Part 1 · Chapter 2

Raskolnikov wasn't really a people person, and, like we said before, he avoided crowds like the plague, especially lately. But now, all of a sudden, he felt like being around others. Something new was happening inside him, and with it, a real craving for company.

He was totally drained after a month of nonstop misery and intense, dark energy, and he just wanted to chill, even if it was just for a minute, in a different world, whatever that looked like. And even though the place was super grimy, he was actually glad to be in the tavern.

The owner was hanging out in another room, but he’d pop down a few steps into the main room pretty often. You’d see his cool, tarred boots with the red tops first, before you saw the rest of him.

He was rocking a full coat and a seriously greasy black satin vest - no tie - and his whole face looked like an iron lock, smeared with oil. At the counter stood a kid, maybe fourteen, and there was another little guy, even younger, handing people what they needed.

On the counter were some sliced cucumbers, pieces of stale black bread, and chopped-up fish, all smelling seriously bad. It was packed in there, and the fumes from the booze were so strong that you could probably get drunk just hanging out for five minutes.

There are those random meetings with strangers that just grab you from the start, before a single word is exchanged. That's the impression Raskolnikov got from the guy sitting a little ways off, who looked like a retired office worker.

The young man kept thinking about it later, and even thought it was a feeling about what was to come. He kept glancing at the clerk, partly because the guy was staring right back, clearly wanting to chat.

He looked at the other people in the room - the tavern-keeper and the rest - like he was used to them, and tired of them, showing a little bit of looking-down-your-nose attitude towards them as people who weren’t as smart or cultured as him, and who it wouldn’t be worth talking to.

He was over fifty, bald and graying, medium height, and a little chunky. His face was puffy from drinking too much, a yellow, even greenish, color, with swollen eyelids hiding bright reddish eyes that gleamed like tiny embers.

But there was something really strange about him; there was a light in his eyes like he was feeling something intensely - maybe even thinking and being smart, but at the same time, there was a flicker of something like craziness.

He was wearing an old, totally beat-up black dress coat, with all the buttons missing except one, and he's buttoned that one, clearly holding onto the last bit of looking respectable. A crumpled shirt front, covered in spots and stains, peeked out from his canvas vest.

Like an office worker, he didn’t have a beard or mustache, but he’s been unshaven so long that his chin looked like a stiff, gray brush. And there was something official and respectable about his manner, too.

But he was restless; he’d mess up his hair and from time to time would slump into his hands, letting his ragged elbows rest on the stained and sticky table. Finally, he looked straight at Raskolnikov and said loudly and resolutely:

"May I ask, sir, if you’d be up for a polite conversation? I’m guessing, from your look, that you're a smart guy who isn’t used to drinking. I’ve always respected education when it goes with real feelings, and I’m also a retired official. Marmeladov - that’s my name; retired official."

"I’m just wondering - have you ever worked a job?"

"No, I’m studying," the young man replied, a little surprised by how dramatic the speaker was and also by being addressed so directly.

Even though he's been feeling kind of lonely and wanting company, being actually spoken to made him instantly feel his usual grumpy and uneasy dislike of any stranger who approached.

"A student, then, or used to be a student," the clerk exclaimed. "That’s what I figured! I’m a man of experience, lots of experience, see?"

He tapped his forehead with his fingers, proud of himself.

"You’ve been a student or gone to some fancy school!... But let me..."

He stood up, stumbled a bit, grabbed his jug and glass, and sat down next to the young man, facing him at an angle. He was drunk, but talking smoothly and boldly, only occasionally losing his train of thought and slurring his words.

He latched onto Raskolnikov like he hadn't spoken to anyone in a month.

"Honored sir," he began, almost seriously, "poverty isn’t bad, that’s the truth. But I also know that being drunk isn't good, and that's even truer. But being totally broke, honored sir, that is bad. In poverty, you can still hold onto your good heart, but when you’re broke - forget it - no one."

Being broke, a guy isn’t kicked out of society with a stick; he’s swept out with a broom, to make it as embarrassing as possible. And honestly, I’m ready to be humiliated myself. That’s why I’m here! Honored sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov punched my wife, and my wife is a whole different story!

"Get it? Let me ask you another question out of curiosity: have you ever slept on a hay barge on the Neva?"

