Marmeladov's Death — Crime and Punishment

Raskolnikov leaves the crossroads crowd and finds an elegant carriage, grey horses, and a man crushed under the wheels, blood on his face. He pushes forward shouting I know him! I know him!, identifies Marmeladov the retired government clerk, gives the police his name and address, and helps carry the unconscious body to Kozel's house on Sadovy Street. The coachman repeats what a misfortune; inside, Katerina Ivanovna in her concert dress rages at fate, the children cry, and German lodgers jam the stairs. The doctor whispers there is no hope; a priest is called. Raskolnikov pays, stays in the corner, and watches poverty perform its dignity.

Katerina sends little Polenka barefoot through the Hay Market to Sonia's yellow ticket lodging. The room grows louder: Amalia Lippevechsel, tipsy Germans, Katerina's commands for coffee and a proper funeral. Marmeladov on the sofa mutters scripture about the harlot forgiven. When Sonia arrives, thin, in a cheap dress with a worn yellow feather, shame enters with her. The stepdaughter who supports the family with her body stands before the children and the lodgers. Katerina scolds and sobs; lodgers offer unwanted advice; the dying man strains toward the daughter he sold into the street trade while preaching divine forgiveness to harlots.

He dies in Sonia's arms calling Sonia! Daughter! Forgive! Katerina throws herself on the corpse crying He's got what he wanted, then straightens to arrange the priest and burial club payments. Raskolnikov, trembling with a strange new feeling, leaves twenty roubles, asks Polenka's name, kisses the child, and tells her to pray for sister Sonia. Sonia follows him to the door, confused by his charity. His waistcoat is stained; he walks as if drunk on life itself.

On the canal bridge he halts: Enough. Life is real! Haven't I lived just now? At his lodging Razumihin's house-warming roars; the uncle is drunk. Nikodim Fomitch asks about the accident; Raskolnikov answers Yes, I'm covered with blood, and blames his old faint on paint fumes. He slips to his room and finds Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dunya on the sofa, waiting an hour in tears. His mother runs to him; Dunya stands rigid. The weeks of fever, crime, and Marmeladov's blood converge, and he falls insensible at their feet as the chapter ends. Earlier that evening he had wandered from the pawnbroker flat and the Palais de Cristal; now the same man who toyed with confessing to Zametov spends his last coins on a stranger's death. The contrast is deliberate: theory breaks against a bleeding face. Razumihin, searching the streets, will learn secondhand what his friend has done; for now only the Marmeladovs and the blood on the cloth know. When Pulcheria cries over him, readers feel both homecoming and indictment: love arrives at the exact moment he cannot bear it.