Crime and Punishment (10 page)

‘Aha!’ she cried in a frenzy of anger. ‘He's back! The sitter in the stocks! The monster!… And where's the money? What have you got in your pockets, come on, out with it! And those are not your own clothes you're wearing! What have you done with your clothes? Where's that money? Answer me!…’

And she rushed to search him. Marmeladov at once threw his arms wide apart, meekly and obediently, in order to assist her investigation of his pockets. There was not so much as a copeck's worth of small change left in them.

‘Where's the money?’ she cried. ‘Oh Lord, don't say he's gone and drunk the lot! There were twelve silver roubles in the box!…’ And in a sudden frenzy she grabbed him by the hair and hauled him into the room. Marmeladov himself assisted her exertions by meekly crawling after her on his knees.

‘Even this is a pleasure to me! Even this is not painful to me, but is a plea-sure-my-dear-re-spect-ed-sir,’ he managed to yelp out as he was shaken by the hair, his forehead actually giving the floor a thump at one point. The child who was asleep on the floor woke up and started to cry. The boy in the corner could no longer hold himself in check; he shuddered and screamed and rushed to his sister in terrible panic, almost in a seizure. The eldest girl was trembling like a leaf, only half awake.

‘He's drunk the money! All, all of it – he's drunk it,’ the poor woman cried in despair, ‘and he's lost his good clothes! And they're hungry, hungry!’ (And, wringing her hands, she pointed at the children.) ‘Oh, thrice-accursed life! And you, aren't you ashamed?’ she said suddenly, turning on Raskolnikov. ‘You've been at the drinking den! You've been drinking with him, haven't you? You're another one of them! Go on, get out!’

The young man hurriedly left, without saying a word. What was more, the inner door flew wide open and several curious onlookers peeped round it. Brazen, laughing heads came craning through, with cigarettes, with pipes, in skull-caps. Figures could be seen in dressing-gowns worn completely open, in summer clothes that bordered on the indecent, some with cards in their hands. Their laughter was particularly animated when
Marmeladov, as he was being dragged along by his hair, shouted that it was a pleasure to him. People actually started coming into the room; at last the sound of an ominous shrieking made itself heard: this was Amalia Lippewechsel herself forcing her way through in front of everyone else with the intention of restoring order in her own way and for the hundredth time – by terrifying the poor woman with a violently abusive injunction to quit the apartment the very next morning. As he left, Raskolnikov had time to stick his hand in his pocket, scoop out of it the copper change from the rouble he had spent in the drinking den, and place it unobtrusively on the windowsill. A moment or two later, when he was already on the staircase, he almost changed his mind and went back.

‘What sort of silly thing to do was that?’ he thought. ‘They've got Sonya, and I need that money myself.’ But, reasoning that he could not possibly take it back now, and that he would not take it back even if such a thing were possible, he waved his arm impatiently and set off on foot for his lodgings. ‘After all, Sonya does need to buy face-cream, you know,’ he went on, striding along the street and smiling to himself sarcastically. ‘Cleanliness like that costs money… Hm! And after all, Sonya herself may go bankrupt today, because it's a risky business she's in, as risky as big-game hunting or… goldmining, and without my money they may all be on their uppers tomorrow… Three cheers for Sonya! They've hit a rich seam there. And they're making the most of it, my, how they're making the most of it. And now they're grown used to it. They've shed a few tears, and are used to it. Man can get used to anything, the villain!’

He began to reflect.

‘Well, and what if I'm mistaken?’ he suddenly found himself exclaiming. ‘What if man – the whole human race in general, I mean – isn't really a
villain
at all? If that's true, it means that all the rest is just a load of superstition, just a lot of fears that have been put into people's heads, and there are no limits, and that's how it's meant to be!…’

Next morning he woke up late after a troubled sleep that did not refresh him. He awoke feeling bilious, short-tempered and uncharitable, and surveyed his little room with detestation. It was a tiny little cell, about six paces long, and it presented a most pitiful aspect with its grimy, yellow wallpaper that was everywhere coming off the walls; it was so low-ceilinged that to a person of even slightly above-average height it felt claustrophobic, as though one might bang one's head against the plaster at any moment. The furniture was commensurate with its surroundings: there were three old chairs, not in very good condition, and in one corner a painted table on which lay a few books and exercise-books (from the mere fact that they were covered in dust it could be seen that it was a long time since anyone had touched them), and a big, ungainly sofa, which took up practically the whole of one wall and half the width of the room, had at one time had an upholstering of chintz, but was now in rags, and served as Raskolnikov's bed. He often slept on it as he was, without bothering to undress, without a sheet, covering himself with his old, threadbare student's coat and resting his head on a single small pillow beneath which he put all the linen he possessed, clean and soiled, to give some extra height. In front of the sofa there was a little table.

