“And today I went to see Sonya and asked her for the hair of the dog! ... Heh, heh, heh!”

“Did she give it to you?” one of the newcomers shouted from the side, shouted and guffawed at the top of his lungs.

“This very bottle here was bought on her money, sir,” Marmeladov said, addressing Raskolnikov exclusively. “She took out thirty kopecks for me, with her own hands, the last she had, I saw it myself...She didn't say anything, she just looked at me silently...That is not done on earth, but up there...people are grieved for, wept over, and not reproached, not reproached! And it hurts more, it hurts more, sir, when one is not reproached! . .. Thirty kopecks, yes, sir. And doesn't she also need them now, eh? What do you think, my dear gentlemen? For she has to observe her cleanliness now. This cleanliness—of a special sort, you understand—costs money. Understand? And to buy a bit of pomade as well, can't do without that, sir; starched petticoats, some shoes of a frippery sort to show off her foot when she steps over a puddle. Do you understand, do you understand, sir, what this cleanliness means? So, sir, and now I, her blood father, snatched, these thirty kopecks for the hair of the dog! And I'm drinking, sir! And I've already drunk them up, sir! ... So, who's going to pity the likes of me? Eh? Do you pity me now, sir, or do you not? Speak, sir, do you or do you not? Heh, heh, heh, heh!”

He wanted to pour some more, but there was nothing left. The bottle was empty.

“Why pity you?” shouted the proprietor, who turned up near them again.

There was laughter and even swearing. The laughter and swearing came both from those who were listening and from those who were not listening but merely looking at the figure of the retired official.

“Pity! Why pity me!” Marmeladov suddenly cried out, rising with his hand stretched forth, in decided inspiration, as if he had only been waiting for these words. “Why pity me, you say? Yes! There's nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, and not pitied! But crucify, judge, crucify, and having crucified, pity the man! And then I myself will come to you to be crucified, for I thirst not for joy, but for sorrow and tears! ...  Do you think, wine-merchant, that this bottle of yours brought me sweetness? Sorrow, sorrow I sought at its bottom, sorrow and tears, and I tasted it and found it; and He will pity us who pitied everyone, and who understood all men and all women, He alone, and He is the judge. On that day He will come and ask, 'Where is the daughter who gave herself for a wicked and consumptive stepmother, for a stranger's little children? Where is the daughter who pitied her earthly father, a foul drunkard, not shrinking from his beastliness?' And He will say, 'Come! I have already forgiven you once...I have forgiven you once...And now, too, your many sins are forgiven, for you have loved much^[15]...' And He will forgive my Sonya, He will forgive her, I know He will... Today, when I was with her, I felt it in my heart! And He will judge and forgive all, the good and the wicked, the wise and the humble...And when He has finished with everyone, then He will say unto us, too, 'You, too, come forth!' He will say. 'Come forth, my drunk ones, my weak ones, my shameless ones!' And we will all come forth, without being ashamed, and stand there. And He will say, 'Swine you are! Of the image of the beast and of his seal;^[16] but come, you, too!' And the wise and the reasonable will say unto Him, 'Lord, why do you receive such as these?' And He will say, 'I receive them, my wise and reasonable ones, forasmuch as not one of them considered himself worthy of this thing . . .' And He will stretch out His arms to us, and we will fall at His feet. . . and weep...and understand everything! Then we will understand everything! ... and everyone will understand...and Katerina Ivanovna...she, too, will understand...Lord, Thy kingdom come!”^[17]

And he sank down on the bench, exhausted and weak, not looking at anyone, apparently oblivious of his surroundings and deep in thought. His words produced a certain impression; for a moment silence reigned, but soon laughter and swearing were heard again:

“Nice reasoning!”

“Blather!”

“A real official!”

And so on and so forth.

“Let us go, sir,” Marmeladov said suddenly, raising his head and turning to Raskolnikov. “Take me...Kozel's house, through the courtyard. It's time...to Katerina Ivanovna . . .”

