Crime and Punishment (35 page)

‘Sainted fathers!’ the coachman was wailing. ‘What could I have done? If I had been going fast, or if I hadn't shouted to him – but I was driving slow and even. Everybody saw it: I'm only human. A drunk man doesn't stop to light a candle – it's a well-known fact!… I saw him crossing the street, he was staggering about, nearly falling down… I shouted once, I shouted again and then a third time, and I reined the horses in; but he just fell straight under their hooves! I don't know whether he did it on purpose or whether he was just very drunk… These horses are young ones, easily frightened – they jerked, and he screamed – then they jerked even worse… that's what the trouble was.’

‘That's right, that's the way it happened!’ the voice of someone who had witnessed the accident called from the crowd.

‘And he did shout, it's true – he shouted three times,’ another voice responded.

‘That's right, three times, we all heard him!’ called a third.

The coachman was not, however, particularly downhearted or upset. It was plain that the carriage had a rich and important owner who was somewhere awaiting its arrival; the policemen were, of course, taking considerable pains to see that this did, in fact, take place. All that remained was for the man who had been run down to be taken to the police station, and from there to the hospital. No one knew his name.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov had managed to squeeze his way through, and he bent down even closer. Suddenly the lantern brightly illuminated the face of the unfortunate man; Raskolnikov recognized him.

‘I know him, I know him!’ he shouted, forcing his way right to the front. ‘He's a retired civil servant, a titular councillor – his name's Marmeladov! He lives in this part of town, just along there, in Kosel's Tenements… Quick, send for a doctor, I'll pay, look!’ He pulled the money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in a state of violent excitement.

The policemen were pleased that someone had recognized the victim of the accident. Raskolnikov told them his own name, too, gave them his address, and with all his might, as though it were his very own father who lay there, set about persuading them to carry the unconscious Marmeladov up to his lodgings.

‘He lives right here, just three buildings along,’ he said, pleading with them. ‘In Kosel's Tenements, the place that belongs to that German, the one with all the money… This man must be drunk, and was on his way home. I know him… He drinks… Along there he has a family – a wife and children, there's a daughter. We'll have to wait a long time before they cart him off to hospital, but there's bound to be a doctor in one of the apartment houses here! I'll pay, I'll pay!… At least he'll get some private attention; otherwise he'll die before he ever gets to the hospital…’

He even went to the length of discreetly slipping something into the policeman's hand; but the whole thing was without snags and above board, and in any case help was more readily available here. The injured man was lifted up and carried: helpers had come forward. Kosel's Tenements were situated some thirty yards away. Raskolnikov brought up the rear, carefully supporting the man's head and pointing out the way.

‘In here, in here! We'll have to carry him up the stairs head first. Turn him round… that's right! I'll pay for everything, I'll make it worth your while,’ he muttered.

As always whenever she had a spare moment, Katerina Ivanovna had lost no time in beginning to pace up and down her little room, from the window to the stove and back again,
her arms firmly folded in front of her as she talked to herself and coughed. Recently she had begun to hold ever more frequent conversations with her elder daughter, the ten-year-old Polenka, who, although there was much that she did not as yet understand, was none the less well aware that her mother needed her, and for this reason always followed her with her large, intelligent eyes and did her utmost to appear all-comprehending. On this occasion Polya was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day, in order to put him to bed. As he waited while she removed his shirt, which was to be washed overnight, the boy sat on the chair in silence, his expression serious, direct and unmoving, his little legs extended forwards, pressed tight together, the heels of his stockinged feet held up to his audience, and the toes turned outwards. He was listening to what his mother and sister were saying, his lips blown out, his eyes opened wide, without moving, in exactly the way that all intelligent young boys sit while they are being undressed in order to go to bed. A little girl even younger and smaller than he, in utter rags, stood behind the screen, awaiting her turn. The door on to the staircase was open, in order to afford at least some relief from the waves of tobacco smoke that were escaping from the other rooms and which every now and again made the poor consumptive woman cough long and agonizingly. During this last week Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner, and the red spots on her cheeks burned even more vividly than before.

