as for everyone else, this is all just a joke and I should really stop bothering you with all the idiotic, pathetic details of my domestic life, but it’s no joke to me! For I can feel everything . . . Throughout the entire course of that one heavenly day and throughout the entire evening, I, too, was carried away by dreams: how I would arrange everything and clothe the little mites and give her some respite and bring my only-begotten daughter back from disgrace into the bosom of the family . . . And much else besides . . . Quite forgivable, sir. Well, my good man’ – Marmeladov suddenly gave a kind of start, raised his head and stared straight at his listener – ‘well, sir, on the very next day, after all these reveries (that is to say, precisely five days ago), towards evening, by a clever ruse, like a thief in the night,26 I stole the key to Katerina Ivanovna’s chest, took what remained of the salary (I no longer remember how much), and look at me now, sir – kaput! My fifth day away from home and the search party’s out, and it’s the end of my career; and the uniform, in exchange for which I received these vestments, is in a pothouse by Egypt Bridge . . . and it’s the end of everything!’
Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, shut his eyes and planted an elbow on the table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed; glancing at Raskolnikov with an air of slyness and manufactured insolence, he laughed and said:
‘Today I went to Sonya, to beg some money – you know, hair of the dog! Heh-heh-heh!’
‘Don’t tell me she gave it you?’ shouted one of the newcomers, then roared with laughter.
‘This very pint of vodka was bought with her money, sir,’ Marmeladov went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. ‘Brought me out thirty copecks, in her own hands, her very last coins; it was all she had, I saw for myself . . . Didn’t say a word, just looked at me in silence . . . That’s how – up there, not down here – people grieve and weep, but never a word of reproach, not a word! And that hurts even more, sir, when there’s no reproach – yes, sir, that hurts more . . . Thirty copecks. She’ll be needing them herself now, eh! Wouldn’t you say, my dear sir? After all, she has to keep herself immaculate.27 It costs money to be immaculate in that particular way, does it not? Does it not? Then there’s lipstick to be bought, no getting away from that, sir, starched skirts, high-heeled shoes with a touch of class, to show a bit of leg when there’s a puddle to be crossed. Do you see, sir, what it means to be immaculate – do you? Well, sir, and there’s me, her very own father, swiping these thirty copecks to clear a sore head! And here I am spending them! In fact, I’ve already spent them! . . . So who could ever pity a man like me? Eh? Do you pity me now, sir, or do you not? Tell me, sir, yea or nay? Heh-heh-heh-heh!’
He was about to pour another glass, but there was nothing left. The pot was empty.
‘Pity you – what the hell for?’ shouted the landlord, who had come back down again.
There was more laughter and even swearing, among those who were listening and even among those who were not – the sight of the retired civil servant was quite enough for them.
‘Pity me! Why pity me?’ Marmeladov suddenly howled, standing up with his arm outstretched before him, in an access of inspiration, as though he had been waiting for precisely those words. ‘Why pity me, you ask? Oh yes! There is nothing to pity me for! I should be crucified, I should be nailed to the cross – not pitied! So crucify, O judge, crucify, and, having crucified, take pity! Then I shall come to you myself to be nailed to the rood, for it is not merriment I crave, but sorrow and tears! . . . Do you imagine, O vendor, that this pot of yours brought me pleasure? It was sorrow I sought at its bottom, sorrow and tears,