"No, I haven’t," Raskolnikov replied. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I just came from one, and it’s the fifth night I’ve slept there..."

He filled his glass, drained it, and paused. Bits of hay were actually stuck to his clothes and in his hair. It seemed likely he hadn’t even bothered to change or shower in the last five days. His hands, especially, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black fingernails.

His conversation seemed to grab everyone’s attention, even if they were pretty bored. The guys at the counter started snickering. The innkeeper came down from upstairs, apparently just to hear the "weirdo," and sat down a little ways off, yawning lazily but trying to look important.

Clearly, Marmeladov was a regular here, and he’d probably picked up his habit of giving long speeches to strangers from hanging around the tavern so much. That’s how it develops for some drunkards, especially the ones who are kept in line at home.

So they try to justify themselves and even get some sympathy when they’re around other drinkers.

"Weirdo!" the innkeeper declared.

"And why aren’t you working, why aren’t you doing your job, if you’re employed?"

"Why am I not at my job, honored sir," Marmeladov continued, focusing entirely on Raskolnikov, as if it was he who had asked that question. "Why am I not at my job? Doesn’t my heart ache thinking about how useless I am?"

"A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov hit my wife with his own hands, and I was passed out, didn’t I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you... hm... well, to beg for a loan and get turned down every time?"

"Yeah, it has. But what do you mean, ‘every time’?"

"Totally hopeless, like, when you know you're gonna get nothing out of it. You just know, like, this guy - this super respectable citizen - is never, ever giving you money. And why would he? He knows I won’t pay it back. Compassion?"

"Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who’s all about the latest trends, explained the other day that science says compassion is, like, banned now. That's what they do in England, where they have political economy. So, why would he give it to me? And yet, even though I know he won't, I head over there and..."

"Why bother?" Raskolnikov cut in.

"Well, when you’ve got nowhere else to go! Everyone needs somewhere to go. Especially when you have to go somewhere! When my daughter first went out with a yellow ticket - you know, a yellow passport - then I had to go..." he added, looking a little nervous at the young man.

"Never mind, sir, never mind!"

he hurried on, trying to look calm even as the guys behind the counter were cracking up and even the innkeeper was smiling - "It doesn’t matter. Everyone already knows everything, and everything secret gets out. And I accept it, not with a bad attitude, but with humility. Whatever. Whatever."

"‘Behold the man!’ Excuse me, young man, can you... No, to put it more bluntly; not can you, but dare you, look at me and say I’m a pig?"

The young man didn’t say a word.

"Okay," the speaker began again, looking serious and dignified, waiting for the laughter to die down.

"Okay, so be it, I’m a pig, but she’s a lady! I look like a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my wife, is educated and an officer’s daughter. Fine, fine, I’m a loser, but she has a noble heart, full of feelings, refined by education. And yet... oh, if only she felt for me!"

Honored sir, you know everyone should have at least one place where people care about them! But Katerina Ivanovna, though she’s generous, she’s not fair...

And yet, even though I realize she pulls my hair out of pity - and I’m not ashamed to repeat it, she does pull my hair, young man," he declared with even more dignity, hearing snickers again - "but, my God, if she would just once... But no, no! It’s all pointless and there's no use talking!

"No use talking! Because more than once, my wish came true and more than once she felt for me, but... that’s just my luck and I'm just a beast by nature!"

"Totally," the innkeeper said, yawning.

Marmeladov slammed his fist on the table.

"That’s just my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I sold her stockings for booze? Not her shoes - that’s kinda normal - but her stockings, her stockings I sold for drink!"

Her mohair shawl, a present to her a long time ago, her own stuff, not mine; and we live in a freezing room and she got sick this winter and started coughing and spitting up blood.

We have three little kids and Katerina Ivanovna works from morning till night; she’s scrubbing, cleaning, and washing the kids, because she’s always been used to being clean. But her chest is weak and she’s getting sick and I can tell! Do you think I don’t feel it?

"And the more I drink, the more I feel it. That’s why I drink too. I’m trying to find some comfort and feeling in the booze... I drink so I can suffer twice as much!" And as if he was falling apart, he put his head on the table.

"Young man," he continued, looking up again, "I can see you’re going through something. I noticed it when you came in, and that’s why I spoke to you right away. When I tell you the story of my life, I don't want to look foolish in front of these people - they already know everything, anyway."

