unexpectedly. We thought and talked it
over the whole day. He is a well-to-do
man, to be depended upon, he has two
posts in the government and has already
made his fortune. It is true that he is fortyfive
years old, but he is of a fairly
prepossessing appearance and might still be
thought attractive by women, and he is
altogether a very respectable and
presentable man, only he seems a little
morose and somewhat conceited. But
possibly that may only be the impression he
makes at first sight. And beware, dear
Rodya, when he comes to Petersburg, as
he shortly will do, beware of judging him
too hastily and severely, as your way is, if
there is anything you do not like in him at
first sight. I give you this warning, although
I feel sure that he will make a favourable
impression upon you. Moreover, in order
to understand any man one must be
deliberate and careful to avoid forming
prejudices and mistaken ideas, which are
very difficult to correct and get over
afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch, judging
by many indications, is a thoroughly
estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he
told us that he was a practical man, but still
he shares, as he expressed it, many of the
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convictions ‘of our most rising generation’
and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He
said a good deal more, for he seems a little
conceited and likes to be listened to, but
this is scarcely a vice. I, of course,
understood very little of it, but Dounia
explained to me that, though he is not a
man of great education, he is clever and
seems to be good-natured. You know your
sister’s character, Rodya. She is a resolute,
sensible, patient and generous girl, but she
has a passionate heart, as I know very well.
Of course, there is no great love either on
his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever
girl and has the heart of an angel, and will
make it her duty to make her husband
happy who on his side will make her
happiness his care. Of that we have no
good reason to doubt, though it must be
admitted the matter has been arranged in
great haste. Besides he is a man of great
prudence and he will see, to be sure, of
himself, that his own happiness will be the
more secure, the happier Dounia is with
him. And as for some defects of character,
for some habits and even certain differences
of opinion —which indeed are inevitable
even in the happiest marriages— Dounia
has said that, as regards all that, she relies on
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herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy
about, and that she is ready to put up with
a great deal, if only their future relationship
can be an honourable and straightforward
one. He struck me, for instance, at first, as
rather abrupt, but that may well come from
his being an outspoken man, and that is no
doubt how it is. For instance, at his second
visit, after he had received Dounia’s
consent, in the course of conversation, he
declared that before making Dounia’s
acquaintance, he had made up his mind to
marry a girl of good reputation, without
dowry and, above all, one who had
experienced poverty, because, as he
explained, a man ought not to be indebted
to his wife, but that it is better for a wife to
look upon her husband as her benefactor. I
must add that he expressed it more nicely
and politely than I have done, for I have
forgotten his actual phrases and only
remember the meaning. And, besides, it
was obviously not said of design, but
slipped out in the heat of conversation, so
that he tried afterwards to correct himself
and smooth it over, but all the same it did
strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so
afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was
vexed, and answered that ‘words are not
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deeds,’ and that, of course, is perfectly true.
Dounia did not sleep all night before she
made up her mind, and, thinking that I was
asleep, she got out of bed and was walking
up and down the room all night; at last she
knelt down before the ikon and prayed
long and fervently and in the morning she
told me that she had decided.
‘I have mentioned already that Pyotr
Petrovitch is just setting off for Petersburg,
where he has a great deal of business, and
he wants to open a legal bureau. He has
been occupied for many years in
conducting civil and commercial litigation,
and only the other day he won an
important case. He has to be in Petersburg
because he has an important case before the
Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the
greatest use to you, in every way indeed,
and Dounia and I have agreed that from
this very day you could definitely enter
upon your career and might consider that
your future is marked out and assured for
you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This
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would be such a benefit that we could only
look upon it as a providential blessing.
Dounia is dreaming of nothing else. We
have even ventured already to drop a few
words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch.
He was cautious in his answer, and said
that, of course, as he could not get on
without a secretary, it would be better to
be paying a salary to a relation than to a
stranger, if only the former were fitted for
the duties (as though there could be doubt
of your being fitted!) but then he expressed
doubts whether your studies at the
university would leave you time for work
at his office. The matter dropped for the
time, but Dounia is thinking of nothing
else now. She has been in a sort of fever for
the last few days, and has already made a
regular plan for your becoming in the end
an associate and even a partner in Pyotr
Petrovitch’s business, which might well be,
seeing that you are a student of law. I am in
complete agreement with her, Rodya, and
share all her plans and hopes, and think
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there is every probability of realising them.