Raskolnikov had long been wanting to leave, and had himself thought of helping him. Marmeladov, who turned out to be much weaker on his feet than in his speeches, leaned heavily on the young man. They had to go two or three hundred steps. Confusion and fear took more and more possession of the drunkard as he neared home.

“It's not Katerina Ivanovna I'm afraid of now,” he muttered in agitation, “and not that she'll start pulling my hair. Forget the hair! ... The hair's nonsense! I can tell you! It's even better if she starts pulling it; that's not what I'm afraid of...I...it's her eyes I'm afraid of...yes...her eyes... I'm also afraid of the flushed spots on her cheeks, and also—her breathing . .. Have you ever seen how people with that illness breathe...when their feelings are aroused? And I'm afraid of the children's crying, too...Because if Sonya hasn't been feeding them, then...I don't know what! I really don't! And I'm not afraid of a beating...Know, sir, that such beatings are not only not painful, but are even a delight to me...For I myself cannot do without them. It's better. Let her beat me, to ease her soul...it's better...Here's the house. Kozel's house. A locksmith, a German, a rich one...take me in!”

They entered through the courtyard and went up to the fourth floor. The higher up, the darker the stairway became. It was nearly eleven o'clock by then, and though at that time of year there is no real night in Petersburg,^[18] it was very dark at the top of the stairs.

At the head of the stairs, at the very top, a small, soot-blackened door stood open. A candle-end lighted the poorest of rooms, about ten paces long; the whole of it could be seen from the entryway. Everything was scattered about and in disorder, all sorts of children's rags especially. A torn sheet hung across the back corner. Behind it was probably a bed. The only contents of the room itself were two chairs and an oilcloth sofa, very ragged, before which stood an old pine kitchen table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood an iron candlestick with the butt of a tallow candle burning down in it. It appeared that this room of Marmeladov's was a separate one, not just a corner, though other tenants had to pass through it. The door to the further rooms, or hutches, into which Amalia Lippewechsel's apartment had been divided, was ajar. Behind it there was noise and shouting. Guffawing. Card-playing and tea-drinking seemed to be going on. Occasionally the most unceremonious words would fly out.

Raskolnikov immediately recognized Katerina Ivanovna. She was a terribly wasted woman, slender, quite tall and trim, still with beautiful dark brown hair, and indeed with flushed spots on her cheeks. She was pacing the small room, her hands pressed to her chest, her lips parched, her breath uneven and gasping. Her eyes glittered as with fever, but her gaze was sharp and fixed, and with the last light of the burnt-down candle-end flickering on it, this consumptive and agitated face produced a painful impression. To Raskolnikov she appeared about thirty years old, and Marmeladov was indeed no match for her...She did not hear or notice them as they entered; she seemed to be in some sort of oblivion, not hearing or seeing anything. The room was stuffy, yet she had not opened the window; a stench came from the stairs, yet the door to the stairs was not shut; waves of tobacco smoke came through the open door from the inner rooms, she was coughing, yet she did not close the door. The smallest child, a girl of about six, was asleep on the floor, sitting somehow crouched with her head buried in the sofa. The boy, a year older, stood in the corner crying and trembling all over. He had probably just been beaten. The older girl, about nine, tall and thin as a matchstick, wearing only a poor shirt, all in tatters, with a threadbare flannel wrap thrown over her bare shoulders, probably made for her two years before, since it now did not even reach her knees, stood in the corner by her little brother, her long arm, dry as a matchstick, around his neck. She was whispering something to him, apparently trying to calm him, doing all she could to restrain him so that he would not somehow start whimpering again, and at the same time following her mother fearfully with her big, dark eyes, which seemed even bigger in her wasted and frightened little face. Mar-meladov knelt just at the door, without entering the room, and pushed Raskolnikov forward. The woman, seeing the stranger, stopped distractedly in front of him, having come to her senses for a moment, and appeared to be asking herself why he was there. But she must have fancied at once that he was going to some other room and only passing through theirs. Having come to this conclusion, and taking no further notice of him, she went to the entryway to close the door and suddenly gave a cry, seeing her husband kneeling there in the doorway.