“Ah!” she cried in a frenzy, “he's come back! The jailbird! The monster! ... Where's the money? What's in your pocket, show me! And those aren't the same clothes! Where are your clothes? Where is the money? Speak! ... ”

And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov at once spread his arms humbly and obediently, to make the search of his pockets easier. Not a kopeck was left of the money.

“But where is the money?” she shouted. “Oh, Lord, did he really drink up all of it? There were twelve roubles left in the trunk! ... ” And suddenly, in a rage, she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov made her efforts easier by meekly crawling after her on his knees.

“And it's a delight to me! It's not painful, it's a deli-i-ight, my de-e-ear sir,” he kept crying out, being pulled by his hair all the while and once even bumping his forehead on the floor. The child who was asleep on the floor woke up and started to cry. The boy in the corner could not help himself, trembled, cried out, and rushed to his sister in a terrible fright, almost a fit. The older girl, half awake, was trembling like a leaf.

“Drank it up! Drank up all of it, all of it!” the poor woman kept shouting in despair. “And they're not the same clothes! Hungry! Hungry!” (she pointed at the children, wringing her hands). “Oh, curse this life! And you, aren't you ashamed,” she suddenly fell upon Raskolnikov, “coming from the pot-house! Were you drinking with him? Were you drinking with him, too? Get out!”

The young man hastened to leave without saying a word. Besides, the inner door had been thrown wide open and several curious faces were peering through it. Insolent, laughing heads with cigarettes or pipes, in skullcaps, craning their necks. One glimpsed figures in dressing gowns that hung quite open, or in indecently summerish costumes, some with cards in their hands. They laughed with particular glee when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a delight to him. They even started edging into the room. Finally an ominous shrieking was heard: this was Amalia Lippewechsel herself tearing her way through, to restore order in her own fashion and frighten the poor woman for the hundredth time with an abusive command to clear out of the apartment by the next day. As he was leaving, Raskolnikov managed to thrust his hand into his pocket, rake up whatever coppers he happened to find from the rouble he had changed in the tavern, and put them unobserved on the windowsill. Afterwards, on the stairs, he thought better of it and wanted to go back.

“What a stupid thing to have done,” he thought. “They have their Sonya, and I need it myself.” But realizing that it was now impossible to take it back, and that he would not take it back in any case, he waved his hand and went home to his own apartment. “Sonya needs a bit of pomade as well,” he went on, and grinned caustically as he strode along the street. “This cleanliness costs money...Hm! And maybe Sonechka will also go bankrupt today, because there's the same risk in it. . . trapping...prospecting for gold...and so tomorrow, without my money, they'd all be on dry beans...Bravo, Sonya! What a well they've dug for themselves, however! And they use it! They really do use it! And they got accustomed to it. Wept a bit and got accustomed. Man gets accustomed to everything, the scoundrel!”

He fell to thinking.

“But if that's a lie”,” he suddenly exclaimed involuntarily, “if man in fact is not a scoundrel—in general, that is, the whole human race—then the rest is all mere prejudice, instilled fear, and there are no barriers, and that's just how it should be! . . .”

III

He woke up late the next day, after a troubled sleep, but sleep had not fortified him. He woke up bilious, irritable, and angry, and looked with hatred at his little room. It was a tiny closet, about six paces long, of a most pathetic appearance, with yellow, dusty wallpaper coming off the walls everywhere, and with such a low ceiling that a man of any height at all felt creepy in it and kept thinking he might bump his head every moment. The furniture was in keeping with the place. There were three old chairs, not quite in good repair; a painted table in the corner, on which lay several books and notebooks (from the mere fact that they were so covered with dust, one could see that no hand had touched them for a long time); and finally a big, clumsy sofa, which occupied almost the entire wall and half the width of the room, and had once been upholstered in chintz but was now all ragged and served as Raskolnikov's bed. He often slept on it just as he was, without undressing, without a sheet, covering himself with his old, decrepit student's coat,^[19] and with one small pillow under his head, beneath which he put whatever linen he had, clean or soiled, to bolster it. In front of the sofa stood a small table.

To become more degraded and slovenly would have been difficult; but Raskolnikov even enjoyed it in his present state of mind. He had decidedly withdrawn from everyone, like a turtle into its shell, and even the face of the maid who had the task of serving him, and who peeked into his room occasionally, drove him to bile and convulsions. This happens with certain monomaniacs when they concentrate too long on some one thing. It was two weeks since his landlady had stopped sending food up to him, but it had not yet occurred to him to go and have a talk with her, though he was left without dinner. Nastasya, the landlady's cook and only servant, was glad in a way that the tenant was in such a mood, and stopped tidying and sweeping his room altogether; only once a week, just by accident, she would sometimes take a besom to it. It was she who woke him now.

“Enough sleeping! Get up!” she shouted over him. “It's past nine. I've brought you tea; want some tea? You must be wasting away!”

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

“Is it the landlady's tea, or what?” he asked, slowly and with a pained look raising himself a little on the sofa.

“The landlady's, hah!”

She placed in front of him her own cracked teapot, full of re-used tea, and two yellow lumps of sugar.

“Here, Nastasya, please take this,” he said, feeling in his pocket (he had slept in his clothes) and pulling out a handful of copper coins, “and go and buy me a roll. And a bit of sausage, too, whatever's cheapest, at the pork butcher's.”

“I'll bring you a roll this minute, but don't you want some cabbage soup instead of the sausage? It's good cabbage soup, made yesterday. I saved some for you yesterday, but you came back late. Good cabbage soup.”

Once the soup was brought and he had begun on it, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and started chattering. She was a village woman, and a very chattery one.

“And so Praskovya Pavlovna wants to make a complaint against you with the poliss,” she said.

He winced deeply.

“With the police? What does she want?”

“You don't pay her the money and you won't vacate the room. What do you think she wants?”

“Ah, the devil, that's all I need,” he muttered, grinding his teeth. “No, it's just the wrong time for that...now...She's a fool,” he added aloud. “I'll stop and have a talk with her today.”

“A fool she may be, the same as I am, and aren't you a smarty, lying around like a sack and no good to anybody! You say you used to go and teach children before, so why don't you do anything now?”

“I do something . . .” Raskolnikov said, reluctantly and sternly.

“What do you do?”

“Work . . .”

“Which work?”

“I think,” he replied seriously, after a pause.

Nastasya simply dissolved in laughter. She was the sort much given to laughter, and when something made her laugh, she laughed inaudibly, heaving and shaking her whole body, until she made herself sick.