It would have been hard to go much further to seed or to sink to a lower level of personal neglect; but to Raskolnikov, in his present state of mind, this was actually gratifying. He had, in no uncertain terms, withdrawn from everyone, like a tortoise into its shell, and even the face of the maidservant whose task it was to wait upon him and who sometimes peeped into his room irritated him to the point of bile and convulsions. This is often the case with a certain kind of monomaniac who spends all his time thinking too much about something. It was now two weeks since his landlady had stopped supplying him with meals, yet he would never have dreamed of going down to argue with her, even though he went without his dinner. As a matter of fact, Nastasya, the landlady's cook and only servant, was really
somewhat pleased by this attitude on the part of the lodger, and had completely given up tidying and sweeping his quarters, except for the odd occasion, roughly once a week, when she poked her broom into them almost by accident. She it had been who just now had woken him up.

‘What, are you still sleeping? It's time to get up!’ she shouted, standing over him. ‘It's nearly gone ten. I've brought you some tea; do you want it? Or are you just going to waste away to nothing?’

The lodger opened his eyes, gave a start and recognized Nastasya.

‘What's this? Tea from the landlady?’ he asked, slowly and painfully raising himself on the sofa.

‘You've got a hope!’

She set before him her own cracked teapot, containing a weak brew of tea made with used leaves, and placed beside it two yellow lumps of sugar.

‘Here, Nastasya, take this, please,’ he said, fumbling in his pocket (he had been sleeping in his clothes) and pulling from it a small handful of copper change. ‘Go out and buy me a roll. And get me a bit of sausage at the sausage-dealer's, the cheapest they have.’

‘I'll get you the roll in a minute, but won't you have some cabbage-soup instead of the sausage? It's good stuff, I made it yesterday. I left some for you yesterday, but you were too late. It's good stuff.’

When the cabbage soup had been brought in and he had set to work on it, Nastasya seated herself beside him on the sofa and began to chatter away. She was a country girl, and a very indiscreet one, too.

‘Praskovya Pavlovna says she's going to complain about you to the police,’ she said.

He frowned hard.

‘To the police? What's bothering her?’

‘You don't pay your rent but you don't quit the room. It's easy to see what's bothering her.’

‘The devil, that's all I needed,’ he muttered, gritting his teeth. ‘No, this isn't the right time… not now… She's a fool,’ he
added, loudly. ‘I'll go and see her today, have a word with her.’

‘Fool she may be, just the same as me, but what's a clever fellow like you doing lying there like a lump, with never a sound or a sight of you? You said before you used to go and give lessons to children, but now you don't do anything – why?’

‘Oh, but I do do something…’ Raskolnikov said, sternly and reluctantly.

‘What?’

‘Work…’

‘What sort of work?’

‘Thinking,’ he replied seriously, after a brief silence.

Nastasya fairly rolled with laughter. She was a giggly sort of girl, and when anything set her off she would laugh inaudibly, shaking and swaying with her whole body until she began to feel sick.

‘Thought up a lot of money, have you?’ she managed to get out at last.

‘One can't go and give lessons to children if one doesn't have any boots. Oh, in any case, I don't give a spit.’

‘Don't spit in the well, will you?’

‘They pay one in coppers for giving lessons to children. What can one do with a few copecks?’ he went on reluctantly, as if he were trying to find answers to his own thoughts.

‘Oh, so you want all the capital at once, do you?’

He gave her a strange look.

‘Yes, all the capital,’ he replied firmly, after a slight pause.

‘Well, take it easy, or you'll end up frightening me; you've made me quite terrified. Do you want me to go and get you that roll, or not?’

‘As you wish.’

‘Oh, I forgot! There was a letter for you yesterday, it came when you weren't here.’

‘A letter? For me? From whom?’

‘I don't know. I had to give the postman three copecks out of my own money. Will you give me them back – eh?’

