonya, he'll forgive her, I know he will… I felt that then, when I went to see her, felt it in my heart!… And he will judge and forgive everyone, the good and the bad, the wise and the meek… And when he is done with all of them, he will raise up his voice to us, saying unto us: “Come out, ye drunkards, come out, O ye that are weak, come out, ye that live in shame!” And we shall come out, and shall not be ashamed, and shall stand before him. And he will say unto us: “Ye are as swine! Made in the image of the Beast, and marked with his brand; but come ye also!” And the wise and the learned will raise up their voices, saying: “Lord! Why dost thou receive them?” And he will say unto them: “Because they none of them ever believed themselves worthy of
it…” And he will stretch out his hand to us, and we shall fall down… and weep… and understand everything! Then we will understand everything!… everyone will understand… even Katerina Ivanovna… even she will understand… O Lord, thy kingdom come!…’

And he slumped on to the bench, exhausted and enfeebled, not looking at anyone, as though oblivious of his surroundings and sunk in deep thought. His words had made a certain impression: for a moment silence reigned, but soon the laughter and abuse began to ring out again:

‘Got it all worked out, he has!’

‘What a load of tripe!’

‘Quill-driver!’

And so on, and so forth.

‘Let us be off, sir,’ Marmeladov said, suddenly, raising his head and turning to Raskolnikov. ‘Please escort me… to Kosel's Tenements, the ones with the courtyard. It's time I went back to… Katerina Ivanovna…’

Raskolnikov had been wanting to leave for some time now; he himself had thought of helping the other man. Marmeladov proved to be much less assured on his legs than he had been in his speech, and he leaned mightily on the young man. They had about two or three hundred yards to go. Embarrassment and fear began to gain a hold on the drunken man, one which increased the closer they came to the house.

‘It's not Katerina Ivanovna I'm scared of now,’ he muttered in agitation. ‘I'm not scared that she'll start pulling me by the hair. What does my hair matter?… It's rubbishy stuff! That's what I say! In fact, it'll be better if she does start pulling it, that's not what I'm scared of… It's… her eyes that scare me… yes… her eyes. And the red spots on her cheeks, I'm scared of them, too… and also – her breathing… Have you ever noticed the way people with that illness breathe… when they're excited? I'm also scared of the children's crying… Because if Sonya hasn't been feeding them, I… I don't know what will have become of them! I don't! But I'm not scared of being beaten… I may as well tell you, sir, that not only are such beatings not painful to me – I actually derive pleasure from them… For
without them I simply can't go on. It's better that way. Let her beat me, it'll help her to unburden her soul… it's better that way… Well, here are the tenements. The Tenements of Kosel. A locksmith, a German, and a man of wealth… Go on, lead the way!’

They entered from the yard and went up to the fourth floor. The further up the staircase they climbed, the darker it grew. It was by now almost eleven o'clock, and although at this time of the year in St Petersburg there is no real night to speak of, at the top of the stairs it was very dark indeed.

A small, soot-grimed door at the point where the staircase ended, at its very summit, stood open. A stub of candle shed its light over a most wretched room about ten yards long; from the passage it could be seen in its entirety. Everything in it was thrown about and in disorder. Particularly noticeable were various ragged items of children's clothing. A sheet, which had holes in it, had been stretched over one of the rear corners. Behind it there was probably a bed. In the room proper there were only two chairs and a very tattered sofa covered in oilcloth, in front of which stood an old pine kitchen table, which had not been painted and bore no covering. On one edge of the table there was a guttering end of tallow candle in an iron candleholder. It turned out that Marmeladov's bed was in a room of his own, and not in the corner, but this room of his was a connecting one, through which everyone else had to pass. The door that led through to the other rooms, or cells, into which Amalia Lippewechsel's apartment had been broken up, had been left ajar. Noise and shouting came from through there. People were roaring with laughter. They appeared to be playing cards and drinking tea. From time to time snippets of the most improper language came drifting through.

Raskolnikov identified Katerina Ivanovna immediately. She had lost a lot of flesh, a thin, rather tall woman, with a good figure and beautiful chestnut-coloured hair; her cheeks really were so flushed that they looked like two scarlet spots. She was pacing to and fro in her little room, her hands clenched against her breast; her lips were parched and her breathing was coming unevenly, in little gasps. Her eyes glittered as if in fever, but her
gaze was sharp and fixed, and it was a morbid effect that was produced by this consumptive and excited face, across which the last glimmer of the guttering candle-end trembled and quivered. Raskolnikov thought she looked about thirty, and she did indeed seem an unsuitable sort of wife for a man like Marmeladov to have… She had not heard anyone enter, and did not notice them; she seemed to be in a kind of trance, hearing and seeing nothing. The room was suffocatingly hot, but she had not opened the window; a foul odour drifted up from the staircase, but the door that gave on to it was not closed; from the inner rooms, through the door that was ajar, clouds of tobacco smoke floated, but although she was coughing she did not close it, either. The very youngest child, a little girl of about six, was asleep on the floor in a sort of cowering sitting position, her head thrust on to the sofa. A little boy, who must have been about a year older than her, was trembling in a corner, weeping. He looked as though he had just been given a beating. The eldest girl, who must have been about nine, was as tall and slender as a matchstick, and was dressed in nothing but a torn chemise that was covered in holes and, thrown over her bare shoulders, a ragged little
drap-de-dames
‘burnous’ mantlet she had probably made for herself a couple of years ago, since it now did not come down even as far as her knees; she stood in the corner beside her little brother with one of her long, withered, match-sticklike arms thrown round his neck. She seemed to be trying to soothe him, and was whispering something to him, doing everything she could to stop him from whimpering again, and following her mother fearfully with her big, big dark eyes, which her frightened, gaunt little face made seem even bigger. Marmeladov did not go into the room, but got down on his knees in the doorway, giving Raskolnikov a shove forwards. At the sight of the stranger, the woman halted abstractedly in front of him and seemed to come to for a moment, as if she were wondering: ‘What's he doing in here?’ Most likely, however, it at once crossed her mind that he was on his way to one of the other rooms, since theirs was a communicating one. Having decided that this was the case, and paying no further attention to him, she stepped towards the outside door in order to shut it,
and then gave a sudden scream upon encountering her husband, who was kneeling on the threshold.