But I’m looking for someone who gets it, someone with empathy and smarts. So listen up: my wife went to a really fancy school for the daughters of wealthy families.

When she graduated, she performed a shawl dance for the governor and other important people, and they gave her a gold medal and a certificate recognizing her talent. The medal... well, that got sold a long time ago, hm... but she still has the certificate tucked away in her trunk.

She even showed it to our landlady not long ago. Even though she’s constantly arguing with the landlady, she needed to tell someone about her past achievements and the good old days. I don’t blame her for that, I don’t judge her.

All she has left is remembering the past; everything else is just gone. Yes, yes, she’s a strong woman, proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and mostly eats plain bread, but she refuses to be disrespected.

That's why she couldn't let Mr. Lebeziatnikov get away with being rude to her, and when he hit her for it, she went to bed more from the hurt feelings than from the actual blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three kids, one younger than the others.

She ran off with her first husband, an army officer, because she loved him - they left her dad’s house to be together. She really adored him, but he started gambling, got into trouble, and eventually died.

He even started hitting her towards the end - although she paid him back, I have proof to this day - but she still talks about him with tears in her eyes and gives me a hard time about it. And I’m glad, I'm glad she remembers being happy, even if it’s just in her imagination.

At his death, she was left with those three kids in a remote, isolated area where I happened to be at the time. She was in such desperate poverty, that even after everything I’ve been through, I can’t even describe it. Her family had all turned their backs on her. And she was proud, incredibly proud.

And then, respected sir, and then, I, being a widower myself with a fourteen-year-old daughter from my first wife, offered her my hand, because I couldn’t stand to see her suffering.

You can imagine how bad things were that a woman with her education and background, from a distinguished family, would even consider marrying me. But she did! Crying and sobbing and wringing her hands, she married me! Because she had nowhere else to go!

Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means to have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, you don’t understand yet... And for a whole year, I did my best and didn’t touch this" (he tapped the jug with his finger), "because I have feelings.

"But even so, I couldn’t make her happy, and then I lost my job too - it wasn't my fault, just changes at the office - and then I did touch it...!"

It's been about a year and a half since we finally landed in this amazing capital city, decked out with tons of monuments, after a whole lot of wandering and some seriously rough times. I managed to get a job here... and then I lost it again. Get it? This time, it was my fault - I messed up.

We're currently crashing at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel’s place; I honestly couldn't tell you how we're paying rent or what we’re even living on. There are a bunch of other people living there too. It’s a total mess, super disorganized - a chaotic scene, basically. Hm... yeah.

Meanwhile, my daughter from my first marriage has grown up; I won’t even get into what her step-mom put her through while she was growing up. Katerina Ivanovna is a good person, but she's got a fiery personality, easily angered and quick to snap. Yeah. But there’s no point dwelling on that!

Sonia, you can probably imagine, hasn’t had much of an education. I tried to teach her geography and world history four years ago, but I wasn’t exactly an expert myself, and we didnn't have any good books. And the few books we did have? Well, we don't even have those now.

So, our lessons just... stopped. We got as far as Cyrus of Persia. Since she's gotten older, she’s been reading more books, especially romance novels, and recently she’s been really into Lewes’ Physiology - you know it, right? - and has even been telling us stuff she learned from it.

That’s basically her whole education. Now, may I ask you a personal question, sir? Do you think a decent, poor girl can actually make a good living with honest work? She can’t earn even fifteen pennies a day if she’s respectable, has no special skills, and doesn't slack off!

And get this: Ivan Ivanitch Klopstock - have you heard of him? - still hasn't paid her for the half-dozen linen shirts she made for him. He just brushed her off, yelling and insulting her, saying the shirt collars weren't right and were crooked. And the little ones are starving...

And Katerina Ivanovna pacing around, wringing her hands, her cheeks flushed red - that's always happening when she's sick: "You live with us," she says, "you eat and drink and are warm, and you don’t do anything to help."

But how much does she get to eat and drink when there isn’t even a crust of bread for the kids for three days! I was drunk at the time... so what? I heard Sonia speaking (she's such a sweet girl, with a soft little voice... fair hair and such a pale, thin face).

She said: "Katerina Ivanovna, should I really do something like that?" And Darya Frantsovna - a woman with a shady reputation, well-known to the police - had tried to get at her through the landlady a few times.