And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch’s
evasiveness, very natural at present (since
he does not know you), Dounia is firmly
persuaded that she will gain everything by
her good influence over her future
husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of
course we are careful not to talk of any of
these more remote plans to Pyotr
Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his
partner. He is a practical man and might
take this very coldly, it might all seem to
him simply a day-dream. Nor has either
Dounia or I breathed a word to him of the
great hopes we have of his helping us to
pay for your university studies; we have not
spoken of it in the first place, because it
will come to pass of itself, later on, and he
will no doubt without wasting words offer
to do it of himself, (as though he could
refuse Dounia that) the more readily since
you may by your own efforts become his
right hand in the office, and receive this
assistance not as a charity, but as a salary
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earned by your own work. Dounia wants
to arrange it all like this and I quite agree
with her. And we have not spoken of our
plans for another reason, that is, because I
particularly wanted you to feel on an equal
footing when you first meet him. When
Dounia spoke to him with enthusiasm
about you, he answered that one could
never judge of a man without seeing him
close, for oneself, and that he looked
forward to forming his own opinion when
he makes your acquaintance. Do you
know, my precious Rodya, I think that
perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do
with Pyotr Petrovitch though, simply for
my own personal, perhaps old- womanish,
fancies) I should do better to go on living
by myself, apart, than with them, after the
wedding. I am convinced that he will be
generous and delicate enough to invite me
and to urge me to remain with my
daughter for the future, and if he has said
nothing about it hitherto, it is simply
because it has been taken for granted; but I
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shall refuse. I have noticed more than once
in my life that husbands don’t quite get on
with their mothers-in- law, and I don’t
want to be the least bit in anyone’s way,
and for my own sake, too, would rather be
quite independent, so long as I have a crust
of bread of my own, and such children as
you and Dounia. If possible, I would settle
somewhere near you, for the most joyful
piece of news, dear Rodya, I have kept for
the end of my letter: know then, my dear
boy, that we may, perhaps, be all together
in a very short time and may embrace one
another again after a separation of almost
three years! It is settled for certain that
Dounia and I are to set off for Petersburg,
exactly when I don’t know, but very, very
soon, possibly in a week. It all depends on
Pyotr Petrovitch who will let us know
when he has had time to look round him
in Petersburg. To suit his own
arrangements he is anxious to have the
ceremony as soon as possible, even before
the fast of Our Lady, if it could be
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managed, or if that is too soon to be ready,
immediately after. Oh, with what happiness
I shall press you to my heart! Dounia is all
excitement at the joyful thought of seeing
you, she said one day in joke that she
would be ready to marry Pyotr Petrovitch
for that alone. She is an angel! She is not
writing anything to you now, and has only
told me to write that she has so much, so
much to tell you that she is not going to
take up her pen now, for a few lines would
tell you nothing, and it would only mean
upsetting herself; she bids me send you her
love and innumerable kisses. But although
we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall
send you as much money as I can in a day
or two. Now that everyone has heard that
Dounia is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my
credit has suddenly improved and I know
that Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now
even to seventy-five roubles on the security
of my pension, so that perhaps I shall be
able to send you twenty-five or even thirty
roubles. I would send you more, but I am
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uneasy about our travelling expenses; for
though Pyotr Petrovitch has been so kind
as to undertake part of the expenses of the
journey, that is to say, he has taken upon
himself the conveyance of our bags and big
trunk (which will be conveyed through
some acquaintances of his), we must reckon
upon some expense on our arrival in
Petersburg, where we can’t be left without
a halfpenny, at least for the first few days.
But we have calculated it all, Dounia and I,
to the last penny, and we see that the
journey will not cost very much. It is only
ninety versts from us to the railway and we
have come to an agreement with a driver
we know, so as to be in readiness; and from
there Dounia and I can travel quite
comfortably third class. So that I may very
likely be able to send to you not twentyfive,
but thirty roubles. But enough; I have
covered two sheets already and there is no
space left for more; our whole history, but
so many events have happened! And now,
my precious Rodya, I embrace you and
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send you a mother’s blessing till we meet.
