“Poverty,” said Rodion, “a great deal of anxiety—­you see no end to it.  Here, God sends no rain... our life is not easy, there is no denying it.”

“You have a hard time in this life,” said Elena Ivanovna, “but in the other world you will be happy.”

Rodion did not understand her, and simply coughed into his clenched hand by way of reply.  Stepanida said: 

“Dear lady, the rich men will be all right in the next world, too.  The rich put up candles, pay for services; the rich give to beggars, but what can the poor man do?  He has no time to make the sign of the cross.  He is the beggar of beggars himself; how can he think of his soul?  And many sins come from poverty; from trouble we snarl at one another like dogs, we haven’t a good word to say to one another, and all sorts of things happen, dear lady—­God forbid!  It seems we have no luck in this world nor the next.  All the luck has fallen to the rich.”

She spoke gaily; she was evidently used to talking of her hard life.  And Rodion smiled, too; he was pleased that his old woman was so clever, so ready of speech.

“It is only on the surface that the rich seem to be happy,” said Elena Ivanovna.  “Every man has his sorrow.  Here my husband and I do not live poorly, we have means, but are we happy?  I am young, but I have had four children; my children are always being ill.  I am ill, too, and constantly being doctored.”

“And what is your illness?” asked Rodion.

“A woman’s complaint.  I get no sleep; a continual headache gives me no peace.  Here I am sitting and talking, but my head is bad, I am weak all over, and I should prefer the hardest labour to such a condition.  My soul, too, is troubled; I am in continual fear for my children, my husband.  Every family has its own trouble of some sort; we have ours.  I am not of noble birth.  My grandfather was a simple peasant, my father was a tradesman in Moscow; he was a plain, uneducated man, too, while my husband’s parents were wealthy and distinguished.  They did not want him to marry me, but he disobeyed them, quarrelled with them, and they have not forgiven us to this day.  That worries my husband; it troubles him and keeps him in constant agitation; he loves his mother, loves her dearly.  So I am uneasy, too, my soul is in pain.”

Peasants, men and women, were by now standing round Rodion’s hut and listening.  Kozov came up, too, and stood twitching his long, narrow beard.  The Lytchkovs, father and son, drew near.

“And say what you like, one cannot be happy and satisfied if one does not feel in one’s proper place.”  Elena Ivanovna went on.  “Each of you has his strip of land, each of you works and knows what he is working for; my husband builds bridges—­in short, everyone has his place, while I, I simply walk about.  I have not my bit to work.  I don’t work, and feel as though I were an outsider.  I am saying all this that you may not judge from outward appearances; if a man is expensively dressed and has means it does not prove that he is satisfied with his life.”