‘You would never believe, you never would imagine, Polenka,’ she was saying as she paced about the room, ‘what a splendid, cheerful life we led in the house of my Papa, and how this drunken man has ruined me and will ruin you all! My Papa was a civil service colonel, and very nearly a governor; he only had one more step to climb up the ladder, and everyone used to come from miles around to see him and they'd say: “We all consider you our governor, Ivan Mikhailovich.” When I… ca-huh!… when I… ca-huh, ca-huh, ca-huh… Oh, curse this existence!’ she screamed, coughing up phlegm and clutching her chest. ‘– When I… no, when Princess Bezzemelnaya saw me… at the Marshal's… last ball – she gave me her blessing
when I married your father, Polya – she asked me at once: “Are you not the charming young lady who danced with the shawl at the Graduation Ball?” (That tear must be mended; you'd better get a needle and sew it up at once, the way I taught you, or tomorrow… ca-huh!… tomorrow… ca-huh, ca-huh, ca-huh!… it'll get even bigger!’ she shouted, overstraining herself)… ‘Then there was Prince Shchegolskoy, a Gentleman of the Royal Bedchamber, who had just arrived from St Petersburg… he danced the mazurka with me and declared his intention of coming to me the following day with a proposal of marriage; but I thanked him in flattering language and told him that my heart belonged to another, and had done so for a long time. That other was your father, Polya; Papa was horribly angry… Is the water ready? Right, hand me that shirt; and what about his socks?… Lida,’ she said, turning to the little younger daughter, ‘you'll have to sleep as you are tonight, without your chemise; yes, you'll manage… and lay your socks out beside it… I'll wash the whole lot together… What's keeping that drunken vagabond? He's worn his shirt out like some floorcloth, it's full of holes… I want to do the whole lot together, so as not to have this torture two nights running! Good God! Ca-huh-ca-huh, ca-huh, ca-huh! What's this?’ she screamed, taking a glance at the crowd in the passage and at the men who were squeezing their way through with some sort of burden into her room. ‘What's this? What are they carrying? For the love of God!’

‘Where do you want him?’ the policeman asked, taking a look round now that the blood-covered, senseless figure of Marmeladov had been hauled into the room.

‘On the sofa! Put him right there on the sofa with his head pointing this way,’ Raskolnikov said, showing him.

‘He was run down in the street! Drunk!’ someone shouted from the passage.

Katerina Ivanovna stood utterly pale, her breath coming with difficulty. The children were frightened. Little Lida gave a scream, rushed over to Polya, threw her arms round her and began to tremble all over.

Having found Marmeladov a place to lie, Raskolnikov rushed over to Katerina Ivanovna.

‘For heaven's sake calm down, don't be so frightened!’ he said in a fast patter. ‘He was crossing the street, a barouche ran him down, don't worry, he'll come round, I told them to bring him here… I came to see you, don't you remember?… He'll come round, I'll pay for everything!’

‘He's got what he wanted!’ Katerina Ivanovna screamed in despair, and rushed over to her husband.

Raskolnikov quickly perceived that this woman was not one of those who collapse in a faint on the slightest pretext. In a flash a pillow appeared beneath the head of the unfortunate man – something no one had thought of until now; Katerina Ivanovna began to undress him, examine him and fuss over him without losing her nerve, as she had forgotten about herself, was biting her trembling lips and suppressing the screams that were ready to burst from her bosom.

Meanwhile, Raskolnikov had managed to persuade someone to go and get a doctor. It turned out that a doctor lived in the next building but one.

‘I've sent someone to fetch a doctor,’ he kept saying to Katerina Ivanovna again and again. ‘Don't worry, I'll pay for everything! Have you some water?… And bring me a napkin or a towel or something, quickly; we don't yet know how badly hurt he is… He's been injured, but he's not dead, you may be assured of that… The doctor will give us his opinion…’