Love Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her
as she loves you and understand that she
loves you beyond everything, more than
herself. She is an angel and you, Rodya,
you are everything to us—our one hope,
our one consolation. If only you are happy,
we shall be happy. Do you still say your
prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy
of our Creator and our Redeemer? I am
afraid in my heart that you may have been
visited by the new spirit of infidelity that is
abroad to-day; If it is so, I pray for you.
Remember, dear boy, how in your
childhood, when your father was living,
you used to lisp your prayers at my knee,
and how happy we all were in those days.
Good-bye, till we meet then— I embrace
you warmly, warmly, with many kisses.
‘Yours till death,
‘PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV.’
Almost from the first, while he read the letter,
Raskolnikov’s face was wet with tears; but when he
finished it, his face was pale and distorted and a bitter,
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wrathful and malignant smile was on his lips. He laid his
head down on his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered,
pondered a long time. His heart was beating violently, and
his brain was in a turmoil. At last he felt cramped and
stifled in the little yellow room that was like a cupboard or
a box. His eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up
his hat and went out, this time without dread of meeting
anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He turned in the
direction of the Vassilyevsky Ostrov, walking along
Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though hastening on some
business, but he walked, as his habit was, without noticing
his way, muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to
the astonishment of the passers-by. Many of them took
him to be drunk.
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Chapter IV
His mother’s letter had been a torture to him, but as
regards the chief fact in it, he had felt not one moment’s
hesitation, even whilst he was reading the letter. The
essential question was settled, and irrevocably settled, in
his mind: ‘Never such a marriage while I am alive and Mr.
Luzhin be damned!’ ‘The thing is perfectly clear,’ he
muttered to himself, with a malignant smile anticipating
the triumph of his decision. ‘No, mother, no, Dounia, you
won’t deceive me! and then they apologise for not asking
my advice and for taking the decision without me! I dare
say! They imagine it is arranged now and can’t be broken
off; but we will see whether it can or not! A magnificent
excuse: ‘Pyotr Petrovitch is such a busy man that even his
wedding has to be in post-haste, almost by express.’ No,
Dounia, I see it all and I know what you want to say to
me; and I know too what you were thinking about, when
you walked up and down all night, and what your prayers
were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in
mother’s bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha…. Hm
… so it is finally settled; you have determined to marry a
sensible business man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has
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a fortune (has already made his fortune, that is so much
more solid and impressive) a man who holds two
government posts and who shares the ideas of our most
rising generation, as mother writes, and who seems to be
kind, as Dounia herself observes. That seems beats
everything! And that very Dounia for that very ‘seems’ is
marrying him! Splendid! splendid!
‘… But I should like to know why mother has written
to me about ‘our most rising generation’? Simply as a
descriptive touch, or with the idea of prepossessing me in
favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I should
like to know one thing more: how far they were open
with one another that day and night and all this time
since? Was it all put into words or did both understand that
they had the same thing at heart and in their minds, so that
there was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to
speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from
mother’s letter it’s evident: he struck her as rude a little and
mother in her simplicity took her observations to Dounia.
And she was sure to be vexed and ‘answered her angrily.’ I
should think so! Who would not be angered when it was
quite clear without any naïve questions and when it was
understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does
she write to me, ‘love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you
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more than herself’? Has she a secret conscience-prick at
sacrificing her daughter to her son? ‘You are our one
comfort, you are everything to us.’ Oh, mother!’
His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he
had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he
might have murdered him.