‘Oh, go and get it, for God's sake go and get it!’ Raskolnikov shouted, thoroughly excited. ‘Lord in Heaven!’

A moment later the letter made its appearance. It was as he
thought: from his mother, in the province of R—. He actually turned pale as he took it. It was a long time since he had had any letters; now, however, his heart was wrung by some other, quite different emotion.

‘Nastasya, in the name of heaven, please go now; here are your three copecks; only, for God's sake, go!’

The letter trembled in his hands; he was reluctant to open it in her presence; he wanted to be left
alone
with this letter. When Nastasya had gone, he quickly brought it to his lips and kissed it; then for a long time he peered closely at the handwriting of the address, at the dear, familiar, fine and slanting script of his mother, who had once upon a time taught him to read and write. He lingered over it; he even seemed to be afraid of something. At last, he broke the seal: the letter was a big, thick one, two
lots
in weight;
¹
the two large sheets of notepaper were entirely covered in microscopic handwriting.

My dear Rodya, (
his mother wrote
)

It is now more than two months since I last spoke to you by letter, and I've suffered on that account, some nights I haven't even been able to sleep for thinking about it. But I know you won't blame me for this unwished-for silence of mine. You know how I love you; you're the only one we think of, Dunya and I, you're everything to us, all our hopes and aspirations rolled into one. How terrible I felt when I learned that a few months ago you dropped out of the university because you couldn't manage to support yourself, and that your lessons and your other means of income had come to a stop! How could I possibly help you when I have only my pension of a hundred and twenty roubles a year? The fifteen roubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed, as you yourself know, on the strength of that pension, from Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, a local merchant. He's a good, kind man, and he was one of your father's friends. But, having given him the right to receive the pension in my stead, I've had to wait until the debt was paid off, and this has only just happened now, so I've not been able to send you anything all this time. But now, thank God, I think I'll be able to send you a bit more, and indeed in general we can
now actually boast of our good fortune, which is what I'm in such a hurry to tell you about. In the first place, dear Rodya, would you believe it if I told you that for the past six weeks your sister has been living here with me, and that we're not going to be parted ever again? Thank the Lord, her torments are at an end, but I shall tell you it all in sequence, so you'll see what's been going on and what it is we've been hiding from you until now. When you wrote about two months ago and told me that you'd heard from someone that Dunya was putting up with a lot of rudeness in the Svidrigailovs’ household, and asked me for a detailed explanation – what could I have written you in reply? If I'd given you the whole truth, you would probably have dropped everything and come to see us, on foot even, if you'd had to, because I know your temperament and feelings, and you would have stood up for your sister. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? At that time, not even I knew the whole truth. The main problem was that when Dunya entered their household last year in the capacity of governess, she was given no less than a hundred roubles in advance, but was told that a certain amount would be deducted from her salary each month, thus making it impossible for her to leave her post without having paid off her debt. This sum (now I can explain everything to you, my precious Rodya) she accepted principally in order to be able to send you the sixty roubles you needed so badly at the time and which you got from us last year. We deceived you then, wrote and told you that it was some of the money Dunya had managed to save from her previous job, but that wasn't true; I'm able to tell you the whole truth now because everything has suddenly, by God's will, changed for the better, and I do it also so you will know how much Dunya loves you and what a wonderful warm heart she has. Mr Svidrigailov was indeed rude to her and made various impolite suggestions and sneering remarks to her at table… But I don't want to enter into all those distressing details, for they would just upset you for nothing – I mean, it's all over now. To cut a long story short: in spite of the kind and decent treatment she received from Marfa Petrovna (Mr Svidrigailov's wife) and all the rest of the family, Dunya had a very hard time of it, particularly when