Katerina Ivanovna rushed over to the window; there, on a broken chair in a corner, stood a large earthenware basin containing the water for the nocturnal washing of her children's and husband's clothes. This nocturnal laundering was performed by Katerina Ivanovna herself with her own hands at least twice a week, and sometimes even more often, for they had reached the point where there were almost no relief items of linen left, and each member of the family possessed only one copy of anything; but Katerina Ivanovna could not abide uncleanliness, and, sooner than tolerate the presence of dirt in her home, preferred to submit herself to this exhausting labour, which was beyond her strength, at night when everyone was asleep, so that the wet things would have time to dry on the indoor clothes-line and so that when morning came she would
be able to present her family with clean linen. She seized hold of the basin in order to bring it over as Raskolnikov had requested, but almost fell to the floor under the burden. By now, however, Raskolnikov had managed to find a towel; he soaked it in the water and with it began to wash Marmeladov's bloodied face. Katerina Ivanovna stood beside him, drawing her breath painfully and holding her hands to her chest. She was herself in need of medical attention. Raskolnikov began to realize that he might have done the wrong thing in having persuaded the police to allow the injured man to be brought here. The policeman was also looking somewhat at a loss.

‘Polya!’ Katerina Ivanovna shouted. ‘Run and get Sonya, quickly. If you don't find her in it doesn't matter, just tell them that her father's been run down by the horses and that she's to come here as soon… as she gets back. Quickly, Polya! Here, cover yourself with the shawl!’

‘Run like billy-o!’ the boy in the chair cried suddenly, and, having said this, immersed himself once more in his earlier silent, upright position, his eyes protruding, his heels stuck forward and his toes turned out.

Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that there was hardly room to move an elbow. The policemen had all gone, apart from one who remained for a time and tried to drive the audience that had come gathering in from the staircase back out down the stairs again. These spectators were, however, replaced by very nearly all the lodgers in Mrs Lippewechsel's apartment, who came pouring through from the inner rooms, at first merely jostling together in the doorway, but then trooping in their cohorts into the room itself. Katerina Ivanovna was in a frenzy.

‘You might at least let him die in peace!’ she shouted at the multitude. ‘Come to watch the performance! With cigarettes in your mouths! Ca-huh, ca-huh, ca-huh! That's right, come in with your hats on, I don't mind!… Yes, there's one wearing his hat… Get out of here! At least show some respect for a dead man!’

She choked with coughing, but her remonstrances had had the desired effect. It was clear that the lodgers were even somewhat
afraid of Katerina Ivanovna; one by one, they squeezed their way back to the door with that strange sense of inner satisfaction that may unfailingly be observed even in those closest to one another, in the event of some sudden misfortune affecting one of their number, and to which, without exception, not a single person is immune, no matter how sincere his or her feelings of compassion and concern may be.

Now, moreover, voices could be heard outside the door with talk of hospital and how they ought not to bother these people unnecessarily.

‘A man oughtn't to die unnecessarily, you mean!’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna, and she rushed to open the door in order to release upon them the full fury of her wrath; in the doorway, however, she collided with none other than Mrs Lippewechsel herself, who had only just been informed of the accident and had come running to establish order. She was an extremely silly and quarrelsome German woman.

‘Ach, my God!’ she cried, raising her hands in horror. ‘Your husband has been trampled drunk by a horse. To the hospital with him! I am the landlady round here!’

‘Amalia Lyudvigovna! I must ask you to mind your manners,’ Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always adopted a haughty tone when speaking to the landlady, in order to make her ‘remember her place’, and was unable even now to deny herself this satisfaction). ‘Amalia Lyudvigovna…’

‘I have told you once and for all that you must never dare to call me Amalia Lyudvigovna; my name is Amalia Ivanovna.’

‘No it's not, it's Amalia Lyudvigovna, and since I'm not one of those base flatterers of yours, unlike Mr Lebezyatnikov, who is laughing outside the door at this very moment –’ (there was indeed the sound of laughter outside the door, and a cry of ‘They're fighting!’) ‘– I shall go on calling you Amalia Lyudvigovna, though I truly cannot understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zakharovich; he's dying. I must ask you now to bolt that door and not to let anyone in. At least let him die in peace! If you do not, I wish to make it clear that your behaviour will be reported tomorrow to the governor-general himself. The Prince knew me
before I was married and has a very clear memory of Semyon Zakharovich, to whom on many occasions he was a benefactor. Everyone knows that Semyon Zakharovich had many friends and patrons whom he himself relinquished out of decent pride, aware of his unhappy weakness; but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) we are being helped by a certain magnanimous young man who is possessed of means and connections, and whom Semyon Zakharovich knew as a boy, and I may assure you, Amalia Lyudvigovna…’