community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky
table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and
resolutely:

“May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation?
Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my
experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not
accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in
conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular
counsellor in rank. Marmeladov--such is my name; titular counsellor. I
make bold to inquire--have you been in the service?”

“No, I am studying,” answered the young man, somewhat surprised at
the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly
addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for
company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his
habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached
or attempted to approach him.

“A student then, or formerly a student,” cried the clerk. “Just what
I thought! I’m a man of experience, immense experience, sir,” and he
tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. “You’ve been a
student or have attended some learned institution!... But allow me....”
He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside
the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke
fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his
sentences and drawling his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as
greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a month.

“Honoured sir,” he began almost with solemnity, “poverty is not a vice,
that’s a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue,
and that that’s even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a
vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but
in beggary--never--no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of human
society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as
humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary
I am ready to be the first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house!
Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and
my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me
to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent
a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?”

“No, I have not happened to,” answered Raskolnikov. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve just come from one and it’s the fifth night I’ve slept
so....” He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in
fact clinging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite
probable that he had not undressed or washed for the last five days.
His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black
nails.

His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The
boys at the counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the
upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the “funny fellow”
and sat down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity.
Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had most
likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of
frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in
the tavern. This habit develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and
especially in those who are looked after sharply and kept in order
at home. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify
themselves and even if possible obtain consideration.

“Funny fellow!” pronounced the innkeeper. “And why don’t you work, why
aren’t you at your duty, if you are in the service?”

“Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,” Marmeladov went on, addressing
himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put
that question to him. “Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache
to think what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov
beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn’t I suffer?
Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you... hm... well, to
petition hopelessly for a loan?”

“Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?”

“Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you
will get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive
certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will
on no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he?
For he knows of course that I shan’t pay it back. From compassion? But
Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day
that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that’s
what is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I
ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that
he won’t, I set off to him and...”

“Why do you go?” put in Raskolnikov.

“Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must
have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must
go somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket,
then I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport),” he added
in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man.
“No matter, sir, no matter!” he went on hurriedly and with apparent
composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the
innkeeper smiled--“No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of
their heads; for everyone knows everything about it already, and all
that is secret is made open. And I accept it all, not with contempt, but
with humility. So be it! So be it! ‘Behold the man!’ Excuse me, young

hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky

table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and

resolutely:

“May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation?

Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my

experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not

accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in

conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular

counsellor in rank. Marmeladov--such is my name; titular counsellor. I

make bold to inquire--have you been in the service?”

“No, I am studying,” answered the young man, somewhat surprised at

the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly

addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for

company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his

habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached

or attempted to approach him.

“A student then, or formerly a student,” cried the clerk. “Just what

I thought! I’m a man of experience, immense experience, sir,” and he

tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. “You’ve been a

student or have attended some learned institution!... But allow me....”

He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside

the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke

fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his

sentences and drawling his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as

greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a month.

“Honoured sir,” he began almost with solemnity, “poverty is not a vice,

that’s a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue,

and that that’s even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a

vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but

in beggary--never--no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of human

society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as

humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary

I am ready to be the first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house!

Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and

my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me

to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent

a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?”

“No, I have not happened to,” answered Raskolnikov. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve just come from one and it’s the fifth night I’ve slept

so....” He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in

fact clinging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite

probable that he had not undressed or washed for the last five days.

His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black

nails.

His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The

boys at the counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the

upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the “funny fellow”

and sat down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity.

Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had most

likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of

frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in

the tavern. This habit develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and

especially in those who are looked after sharply and kept in order

at home. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify

themselves and even if possible obtain consideration.

“Funny fellow!” pronounced the innkeeper. “And why don’t you work, why

aren’t you at your duty, if you are in the service?”

“Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,” Marmeladov went on, addressing

himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put

that question to him. “Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache

to think what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov

beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn’t I suffer?

Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you... hm... well, to

petition hopelessly for a loan?”

“Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?”

“Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you

will get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive

certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will

on no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he?

For he knows of course that I shan’t pay it back. From compassion? But

Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day

that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that’s

what is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I

ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that

he won’t, I set off to him and...”

“Why do you go?” put in Raskolnikov.

“Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must

have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must

go somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket,

then I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport),” he added

in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man.

“No matter, sir, no matter!” he went on hurriedly and with apparent

composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the

innkeeper smiled--“No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of

their heads; for everyone knows everything about it already, and all

that is secret is made open. And I accept it all, not with contempt, but

with humility. So be it! So be it! ‘Behold the man!’ Excuse me, young