Mr Svidrigailov, following an old regimental custom of his, happened to be under the influence of Bacchus. But what do you think turned out to be the case later on? Just imagine: that madcap had long had a hankering after Dunya, but had been concealing it beneath a facade of rudeness and contempt towards her. Perhaps he himself was ashamed, and kept falling into a state of horror when he viewed himself, now getting on in years and the father of a family, possessed by such frivolous hopes, and for that reason could not help acting towards Dunya in a hostile manner. It might also have been that his rude behaviour and sneering were an attempt to conceal the truth from others. In the end, however, he could not restrain himself and dared to make Dunya an open and base proposition, holding out various rewards to her and telling her into the bargain that he would give up everything and move with her to another estate or possibly even abroad. You can imagine the suffering she went through! To leave her post at once was impossible, not only because of the money she owed, but also because she wished to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, who might have suddenly had suspicions, and she would consequently end up sowing dissension in the family. Why, it would have been a major scandal for Dunya, too; there would have been no getting out of it. In fact, there were all sorts of reasons why Dunya could on no account expect to be able to escape from that dreadful household. Of course, you know Dunya, you know how clever she is and what a firm character she has. Dunya can put up with all sorts of things, and even in the most extreme situations she's able to find enough generosity of spirit within herself so as not to lose her firmness. She even didn't put it all in her letters in order not to upset me, yet we frequently wrote to each other to exchange news. The dénouement was quite unexpected: Marfa Petrovna chanced to overhear her husband pleading with Dunya in the garden and, misinterpreting it all, accused her of the whole thing, supposing that she was the one who was the cause of it all. In the garden there immediately took place a dreadful scene: Marfa Petrovna actually hit Dunya, wouldn't listen to a word she had to say, spent a whole hour shouting and finally gave orders for her to be taken to me in the
town in a simple peasants' cart, into which they hurled all her belongings, her linen and her clothes, all any old how, without any baling or packing. And then it started to pour with rain, and Dunya, insulted and disgraced, had to drive in an open cart, sitting beside a muzhik, all seventeen versts of the way. Think now what sort of letter I could have written you in reply to the one I had from you two months ago! What could I have put in it? I myself was in despair; I didn't dare write you the truth, because you would have been very unhappy, aggrieved and indignant, and what could you have done? You would only have made yourself worse than you already were, and in any case Dunya wouldn't allow it; and I couldn't just fill the letter with rubbish about this, that and the other, when I had such misery in my soul. For all of a month our whole town was rife with rumours concerning this episode, and it came to the point where Dunya and I couldn't even go to church for the contemptuous stares and whispers we received; people even talked about us in our presence. As for our friends, they all shunned us, even stopped saying hallo to us, and I obtained certain knowledge that the merchant's shop-boys and some office clerks were out to do a beastly thing to us – tar the front entrance of the building where we lived, so that our landlords would give us notice to quit our apartment. At the bottom of all this was Marfa Petrovna, who had succeeded in putting the blame on Dunya and blackening her character in every household. She knows everyone in our town, and that month she made visits here practically by the minute; and since she's a bit indiscreet and likes talking about her family matters and, in particular, complaining about her husband to all and sundry, which is a really horrible thing to do, within a short space of time she'd not only spread the whole story all over the town, but over the whole district, too. I fell ill, but Dunya was stronger than I was, and you should have seen the way she bore it all and yet managed to console me and keep my spirits up at the same time! She's an angel! However, by the mercy of God, our torments were cut short: Mr Svidrigailov thought the better of it and repented; probably having taken pity on Dunya, he presented Marfa Petrovna with the complete and tangible proof of Dunya's innocence
in the form of a letter which, before Marfa Petrovna had caught them in the garden together, Dunya had been compelled to write and to give to him, in order to put a stop to the personal declarations and secret rendezvous on which he had been insisting, and which, after Dunya's departure, had remained in the hands of Mr Svidrigailov. In this letter she rebuked him in the most fiery manner, full of indignation, for the infamy of his conduct towards Marfa Petrovna, put him reprovingly in mind of the fact that he was a father and a family man and that, moreover, it was vile of him to torment and make even more unhappy a girl whose unhappiness and defencelessness were bad enough. In a word, dear Rodya, this letter was written so nobly and movingly that I sobbed as I read it, and even to this day I can't read it without tears. In addition, Dunya's good name was cleared by the testimony of the servants, who had seen and who knew far more than Mr Svidrigailov had ever supposed, as is always the case in such situations. Marfa Petrovna was utterly shocked and ‘destroyed anew’, as she herself confessed, but was on the other hand entirely convinced of Dunya's innocence and, on the next day, on the Sunday, coming straight to the church, went down on her knees and in tears begged the Queen of Heaven to give her the strength to endure this new ordeal and to fulfil her duty. Then, fresh from church, without bothering to look in anywhere else, she came straight to us, told us everything, wept bitterly and, in complete repentance, embraced Dunya and begged her to forgive her. That same morning, wasting no time, she went straight from us to all the houses in town, and in every one of them, in terms most flattering to Dunya, shedding floods of tears, re-established Dunya's innocence and the nobility of her emotions and behaviour. Not only that: she showed and read aloud to everyone that letter Dunya had written in her own hand to Mr Svidrigailov, and even allowed people to make copies of it (which I consider is going a bit too far). Thus it was that she had to spend several days going round to everyone in town, as some people began to get offended that others had been shown preference, and thus it was that queues began to form, so that in every house people were waiting for it to be their turn, and