"And why not?" said Katerina Ivanovna with a sarcastic laugh, "you’re way too precious to be so careful!"

But don't blame her, don't blame her, sir, don't blame her! She wasn't herself when she said it - she was totally stressed out by her illness and the crying of the hungry children; and she said it more to hurt her feelings than anything else.

That’s Katerina Ivanovna’s deal, and when kids cry, even if they’re just hungry, she immediately starts yelling at them. Around six, I saw Sonia get up, throw on her scarf and coat, and leave the room. Then, around nine, she came back.

She went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and silently dropped thirty rubles on the table. She didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at her. She just grabbed our big, old green shawl - we have this shawl, you know, made of drap de dames - and pulled it over her head and face.

Then she flopped down on the bed, facing the wall. Only her little shoulders and her body kept shaking... And I just kept lying there, like always. Then, you know, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, still quiet, go over to Sonia’s little bed.

"She was on her knees all night, kissing Sonia’s feet, and wouldn’t get up. Then they both fell asleep, tangled up in each other’s arms... together, together... yeah... and I... was totally wasted."

Marmeladov just stopped, like his voice had totally disappeared. Then he quickly downed his drink, cleared his throat, and started again.

"Ever since then, sir," he said after a beat - "Ever since this awful thing happened, and because of what some really shady people said - and Darya Frantsovna was a big part of it, claiming she’s been disrespected - ever since then, my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to get a ‘yellow ticket,’ and because of that, she can’t live with us anymore."

Our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna, wouldn’t hear of it - even though she’s backed up Darya Frantsovna before - and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too... hm... All the drama between him and Katerina Ivanovna was because of Sonia.

At first, he was trying to flirt with her, and then suddenly he got all high and mighty: ‘how,’ he said, ‘can a guy as educated as me live in the same place as a girl like that? And Katerina Ivanovna wasn't having it, she stood up for her... and that’s how it ended up.

And Sonia comes to us now, mostly after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her everything she can. She’s got a room at the Kapernaumovs’ place, the tailors. Kapernaumov is a guy with a limp and a cleft palate, and all his family have cleft palates too. His wife has one too.

They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own, separated off... hm... yeah... really poor people, all with cleft palates... yeah. Then I woke up in the morning, put on my old clothes, looked up to heaven, and headed over to his excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch.

His excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know him? Nope? Well, you don’t know a man of God, then. He's like... wax - just melts away before the Lord! His eyes were kinda glazed over when he heard my story. ‘Marmeladov, you’ve let me down before... I’ll trust you again, on my word,’ he said.

‘Remember,’ he said, ‘and now you can go.’ I practically bowed in the dust - though only in my head, because he’s a big shot, a statesman, and all about modern ideas, so he wouldn’t let me do it.

"I went back home, and when I told everyone I was back in the service and getting paid, wow, what a scene!..."

Marmeladov stopped again, totally worked up. Just then, a bunch of super-drunk partiers came in from the street, and you could hear a hired accordion player and a little kid, like seven years old, singing "Hamlet" in a cracked voice. The room was loud.

The tavern-keeper and the guys were busy with the new people. Marmeladov didn’t even notice, and he kept going with his story. He seemed really weak, but the more he drank, the more he talked. Remembering getting the job seemed to give him a boost, and you could see it on his face.

Raskolnikov listened closely.

"That was five weeks ago, sir. Yeah... As soon as Katya and Sonia heard about it, seriously, it was like I'd walked into paradise. Before, I was getting chewed out, basically getting abused. Now, they were tiptoeing around, shushing the kids. ‘Semyon, he’s worn out from work, he’s resting, shhh!’"

They’d even make me coffee before I went to work and heat up cream for me! They started getting real cream, can you believe it? And how they pulled together the cash for a decent outfit - eleven roubles, fifty copecks - I have no idea.

Boots, dress shirts - super sharp, a uniform, they went all out, for eleven and a half roubles. The first morning I got back from the office, I found Katya had cooked two courses for dinner - soup and salty meat with horseradish - which we’d never even dreamed of before.

She didn’t have any dresses... none at all, but she dressed up like she was going somewhere fancy; and she didn’t have anything to wear, she just made herself look good, she’d fixed her hair nicely, put on a clean collar and cuffs, and there she was, totally different, younger and better looking.

