"I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna– a valuable
thing– silver– a cigarette box, as soon as I get it back from a friend…" he broke
off in confusion.
"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."
"Good-bye– are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?" He
asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the passage.
"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"
"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick…. Good-day, Alyona
Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and more
intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times,
as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the street he cried out,
"Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly…. No, it's nonsense,
it's rubbish!" he added resolutely. "And how could such an atrocious thing come
into my head? What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all,
disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!– and for a whole month I've been…." But no words,
no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense repulsion,
which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the
old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that
he did not know what to do with himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked
along the pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by, and jostling
against them, and only came to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking
round, he noticed that he was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps
leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant two drunken men came
out at the door, and abusing and supporting one another, they mounted the steps.
Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment
he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a burning
thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to
the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner;
ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier;
and his thoughts became clear.
"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in it all to
worry about! It's simply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a piece of
dry bread– and in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the
will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!"
But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful as though
he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly
way at the people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that
this happier frame of mind was also not normal.
There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken men
he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and a girl with a
concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room quiet and
rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were a man who appeared to be an artisan,
drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a
huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk:
and had dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in his
sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his
body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying
to recall some such lines as these: –
"His wife a year he fondly loved
His wife a– a year he– fondly loved." –
Or suddenly waking up again: –
"Walking along the crowded row
He met the one he used to know." –
But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with positive hostility
and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was another man in the room who
looked somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then
sipping from his pot and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in
some agitation. CHAPTERTWO Chapter Two
RASKOLNIKOV was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided society
of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire to
be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with
it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was so weary after a whole month of
concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only
for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness
of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.
The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently came down
some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops
coming into view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a full coat and
a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face seemed
smeared with oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen,
and there was another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the
counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish,
chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so heavy
with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an atmosphere might well make
a man drunk.
There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment,
before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person
sitting a little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The young man
often recalled this impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment.
He looked repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring
persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the other
persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper, the clerk looked as though he
were used to their company, and weary of it, showing a shade of condescending contempt
for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own, with whom it would
be useless for him to converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium
height, and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of a yellow,
even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed
like little chinks. But there was something very strange in him; there was a light
in his eyes as though of intense feeling– perhaps there were even thought and intelligence,
but at the same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He was wearing
an old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing except
one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to this last trace of respectability.
A crumpled shirt front covered with spots and stains, protruded from his canvas
waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven
that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable
and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he ruffled up his
hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his
ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov,
and said loudly and resolutely:
"May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Forasmuch
as, though your exterior would not command respect, my experience admonishes me
that you are a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have always respected
education when in conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular
counsellor in rank. Marmeladov– such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold
to inquire– have you been in the service?"
"No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the grandiloquent
style of the speaker and also at being so directly addressed. In spite of the momentary
desire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, on being actually spoken
to he felt immediately his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger
who approached or attempted to approach him.
"A student then, or formerly a student," cried the clerk. "Just what I thought!
I'm a man of experience, immense experience, sir," and he tapped his forehead with
his fingers in self-approval. "You've been a student or have attended some learned
institution!… But allow me…." He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and
sat down beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke
fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his sentences and drawling
his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not spoken
to a soul for a month.
"Honoured sir," he began almost with solemnity, "poverty is not a vice, that's
a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and that that's
even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you may still
retain your innate nobility of soul, but in beggary– never– no one. For beggary
a man is not chased out of human society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom,
so as to make it as humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as
in beggary I am ready to be the first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house!
Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and my wife
is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me to ask you another
question out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay barge, on
"No, I have not happened to," answered Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I've just come from one and it's the fifth night I've slept so…." He filled
his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clinging to his clothes
and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite probable that he had not undressed or
washed for the last five days. His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat
and red, with black nails.
His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The boys
at the counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the upper room,
apparently on purpose to listen to the "funny fellow" and sat down at a little distance,
yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here,
and he had most likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit
of frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in the tavern.
This habit develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those
who are looked after sharply and kept in order at home. Hence in the company of
other drinkers they try to justify themselves and even if possible obtain consideration.
"Funny fellow!" pronounced the innkeeper. "And why don't you work, why aren't
you at your duty, if you are in the service?"
"Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir," Marmeladov went on, addressing himself
exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that question to him.
"Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think what a useless worm I
am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay
drunk, didn't I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you… hm… well,
to petition hopelessly for a loan?"
"Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?"
"Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will get
nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive certainty that this
man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will on no consideration give you
money; and indeed I ask you why should he? For he knows of course that I shan't
pay it back. From compassion? But Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas
explained the other day that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself,
and that that's what is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why,
I ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that he won't,
I set off to him and…"
"Why do you go?" put in Raskolnikov.
"Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must have
somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must go somewhere! When
my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then I had to go… (for my daughter
has a yellow passport)," he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness
at the young man. "No matter, sir, no matter!" he went on hurriedly and with apparent
composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smiled–
"No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of their heads; for every one knows
everything about it already, and all that is secret is made open. And I accept it
all, not with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! 'Behold the man!'
Excuse me, young man, can you…. No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly;
not can you but dare you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?"
The young man did not answer a word.
"Well," the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity, after
waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. "Well, so be it, I am a pig, but
she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse,
is a person of education and an officer's daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel,
but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And
yet… oh, if only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man
ought to have at least one place where people feel for him! But Katerina Ivanovna,
though she is magnanimous, she is unjust…. And yet, although I realise that when
she pulls my hair she only does it out of pity– for I repeat without being ashamed,
she pulls my hair, young man," he declared with redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering
again– "but, my God, if she would but once…. But no, no! It's all in vain and it's
no use talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true and more
than once she has felt for me but… such is my fate and I am a beast by nature!"