everyone knew that on such-and-such a day Marfa Petrovna would be reading that letter in this house or that house, and present at every reading of it would be even those people who had already heard the letter several times in their own homes and those of their friends. It's my opinion that she went far, far too far: but that's the sort of woman Marfa Petrovna is. At any rate, she completely restored Dunya's honour, and the entire vileness of the whole affair has come to rest at the door of her husband, he being the principal culprit, as an indelible disgrace, so that I actually feel sorry for him; they've dealt with that madcap far too harshly. Dunya was immediately invited to go and give lessons in several households, but she refused. In general, everyone started treating her with particular respect. All of this was more than anything else instrumental in bringing about the unexpected circumstance by virtue of which it may be said that our entire fortunes are now changing. I must tell you, dear Rodya, that a bachelor has been seeking Dunya's hand in marriage and that she has now given her consent, a fact of which I hasten to notify you at the earliest possible moment. And although this is something that was done without consulting you, I'm sure you won't bear your sister or myself any grudge, as you will see yourself from the facts of the case that it would have been impossible for us to wait and postpone our decision until we'd had your reply. And you yourself couldn't have formed a proper, detailed judgement without being here. It happened like this. He's already a lieutenant-colonel in the civil service, his name's Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, and he's a distant relative of Marfa Petrovna, who's had a lot to do with the whole business. It began with him conveying through her his desire to make our acquaintance; we received him in the proper manner, he had coffee with us, and the next day he sent us a letter in which he very politely made his proposal, asking for a swift and definite reply. He's a man of business, he's hard at work and he's now in a hurry to get to St Petersburg, so every moment is precious to him. Of course, at first we were very shocked, as it all happened so suddenly and unexpectedly. We both spent the whole of that day weighing the pros and cons and thinking about the matter. He's a trustworthy and well-to-do man, has
two positions and already has capital of his own. It's true that he's already forty-five, but he has a very pleasant appearance and may still be attractive to women, and in general he's a very decent and respectable man, just a bit arrogant and on the gloomy side. But that may just be how he appears at first sight. Now I warn you, dear Rodya, that when you meet him in St Petersburg, which will be very soon now, you mustn't judge him too quickly and hastily, the way you usually do when you don't like something about somebody at first glance. I say this just in case, as I'm certain he'll make a pleasant impression on you. Indeed, in order to get to know anyone at all, it is necessary to approach them cautiously and by stages, so as not to jump to erroneous conclusions which may be very hard to correct and make amends for afterwards. And there are many grounds for believing that Pyotr Petrovich is a highly honourable man. On his first visit to us he told us that he's a positive man, but that he shares, as he himself put it, ‘the convictions of our most recent generations’, and is an enemy to all forms of prejudice. He said a great many other things, too, because he's a little vain and is rather fond of making other people listen to him, but I mean, that scarcely amounts to a sin. I didn't understand much of it of course, but Dunya explained to me that even though he's not a man of great education, he is none the less intelligent and, it would appear, kind. You know what your sister's like, Rodya. She's a steadfast, sensible, patient and magnanimous girl, though she has a fiery heart – something I've come to know very well. Of course, neither on his side nor on hers is there any great love, but Dunya, quite apart from being a clever girl, is at the same time a being as noble as an angel, and she will make it her duty to constitute the happiness of her husband, who in his turn will care about hers; of this last we have as yet no major reason to doubt, though I must admit that the whole thing has happened a bit quickly. What's more, he's a very prudent man, and he naturally sees that his own conjugal bliss will be that bit more secure the happier Dunya is being married to him. And as for a few roughnesses of character, old habits and even a certain lack of harmony with regard to ideas (something that is impossible to avoid even in the most happy of marriages), on that score