บทที่ บทที่ 4 · 第4章

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 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 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 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 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. 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. 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 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.

“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, 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 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 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 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!”

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 straight-forward, 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 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 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 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.

“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 devour each other alive--what is it 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... 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 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, black-haired 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 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.