and even bored sort of way, though not without a hint of lofty disdain, as if they were people of lesser status and education to whom he could have nothing to say. He was already in his fifties, of average height and stocky build, greying and balding, with a yellow, almost greenish face swollen by constant drinking, and with puffy eyelids hiding a pair of reddish eyes that were as tiny as slits yet beamed with life. Even so, there was something very odd about him; a kind of rapture shone from his eyes – and perhaps even intelligence – yet madness, too, seemed to flicker there. He was dressed in an old, utterly ragged black tailcoat which had shed its buttons. Only one was still clinging on, and, clearly eager to keep up appearances, he made sure to use it. A shirt-front, all crumpled, stained and splattered, stuck out from beneath a nankeen waistcoat. His face had been shaved, civil-servant style, but not for some time, and a thick bluish-grey stubble was poking through. There was something of the respectable state official about his mannerisms, too. But he was uneasy, kept ruffling his hair, and occasionally, in anguish, propped his head in his hands, resting his tattered elbows on the bespattered, sticky table. Eventually he looked straight at Raskolnikov and said loudly and firmly:
‘My good sir, may I make so bold as to engage you in polite conversation? For though you may be of indifferent appearance, my experience detects in you a man of education and one unaccustomed to drink. I myself have always respected learning, when combined with heartfelt sentiment; moreover, I hold the rank of titular counsellor.14 Marmeladov’s the name. Titular counsellor. Dare I ask whether you have been in the service?’
‘No, I’m studying . . . ,’ replied the young man, somewhat surprised both by the speaker’s distinctive flowery tone and at being addressed so directly and so bluntly. Despite his recent pang of desire for human company of any kind, the very first word addressed to him in reality instantly elicited his usual, unpleasant and irritable feeling of disgust towards any stranger who came into contact with him, or showed the slightest wish to do so.
‘I knew it – a student or a former student!’15 the civil servant cried. ‘Experience, my good sir, long years of experience!’ He put a finger to his forehead as if to congratulate himself. ‘Either you were once a student or you were still walking that road! Permit me . . .’ He rose, swayed, grabbed his pot and little glass, moved over to the young man and sat down next to him at a slight angle. Though drunk, he spoke with a vigorous eloquence, only occasionally tripping over his words and drawling. He threw himself on Raskolnikov almost hungrily, as if he, too, hadn’t spoken to anyone for an entire month.
‘My good sir,’ he began almost solemnly, ‘poverty is no sin – that much is true. And drunkenness is no virtue – that’s even truer. But beggary, sir – yes, beggary – now that is a sin. In poverty, you still retain the nobility of your innate feelings; in beggary, nobody retains it, ever. Beggars are not driven from the fold of humanity with a stick – no, they are swept out with a broom to make the insult all the greater; and rightly so, for in beggary I am the first to insult myself. Hence the public house! My good sir, a month ago Mr Lebezyatnikov gave my spouse a thrashing – and my spouse is nothing like me! Do you follow, sir? Permit me further to enquire, if for no better reason than mere curiosity: have you ever had occasion to pass the night on the Neva, on the hay barges?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Raskolnikov. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, sir, that’s where I’ve been, for the fifth night running . . .’
He refilled his glass and drank, lost in thought. Wisps of hay did indeed cling to his clothes here and there, and there was even some in his hair. It was more than likely that five days had passed since he’d last changed his clothes or washed. His hands, in particular, were filthy, greasy and red, the nails black.
His conversation appeared to arouse a general, if idle interest. The boys behind the