situation after her own fashion and to terrify the poor woman for the hundredth time with a foul-mouthed demand that she vacate the premises the very next day. As he was leaving, Raskolnikov managed to dig around in his pocket for whatever small change was left from the rouble heâd spent in the drinking den and quietly placed it by the little window. No sooner was he on the stairs than he had second thoughts and almost went back.
âWhat a stupid thing to do,â he thought. âTheyâve got Sonya and I need it myself.â But after reasoning that it was too late to take it back now and that he would never have done so anyway, he wished it good riddance and set off home. âAnyway, Sonya needs her lipstick, doesnât she?â he continued, striding down the street and smirking sarcastically. âIt costs money to be immaculate . . . Hâm! And whoâs to say Sonechka herself wonât be out of pocket by the end of the day? A risklike that, the hunt for big game . . . mining for gold . . . by tomorrow they could all be on their uppers, if not for my money . . . Ah, Sonya! What a well theyâve managed to dig! And they draw from it! Damn me, if they donât! Theyâve got used to it. Had a little cry and got used to it. Thereâs nothing human scum canât get used to!â
He sank into thought.
âBut if thatâs not true,â he suddenly exclaimed without meaning to, âif man isnât actually a scoundrel, isnât actually scum, the whole human race, I mean, then all else is mere preconception, just fears that have been foisted upon us, and there are no barriers, and thatâs exactly how it should be!â
III
He woke up late the next day, unrefreshed, after a troubled nightâs sleep. He woke up sour, irritable and angry, and looked with loathing at his garret. It was a tiny little cell, about six paces in length, and a truly wretched sight with its dusty, yellowy, peeling wallpaper and a ceiling low enough to terrify even the modestly tall â you could bang your head at any moment. The furniture was no better: three old chairs, not in the best repair; a painted table in the corner, on which lay several books and notebooks, under a layer of dust so thick that no hand could have touched them for many a day; and, lastly, a large ungainly couch which took up virtually the entire length of the wall and half the width of the room. Once upholstered in chintz, now in tatters, it served Raskolnikov for his bed. He often slept on it without bothering to undress and without sheets, covering himself in his old threadbare student coat and resting his head on a small pillow, which he bolstered by placing all the linen he had, clean or worn, beneath it. In front of the couch stood a little table.
One could hardly sink any lower or live more squalidly; but in his current mood Raskolnikov barely minded â just the opposite. He had withdrawn from people completely, like a tortoise into its shell, and even the face of the maid, who was obliged to attend to him and sometimes looked in, was enough to make him turn yellow and shake. So it goes with certain monomaniacs 30 who focus too much on one thing. His landlady had ceased sending up food to him two weeks before, but it still hadnât occurred to him to go down and have it out with her,even though he went hungry. The tenantâs mood rather suited Nastasya â the cook and the landladyâs sole maid â and sheâd stopped cleaning for him altogether, except for the occasional half-hearted sweep every week or so. It was she who woke him up now.
âHey, lazybones!â she yelled right over his head. âItâs gone nine! Iâve brought you tea. Fancy a cup? You must be skin and bones!â
The tenant opened his eyes, gave a start and recognized Nastasya.
âWhoâs the tea from â the landlady?â he asked,
âWhat a stupid thing to do,â he thought. âTheyâve got Sonya and I need it myself.â But after reasoning that it was too late to take it back now and that he would never have done so anyway, he wished it good riddance and set off home. âAnyway, Sonya needs her lipstick, doesnât she?â he continued, striding down the street and smirking sarcastically. âIt costs money to be immaculate . . . Hâm! And whoâs to say Sonechka herself wonât be out of pocket by the end of the day? A risklike that, the hunt for big game . . . mining for gold . . . by tomorrow they could all be on their uppers, if not for my money . . . Ah, Sonya! What a well theyâve managed to dig! And they draw from it! Damn me, if they donât! Theyâve got used to it. Had a little cry and got used to it. Thereâs nothing human scum canât get used to!â
He sank into thought.
âBut if thatâs not true,â he suddenly exclaimed without meaning to, âif man isnât actually a scoundrel, isnât actually scum, the whole human race, I mean, then all else is mere preconception, just fears that have been foisted upon us, and there are no barriers, and thatâs exactly how it should be!â
III
He woke up late the next day, unrefreshed, after a troubled nightâs sleep. He woke up sour, irritable and angry, and looked with loathing at his garret. It was a tiny little cell, about six paces in length, and a truly wretched sight with its dusty, yellowy, peeling wallpaper and a ceiling low enough to terrify even the modestly tall â you could bang your head at any moment. The furniture was no better: three old chairs, not in the best repair; a painted table in the corner, on which lay several books and notebooks, under a layer of dust so thick that no hand could have touched them for many a day; and, lastly, a large ungainly couch which took up virtually the entire length of the wall and half the width of the room. Once upholstered in chintz, now in tatters, it served Raskolnikov for his bed. He often slept on it without bothering to undress and without sheets, covering himself in his old threadbare student coat and resting his head on a small pillow, which he bolstered by placing all the linen he had, clean or worn, beneath it. In front of the couch stood a little table.
One could hardly sink any lower or live more squalidly; but in his current mood Raskolnikov barely minded â just the opposite. He had withdrawn from people completely, like a tortoise into its shell, and even the face of the maid, who was obliged to attend to him and sometimes looked in, was enough to make him turn yellow and shake. So it goes with certain monomaniacs 30 who focus too much on one thing. His landlady had ceased sending up food to him two weeks before, but it still hadnât occurred to him to go down and have it out with her,even though he went hungry. The tenantâs mood rather suited Nastasya â the cook and the landladyâs sole maid â and sheâd stopped cleaning for him altogether, except for the occasional half-hearted sweep every week or so. It was she who woke him up now.
âHey, lazybones!â she yelled right over his head. âItâs gone nine! Iâve brought you tea. Fancy a cup? You must be skin and bones!â
The tenant opened his eyes, gave a start and recognized Nastasya.
âWhoâs the tea from â the landlady?â he asked,
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