‘Hm … yes, that’s true,’ he continued, pursuing the
whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain, ‘it is true
that ‘it needs time and care to get to know a man,’ but
there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief thing is
he is ‘a man of business and seems kind,’ that was
something, wasn’t it, to send the bags and big box for
them! A kind man, no doubt after that! But his bride and
her mother are to drive in a peasant’s cart covered with
sacking (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is
only ninety versts and then they can ‘travel very
comfortably, third class,’ for a thousand versts! Quite right,
too. One must cut one’s coat according to one’s cloth, but
what about you, Mr. Luzhin? She is your bride…. And
you must be aware that her mother has to raise money on
her pension for the journey. To be sure it’s a matter of
business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal
shares and expenses;—food and drink provided, but pay
for your tobacco. The business man has got the better of
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them, too. The luggage will cost less than their fares and
very likely go for nothing. How is it that they don’t both
see all that, or is it that they don’t want to see? And they
are pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only the first
blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come! But what
really matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but
the tone of the whole thing. For that will be the tone after
marriage, it’s a foretaste of it. And mother too, why should
she be so lavish? What will she have by the time she gets
to Petersburg? Three silver roubles or two ‘paper ones’ as
she says…. that old woman … hm. What does she expect
to live upon in Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons
already for guessing that she could not live with Dounia
after the marriage, even for the first few months. The
good man has no doubt let slip something on that subject
also, though mother would deny it: ‘I shall refuse,’ says
she. On whom is she reckoning then? Is she counting on
what is left of her hundred and twenty roubles of pension
when Afanasy Ivanovitch’s debt is paid? She knits woollen
shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all
her shawls don’t add more than twenty roubles a year to
her hundred and twenty, I know that. So she is building
all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luzhin’s generosity; ‘he
will offer it of himself, he will press it on me.’ You may
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wait a long time for that! That’s how it always is with
these Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last moment every
goose is a swan with them, till the last moment, they hope
for the best and will see nothing wrong, and although they
have an inkling of the other side of the picture, yet they
won’t face the truth till they are forced to; the very
thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the truth
away with both hands, until the man they deck out in false
colours puts a fool’s cap on them with his own hands. I
should like to know whether Mr. Luzhin has any orders of
merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole and that he
puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors or
merchants. He will be sure to have it for his wedding, too!
Enough of him, confound him!
‘Well, … mother I don’t wonder at, it’s like her, God
bless her, but how could Dounia? Dounia darling, as
though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty
when I saw you last: I understood you then. Mother
writes that ‘Dounia can put up with a great deal.’ I know
that very well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and
for the last two and a half years I have been thinking about
it, thinking of just that, that ‘Dounia can put up with a
great deal.’ If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigaïlov and
all the rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal.
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And now mother and she have taken it into their heads
that she can put up with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the
theory of the superiority of wives raised from destitution
and owing everything to their husband’s bounty—who
propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted
that he ‘let it slip,’ though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe
it was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear
as soon as possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands
the man, of course, but she will have to live with the man.
Why! she’d live on black bread and water, she would not
sell her soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for
comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-
Holstein, much less Mr. Luzhin’s money. No, Dounia was
not that sort when I knew her and … she is still the same,
of course! Yes, there’s no denying, the Svidrigaïlovs are a
bitter pill! It’s a bitter thing to spend one’s life a governess
in the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know she
would rather be a nigger on a plantation or a Lett with a
German master than degrade her soul, and her moral
dignity, by binding herself for ever to a man whom she
does not respect and with whom she has nothing in
common—for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had
been of unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would
never have consented to become his legal concubine.
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Why is she consenting then? What’s the point of it?
What’s the answer? It’s clear enough: for herself, for her
comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for
someone else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one
she adores, she will sell herself! That’s what it all amounts
to; for her brother, for her mother, she will sell herself!
She will sell everything! In such cases, ‘we overcome our
moral feeling if necessary,’ freedom, peace, conscience
even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if
only my dear ones may be happy! More than that, we
become casuists, we learn to be Jesuitical and for a time
maybe we can soothe ourselves, we can persuade ourselves
that it is one’s duty for a good object. That’s just like us,
it’s as clear as daylight. It’s clear that Rodion
Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the central figure in the
business, and no one else. Oh, yes, she can ensure his
happiness, keep him in the university, make him a partner
in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he
may even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected,
and may even end his life a famous man! But my mother?
It’s all Rodya, precious Rodya, her first born! For such a
son who would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh, loving,
over-partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink
even from Sonia’s fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the
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eternal victim so long as the world lasts. Have you taken
the measure of your sacrifice, both of you? Is it right? Can
you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me
tell you, Dounia, Sonia’s life is no worse than life with
Mr. Luzhin. ‘There can be no question of love,’ mother
writes. And what if there can be no respect either, if on
the contrary there is aversion, contempt, repulsion, what
then? So you will have to ‘keep up your appearance,’ too.
Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness
means? Do you understand that the Luzhin smartness is
just the same thing as Sonia’s and may be worse, viler,
baser, because in your case, Dounia, it’s a bargain for
luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it’s simply a question of
starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be paid for,
Dounia, this smartness. And what if it’s more than you can
bear afterwards, if you regret it? The bitterness, the misery,
the curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you are
not a Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother feel
then? Even now she is uneasy, she is worried, but then,
when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have
you taken me for? I won’t have your sacrifice, Dounia, I
won’t have it, mother! It shall not be, so long as I am
alive, it shall not, it shall not! I won’t accept it!’
He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.
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‘It shall not be? But what are you going to do to
prevent it? You’ll forbid it? And what right have you?
What can you promise them on your side to give you
such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will
devote to them when you have finished your studies and
obtained a post? Yes, we have heard all that before, and
that’s all words but now? Now something must be done,
now, do you understand that? And what are you doing
now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their
hundred roubles pension. They borrow from the
Svidrigaïlovs. How are you going to save them from
Svidrigaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, oh,
future millionaire Zeus who would arrange their lives for
them? In another ten years? In another ten years, mother
will be blind with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping
too. She will be worn to a shadow with fasting; and my
sister? Imagine for a moment what may have become of
your sister in ten years? What may happen to her during
those ten years? Can you fancy?’
So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such
questions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet
all these questions were not new ones suddenly
confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was long
since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long,
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long ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had
waxed and gathered strength, it had matured and
concentrated, until it had taken the form of a fearful,
frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured his heart
and mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his
mother’s letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was
clear that he must not now suffer passively, worrying
himself over unsolved questions, but that he must do
something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he
must decide on something, or else …
‘Or throw up life altogether!’ he cried suddenly, in a
frenzy—‘accept one’s lot humbly as it is, once for all and
stifle everything in oneself, giving up all claim to activity,
life and love!’
‘Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it
means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?’
Marmeladov’s question came suddenly into his mind, ‘for
every man must have somewhere to turn….’
He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had
had yesterday, slipped back into his mind. But he did not
start at the thought recurring to him, for he knew, he had
felt beforehand that it must come back, he was expecting it;
besides it was not only yesterday’s thought. The difference
was that a month ago, yesterday even, the thought was a
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mere dream: but now … now it appeared not a dream at
all, it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar
shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself….
He felt a hammering in his head, and there was a darkness
before his eyes.
He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for
something. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a
seat; he was walking along the K—— Boulevard. There
was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He
walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met
with a little adventure which absorbed all his attention.
Looking for the seat, he had noticed a woman walking
some twenty paces in front of him, but at first he took no
more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his
path. It had happened to him many times going home not
to notice the road by which he was going, and he was
accustomed to walk like that. But there was at first sight
something so strange about the woman in front of him,
that gradually his attention was riveted upon her, at first
reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and
more intently. He felt a sudden desire to find out what it
was that was so strange about the woman. In the first
place, she appeared to be a girl quite young, and she was
walking in the great heat bareheaded and with no parasol
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or gloves, waving her arms about in an absurd way. She
had on a dress of some light silky material, but put on
strangely awry, not properly hooked up, and torn open at
the top of the skirt, close to the waist: a great piece was
rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was flung about
her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl was
walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from
side to side. She drew Raskolnikov’s whole attention at
last. He overtook the girl at the seat, but, on reaching it,
she dropped down on it, in the corner; she let her head
sink on the back of the seat and closed her eyes, apparently
in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he saw at
once that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and
shocking sight. He could hardly believe that he was not
mistaken. He saw before him the face of a quite young,
fair-haired girl—sixteen, perhaps not more than fifteen,
years old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy looking
and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know
what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other,
lifting it indecorously, and showed every sign of being
unconscious that she was in the street.
Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to
leave her, and stood facing her in perplexity. This
boulevard was never much frequented; and now, at two
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o’clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet
on the further side of the boulevard, about fifteen paces
away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the
pavement. He, too, would apparently have liked to
approach the girl with some object of his own. He, too,
had probably seen her in the distance and had followed
her, but found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked angrily
at him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood
impatiently biding his time, till the unwelcome man in
rags should have moved away. His intentions were
unmistakable. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set
man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high colour,
red lips and moustaches. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a
sudden longing to insult this fat dandy in some way. He
left the girl for a moment and walked towards the
gentleman.
‘Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?’ he
shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with
rage.
‘What do you mean?’ the gentleman asked sternly,
scowling in haughty astonishment.
‘Get away, that’s what I mean.’
‘How dare you, you low fellow!’
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He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his
fists, without reflecting that the stout gentleman was a
match for two men like himself. But at that instant
someone seized him from behind, and a police constable
stood between them.
‘That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a
public place. What do you want? Who are you?’ he asked
Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his rags.
Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straightforward,
sensible, soldierly face, with grey moustaches and
whiskers.
‘You are just the man I want,’ Raskolnikov cried,
catching at his arm. ‘I am a student, Raskolnikov…. You
may as well know that too,’ he added, addressing the
gentleman, ‘come along, I have something to show you.’
And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him
towards the seat.
‘Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come
down the boulevard. There is no telling who and what she
is, she does not look like a professional. It’s more likely she
has been given drink and deceived somewhere … for the
first time … you understand? and they’ve put her out into
the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and
the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by
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somebody, she has not dressed herself, and dressed by
unpractised hands, by a man’s hands; that’s evident. And
now look there: I don’t know that dandy with whom I
was going to fight, I see him for the first time, but he, too,
has seen her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing
what she is doing, and now he is very eager to get hold of
her, to get her away somewhere while she is in this state
… that’s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him
myself watching her and following her, but I prevented
him, and he is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has
walked away a little, and is standing still, pretending to
make a cigarette…. Think how can we keep her out of his
hands, and how are we to get her home?’
The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout
gentleman was easy to understand, he turned to consider
the girl. The policeman bent over to examine her more
closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion.
‘Ah, what a pity!’ he said, shaking his head—‘why, she
is quite a child! She has been deceived, you can see that at
once. Listen, lady,’ he began addressing her, ‘where do
you live?’ The girl opened her weary and sleepy-looking
eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand.
‘Here,’ said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and
finding twenty copecks, ‘here, call a cab and tell him to
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drive her to her address. The only thing is to find out her
address!’
‘Missy, missy!’ the policeman began again, taking the
money. ‘I’ll fetch you a cab and take you home myself.
Where shall I take you, eh? Where do you live?’
‘Go away! They won’t let me alone,’ the girl muttered,
and once more waved her hand.
‘Ach, ach, how shocking! It’s shameful, missy, it’s a
shame!’ He shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic
and indignant.
‘It’s a difficult job,’ the policeman said to Raskolnikov,
and as he did so, he looked him up and down in a rapid
glance. He, too, must have seemed a strange figure to him:
dressed in rags and handing him money!
‘Did you meet her far from here?’ he asked him.
‘I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering,
just here, in the boulevard. She only just reached the seat
and sank down on it.’
‘Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world
nowadays, God have mercy on us! An innocent creature
like that, drunk already! She has been deceived, that’s a
sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too…. Ah, the
vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she belongs to
gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe…. There are many like
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that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as though she were
a lady,’ and he bent over her once more.
Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that,
‘looking like ladies and refined’ with pretensions to
gentility and smartness….
‘The chief thing is,’ Raskolnikov persisted, ‘to keep her
out of this scoundrel’s hands! Why should he outrage her!
It’s as clear as day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is not
moving off!’
Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The
gentleman heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage
again, but thought better of it, and confined himself to a
contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten
paces away and again halted.
‘Keep her out of his hands we can,’ said the constable
thoughtfully, ‘if only she’d tell us where to take her, but as
it is…. Missy, hey, missy!’ he bent over her once more.
She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him
intently, as though realising something, got up from the
seat and walked away in the direction from which she had
come. ‘Oh shameful wretches, they won’t let me alone!’
she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly,
though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but
along another avenue, keeping his eye on her.
