Free Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page A

in beggary, nobody retains it, ever. Beggars are not driven from the fold of humanity with a stick – no, they are swept out with a broom to make the insult all the greater; and rightly so, for in beggary I am the first to insult myself. Hence the public house! My good sir, a month ago Mr Lebezyatnikov gave my spouse a thrashing – and my spouse is nothing like
me
! Do you follow, sir? Permit me further to enquire, if for no better reason than mere curiosity: have you ever had occasion to pass the night on the Neva, on the hay barges?’
    â€˜No, I haven’t,’ replied Raskolnikov. ‘How do you mean?’
    â€˜Well, sir, that’s where I’ve been, for the fifth night running . . .’
    He refilled his glass and drank, lost in thought. Wisps of hay did indeed cling to his clothes here and there, and there was even some in his hair. It was more than likely that five days had passed since he’d last changed his clothes or washed. His hands, in particular, were filthy, greasy and red, the nails black.
    His conversation appeared to arouse a general, if idle interest. Theboys behind the bar began to titter. The landlord, it seemed, had come down specially from the room upstairs so as to listen to this ‘entertainer’, and he sat at a distance, yawning lazily and self-importantly. Marmeladov was clearly an old face here. And his penchant for flowery speech must have derived from his habit of talking to strangers in bars. For some drinkers this habit becomes a need, especially if at home they are ordered about and harshly treated. That’s why, in the company of other drinkers, they always go to such lengths to be vindicated and, if possible, earn their respect.
    â€˜A right entertainer!’ the landlord boomed. ‘Why’s you not working, then? Why, pray, d’you not serve, civil servant?’
    â€˜Why do I not serve, my dear sir?’ echoed Marmeladov, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it were he who had posed the question. ‘Why do I not serve? Does my heart not ache to know that I bow and scrape in vain? A month ago, when Mr Lebezyatnikov thrashed my spouse with his own bare hands, while I lay tipsy, did I not suffer? Pray tell me, young man, have you ever had occasion to . . . ahem . . . well, beg for a loan, say, without hope?’
    â€˜I have . . . but what do you mean, without hope?’
    â€˜I mean, without any hope at all, sir, knowing in advance that nothing will come of it. For example, you know in advance and with complete certainty that this man, this most well-intentioned and most helpful citizen, will not give you a copeck, for, I ask you, why should he? After all, he knows full well that I shan’t return it. Out of compassion? But Mr Lebezyatnikov, who keeps abreast of the latest thinking, was explaining only the other day that in our age even science has prohibited compassion, and that is how they already do things in England, where political economy 16 is all the rage. So, I ask you, why should he? And yet, knowing in advance that he will not give it to you, you set out all the same and . . .’
    â€˜So why go?’ Raskolnikov put in.
    â€˜What if there is nowhere else to go and no one else to go to? After all, every man must have at least somewhere he can go. There are times when one simply has to go somewhere, anywhere! When my only-begotten daughter went off to work for the first time on a “yellow ticket”, 17 I, too, went off . . . (for my daughter lives on a yellow ticket, sir . . . ),’ he added in parenthesis, looking at the young man with a certain unease. ‘Never mind, good sir, never mind!’ he hurriedly continuedwith apparent equanimity, when the two boys behind the bar snorted and the landlord grinned. ‘Never mind, sir! The mere wagging of heads cannot embarrass me, for now everything is known to