来自：Crime and Punishment
IV
His mother's letter had tormented him. But concerning the most essential, the capital point, he had no doubts for even a minute, not even while he was reading the letter. The main substance of the matter was decided in his head, and decided definitively: "This marriage shall not be, not while I live, and to hell with Mr. Luzhin!"
"Because this thing is obvious," he muttered to himself, grinning and maliciously triumphing in advance over the success of his decision. "No, mama, no, Dunya, you won't deceive me!.. And they even apologize for not asking my advice and settling the matter without me! I should think so! They imagine that now it's impossible to break it off; but we'll see whether it's possible or not! What a capital excuse: 'Such a practical man, they say, is Pyotr Petrovich, such a practical man that he can't even get married except by post, almost by railway.' No, Dunechka, I see and know everything you're preparing to talk to me about so much; I know what you thought about all night, pacing your room, and what you prayed for before the Kazan Mother of God that stands in mama's bedroom. The ascent to Golgotha is hard. Hm... So then, it's decided definitively: you are pleased to marry a practical and rational man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has his own capital (already has his own capital, that's more solid, more impressive), who serves in two places and shares the convictions of our newest generations (as mama writes) and who 'seems' to be kind, as Dunechka herself notes. That 'seems' is the most magnificent thing of all! And this same Dunechka is marrying him for this very 'seems'!.. Magnificent! Magnificent!..
...But I'm curious, however, why did mama write to me about the 'newest generations'? Simply to characterize the person or with the further aim of predisposing me favorably toward Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning! I'd be curious to clarify one more circumstance: to what degree were they both frank with each other, that day and that night, and all the subsequent time? Were all the words spoken directly between them, or did both understand that each had the same thing in her heart and thoughts, so there was no need to speak everything aloud and no need to speak unnecessarily. Probably it was partly so; from the letter it's evident: he seemed harsh to mama, a little, and naive mama went to Dunya with her remarks. And she, of course, got angry and 'answered with irritation.' I should think so! Who wouldn't be infuriated when the matter is clear without naive questions and when it's decided that there's nothing more to say. And why does she write to me: 'Love Dunya, Rodya, and she loves you more than herself'; is it not that her conscience secretly torments her for agreeing to sacrifice her daughter to her son. 'You are our hope, you are our everything!' Oh mama!" Rage was welling up in him more and more strongly, and if Mr. Luzhin had encountered him now, he would have killed him, it seems!
"Hm, it's true," he continued, following the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his head, "it's true that one must 'approach a person gradually and cautiously to learn about him'; but Mr. Luzhin is clear. The main thing, 'he's a practical man and seems to be kind': is it nothing that he took the baggage on himself, will deliver a large trunk at his own expense! Well, how can he not be kind? And both of them, bride and mother, hire a peasant, in a cart covered with bast matting (I've traveled that way, you see)! Nothing! It's only ninety versts, 'but there we'll ride quite satisfactorily in third class,' a thousand versts. And it's prudent: stretch your legs according to your clothes; but you, Mr. Luzhin, what about you? After all, this is your bride... And you couldn't help knowing that mother is borrowing against her pension for the journey? Of course, here you have a general commercial transaction, an enterprise on mutual benefits and equal shares, meaning expenses are halved too; bread and salt together, but tobacco separately, as the proverb says. But here the practical man cheated them a little: the baggage costs less than their passage, and perhaps it will go for free. Why don't they both see this, or do they deliberately not notice? And they're satisfied, satisfied! And when you think that these are only the flowers, and the real fruits are ahead! What's important here isn't the stinginess, the miserliness, but the tone of all this. After all, this will be the future tone after marriage, a prophecy... And why is mama squandering money? What will she come to Petersburg with? With three silver rubles or with two 'little bills,' as that... old woman... hm, said! What does she expect to live on in Petersburg afterward? She has already managed to guess, for some reasons, that she and Dunya won't be able to live together after the marriage, even in the first period! The dear man, surely, somehow let it slip, revealed himself, though mama waves it away with both hands: 'I'll refuse myself,' she says. What then, whom does she rely on: on the hundred and twenty rubles pension, with the deduction for the debt to Afanasy Ivanovich? She knits winter kerchiefs there, embroiders cuffs, ruins her old eyes. But the kerchiefs add only twenty rubles a year to the hundred and twenty rubles, I know that. So she still relies on the nobility of feelings of Mr. Luzhin: 'He himself will offer, they say, will insist.' Keep your hand ready! And that's how it always is with these Schillerian beautiful souls: until the last moment they dress a person in peacock feathers, until the last moment they hope for good, not evil; and though they have a presentiment of the reverse side of the medal, they won't speak the real word to themselves in advance; it repels them at the very thought; they wave truth away with both hands, until the decorated person personally plasters their nose. And I'm curious, does Mr. Luzhin have any decorations; I'll bet there's an Anna in his buttonhole and that he wears it at dinners with contractors and merchants. Perhaps he'll even wear it to his own wedding! But to hell with him!..
...Well, let mama be, God be with her, she's just like that, but Dunya! Dunechka, my dear, after all, I know you! You were already in your twentieth year when we last saw each other: I already understood your character. Mama writes that 'Dunechka can endure much.' I knew that, sir. I knew that two and a half years ago and have been thinking about it for two and a half years, about this very thing, that 'Dunechka can endure much.' If she can endure Mr. Svidrigailov, with all the consequences, then she really can endure much. And now they've imagined, together with mama, that she can also endure Mr. Luzhin, who expounds the theory of the advantages of wives taken from poverty and benefited by their husbands, and expounds it almost at the first meeting. Well, let's suppose he 'let it slip,' though he's a rational man (so that perhaps he didn't let it slip at all, but specifically intended to clarify sooner), but Dunya, Dunya? After all, the man is clear to her, but she must live with the man. After all, she'd rather eat black bread alone and wash it down with water than sell her soul or give up her moral freedom for comfort; she wouldn't give it up for all of Schleswig-Holstein, let alone for Mr. Luzhin. No, Dunya wasn't like that, as far as I knew, and... well, of course, she hasn't changed now either!.. What can be said! The Svidrigailovs are hard! It's hard to wander the provinces as a governess for two hundred rubles a year, but I still know that my sister would sooner go into slavery to a planter or to Latvians to an Ostsee German than debase her spirit and her moral feeling by a connection with a man she doesn't respect and with whom she has nothing in common—forever, out of her own personal advantage! And even if Mr. Luzhin were made entirely of purest gold or of solid diamond, even then she wouldn't agree to become the lawful concubine of Mr. Luzhin! Why then is she agreeing now? What's the trick? What's the solution? The matter is clear: for herself, for her own comfort, even to save herself from death, she wouldn't sell herself, but for another she will! For a dear, for an adored person she'll sell herself! That's what our whole trick consists of: for a brother, for a mother she'll sell! She'll sell everything! Oh, in this case we'll also suppress our moral feeling; freedom, peace, even conscience, we'll carry it all to the flea market. Let life perish! If only these beloved beings of ours are happy. Not only that, we'll invent our own casuistry, we'll learn from the Jesuits and for a time, perhaps, we'll even calm ourselves, convince ourselves that it's necessary, really necessary for a good purpose. That's what we're like, and everything is clear as day. It's clear that here none other than Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov is in question and stands in the foreground. Well, how could it be otherwise, sir! His happiness can be arranged, he can be maintained at the university, made a partner in the office, his whole fate can be secured; perhaps he'll be rich later, honored, respected, and may even end his life as a famous man! And mother? After all, here's Rodya, priceless Rodya, the firstborn! Well, how could one not sacrifice even such a daughter for such a firstborn! Oh dear and unjust hearts! Why, here we perhaps wouldn't refuse even Sonechka's lot! Sonechka, Sonechka Marmeladova, eternal Sonechka, as long as the world stands! Have you both measured the sacrifice, the sacrifice fully? Is it so? Can you bear it? Is it profitable? Is it wise? Do you know, Dunechka, that Sonechka's lot is no fouler than the lot with Mr. Luzhin? 'There can be no love,' mama writes. But what if, besides love, there can be no respect either, but on the contrary, there is already aversion, contempt, revulsion, what then? And it turns out then, that again, consequently, one must 'observe purity.' Isn't that so? Do you understand, do you understand what this purity means? Do you understand that Luzhin's purity is the same as Sonechka's purity, and perhaps even worse, fouler, baser, because in your case, Dunechka, there's still a calculation for surplus comfort, but there it's simply and directly a matter of death by starvation! 'It costs dearly, dearly, Dunechka, this purity!' Well, if later it becomes too much to bear, will you repent? How much grief, how much sadness, curses, how many tears hidden from everyone, because you're not Marfa Petrovna! And what will happen to mother then? After all, she's uneasy now, she's tormented; but then, when she sees everything clearly? And what about me?.. What indeed have you thought about me? I don't want your sacrifice, Dunechka, I don't want it, mama! It shall not be, while I live, it shall not be, it shall not be! I won't accept it!"
He suddenly came to and stopped.
"It shall not be? But what will you do to prevent it? Will you forbid it? And what right do you have? What can you promise them in turn, to have such a right? To dedicate your whole fate, your whole future to them when you finish your course and get a position? We've heard that, but that's pie in the sky, and what about now? After all, something must be done now, do you understand? And what are you doing now? You're robbing them. After all, the money comes to them on the security of a hundred-ruble pension and from the Svidrigailovs as a pledge! How will you protect them from the Svidrigailovs, from Afanasy Ivanovich Vakhrushin, you future millionaire, Zeus, disposing of their fates? In ten years? But in ten years mother will have time to go blind from the kerchiefs, and perhaps from tears; she'll waste away from fasting; and sister? Well, try to figure out what could happen to sister in ten years or during these ten years? Have you guessed?"
Thus he tormented and teased himself with these questions, even with a certain pleasure. However, all these questions were not new, not sudden, but old, festering, long-standing. Long ago they had begun to lacerate him and had torn his heart to pieces. Long, long ago this present anguish had been born in him, had grown, accumulated, and recently had matured and concentrated, taking the form of a terrible, wild, and fantastic question, which tormented his heart and mind, irresistibly demanding resolution. Now his mother's letter had suddenly struck him like thunder. It was clear that now he must not languish, not suffer passively, with mere reasoning about the questions being insoluble, but must definitely do something, and at once, and quickly. No matter what, he must decide on something, anything, or...
"Or renounce life altogether!" he suddenly cried out in frenzy, "obediently accept fate as it is, once and for all, and stifle everything in oneself, renouncing every right to act, to live, and to love!"
"Do you understand, do you understand, my dear sir, what it means when there's nowhere left to go?"—Marmeladov's question from yesterday suddenly came back to him—"for it's necessary that every man should have at least somewhere he can go..."
Suddenly he shuddered: another thought, also from yesterday, flashed through his head again. But he didn't shudder because that thought flashed through. He knew, he had a presentiment that it would inevitably "flash through," and he was already waiting for it; and this thought wasn't from yesterday at all. But the difference was that a month ago, and even yesterday, it had been only a dream, but now... now it suddenly appeared not as a dream, but in some new, menacing, and completely unfamiliar form, and he suddenly became aware of this himself... His head pounded, and darkness came over his eyes.
He hastily looked around, he was searching for something. He wanted to sit down, and he was looking for a bench; he was walking then along K— Boulevard. A bench was visible ahead, about a hundred paces away. He walked as quickly as he could; but on the way a small incident happened to him, which attracted all his attention for several minutes.
Looking for the bench, he noticed ahead of him, about twenty paces away, a woman walking, but at first he paid her no attention, just as with all the objects that had flickered before him until now. He had often happened to walk, for example, home and completely not remember the road by which he had walked, and he was already accustomed to walking that way. But there was something so strange in this walking woman, something striking at first glance, that little by little his attention began to be riveted to her—at first unwillingly and as if with annoyance, but then more and more strongly. Suddenly he wanted to understand what exactly was so strange about this woman. First of all, she must be a very young girl, walking in such heat bareheaded, without an umbrella and without gloves, somehow comically swinging her arms. She had a silk dress of light material on, but it too was put on somehow very oddly, barely fastened, and torn behind at the waist, at the very beginning of the skirt; a whole piece was hanging loose and dangling. A small kerchief was thrown over her bare neck, but stuck out somehow crookedly and sideways. To complete the picture, the girl walked unsteadily, stumbling and even swaying in all directions. This encounter finally aroused all Raskolnikov's attention. He came together with the girl right at the bench, but having reached the bench, she simply collapsed on it, in the corner, threw her head back against the bench's back and closed her eyes, apparently from extreme exhaustion. Looking closely at her, he immediately guessed that she was completely drunk. It was strange and wild to look at such a phenomenon. He even thought he might be mistaken. Before him was an extremely young face, sixteen years old, perhaps even only fifteen—small, fair-haired, pretty, but all flushed and as if swollen. The girl, it seemed, understood very little anymore; she crossed one leg over the other, displaying it much more than she should, and by all signs was very poorly aware that she was on the street.
Raskolnikov didn't sit down and didn't want to leave, but stood before her in perplexity. This boulevard was always deserted, but now, in the second hour and in such heat, there was almost no one. And yet to the side, about fifteen paces away, at the edge of the boulevard, one gentleman had stopped, who, by all appearances, very much wanted to approach the girl with certain purposes. He too had probably seen her from afar and was catching up, but Raskolnikov had prevented him. He cast malicious glances at him, trying, however, to keep him from noticing them, and impatiently awaited his turn, when the annoying ragamuffin would leave. The matter was clear. This gentleman was about thirty, stout, fat, ruddy, with pink lips and a mustache, and very dandily dressed. Raskolnikov became terribly enraged; he suddenly wanted somehow to insult this fat dandy. He left the girl for a moment and approached the gentleman.
"Hey you, Svidrigailov! What do you want here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing with lips foaming from rage.
"What does this mean?" the gentleman asked sternly, frowning and haughtily amazed.
"Get out of here, that's what!"
"How dare you, scoundrel!.."
And he swung his whip. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, not even calculating that the stout gentleman could manage two like him. But at that moment someone firmly seized him from behind; a policeman stood between them.
"Enough, gentlemen, no fighting in public places. What do you want? Who are you?" he addressed Raskolnikov sternly, examining his rags.
Raskolnikov looked at him attentively. It was a brave soldier's face with gray mustache and whiskers and an intelligent look.
"You're just the one I need," he cried, grabbing his hand. "I'm a former student, Raskolnikov... You can know that too," he turned to the gentleman, "but you come along, I'll show you something..."
And seizing the policeman by the hand, he dragged him to the bench.
"Look, completely drunk, just came along the boulevard: who knows where she's from, but doesn't look like it's her profession. Most likely she was plied with drink somewhere and deceived... for the first time... understand? and then just let out onto the street. Look how the dress is torn, look how it's put on: after all, she was dressed, and didn't dress herself, and dressed by unskilled hands, male hands. That's evident. And now look here: this dandy, with whom I just wanted to fight, I don't know him, seeing him for the first time; but he too noticed her on the way, just now, when she was drunk and not herself, and now he terribly wants to come up and intercept her—since she's in such a state—take her somewhere... And it's certainly so: believe me, I'm not mistaken. I myself saw how he was watching her and following her, only I prevented him, and now he's waiting for when I leave. Look, he's moved away a little now, standing as if rolling a cigarette... How can we not let him have her? How can we send her home—think about it!"
The policeman instantly understood and considered everything. The fat gentleman was, of course, comprehensible; the girl remained. The officer bent over her to examine her more closely, and sincere compassion appeared in his features.
"Oh, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head, "just like a child. They deceived her, that's for sure. Listen, young lady," he began calling to her, "where do you reside?"—The girl opened tired and befuddled eyes, looked dully at those questioning her and waved her hand dismissively.
"Listen," said Raskolnikov, "here (he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out twenty kopecks; they were there), here, take a cab and tell him to deliver her to her address. If only we could learn her address!"
"Miss, oh miss!" the policeman began again, accepting the money, "I'll get you a cab right now and escort you myself. Where shall I take you? Eh? Where do you reside?"
"Get away!.. bothering me!.." the girl mumbled and again waved her hand dismissively.
"Oh, oh, how wrong! Oh, what shame, young lady, what shame!"—He shook his head again, shaming, pitying, and indignant. "Now here's a task!"—he turned to Raskolnikov and then, in passing, looked him over again from head to foot. He must have seemed strange too: in such rags, but giving away money!
"Did you find them far from here?" he asked him.
"I tell you: she was walking ahead of me, swaying, right here on the boulevard. When she reached the bench, she collapsed."
"Oh, what shame has come into the world now, Lord! Such a simple one, and already drunk! Deceived, that's for sure! Look, even her dress is torn... Oh how depravity has spread nowadays!.. And perhaps she's from the gentry, from some poor ones... Nowadays many such have appeared. To look at, as if delicate, really like a young lady,"—and he bent over her again.
Perhaps he too had such daughters growing up—"really like young ladies and delicate," with the manners of the well-bred and with all kinds of adopted fashionable airs...
"The main thing," Raskolnikov fussed, "is not to let this scoundrel! Why should he abuse her further! It's obvious what he wants; look, the scoundrel won't leave!"
Raskolnikov spoke loudly and pointed at him directly with his hand. The man heard and wanted to get angry again, but thought better of it and limited himself to a contemptuous glance. Then he slowly moved another ten paces away and stopped again.
"That can be prevented, sir," the sergeant replied thoughtfully. "If only they'd say where to deliver them, but... Miss, oh miss!"—he bent down again.
She suddenly opened her eyes completely, looked attentively, as if understanding something, got up from the bench and walked back in the direction from which she had come.
"Phew, shameless people, bothering me!" she said, waving her hand dismissively again. She walked quickly, but still swaying strongly as before. The dandy followed her, but along another alley, not taking his eyes off her.
"Don't worry, I won't let him, sir," the mustachioed one said decisively and set off after them.