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‘Don’t be anxious, I won’t let him have her,’ the
policeman said resolutely, and he set off after them.
‘Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!’ he repeated aloud,
sighing.
At that moment something seemed to sting
Raskolnikov; in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling
came over him.
‘Hey, here!’ he shouted after the policeman.
The latter turned round.
‘Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go!
Let him amuse himself.’ He pointed at the dandy, ‘What is
it to do with you?’
The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him
open-eyed. Raskolnikov laughed.
‘Well!’ ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of
contempt, and he walked after the dandy and the girl,
probably taking Raskolnikov for a madman or something
even worse.
‘He has carried off my twenty copecks,’ Raskolnikov
murmured angrily when he was left alone. ‘Well, let him
take as much from the other fellow to allow him to have
the girl and so let it end. And why did I want to interfere?
Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help? Let them
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devour each other alive—what is to me? How did I dare
to give him twenty copecks? Were they mine?’
In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched.
He sat down on the deserted seat. His thoughts strayed
aimlessly…. He found it hard to fix his mind on anything
at that moment. He longed to forget himself altogether, to
forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life
anew….
‘Poor girl!’ he said, looking at the empty corner where
she had sat— ‘She will come to herself and weep, and
then her mother will find out…. She will give her a
beating, a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, turn
her out of doors…. And even if she does not, the Darya
Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be
slipping out on the sly here and there. Then there will be
the hospital directly (that’s always the luck of those girls
with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and
then … again the hospital … drink … the taverns … and
more hospital, in two or three years—a wreck, and her life
over at eighteen or nineteen…. Have not I seen cases like
that? And how have they been brought to it? Why,
they’ve all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it
matter? That’s as it should be, they tell us. A certain
percentage, they tell us, must every year go … that way …
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to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may remain chaste,
and not be interfered with. A percentage! What splendid
words they have; they are so scientific, so consolatory….
Once you’ve said ‘percentage’ there’s nothing more to
worry about. If we had any other word … maybe we
might feel more uneasy…. But what if Dounia were one
of the percentage! Of another one if not that one?
‘But where am I going?’ he thought suddenly. ‘Strange,
I came out for something. As soon as I had read the letter
I came out…. I was going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to
Razumihin. That’s what it was … now I remember. What
for, though? And what put the idea of going to
Razumihin into my head just now? That’s curious.’
He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old
comrades at the university. It was remarkable that
Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university; he
kept aloof from everyone, went to see no one, and did not
welcome anyone who came to see him, and indeed
everyone soon gave him up. He took no part in the
students’ gatherings, amusements or conversations. He
worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and
he was respected for this, but no one liked him. He was
very poor, and there was a sort of haughty pride and
reserve about him, as though he were keeping something
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to himself. He seemed to some of his comrades to look
down upon them all as children, as though he were
superior in development, knowledge and convictions, as
though their beliefs and interests were beneath him.
With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was
more unreserved and communicative with him. Indeed it
was impossible to be on any other terms with Razumihin.
He was an exceptionally good-humoured and candid
youth, good-natured to the point of simplicity, though
both depth and dignity lay concealed under that simplicity.
The better of his comrades understood this, and all were
fond of him. He was extremely intelligent, though he was
certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking
appearance—tall, thin, blackhaired and always badly
shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and was reputed to
be of great physical strength. One night, when out in a
festive company, he had with one blow laid a gigantic
policeman on his back. There was no limit to his drinking
powers, but he could abstain from drink altogether; he
sometimes went too far in his pranks; but he could do
without pranks altogether. Another thing striking about
Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and it seemed as
though no unfavourable circumstances could crush him.
He could lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold
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and hunger. He was very poor, and kept himself entirely
on what he could earn by work of one sort or another. He
knew of no end of resources by which to earn money. He
spent one whole winter without lighting his stove, and
used to declare that he liked it better, because one slept
more soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, had
been obliged to give up the university, but it was only for
a time, and he was working with all his might to save
enough to return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not
been to see him for the last four months, and Razumihin
did not even know his address. About two months before,
they had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned
away and even crossed to the other side that he might not
be observed. And though Razumihin noticed him, he
passed him by, as he did not want to annoy him.
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