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- CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 23
... I don't know what's happened! I don't know! But blows I
am not afraid of . . . . Know, sir, that such blows are not a pain
to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can't get on without it,
. . . It's better so. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart . . .
it's better so . . . There is the house. The house of Kozel, the
cabinet maker ... a German, well-to-do. Lead the way!"
They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The
staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly
eleven o'clock and although in summer in Petersburg there it
no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs.
A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar.
A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up
by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the entrance.
It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially
children's garments. Across the furthest corner was stretched
a ragged sheet. Behind it probably was the bed. There was noth-
ing in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered with
American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal
kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the
table stood a smouldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick.
It appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part
of a room, but their room was practically a passage. The door
leading to the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which
Amalia Lippevechsel's flat was divided stood half open, and
there was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed
to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the most
unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.
Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was
a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with
magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her
cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing
her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her
breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glittered as
in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And
that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light
of the candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression.
She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was cer-
tainly astrange wife for Marmeladov. . . . She had not heard
them and did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost
in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room was close,
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