Sonia, my little sweetheart, only helped out with money, ‘just for now,’ she said, ‘it’s not good for me to come around too often. Maybe after dark when nobody can see.’ Do you hear me? Do you hear?

I took a nap after dinner and guess what: even though Katya had been fighting with our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna, just a week before, she couldn’t resist asking her over for coffee. They were sitting there for two hours, whispering.

‘Semyon’s back in a job, getting a salary now,’ she said, ‘and he went to see his boss, and his boss even came out to see him, made everyone else wait, and led Semyon by the hand right into his office in front of everyone. Do you hear? Do you hear?

‘Look, Semyon,’ he said, ‘remembering all you’ve done for me,’ he said, ‘and even though you're a bit...soft,’ he said, ‘since you’re promising now and since we’ve been struggling without you,’ (do you hear, do you hear;) ‘so, I’m counting on your word as a man.’

And all that, let me tell you, she totally made up, and not just to show off; no, she actually believes it, she’s lost in her own little world, I swear she is! And I don’t blame her, no, I don’t blame her!...

Six days ago when I brought her my first earnings - twenty-three roubles forty copecks altogether - she called me her little guy: ‘little guy,’ she said, ‘my little guy. And when we were alone, you know? You wouldn’t think I was hot, you wouldn’t think much of me as a husband, would you?...

"Well, she pinched my cheek, ‘my little guy,’ she said."

Marmeladov stopped, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin started twitching. He got it under control though. The bar, the way he looked, those five nights on the barge, the bottle of booze - and yet this crazy, deep love for his wife and kids confused his listener.

Raskolnikov listened closely but felt sick to his stomach. He was annoyed that he’d even come here.

"Sir, sir," Marmeladov blurted out, composing himself.

"Oh, sir, I know it probably sounds like a joke to you, like it does to a lot of people, and maybe I'm just bothering you with all the crazy details of my home life, but it's no laughing matter to me. I can feel it all..."

And that whole amazing day of my life, and the whole evening I spent dreaming about how things would be - how I'd dress the kids, how I'd give her a break, and how I'd save my own daughter from being messed up and get her back with her family... and so much more... Totally understandable, sir.

Well, then, sir. (Marmeladov suddenly jumped, looked up, and stared intently at his listener.)

"Well, the very next day after all those dreams, that is, exactly five days ago, in the evening, I pulled a sneaky move, like a thief in the night, and stole the key to Katerina Ivanovna’s box. I took out what was left of my earnings - I’m not even sure how much - and now look at me, everyone!"

"It’s the fifth day since I left home, and they’re looking for me there, and I’m out of a job. My uniform is lying in a tavern on the Egyptian bridge. I traded it for the clothes I’m wearing... and it’s over."

Marmeladov slammed his fist on his forehead, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and leaned heavily on the table. But a minute later, his face suddenly changed, and with a sly, fake-brave look, he glanced at Raskolnikov, and laughed.

"This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a little something to take the edge off!"

"Ha ha!" He laughed.

"You’re kidding! She actually gave it to you?" one of the new guys shouted, then burst out laughing.

"She gave me the money, all of it," Marmeladov said, talking only to Raskolnikov. "Thirty kopecks she gave me with her own hands, all she had, as far as I could tell... She didn’t say a word, just looked at me... Not on earth, but way up there..."

They grieve over men, they cry, but they don’t blame them, they don’t blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don’t blame! Thirty kopecks, yeah! And maybe she needs it now, huh? What do you think, my friend? Because now she’s gotta keep up appearances.

It costs money to look good, you know? Do you get it? And there’s pomade, too, she’s gotta have stuff; petticoats, starched ones, shoes, too, real flashy ones to show off her foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you understand what all that smartness means?

"And here I am, her own father, and I took thirty kopecks of that money to buy a drink! And I’m drinking it! And I'm already done drinking it! Come on, who’s gonna feel sorry for a guy like me, huh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or not? He-he-he!"

He would have filled his glass, but there was nothing left. The pot was empty.

"What’s there to feel sorry about?" the tavern-keeper shouted, standing nearby again.

Shouts of laughter and even curses followed. The laughter and the curses came from those who were listening and also from those who hadn't heard anything but were just staring at the figure of the fired government clerk.

"To be pitied! Why should I be pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly declared, standing up with his arm outstretched, as if he’d been just waiting for that question.

"Why should anyone feel sorry for me, you’re asking? Seriously? There’s nothing to pity me for! I deserve to be crucified, nailed to a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, judge, crucify me, but have pity on me!"

And then I'll just go and crucify myself, because I’m not looking for a good time, I want tears and heartache!... Do you think this pint of yours has been sweet to me? I was searching for pain and tears at the bottom of it, and I found it. I tasted it.

But He, the One who’s had mercy on everyone, who understands everyone and everything, He's the judge. He’s coming, and He’s going to ask, ‘Where’s the daughter who gave herself for her suffering stepmother and for the kids of another family? Where's the daughter who felt bad for her drunk, awful dad?

And He’s going to say, ‘Come to me! I’ve already forgiven you once... I’ve forgiven you once... Your many sins are forgiven because you’ve loved much... And He’s going to forgive my Sonia, He will forgive, I know it... I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now!

And He’s going to judge and forgive everyone, the good and the bad, the smart and the humble... And when He’s done with them all, then He’s going to call for us. ‘You too, come forward,’ He’s going to say, ‘Come forward, you drunkards, come forward, you weaklings, come forward, you kids of shame!’

And we’re all going to come forward, without shame, and stand before Him. And He’s going to say to us, ‘You’re swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come, you too! And the wise and the insightful will say, ‘Lord, why do You receive these people?’

And He’s going to say, ‘This is why I receive them, oh wise ones, this is why I receive them, oh insightful ones, because not one of them thought they deserved this. And He’s going to hold out His hands, and we’re going to fall down before Him...

"and we’re going to cry... and we’re going to understand everything! Then we’re all going to understand... even Katerina Ivanovna... she’s going to understand... Lord, Your kingdom come!"

And he slumped down on the bench, exhausted and helpless, looking at nothing, apparently oblivious to everything around him and lost in deep thought.

His words had made an impression; there was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and curses were heard again. "That’s his thing!"

"He totally lost it!"

"What a useless clerk he is!"

And so on, and so on.

"Let’s go, sir," said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov - "come on... to Kozel’s place, looking into the yard. I’m going to see Katerina Ivanovna - it’s time."

Raskolnikov had been wanting to go and had planned to help him. Marmeladov was much wobbier on his legs than he was in his speech and leaned heavily on the young man. They had a couple hundred steps to go.

The drunk man was getting more and more overwhelmed by anxiety and confusion as they got closer to the house.

"It’s not Katerina Ivanovna I’m afraid of now," he muttered nervously - "and that she’s going to start pulling my hair. Who cares about my hair! Bother my hair! Actually, it would be better if she started pulling it, that’s not what I’m worried about... it’s her eyes... yeah, her eyes..."

the redness on her cheeks scares me... and her breathing too... Have you noticed how people with that sickness breathe... when they’re upset? I’m also scared of the kids crying... because if Sonia hasn’t brought them food... I don’t know what’s happened! I don’t know! But I’m not afraid of blows...

"know, sir, that those blows aren’t painful to me, they’re even a relief. It’s better this way. Let her hit me, it eases her heart... it’s better this way... There’s the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet-maker... a German, doing well. Lead the way!"

They headed in from the yard and up to the fourth floor. The staircase got darker and darker as they climbed. It was almost eleven o’clock, and even though Petersburg had pretty mild summers, it was totally dark at the top of the stairs.

A grimy little door at the very top was slightly open. Inside was a really run-down room, about ten steps long, lit by a tiny candle. You could see the whole thing from the entrance. It was a mess, covered in rags, especially kids' clothes.

A ripped sheet was stretched across the far corner - probably hiding the bed. There wasn't much else in the room: just two chairs and a beat-up sofa with American leather, full of holes. An old, bare kitchen table stood in front of it.

A flickering candle in an iron holder sat at the edge of the table. It seemed like the family had their own room, not just part of a larger space.

The door to the other rooms - or rather, the tiny storage spaces - that made up Amalia Lippevechsel’s apartment was half-open, and you could hear shouting, noise, and laughter coming from inside. People were clearly playing cards and drinking tea. Harsh words were flying out every now and then.

