Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

of trance, neither hearing nor seeing. It was stuffy, but she didn’t open the window; there was a stink from the stairwell, but the door to the stairs wasn’t closed; waves of tobacco smoke floated in from the inner rooms through the half-closed door – she kept coughing, but didn’t shut it. The smallest girl, aged six or so, was asleep on the floor, half-sitting, huddled up, head buried in the couch. The boy, a bit older, was quivering and crying in a corner. He was probably fresh from a beating. The eldest girl, aged nine or so, tall and stick-thin, wearing nothing but a thin, tattered chemise and a decrepit little burnous of
drap de dames
on bare shoulders (it must have been sewn for her a couple of years before, since now it barely reached to her knees), stood in the corner by her little brother, her long arm, dry as a matchstick, draped around his neck. She seemed to be trying to soothe him; she was whispering something in his ear and doing all she could to stop him snivelling again, while following her mother fearfully with her big dark eyes, which seemed even bigger on her emaciated, frightened little face. Without entering, Marmeladov dropped to his knees right there in the doorway, shoving Raskolnikov into the room. On seeing the stranger, the woman paused absently before him, briefly coming to her senses and appearing to ask herself: what’s he doing here? But she must have decided that he was going straight through, to someone else’s room. Thinking this and ceasing to pay him any further attention, she made for the entrance door, so as to close it, and suddenly screamed, seeing her husband on his knees on the very threshold.
    â€˜Ha!’ she yelled in sheer frenzy. ‘He’s back! Jailbird! Monster! . . . So where’s the money? What’s in your pockets? Show me! And your clothes aren’t the same! Where are your clothes? Where’s the money? Speak! . . .’
    She set about searching him. Obediently, submissively, without the slightest delay, Marmeladov flung open his arms to assist the search of his pockets. Not a copeck was found.
    â€˜So where is the money?’ she shouted. ‘Lord, don’t say he’s gone and drunk it all! There were twelve roubles left in the trunk!’ – andsuddenly, in wild fury, she grabbed him by his hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov assisted her, crawling after her meekly on his knees.
    â€˜And I find pleasure in this! Not pain, but pleasure, pleasure, my . . . good . . . sir . . . !’ he cried, while being shaken by the hair, and even knocking his forehead against the floor. The child asleep on the floor woke up and began crying. The boy in the corner couldn’t stand it, started shaking and shouting, and threw himself on his sister in sheer panic, as if he were having a fit. The eldest girl, half-asleep, was trembling like a leaf.
    â€˜Drank it! All of it!’ cried the poor woman in despair. ‘And his clothes aren’t the same! They’re hungry, hungry!’ (She pointed to the children, wringing her hands.) ‘Oh, damn this life! And you, have you no shame?’ she yelled, suddenly pouncing on Raskolnikov. ‘Straight from the bar! You drank with him? You as well! Get out!’
    The young man left as quickly as he could, without saying a word. Moreover, the inner door was now wide open and several curious faces were looking in. Insolent laughing heads in skullcaps, smoking papirosi 29 and pipes, poked through the doorway. There were people wearing unbuttoned dressing gowns and outfits that were seasonal to the point of indecency; a few had cards in their hands. They laughed loudest when Marmeladov, being dragged by the hair, shouted that he found it a pleasure. They even started inching into the room, until at last there came a sinister shriek: Amalia Lippewechsel was elbowing her way through to take charge of the