"Eh, how depravity has spread nowadays!" he repeated aloud, sighing.
At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant he seemed to be turned inside out.
"Listen, hey!" he shouted after the mustachioed one.
He turned around.
"Leave it! What's it to you? Drop it! Let him have his fun (he pointed at the dandy). What's it to you?"
The policeman didn't understand and stared wide-eyed. Raskolnikov laughed.
"E-eh!" said the officer, waving his hand, and went after the dandy and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov either for a madman or for something even worse.
"He took my twenty kopecks," Raskolnikov said maliciously, left alone. "Well, let him take from that one too and let the girl go with him, and that will be the end... And why did I get involved in helping here! Well, is it for me to help? Do I have the right to help? Let them swallow each other alive—what's it to me? And how did I dare give away those twenty kopecks. Are they even mine?"
Despite these strange words, he felt very heavy. He sat down on the abandoned bench. His thoughts were scattered... And in general it was hard for him to think at this moment about anything whatsoever. He would have liked to forget himself completely, forget everything, then wake up and begin completely anew...
"Poor girl!" he said, looking at the empty corner of the bench. "She'll come to, cry, then mother will find out... First she'll beat her, then she'll whip her, painfully and shamefully, perhaps even drive her out... And if she doesn't drive her out, Darya Frantsevna will get wind of it anyway, and my girl will start scurrying about, here and there... Then immediately the hospital (and this always happens with those who live with very honest mothers and quietly misbehave behind their backs), well, and there... and there again the hospital... wine... taverns... and more hospital... in two or three years—a cripple, so her whole life will be nineteen or eighteen years from birth, sir... Haven't I seen such cases? And how did they happen? Well, they all happened just like this... Pfft! But let it be! They say that's how it should be. They say a certain percentage must go each year... somewhere... to the devil, probably, to refresh the rest and not interfere with them. Percentage! They really have fine little words: they're so soothing, scientific. Once it's said: percentage, means there's nothing to worry about. Now if it were a different word, well then... it might be, perhaps, more disturbing... But what if somehow Dunechka gets into the percentage!.. Not into that one, then into another?..
"But where am I going?" he suddenly thought. "Strange. After all, I set out for some reason. As soon as I read the letter, I set out... To Vasilyevsky Island, to Razumikhin I went, that's where, now... I remember. But why, however? And how did the thought of going to Razumikhin fly into my head precisely now? That's remarkable."
He marveled at himself. Razumikhin was one of his former university comrades. It was remarkable that Raskolnikov, while at the university, had almost no comrades, shunned everyone, didn't visit anyone and received people at his place with difficulty. However, everyone soon turned away from him too. He somehow didn't participate in general gatherings, in conversations, in amusements, in anything. He studied intensively, sparing himself nothing, and for this he was respected, but no one loved him. He was very poor and somehow haughtily proud and uncommunicative; as if he were hiding something about himself. It seemed to some comrades that he looked down on all of them, from above, as if he had surpassed them all in development, knowledge, and convictions, and that he regarded their convictions and interests as something inferior.
With Razumikhin, however, he had somehow become close, that is, not exactly become close, but was more communicative with him, more frank. However, with Razumikhin it was impossible to be in any other kind of relationship. He was an unusually cheerful and communicative fellow, kind to the point of simplicity. However, beneath this simplicity lay both depth and dignity. The best of his comrades understood this, everyone loved him. He was very far from stupid, though he really was sometimes simpleminded. His appearance was expressive—tall, thin, always poorly shaved, black-haired. Sometimes he caroused and was reputed to be a strong man. Once at night, in company, he knocked down with one blow a watchman twelve vershoks tall. He could drink endlessly, but he could also not drink at all; sometimes he played pranks even impermissibly, but he could also not play pranks at all. Razumikhin was also remarkable in that no failures ever disconcerted him and no bad circumstances, it seemed, could crush him. He could lodge even on a roof, endure hellish hunger and extraordinary cold. He was very poor and decidedly supported himself alone, earning money by various jobs. He knew a multitude of sources where he could draw from, naturally by earning. Once he didn't heat his room for a whole winter and maintained that it was even more pleasant, because one sleeps better in the cold. At present he too was forced to leave the university, but not for long, and he was hurrying with all his might to improve his circumstances so that he could continue. Raskolnikov hadn't been to see him for four months already, and Razumikhin didn't even know his apartment. Once somehow, about two months ago, they had met on the street, but Raskolnikov turned away and even crossed to the other side so that he wouldn't notice him. And though Razumikhin did notice, he passed by, not wishing to disturb his friend.