Raskolnikov instantly recognized Katerina Ivanovna. She was a pretty tall, slim, and graceful woman, but looked really thin. She had gorgeous dark brown hair and a flushed face. She was pacing around the small room, pressing her hands to her chest.

Her lips were dry, and her breathing came in short, nervous gasps. Her eyes glittered, almost feverish, and she stared around with a harsh, unmoving gaze. And that sickly face, lit by the flickering candlelight, was pretty unsettling.

He thought she was around thirty years old - definitely a strange wife for Marmeladov... She hadn’t noticed them come in, seemed lost in her own thoughts, not hearing or seeing anything.

The room was stuffy, but she hadn’t opened the window; a bad smell was coming from the staircase, but the door to the stairs wasn't closed. Smoke from the other rooms drifted in, and she kept coughing, but didn't close the door.

The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the corner - probably he’s just been hit.

Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a thin, ripped nightgown with an old, oversized shawl thrown over her bare shoulders, way too big for her, barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a twig, was wrapped around her brother’s neck.

She was trying to comfort him, whispering to him, and doing everything she could to stop him from crying again. At the same time, her big, dark eyes - which looked even bigger because of her thin, scared face - were watching her mother with worry.

Marmeladov didn't come through the door but dropped to his knees right in the doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman, seeing a stranger, stopped, looking at him with indifference, coming to herself for a moment and seeming to wonder what he wanted.

But she clearly thought he was going into the next room, since he had to walk through hers to get there. Without paying him any more attention, she walked towards the outer door to close it, and let out a sudden scream when she saw her husband on his knees in the doorway.

"Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "He’s back! The criminal! the monster!... And where’s the money? What’s in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the money! Speak!"

And she started searching him. Marmeladov quietly and obediently held up both arms to make it easier. There wasn’t a single coin.

"Where’s the money?" she yelled - "Seriously, did he drink it all? There were twelve silver rubles left in the chest!" and in a rage she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the room.

Marmeladov weakly crawled along on his knees, trying to help.

"And this is supposed to make me feel better? This isnn't hurting me, but is a total con-so-la-tion, sir," he called out, being pulled around by his hair and even bumping his forehead on the floor.

The little kid sleeping on the floor woke up and started crying. The boy in the corner completely lost it, started shaking and screaming, and rushed to his sister, terrified, almost having a panic attack. The oldest girl was trembling like crazy.

"He drank it! He drank it all," the poor woman screamed in despair - "and his clothes are gone! And they’re starving, so hungry!" - and wringing her hands she pointed to the kids.

"Oh, this life is awful! And you, aren’t you ashamed?" - she lashed out at Raskolnikov - "From the bar? You’ve been drinking with him? You’ve been drinking with him, too! Get out!"

The young man was hurrying out without saying a word. The inner door swung open, and curious faces were peeking in. Crude laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and caps on their heads crowded into the doorway.

Further in, you could see people in robes and pajamas, some barely dressed, some holding cards. They were totally amused when Marmeladov, being dragged around by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation. They even started coming into the room.

Finally, a sharp, mean voice cut through the noise: it was Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her way through the crowd and trying to restore order, and for the hundredth time to scare the poor woman by telling her to leave the room tomorrow.

As he left, Raskolnikov had time to reach into his pocket, grab the few coins he’s gotten back for his ruble at the bar, and drop them unnoticed on the window sill. Later, on the stairs, he changed his mind and almost went back.

"What a dumb thing I did," he thought to himself, "they have Sonia and I need it myself."

But realizing that it was impossible to take it back now and that he wouldn’t have taken it anyway, he shrugged and headed back to his place.

"Sonia needs hair pomade, too," he said as he walked down the street, and he laughed darkly - "being all fancy costs money... Hmm!"

And maybe Sonia herself will be broke today, because there’s always a risk, hunting big game... digging for gold... then they’d all be without a penny tomorrow except for my money. Go, Sonia! What a goldmine they’ve got there! And they’re squeezing every last drop out of it!

"They’ve cried over it and gotten used to it. People get used to anything, the jerks!"

Then He got totally lost in thought.

"And what if I’m wrong," he suddenly cried after a moment’s reflection. "What if people aren’t really jerks, people in general, I mean, the whole human race - then everything else is just nonsense, fake scares, and there are no limits, and it’s all as it should be."