Essential Novelists - Fyodor Dostoevsky. Fyodor Dostoevsky

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СКАЧАТЬ walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler’s shop.

      “Isn’t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?”

      “All sorts of people keep booths here,” answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.

      “What’s his name?”

      “What he was christened.”

      “Aren’t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?”

      The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.

      “It’s not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!”

      “Is that a tavern at the top there?”

      “Yes, it’s an eating-house and there’s a billiard-room and you’ll find princesses there too.... La-la!”

      Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V.

      He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so.

      Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating-houses; women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.

      He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below.... someone could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement.

      “Oh, my handsome soldier

      Don’t beat me for nothing,”

      trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.

      “Shall I go in?” he thought. “They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?”

      “Won’t you come in?” one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive—the only one of the group.

      “Why, she’s pretty,” he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.

      She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.

      “You’re very nice looking yourself,” she said.

      “Isn’t he thin though!” observed another woman in a deep bass. “Have you just come out of a hospital?”

      “They’re all generals’ daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses,” interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. “See how jolly they are.”

      “Go along with you!”

      “I’ll go, sweetie!”

      And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.

      “I say, sir,” the girl shouted after him.

      “What is it?”

      She hesitated.

      “I’ll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there’s a nice young man!”

      Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen copecks.

      “Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!”

      “What’s your name?”

      “Ask for Duclida.”

      “Well, that’s too much,” one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. “I don’t know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame....”

      Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. “Where is it,” thought Raskolnikov. “Where is it I’ve read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he’d only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!... How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature!... And vile is he who calls him vile for that,” he added a moment later.

      He went into another street. “Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers.... Zossimov said he’d read it in the papers. Have you the papers?” he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. “What if it is?” he thought.

      “Will you have vodka?” asked the waiter.

      “Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days, and I’ll give you something.”

      “Yes, sir, here’s to-day’s. No vodka?”

      The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them.

      “Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski... a fire in the Petersburg quarter... another fire in the Petersburg quarter... and another fire in the Petersburg quarter.... Ah, here it is!” He found at last what СКАЧАТЬ