Crime and Punishment | Page 9

of concentrated
wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for
a moment, in some other world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of
the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.
The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently

came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with
red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his
person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat,
with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an iron
lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was
another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On
the counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread,
and some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was
insufferably close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five
minutes in such an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.
There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first
moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on
Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who
looked like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this
impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked
repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring
persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the
other persons in the room, including the tavern- keeper, the clerk
looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it,
showing a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of
station and culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless
for him to converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of
medium height, and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual
drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids
out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was
something very strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though
of intense feeling--perhaps there were even thought and intelligence,
but at the same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He
was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its
buttons missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently
clinging to this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front,
covered with spots and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat.
Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long
unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was
something respectable and like an official about his manner too. But he
was restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head

drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained
and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said
loudly and resolutely:
"May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation?
Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my
experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not
accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in
conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular
counsellor in rank. Marmeladov--such is my name; titular counsellor. I
make bold to inquire--have you been in the service?"
"No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised at
the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly
addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for
company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately
his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who
approached or attempted to approach him.
"A student then, or formerly a student," cried the clerk. "Just what I
thought! I'm a man of experience, immense experience, sir," and he
tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. "You've been a
student or have attended some learned institution! . . . But allow
me. . . ." He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down
beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but
spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his
sentences and drawling his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as
greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a month.
"Honoured sir," he began almost with solemnity, "poverty is not a vice,
that's a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and
that that's even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice.