Part 1 Chapter 1
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.
This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie--no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.
This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely aware of his fears.
"I want to attempt a thing /like that/ and am frightened by these trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm . . . yes, all is in a man's hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most. . . . But I am talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I've learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking . . . of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of /that/? Is /that/ serious? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything."
The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in summer--all worked painfully upon the young man's already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot- houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man's refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted food.
He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man's heart, that, in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: "Hey there, German hatter" bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him--the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman's, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.
"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That's the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable. . . . It looks absurd and that makes it noticeable. . . . With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered. . . . What matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little conspicuous as possible. . . . Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it's just such trifles that always ruin everything. . . ."
He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a "rehearsal" of his project, and at every step his excitement grew more and more violent.
With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by working people of all kinds--tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc. There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed on the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.
"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I were really going to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except by the old woman. "That's a good thing anyway," he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman's flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it clearly before him. . . . He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen's leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.
"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite.
"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.
"And here . . . I am again on the same errand," Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman's mistrust. "Perhaps she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other time," he thought with an uneasy feeling.
The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in front of her:
"Step in, my good sir."
The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lighted up at that moment by the setting sun.
"So the sun will shine like this /then/ too!" flashed as it were by chance through Raskolnikov's mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a dressing-table with a looking-glass fixed on it between the windows, chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny prints in yellow frames, representing German damsels with birds in their hands--that was all. In the corner a light was burning before a small ikon. Everything was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone.
"Lizaveta's work," thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust to be seen in the whole flat.
"It's in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such cleanliness," Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in which stood the old woman's bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.
"What do you want?" the old woman said severely, coming into the room and, as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in the face.
"I've brought something to pawn here," and he drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a globe; the chain was of steel.
"But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before yesterday."
"I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little."
"But that's for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell your pledge at once."
"How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?"
"You come with such trifles, my good sir, it's scarcely worth anything. I gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite new at a jeweler's for a rouble and a half."
"Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father's. I shall be getting some money soon."
"A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!"
"A rouble and a half!" cried the young man.
"Please yourself"--and the old woman handed him back the watch. The young man took it, and was so angry that he was on the point of going away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere else he could go, and that he had had another object also in coming.
"Hand it over," he said roughly.
The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers.
"It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring. . . . And there's one key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep notches; that can't be the key of the chest of drawers . . . then there must be some other chest or strong-box . . . that's worth knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that . . . but how degrading it all is."
The old woman came back.
"Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the watch. Here it is."
"What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!"
"Just so."
The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know what.
"I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna --a valuable thing--silver--a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it back from a friend . . ." he broke off in confusion.
"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."
"Good-bye--are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?" He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the passage.
"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"
"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick. . . . Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna."
Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the street he cried out, "Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly. . . . No, it's nonsense, it's rubbish!" he added resolutely. "And how could such an atrocious thing come into my head? What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!--and for a whole month I've been. . . ." But no words, no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to do with himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by, and jostling against them, and only came to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts became clear.
"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in it all to worry about! It's simply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread--and in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!"
But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not normal.
There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:
"His wife a year he fondly loved His wife a--a year he--fondly loved."
Or suddenly waking up again:
"Walking along the crowded row He met the one he used to know."
But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation.
 

七月初，天气特别热的时候①，傍晚时分，有个年轻人走出他在C胡同向二房东租来的那间斗室，来到街上，然后慢腾腾地，仿佛犹豫不决地往K桥那边走去。
他顺利地避开了在楼梯上与自己的女房东相遇。他那间斗室是一幢高高的五层楼房②的顶间，就在房顶底下，与其说像间住房，倒不如说更像个大橱。他向女房东租了这间供给伙食、而且有女仆侍候的斗室，女房东就住在他楼下一套单独的住房里，他每次外出，都一定得打女房东的厨房门前经过，而厨房门几乎总是冲着楼梯大敞着。每次这个年轻人从一旁走过的时候，都有一种病态的胆怯的感觉，他为此感到羞愧，于是皱起眉头。他欠了女房东一身债，怕和她见面。
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①据作者说，小说中的故事发生在一八六五年，小说中没有明确说明年份，但有些地方曾有所暗示，这句话就是其中之一——一八六五年夏天天气特别热。
②一八六六年作者写这部小说的时候，自己就住在小市民街、木匠胡同一幢类似的房子里。
倒不是说他是那么胆小和怯懦，甚至完全相反；但从某个时期以来，他一直处于一种很容易激动和紧张的状态。患了多疑症。他是那样经常陷入沉思，离群索居，甚至害怕见到任何人，而不单单是怕与女房东见面。他让贫穷给压垮了；但最近一个时期就连窘迫的处境也已不再使他感到苦恼。绝对必须的事情他已经不再去做，也不想做。其实，什么女房东他都不怕，不管她打算怎样跟他过不去。然而站在楼梯上，听这些与他毫不相干的日常生活中鸡毛蒜皮之类琐事的种种废话，听所有这些纠缠不休的讨债，威胁，抱怨，自己却要尽力设法摆脱，道歉，撒谎，——不，最好还是想个办法像猫儿样从楼梯上悄悄地过去，偷偷溜掉，让谁也别看见他。
可是这一次，到了街上以后，那种怕遇到女债主的恐惧心理，就连他自己也感到惊讶。
“我正要下决心做一件什么样的事情啊，但却害怕一些微不足道的琐事！”他想，脸上露出奇怪的微笑。“嗯……是的……事在人为嘛，他却仅仅由于胆怯而错过一切……这可是明显的道理……真有意思，人们最害怕什么呢？他们最害怕迈出新的一步，最害怕自己的新想法……不过，我说空话说得太多了。因为我尽说空话，所以什么也不做。不过，大概也可能是这样：由于我什么也不做，所以才尽说空话。我是在最近一个月里学会说空话的，整天躺在一个角落里，想啊……想入非非。嗯，现在我去干什么？难道我能去干这个吗？难道这是当真？绝对不是当真的。就是这样，为了梦想，自己在哄自己；儿戏！对了，大概是儿戏！”
街上热得可怕，而且气闷，拥挤不堪，到处都是石灰浆、脚手架、砖头，灰尘，还有那种夏天的特殊臭气。每个无法租一座别墅的彼得堡人都那么熟悉的那种臭气， ——所有这一切一下子就令人不快地震撼了这个青年人本已很不正常的神经。在城市的这一部分，小酒馆特别多，从这些小酒馆里冒出的臭气，还有那些尽管是在工作时间，却不断碰到的醉鬼，给这幅街景添上了最后一笔令人厌恶的忧郁色彩。有一瞬间，极端厌恶的神情在这个青年人清秀的面庞上忽然一闪。顺便说一声，他生得很美，有一双漂亮的黑眼睛，一头褐色的头发，比中等身材还高一些，消瘦而身材匀称。但不久他就仿佛陷入沉思，甚至，说得更确切些，似乎是想出了神，他往前走去，已经不注意周围的一切，而且也不想注意。他只是偶尔喃喃自语，这是由于他有自言自语的习惯，对这一习惯，现在他已经暗自承认了。这时他自己也意识到，他的思想有时是混乱的，而且他十分虚弱：已经有一天多他几乎什么也没吃了。
他穿得那么差，如果换一个人，即使是对此已经习以为常的人，衣衫如此褴褛，白天上街也会感到不好意思。不过这街区就是这样的，在这儿衣著很难让人感到惊讶。这儿靠近干草广场①，妓院比比皆是，而且麇集在彼得堡市中心这些大街小巷里的居民，主要是那些在车间干活的工人和手工业工匠，因此有时在这儿就是会遇到这样一些人，使这儿的街景显得更加丰富多采，如果碰到一个这样的人就感到惊讶，那倒反而是怪事了。这个年轻人心里已经积聚了那么多愤懑不平的怒火，他蔑视一切，所以尽管他有青年人特有的爱面子心理，有时非常注意细节，可是穿着这身破烂儿外出，却丝毫也不觉得不好意思。要是遇见他根本就不愿碰到的某些熟人和以前的同学，那就是另一回事了……然而有个喝得醉醺醺的人，不知为什么在这时候坐在一辆大车上打街上经过，车上套着一匹拉车的高头大马，也不知是要把他送往哪里去，这醉鬼从一旁驶过的时候，突然对着他大喊一声：“嗳，你呀，德国做帽子的工人！”那人用手指着他，扯着嗓子大喊，年轻人突然站住，急忙抓住了自己的帽子。这顶高筒圆帽是从齐梅尔曼②帽店里买的，不过已经戴得十分破旧，颜色都褪尽了，到处都是破洞和污迹，没有宽帽檐，帽筒歪到了一边，上面折出一个怪难看的角来。但不是羞愧，而完全是另一种，甚至是一种类似恐惧的感觉突然向他袭来。
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①彼得堡最大的市场就在干草广场上。
②齐梅尔曼是当时彼得堡一家制帽工厂和涅瓦大街上一家帽店的老板。
“我就知道！”他惊恐不安地喃喃说，“我就这么考虑过！这可是最糟糕的了！真的，不管什么样的蠢事，不管什么不起眼的细节，都会破坏整个计划！是啊，帽子太容易让人记住了……可笑，因此就容易让人记住……我这身破烂儿一定得配一顶制帽，哪怕是一顶煎饼式的旧帽子也行，可不能戴这个难看的怪玩意儿。谁也不戴这样的帽子，一俄里①以外就会让人注意到，就会记住的……主要的是，以后会想起来，瞧，这就是罪证。这儿需要尽可能不惹人注意……细节，主要是细节！…… 就是这些细节，总是会出问题，毁掉一切……”
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①一俄里等于一•○六公里。
他用不着走多远；他甚至知道，从他那幢房子的大门出来要走多少步：整整七百三十步。有一次他幻想得完全出了神的时候，曾经数过。那时他还不相信自己的这些幻想，他所幻想的这些虽说是没有道理，然而却是十分诱人的大胆计划，只是会惹他生气。现在，过了一个月以后，他已经开始以另一种眼光来看待这一切了，尽管他总是自言自语，嘲笑自己无能和优柔寡断，却不知怎么甚至不由自主地已经习惯于把这“没有道理”的幻想看作一项事业了，虽说他仍然不相信自己。现在他甚至要去为完成自己的这一事业进行试探，每走一步，他的激动不安也越来越强烈了。
他心情紧张，神经颤栗，走到一幢很大的大房子前，房子的一堵墙对着运河，另一面墙冲着×街。这幢大房子分作一套套不大的住宅，里面住满了各行各业的手艺人 ——裁缝、小炉匠、厨娘，形形色色的德国人，妓女，小官吏，以及其他行业的人。进进出出的人就这样在房子的两道大门和两个院子里匆匆走过。这儿有三个、要么是四个管院子的。那个年轻人没碰到他们当中的任何一个，立刻无人察觉地溜进大门，往右一拐，溜上了楼梯，因此他感到非常满意。楼梯又暗，又窄，是“后楼梯”，但是他对这一切都已经了解，而且察看过了，对这整个环境他都十分喜欢：在这样的黑暗中，就连好奇的目光也并不危险。“要是这时候我就这么害怕，说不定什么时候，如果真的要去干那件事的话，又会怎样呢？……”上四楼的时候，他不由得想。几个当搬运工的退伍士兵在这里挡住了他的路，他们正从一套住宅里往外搬家具。以前他已经知道，这套住宅里住着一个带家眷的德国人，是个官吏：“这么说，这个德国人现在搬走了，因而四层楼上，这道楼梯和这个楼梯平台上，在一段时间里就只剩下老太婆的住宅里还住着人。这好极了……以防万一……”他又想，并且拉了拉老太婆住房的门铃。门铃响声很轻，好像铃不是铜的，而是用白铁做的。这样的楼房中一套套这种不大的住宅里，几乎都是装着这样的门铃。他已经忘记了这小铃铛的响声，现在这很特别的响声突然让他想起了什么，并清清楚楚地想象……他猛地颤栗了一下，这一次神经真是太脆弱了。稍过了一会儿，房门开了很小一道缝：住在里面的那个女人带着明显不信任的神情从门缝里细细打量来人，只能看到她那双在黑暗中闪闪发亮的小眼睛。但是看到楼梯平台上有不少人，她胆壮起来，于是把房门完全打开了。年轻人跨过门坎，走进用隔板隔开的前室，隔板后面是一间很小的厨房。老太婆默默地站在他面前，疑问地注视着他。这是一个干瘪的小老太婆，六十来岁，有一双目光锐利、神情凶恶的小眼睛，尖尖的小鼻子，光着头，没包头巾。她那像鸡腿样细长的脖子上缠着一块法兰绒破围巾，别看天热，肩上还披着一件穿得十分破旧、已经发黄的毛皮女短上衣。老太婆一刻不停地咳嗽，发出呼哧呼哧的声音。想必是年轻人用异样的眼光看了她一眼，因而先前那种不信任的神情突然又在她眼睛里忽地一闪。
“拉斯科利尼科夫，大学生，一个月以前来过您这儿，”年轻人急忙含含糊糊地说，并且微微鞠躬行礼，因为他想起，应该客气一些。
“我记得，先生，记得很清楚，您来过，”老太婆清清楚楚地说，仍然没把自己疑问的目光从他脸上移开。
“那么……又是为这事来的……”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说，稍有点儿窘，并且为老太婆的不信任感到诧异。
“不过，也许她一向都是这样，我那一次却没有注意，”他怀着不愉快的心情想。
老太婆沉默了一会儿，仿佛在考虑，随后退到一边，指指房间的门，让客人到前面去，并且说：
“请进，先生。”
年轻人进去的那间房间并不大，墙上糊着黄色的墙纸，屋里摆着天竺葵，窗上挂着细纱窗帘，这时落日的余晖把屋里照得亮堂堂的。“这么说，那时候，太阳也会像这样照着！……”这想法仿佛无意中掠过拉斯科利尼科夫的脑海，于是他用目光匆匆打量了一下屋里的一切，想尽可能了解并记住屋里的布局。不过屋里并没有任何特殊的东西。家具都很旧了，都是黄木做的：一张有老大的弯木靠背的沙发，沙发前摆一张椭圆形的圆桌，窗和门之间的墙上有个带镜子的梳妆台，沿墙放着几把椅子，还有两三幅毫无价值的图画，都装在黄色的画框里，上面画着几个手里拿着小鸟的德国小姐，——这就是全部家具。墙角落里，不大的神像前点着神灯。一切都很干净：家具和地板都擦得发亮；一切都闪闪发光。“莉扎薇塔做的，”年轻人想。整套住宅里纤尘不染。“凶恶的老寡妇家里才会这么干净，”拉斯科利尼科夫继续暗自思忖，并且好奇地斜着眼睛瞟了瞟第二间小房间门前的印花布门帘，那间屋里摆着老太婆的床和一个抽屉柜，他还一次也没朝那屋里看过。整套住宅就只有这两间房间。
“有什么事啊？”老太婆走进屋来，严厉地说，仍然正对着他站着，这样可以直瞅着他的脸。
“我拿了一件抵押品来，您瞧，这就是！”说着他从衣袋里掏出一块扁平的旧银表。表的背面刻着一个地球仪。表链是钢的。
“要知道，上次抵押的东西已经到期了。还在前天就超过一个月了。”
“我再给您一个月的利息；请您宽限一下。”
“先生，宽限几天，还是这会儿就把您的东西卖掉，这都得由我决定。”
“表可以当多少钱，阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜？”
“先生，你尽拿些不值钱的东西来，差不多一文不值。上次那个戒指给了您两个卢布，可在首饰商那儿，花一个半卢布就能买个新的。”
“请给我四个卢布吧，我一定来赎，是我父亲的。我很快就会得到钱了。”
“一个半卢布，利息先付，要是您愿意的话。”
“一个半卢布！”年轻人叫了起来。
“随您便。”说着老太婆把表递还给他。年轻人接过表来，感到那样气愤，已经想要走了；但立刻又改了主意，因为他想起，再也无处可去，而且他来这儿还有旁的目的。
“拿来吧！”他粗暴地说。
老太婆伸手到衣袋里去掏钥匙，然后走进门帘后面另一间屋里。只剩下年轻人独自一人站在房屋中间，好奇地侧耳谛听，暗自猜测。可以听到她打开了抽屉柜。“大概是上面的抽屉，”他猜测。“这么说，她是把钥匙装在右边口袋里……全都串成一串，串在一个钢圈儿上……那儿有一把最大的钥匙，有旁的三倍大，带锯齿，当然不是开抽屉柜的……可见还有一个小匣子，要么是个小箱子……瞧，这真有意思。小箱子都是用这样的钥匙……不过，这一切多么卑鄙……”
老太婆回来了。
“您瞧，先生：既然一个卢布一个月的利息是十个戈比，那么一个半卢布该收您十五个戈比，先付一个月的利息。上次那两个卢布也照这样计算，该先收您二十戈比。这么说，总共是三十五戈比。现在您这块表，总共还该给您一卢布十五戈比。这不是，请收下吧。”
“怎么！现在就只有一卢布十五戈比了！”
“正是这样。”
年轻人没有争论，接过了钱。他瞅着老太婆，并不急于出去，似乎他还想说点儿什么，要么是做点儿什么，但好像他自己也不知道，到底要干什么……
“阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜，也许，就在这几天里，我还要给您拿一样东西来……银的……很精致的……烟盒……只等我从朋友那里取回来……”他发窘了，于是住了声。
“好，到那时再说吧，先生。”
“再见……您总是一个人在家？妹妹不在吗？”他到前室去的时候，尽可能随随便便地问。
“先生，您问她干什么？”
“啊，没什么。我不过这么问问。您现在真是……阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜！”
拉斯科利尼科夫从屋里出来时已经十分心慌意乱。这不安的心情越来越强烈了。下楼时他甚至有好几次停了下来，仿佛有什么事情使他突然吃了一惊。最后，已经到了街上的时候，他激动地说：
“噢，天哪！这一切多么令人厌恶！难道，难道我……不！这是无稽之谈，这是荒谬绝伦！”他毅然决然地加上几句。
“难道我的头脑里会出现这样可怕的想法？我的良心竟能允许干这种肮脏的事情！主要的是：肮脏，卑污，恶劣，恶劣！……
而我，整整一个月……”
但是他既不能用言词、也不能用感叹来表达自己的激动与不安。还在他刚刚去老太婆那儿的时候就开始使他感到压抑和不安的极端厌恶的心情，现在已经达到这种程度，而且变得十分明显，以致他不知该躲到哪里去，才能逃避自己的忧愁。他像喝醉了似地在人行道上走着，看不见路上的行人，老是会撞到他们，清醒过来的时候，已经到了另一条街上。他环顾四周，发觉自己站在一家小酒馆旁，要进酒馆，得从人行道顺着楼梯往下，到地下室去。就在这时，恰好从门里走出两个醉醺醺的人来，他们互相搀扶着，嘴里不干不净地骂着，顺着楼梯爬到街上。拉斯科利尼科夫没想多久，立刻就下去了。在此以前他从未进过酒馆，但是现在他感到头昏，加以火烧火燎的干渴正在折磨着他。他想喝点儿冰冷的啤酒，而且他把自己突然感到的虚弱归咎于饥饿。他坐到又暗又脏的角落里一张发黏的小桌旁边，要了啤酒，贪婪地喝干了第一杯。立刻一切都消失了，他的思想也清晰了。“这一切都是胡说八道，”他满怀希望地说，“这儿没有什么可以感到不安的！只不过是身体不舒服，是一种病态！只要一杯啤酒，一小块干面包，——瞧，转瞬间就变得坚强起来，思想清楚了，意向也坚定了！呸！这一切是多么微不足道！……”但尽管他轻蔑地啐了一口唾沫，他却已经高兴起来，仿佛突然摆脱了某种可怕的沉重负担，并且目光友好地扫视了一下在座的人。不过就是在这时候，他也隐隐约约预感到，这种一切都往好处想的乐观态度也是一种病态。
这时小酒馆里剩下的人已经不多了。除了在楼梯上碰到过的那两个醉鬼，又有吵吵嚷嚷的一群人跟着他们走了出去，他们这一伙约摸有五、六个人，其中有一个姑娘，还带着一架手风琴。他们走了以后，变得静悄悄、空荡荡的。剩下的人中有一个已经醉了，不过醉得并不厉害，坐在摆着啤酒的桌边，看样子是个小市民；他的同伴是个胖子，身材魁梧，穿一件竖领打褶的细腰短呢上衣，蓄一部花白的大胡子，已经喝得酩酊大醉，正坐在长凳上打瞌睡，有时突然似乎半睡半醒，伸开双手，开始用手指打榧子，他并没有从长凳上站起来，上身却不时往上动一动，而且在胡乱哼着一首什么歌曲，竭力想记起歌词，好像是：
整整一年我和妻子亲亲热热，
整——整一年我和妻——子亲亲——热热……
要么是突然醒来，又唱道：
我去波季亚契大街闲逛，
找到了自己从前的婆娘……
但谁也不分享他的幸福；他那个沉默寡言的伙伴对这些感情爆发甚至抱有敌意，而且持怀疑态度。那儿还有一个人，看样子好像是个退职的官吏。他面对自己的酒杯，单独坐在一张桌子旁边，有时喝一口酒，并向四周看看。他似乎也有点儿激动不安。
Part 1 Chapter 2
Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.
The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.
There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the other persons in the room, including the tavern- keeper, the clerk looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense feeling--perhaps there were even thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely:
"May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular counsellor in rank. Marmeladov--such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold to inquire--have you been in the service?"
"No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached or attempted to approach him.
"A student then, or formerly a student," cried the clerk. "Just what I thought! I'm a man of experience, immense experience, sir," and he tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. "You've been a student or have attended some learned institution! . . . But allow me. . . ." He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not spoken to a soul for a month.
"Honoured sir," he began almost with solemnity, "poverty is not a vice, that's a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and that that's even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in beggary--never--no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of human society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house! Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?"
"No, I have not happened to," answered Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I've just come from one and it's the fifth night I've slept so. . . ." He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clinging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite probable that he had not undressed or washed for the last five days. His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black nails.
His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The boys at the counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the "funny fellow" and sat down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had most likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those who are looked after sharply and kept in order at home. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify themselves and even if possible obtain consideration.
"Funny fellow!" pronounced the innkeeper. "And why don't you work, why aren't you at your duty, if you are in the service?"
"Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir," Marmeladov went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that question to him. "Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn't I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you . . . hm . . . well, to petition hopelessly for a loan?"
"Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?"
"Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will on no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he? For he knows of course that I shan't pay it back. From compassion? But Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that's what is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that he won't, I set off to him and . . ."
"Why do you go?" put in Raskolnikov.
"Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must go somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then I had to go . . . (for my daughter has a yellow passport)," he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man. "No matter, sir, no matter!" he went on hurriedly and with apparent composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smiled--"No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of their heads; for everyone knows everything about it already, and all that is secret is made open. And I accept it all, not with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! 'Behold the man!' Excuse me, young man, can you. . . . No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly; not /can/ you but /dare/ you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?"
The young man did not answer a word.
"Well," the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity, after waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. "Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse, is a person of education and an officer's daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet . . . oh, if only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man ought to have at least one place where people feel for him! But Katerina Ivanovna, though she is magnanimous, she is unjust. . . . And yet, although I realise that when she pulls my hair she only does it out of pity--for I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man," he declared with redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again--"but, my God, if she would but once. . . . But no, no! It's all in vain and it's no use talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true and more than once she has felt for me but . . . such is my fate and I am a beast by nature!"
"Rather!" assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fist resolutely on the table.
"Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very stockings for drink? Not her shoes--that would be more or less in the order of things, but her stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she caught cold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too. We have three little children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrubbing and cleaning and washing the children, for she's been used to cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I don't feel it? And the more I drink the more I feel it. That's why I drink too. I try to find sympathy and feeling in drink. . . . I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!" And as though in despair he laid his head down on the table.
"Young man," he went on, raising his head again, "in your face I seem to read some trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why I addressed you at once. For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not wish to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners, who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for a man of feeling and education. Know then that my wife was educated in a high-class school for the daughters of noblemen, and on leaving she danced the shawl dance before the governor and other personages for which she was presented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The medal . . . well, the medal of course was sold--long ago, hm . . . but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she is most continually on bad terms with the landlady, yet she wanted to tell someone or other of her past honours and of the happy days that are gone. I don't condemn her for it, I don't blame her, for the one thing left her is recollection of the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but won't allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That's why she would not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov's rudeness to her, and so when he gave her a beating for it, she took to her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three children, one smaller than the other. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father's house. She was exceedingly fond of her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into trouble and with that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and although she paid him back, of which I have authentic documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she throws him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad that, though only in imagination, she should think of herself as having once been happy. . . . And she was left at his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty that, although I have seen many ups and downs of all sort, I don't feel equal to describing it even. Her relations had all thrown her off. And she was proud, too, excessively proud. . . . And then, honoured sir, and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and culture and distinguished family, should have consented to be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don't understand yet. . . . And for a whole year, I performed my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch this" (he tapped the jug with his finger), "for I have feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I lost my place too, and that through no fault of mine but through changes in the office; and then I did touch it! . . . It will be a year and a half ago soon since we found ourselves at last after many wanderings and numerous calamities in this magnificent capital, adorned with innumerable monuments. Here I obtained a situation. . . . I obtained it and I lost it again. Do you understand? This time it was through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come out. . . . We have now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel's; and what we live upon and what we pay our rent with, I could not say. There are a lot of people living there besides ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect Bedlam . . . hm . . . yes . . . And meanwhile my daughter by my first wife has grown up; and what my daughter has had to put up with from her step-mother whilst she was growing up, I won't speak of. For, though Katerina Ivanovna is full of generous feelings, she is a spirited lady, irritable and short--tempered. . . . Yes. But it's no use going over that! Sonia, as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an effort four years ago to give her a course of geography and universal history, but as I was not very well up in those subjects myself and we had no suitable books, and what books we had . . . hm, anyway we have not even those now, so all our instruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of Persia. Since she has attained years of maturity, she has read other books of romantic tendency and of late she had read with great interest a book she got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, Lewes' Physiology--do you know it?--and even recounted extracts from it to us: and that's the whole of her education. And now may I venture to address you, honoured sir, on my own account with a private question. Do you suppose that a respectable poor girl can earn much by honest work? Not fifteen farthings a day can she earn, if she is respectable and has no special talent and that without putting her work down for an instant! And what's more, Ivan Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor--have you heard of him?--has not to this day paid her for the half-dozen linen shirts she made him and drove her roughly away, stamping and reviling her, on the pretext that the shirt collars were not made like the pattern and were put in askew. And there are the little ones hungry. . . . And Katerina Ivanovna walking up and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks flushed red, as they always are in that disease: 'Here you live with us,' says she, 'you eat and drink and are kept warm and you do nothing to help.' And much she gets to eat and drink when there is not a crust for the little ones for three days! I was lying at the time . . . well, what of it! I was lying drunk and I heard my Sonia speaking (she is a gentle creature with a soft little voice . . . fair hair and such a pale, thin little face). She said: 'Katerina Ivanovna, am I really to do a thing like that?' And Darya Frantsovna, a woman of evil character and very well known to the police, had two or three times tried to get at her through the landlady. 'And why not?' said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer, 'you are something mighty precious to be so careful of!' But don't blame her, don't blame her, honoured sir, don't blame her! She was not herself when she spoke, but driven to distraction by her illness and the crying of the hungry children; and it was said more to wound her than anything else. . . . For that's Katerina Ivanovna's character, and when children cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating them at once. At six o'clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her cape, and go out of the room and about nine o'clock she came back. She walked straight up to Katerina Ivanovna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look at her, she simply picked up our big green /drap de dames/ shawl (we have a shawl, made of /drap de dames/), put it over her head and face and lay down on the bed with her face to the wall; only her little shoulders and her body kept shuddering. . . . And I went on lying there, just as before. . . . And then I saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to Sonia's little bed; she was on her knees all the evening kissing Sonia's feet, and would not get up, and then they both fell asleep in each other's arms . . . together, together . . . yes . . . and I . . . lay drunk."
Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared his throat.
"Since then, sir," he went on after a brief pause--"Since then, owing to an unfortunate occurrence and through information given by evil- intentioned persons--in all which Darya Frantsovna took a leading part on the pretext that she had been treated with want of respect--since then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a yellow ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna would not hear of it (though she had backed up Darya Frantsovna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too . . . hm. . . . All the trouble between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia's account. At first he was for making up to Sonia himself and then all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: 'how,' said he, 'can a highly educated man like me live in the same rooms with a girl like that?' And Katerina Ivanovna would not let it pass, she stood up for her . . . and so that's how it happened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she can. . . . She has a room at the Kapernaumovs' the tailors, she lodges with them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off. . . . Hm . . . yes . . . very poor people and all with cleft palates . . . yes. Then I got up in the morning, and put on my rags, lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch. His excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know him? No? Well, then, it's a man of God you don't know. He is wax . . . wax before the face of the Lord; even as wax melteth! . . . His eyes were dim when he heard my story. 'Marmeladov, once already you have deceived my expectations . . . I'll take you once more on my own responsibility'--that's what he said, 'remember,' he said, 'and now you can go.' I kissed the dust at his feet--in thought only, for in reality he would not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman and a man of modern political and enlightened ideas. I returned home, and when I announced that I'd been taken back into the service and should receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do there was . . .!"
Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that moment a whole party of revellers already drunk came in from the street, and the sounds of a hired concertina and the cracked piping voice of a child of seven singing "The Hamlet" were heard in the entry. The room was filled with noise. The tavern-keeper and the boys were busy with the new-comers. Marmeladov paying no attention to the new arrivals continued his story. He appeared by now to be extremely weak, but as he became more and more drunk, he became more and more talkative. The recollection of his recent success in getting the situation seemed to revive him, and was positively reflected in a sort of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov listened attentively.
"That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes. . . . As soon as Katerina Ivanovna and Sonia heard of it, mercy on us, it was as though I stepped into the kingdom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie like a beast, nothing but abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. 'Semyon Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting, shh!' They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cream for me! They began to get real cream for me, do you hear that? And how they managed to get together the money for a decent outfit-- eleven roubles, fifty copecks, I can't guess. Boots, cotton shirt- fronts--most magnificent, a uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles and a half. The first morning I came back from the office I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked two courses for dinner--soup and salt meat with horse radish--which we had never dreamed of till then. She had not any dresses . . . none at all, but she got herself up as though she were going on a visit; and not that she'd anything to do it with, she smartened herself up with nothing at all, she'd done her hair nicely, put on a clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different person, she was younger and better looking. Sonia, my little darling, had only helped with money 'for the time,' she said, 'it won't do for me to come and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one can see.' Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap after dinner and what do you think: though Katerina Ivanovna had quarrelled to the last degree with our landlady Amalia Fyodorovna only a week before, she could not resist then asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were sitting, whispering together. 'Semyon Zaharovitch is in the service again, now, and receiving a salary,' says she, 'and he went himself to his excellency and his excellency himself came out to him, made all the others wait and led Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into his study.' Do you hear, do you hear? 'To be sure,' says he, 'Semyon Zaharovitch, remembering your past services,' says he, 'and in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since you promise now and since moreover we've got on badly without you,' (do you hear, do you hear;) 'and so,' says he, 'I rely now on your word as a gentleman.' And all that, let me tell you, she has simply made up for herself, and not simply out of wantonness, for the sake of bragging; no, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own fancies, upon my word she does! And I don't blame her for it, no, I don't blame her! . . . Six days ago when I brought her my first earnings in full--twenty-three roubles forty copecks altogether--she called me her poppet: 'poppet,' said she, 'my little poppet.' And when we were by ourselves, you understand? You would not think me a beauty, you would not think much of me as a husband, would you? . . . Well, she pinched my cheek, 'my little poppet,' said she."
Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began to twitch. He controlled himself however. The tavern, the degraded appearance of the man, the five nights in the hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this poignant love for his wife and children bewildered his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation. He felt vexed that he had come here.
"Honoured sir, honoured sir," cried Marmeladov recovering himself-- "Oh, sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of all the trivial details of my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me. For I can feel it all. . . . And the whole of that heavenly day of my life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I would arrange it all, and how I would dress all the children, and how I should give her rest, and how I should rescue my own daughter from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of her family. . . . And a great deal more. . . . Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir" (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head and gazed intently at his listener) "well, on the very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days ago, in the evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box, took out what was left of my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten, and now look at me, all of you! It's the fifth day since I left home, and they are looking for me there and it's the end of my employment, and my uniform is lying in a tavern on the Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have on . . . and it's the end of everything!"
Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and leaned heavily with his elbow on the table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed and with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said:
"This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a pick-me-up! He-he-he!"
"You don't say she gave it to you?" cried one of the new-comers; he shouted the words and went off into a guffaw.
"This very quart was bought with her money," Marmeladov declared, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. "Thirty copecks she gave me with her own hands, her last, all she had, as I saw. . . . She said nothing, she only looked at me without a word. . . . Not on earth, but up yonder . . . they grieve over men, they weep, but they don't blame them, they don't blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don't blame! Thirty copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my dear sir? For now she's got to keep up her appearance. It costs money, that smartness, that special smartness, you know? Do you understand? And there's pomatum, too, you see, she must have things; petticoats, starched ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you understand what all that smartness means? And here I, her own father, here I took thirty copecks of that money for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on a man like me, eh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He-he-he!"
He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The pot was empty.
"What are you to be pitied for?" shouted the tavern-keeper who was again near them.
Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter and the oaths came from those who were listening and also from those who had heard nothing but were simply looking at the figure of the discharged government clerk.
"To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?" Marmeladov suddenly declaimed, standing up with his arm outstretched, as though he had been only waiting for that question.
"Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there's nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for it's not merry-making I seek but tears and tribulation! . . . Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask: 'Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross, consumptive step-mother and for the little children of another? Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by his beastliness?' And He will say, 'Come to me! I have already forgiven thee once. . . . I have forgiven thee once. . . . Thy sins which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast loved much. . . .' And he will forgive my Sonia, He will forgive, I know it . . . I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek. . . . And when He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. 'You too come forth,' He will say, 'Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!' And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before him. And He will say unto us, 'Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!' And the wise ones and those of understanding will say, 'Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?' And He will say, 'This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them believed himself to be worthy of this.' And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall down before him . . . and we shall weep . . . and we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand all! . . . and all will understand, Katerina Ivanovna even . . . she will understand. . . . Lord, Thy kingdom come!" And he sank down on the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one, apparently oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep thought. His words had created a certain impression; there was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths were heard again.
"That's his notion!"
"Talked himself silly!"
"A fine clerk he is!"
And so on, and so on.
"Let us go, sir," said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov--"come along with me . . . Kozel's house, looking into the yard. I'm going to Katerina Ivanovna--time I did."
Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he had meant to help him. Marmeladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in his speech and leaned heavily on the young man. They had two or three hundred paces to go. The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay and confusion as they drew nearer the house.
"It's not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now," he muttered in agitation--"and that she will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair matter! Bother my hair! That's what I say! Indeed it will be better if she does begin pulling it, that's not what I am afraid of . . . it's her eyes I am afraid of . . . yes, her eyes . . . the red on her cheeks, too, frightens me . . . and her breathing too. . . . Have you noticed how people in that disease breathe . . . when they are excited? I am frightened of the children's crying, too. . . . For if Sonia has not taken them food . . . I don't know what's happened! I don't know! But blows I am not afraid of. . . . Know, sir, that such blows are not a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can't get on without it. . . . It's better so. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart . . . it's better so . . . There is the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet-maker . . . a German, well-to-do. Lead the way!"
They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o'clock and although in summer in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs.
A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children's garments. Across the furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered with American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but their room was practically a passage. The door leading to the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel's flat was divided stood half open, and there was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.
Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for Marmeladov. . . . She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother's neck. She was trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep him from whimpering again. At the same time her large dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were watching her mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into the next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him, she walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the doorway.
"Ah!" she cried out in a frenzy, "he has come back! The criminal! the monster! . . . And where is the money? What's in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the money! Speak!"
And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently held up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.
"Where is the money?" she cried--"Mercy on us, can he have drunk it all? There were twelve silver roubles left in the chest!" and in a fury she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov seconded her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees.
"And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir," he called out, shaken to and fro by his hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead. The child asleep on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like a leaf.
"He's drunk it! he's drunk it all," the poor woman screamed in despair --"and his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!"--and wringing her hands she pointed to the children. "Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not ashamed?"--she pounced all at once upon Raskolnikov--"from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have been drinking with him, too! Go away!"
The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust themselves in at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in dressing gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted, when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation to him. They even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her way amongst them and trying to restore order after her own fashion and for the hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out, Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed his mind and would have gone back.
"What a stupid thing I've done," he thought to himself, "they have Sonia and I want it myself." But reflecting that it would be impossible to take it back now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to his lodging. "Sonia wants pomatum too," he said as he walked along the street, and he laughed malignantly--"such smartness costs money. . . . Hm! And maybe Sonia herself will be bankrupt to-day, for there is always a risk, hunting big game . . . digging for gold . . . then they would all be without a crust to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they've dug there! And they're making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most of it! They've wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!"
He sank into thought.
"And what if I am wrong," he cried suddenly after a moment's thought. "What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind--then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no barriers and it's all as it should be."
 
拉斯科利尼科夫不惯于与人来往，而且正像已经说过的，他总是逃避一切交际应酬，特别是最近一个时期。但现在不知是什么突然使他想跟人接触了。他心里似乎产生了某种新想法，同时感到渴望与人交往。整整一个月独自忍受强烈的忧愁，经受心情忧郁紧张的折磨，他已经感到如此疲倦，因此希望，哪怕只是一分钟也好，能在另一个世界里喘一口气，随便在什么样的环境里都可以，因此尽管这里肮脏不堪，现在他还是很高兴待在小酒馆里。
酒馆的老板待在另一间屋里，不过常从那儿走下几级台阶，进入这间主要的店堂，而且首先让人看到的总是他那双有红色大翻口、搽了一层油的时髦靴子。他穿一件腰部打褶的长外衣和一件油迹斑驳的黑缎子坎肩，没打领带，满脸上似乎都搽了油，就像给铁锁上油一样。柜台后站着一个十三、四岁的小男孩，还有个年纪更小的男孩子，有人要酒时，他就给送去。摆着切碎的黄瓜，黑面包干，切成一块块的鱼；这一切都有一股难闻的气味。又闷又热，坐在这里简直让人受不了，而且一切都渗透了酒味，似乎单闻闻这儿的空气，不消五分钟就会给熏得醺醺大醉。
有时会碰到这样一些人，我们和他们甚至素不相识，但不知怎的，连一句话都还没说，却突然一下子，刚一见面就引起我们的兴趣。那个坐得稍远、好像退职官吏的客人，就正是让拉斯科利尼科夫产生了这样的印象。以后这年轻人不止一次回想起这第一次印象，甚至认为这是由预感造成的。他不断地打量那个官吏，当然，这也是因为那人也在一个劲儿地瞅着他，而且看得出来，那人很想开口跟他说话。对酒馆里其余的人，包括老板在内，那官吏却不知怎地似乎早已经看惯了，甚至感到无聊，而且带有某种傲慢的藐视意味，就像对待社会地位和文化程度都很低的人们那样，觉得跟他们根本无话可谈。这是一个已经年过半百的人，中等身材，体格健壮，鬓有白发，头顶上秃了老大一块，由于经常酗酒，浮肿的黄脸甚至有点儿发绿，稍微肿胀的眼皮底下，一双细得像两条细缝、然而很有精神、微微发红的小眼睛炯炯发光。但他身上有某种很奇怪的现象；他的目光里流露出甚至仿佛是兴高采烈的神情，——看来，既有理性，又有智慧，——但同时又隐约显示出疯狂的迹象。他穿一件已经完全破破烂烂的黑色旧燕尾服，钮扣几乎都掉光了。只有一颗还勉强连在上面，他就是用这颗钮扣把衣服扣上，看来是希望保持体面。黄土布坎肩下露出皱得不像样子、污迹斑斑的脏胸衣。和所有官员一样，他没留胡子，不过脸已经刮过很久了，所以已经开始长出了浓密的、灰蓝色的胡子茬。而且他的行为举止当真都有一种官员们所特有的庄重风度。但是他显得烦躁不安，把头发弄得乱蓬蓬的，有时神情忧郁，把袖子已经磨破的胳膊肘撑在很脏而且黏搭搭的桌子上，用双手托着脑袋。最后，他直对着拉斯科利尼科夫看了一眼，高声而坚决地说：
“我的先生，恕我冒昧，不知能否与您攀谈几句？因为虽然您衣著并不考究，但凭我的经验却能看出，您是一位受过教育的人，也不常喝酒。我一向尊重受过教育而且真心诚意的人，除此而外，我还是个九等文官①呢。马尔梅拉多夫——这是我的姓；九等文官。恕我冒昧，请问您在工作吗？”
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①一七二二年彼得大帝制订“等级表”，所有文武官员分为十四等，一等最高，十四等最低。九等文官相当于大尉。
“不，我在求学……”青年人回答。他感到惊讶，这有一部分是由于对方说话的语气特别矫揉造作，也由于他竟是那么直截了当地和他说话。尽管不久前有那么短暂的瞬间他想与人交往，不管是什么样的交往都好，但当真有人和他说话时，才听到第一句话，他就又突然感到厌恶和恼怒了，——对所有与他接触、或想要和他接触的人，通常他都会产生这种厌恶和恼怒的心情。
“那么说，是大学生了，或者以前是大学生！”官吏高声说，“我就是这样想的！经验嘛，先生，屡试不爽的经验了！”并且自我吹嘘地把一根手指按在前额上。“以前是大学生，或者搞过学术研究！对不起……”他欠起身来，摇晃了一下，拿起自己的酒壶和酒杯，坐到青年人旁边，稍有点儿斜对着他。他喝醉了，不过仍然健谈，说话也很流利，只是偶尔有的地方前言不搭后语，而且罗里罗唆。他甚至那样急切地渴望与拉斯科利尼科夫交谈，好像有整整一个月没跟人说过话似的。
“先生，”他几乎是郑重其事地开始说，“贫穷不是罪恶，这是真理。我知道，酗酒不是美德，这更是真理。可是赤贫，先生，赤贫却是罪恶。贫穷的时候，您还能保持自己天生感情的高尚气度，在赤贫的情况下，却无论什么时候，无论什么人都做不到。为了赤贫，甚至不是把人用棍子赶走，而是拿扫帚把他从人类社会里清扫出去，让他受更大的凌辱；而且这是公正的，因为在赤贫的情况下，我自己首先就准备凌辱自己。于是就找到了酒！先生，一个月以前，我太太让列别贾特尼科夫先生痛打了一顿，不过我太太可不是我这种人！您明白吗？对不起，我还要问您一声，即使只是出于一般的好奇心：您在涅瓦河上的干草船①里过过夜吗？”
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①十九世纪六十年代，那里是彼得堡无家可归者过夜的地方。
“没有，没有过过夜，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。“这是什么意思？”
“唉，我就是从那儿来的，已经是第五夜了……”
他斟了一杯酒，喝干了，于是陷入沉思。真的，他的衣服上，甚至连他的头发里，有些地方还可以看到粘在上面的一根根干草。很有可能，他已经五天没脱衣服，也没洗脸了。尤其是一双手脏得要命，满手油垢，发红，指甲里嵌满黑色的污泥。
他的话好像引起了大家的注意。虽说这注意也是无精打采的。柜台后面的两个男孩子吃吃地笑起来。老板好像故意从上面的房间里下来，好来听听这个“逗乐的家伙”在说什么。他坐到稍远一点儿的地方，懒洋洋地、但神气十足地打着呵欠。显然，马尔梅拉多夫早已是这儿大家都熟悉的人了。而且他爱用矫揉造作的语气说话，大概是由于他习惯经常和酒馆里形形色色素不相识的人谈话。这种习惯对有些酒鬼已经变成了一种需要，主要是他们当中那些在家里严受管束、经常受到压制的人。因此他们在同样嗜酒如命的这伙人中间，才总是力图为自己表白，仿佛是设法给自己辩解，如果可能的话，甚至试图博得别人的尊敬。
“逗乐的家伙！”老板高声说。“可你干吗不去工作，干吗不去办公，既然你是个官员？”
“我为什么不去办公吗，先生，”马尔梅拉多夫接住话茬说，这话是单对着拉斯科利尼科夫说的，仿佛这是他向他提出了这个问题。“为什么不去办公吗？难道我自轻自贱、徒然降低自己的身份，自己不觉得心痛吗？一个月以前，当列别贾特尼科夫先生动手打我妻子的时候，我喝得醉醺醺地躺在床上，难道我不感到痛苦吗？对不起，年轻人，您是不是有过……嗯哼……虽然明知毫无希望，可还是不得不开口向人借钱？”
“有过……毫无希望是什么意思？”
“就是完全没有希望，事先就知道这绝不会有什么结果。喏，譬如说吧，您早就知道，而且有充分根据，知道这个人，这个心地最善良、对社会最有益的公民无论如何也不会把钱借给您。因为，请问，他为什么要给呢？不是吗，他明明知道，这不会还给他。出于同情心吗？可是列别贾特尼科夫先生，这个经常留心各种新思想的人，不久前解释说，在我们这个时代，就连科学也不允许有同情心，在有了政治经济学的英国就是这样①请问，他为什么要给钱呢？瞧，您事先就知道，他绝不会借给您，可您还是去了……”
“为什么要去呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫追问一句。
“如果没有别人可找，如果再也无处可去呢！不是吗，得让每个人至少有个什么可以去的地方啊。因为常常有这样的时候，一定得至少有个可以去的地方！我的独生女儿头一次去拉生意的时候，我也去了……（因为我女儿靠黄色执照②生活……）”他附带加上了一句，同时有点儿神色不安地看了看青年人。“没什么，先生，没什么！”柜台后面的两个男孩噗嗤一声笑了出来，老板也微微一笑，这时他立刻匆匆忙忙地说，看来神情是安详的。“没什么！这些人摇头我不会感到不好意思，因为这一切大家都已经知道了，一切秘密都公开了；而且我不是以蔑视的态度，而是怀着恭顺的心情来对待这一切的。由它去吧！让他们笑吧！‘你们看这个人！’③对不起，年轻人：您能不能……可是，不，用一种更加有力、更富有表现力的方式，说得更清楚些：您能不能，您敢不敢现在看着我肯定地说，“我不是猪猡？”
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①指英国哲学家、经济学家约•斯•米利（一八○六——一八七三）的《政治经济学原理），该书的俄译本是一八六五年出版的。米利认为，人的行为、愿望乃至苦难都是由他们的经济地位事先决定的。陀思妥耶夫斯基不同意这种观点。
②指作妓女。帝俄时，妓女要在警察局领黄色执照。
③引自《新约全书•约翰福音》第十九章第五节：“耶稣出来，戴着荆棘冠冕，穿着紫袍，彼拉多对他们说，你们看这个人。”
年轻人什么也没有回答。
“嗯，”等到屋里随之而来的吃吃的笑声停下来以后，这位演说家又庄重地，这一回甚至是更加尊严地接着说：“嗯，就算我是猪猡吧，可她是一位太太！我的形象像畜生，而卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，我的妻子，是个受过教育的人，是位校级军官的女儿。就算，就算我是个下流坯吧，她却有一颗高尚的心，受过教育，满怀崇高的感情。然而，……噢，如果她怜悯我的话！先生，先生，要知道，得让每个人至少有个能怜悯他的地方啊！而卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜虽然是一位宽洪大量的太太，可是她不公正……虽然我自己也知道，她揪我头发的时候，只不过是出于她的怜悯心，因为，我反复说，她揪我的头发，我并不感到难为情，年轻人，”他又听见一阵吃吃的笑声，怀着加倍的自尊承认道，“不过，天哪，如果她哪怕是仅仅有一次……可是，不！不！这一切都是徒然的，没什么好说的！没什么好说的了！……因为我所希望的已经不止一次成为现实，已经不止一次怜悯过我了，可是……
我就是这么个德性，我是个天生的畜生！”
“可不是！”老板打着呵欠说。
马尔梅拉多夫坚决地用拳头捶了捶桌子。
“我就是这么个德性！您知道吗，先生，我连她的长袜都拿去卖掉，喝光了？不是鞋子，因为这至少还多少合乎情理。可是长袜，把她的长袜卖掉，喝光了！她的一条山羊毛头巾也让我卖掉，喝光了，是人家从前送给她的，是她自己的，而不是我的；可我们住在半间寒冷的房屋里，这个冬天她着了凉，咳嗽起来，已经吐血了。我们有三个小孩子，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜从早到晚忙个不停，擦啊，洗啊，给孩子们洗澡，因为她从小就爱干净，可她的胸部不健康，很可能害了痨病，这我也感觉到了。难道我感觉不到吗？酒喝得越多，越感觉得出来。就是为此我才喝酒的，想在酒中寻找同情和爱情……我喝酒，是因为我想得到加倍的痛苦！”说着，他仿佛绝望地朝桌子垂下了头。
“年轻人，”他又挺直了腰，接着说，“我从您脸上看出，您好像有什么不幸的事情。您一进来，我就看出来了，所以立刻就跟您交谈起来。因为，我把自己的生活故事告诉您，并不是想在这些游手好闲的家伙面前作践自己，这一切，我不说他们也都知道，我说这些，是为了寻找一个富有同情心和受过教育的人。您听我说，我的妻子在省里一所贵族高等女子学校里受过教育，毕业的时候，省长和其他社会名流都在座，她跳了披巾舞①，为此得了一枚金质奖章和一张奖状。奖章嘛……奖章让我卖掉换酒喝光了……已经很久了……嗯，……奖状到现在还放在她的箱子里，不久前她还拿给女房东看过。虽然她跟房东经常不断地争吵，不过还是想在人前夸耀一番，把过去的幸福日子告诉人家，不管他是什么人都行。我并不指责她，我并不责备她，因为这是她记忆里剩下的最后一点安慰，其余的全都烟消云散了。是啊，是啊；是一位性情急躁，高傲而又倔强的太太。自己擦洗地板，啃黑面包，可是绝不让人不尊重自己。正是因此她不肯原谅列别贾特尼科夫先生的无礼行为，列别贾特尼科夫先生为这打了她以后，她躺倒在床上，这与其说是因为挨了打，倒不如说是因为伤了她的心。我娶她的时候，她已经是个寡妇，带着三个孩子，一个比一个小。她嫁的第一个丈夫是个步兵军官，她爱他，跟他离家私奔了。她别提多爱自己的丈夫了，可是他玩上了牌，落得出庭受审，就这么死了。最后他还打她，虽然她不原谅他，这我确实知道，而且有可靠的证据，但是直到现在她还经常眼泪汪汪地想起他来，用他来教训我，而我却感到高兴，我所以高兴，是因为，至少在她想象中，她认为自己有一个时期是幸福的……他死了以后，她和三个年龄很小的孩子留在一个极其偏远的县城里，当时我正好也在那儿，她生活极端贫困，几乎陷于绝境，虽说我见过许许多多各式各样不同寻常的事情，可就连我也无法描绘她的处境。亲戚都不认她了。而且她高傲得很，高傲得太过分了……而那时候，先生，那时候我也成了鳏夫，有个前妻留下的十四岁的女儿，于是我向她求婚了，因为我不忍心看到她受这样的苦。一个受过教育、又有教养、出身名门的女人，竟同意下嫁给我，单凭这点您就可以想见，她的苦难已经达到了什么地步！可是她嫁给了我！她痛哭流涕，悲痛欲绝，——可是嫁给了我！因为走投无路啊。您可明白，您可明白，先生，当一个人已经走投无路的时候意味着什么吗？不！这一点您还不明白……整整一年，我虔诚、严格地履行自己的义务，从未碰过这玩意儿（他伸出一只手指碰了碰那个能装半什托夫②的酒壶），因为我有感情。不过就是这样，我也没能赢得她的欢心；而这时候我失业了，也不是因为我有什么过错，而是因为人事变动，于是我喝起酒来！……一年半以前，经过长途跋涉和数不尽的灾难之后，我们终于来到了这宏伟壮丽、用无数纪念碑装饰起来的首都。在这儿我又找到了工作……找到了，又丢掉了。您明白吗？这次可是由于我自己的过错，丢掉了差事，因为我的劣根性暴露了……目前我们住在半间房屋里，住在女房东阿玛莉娅•费多罗芙娜•利佩韦赫泽尔那儿，我们靠什么过活，拿什么付房租，我自己也不知道。那儿住着很多人，除了我们……简直是所多玛③，混乱极了…… 嗯……是的……就在这时候，我前妻生的女儿长大了，她，我女儿，在那长大成人的这段时间里受过继母多少虐待，这我就不说了。因为卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜虽然宽洪大量，却是一位性情急躁、很容易生气的太太，而且不让别人说话……是啊！唉，这些都没什么好回忆的！索尼娅没受过教育，这您可以想象得出来。四年前我曾尝试教她地理和世界通史；不过我自己懂得的也不多，而且没有适当的教科书，因为仅有的一些书籍……嗯！……唉，这些书现在已经没有了，所以全部教育就这样结束了。我们只读到了波斯的居鲁士大帝④。后来，她已经成年以后，看过几本爱情小说，不久以前，通过列别贾特尼科夫先生，还看过一本刘易士的《生理学》⑤，——您知道这本书吗？——她怀着很大的兴趣看完了，甚至还给我们念过其中的几个片断：这就是她所受的全部教育。现在我问您，我的先生，我以我自己的名义向您提出一个非正式的问题：照您看，一个贫穷、然而清白无瑕的姑娘，靠自己诚实的劳动能挣到很多钱吗？……先生，如果她清清白白，又没有特殊才能，即使双手一刻不停地干活，一天也挣不到十五个戈比！而且五等文官克洛普什托克，伊万•伊万诺维奇，——这个人您听说过吗？——借口她做的衬衣领子尺寸不对，而且缝歪了，不仅那半打荷兰衬衣的工钱到现在还没给，甚至仗势欺人，跺跺脚，用很难听的话破口大骂，把她赶了出来。可是这时候几个孩子都在挨饿……这时候卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜痛苦地搓着手，在屋里走来走去，脸上泛出红晕，——害这种病的人总是这样：‘你，这个好吃懒做的家伙，’她说，‘住在我们这儿，又吃，又喝，还要取暖，’可这儿有什么好喝、好吃的呢，既然孩子们已经三天没见到面包皮了！当时我正躺着……唉，有什么好说的呢？我醉醺醺地躺着，听到我的索尼娅说（她性情温和，说话的声音也是那么柔和……一头淡黄色的头发，小脸蛋儿苍白，消瘦），她说，‘怎么，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，难道我非得去干这种事情吗？’而达里娅•弗兰佐芙娜，这个居心不良的女人，警察局里对她也熟悉得很，她已经通过女房东来过三次了。‘有什么呢？’。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜嘲笑地回答，‘爱护贞节干什么？嘿，这可真是个宝贝啊！’不过请别责备她，请别责备她，先生，请别责备她！她说这话是在失去理性的时候，精神已经不正常了，是在感情激动而且有病的情况下，是在听到挨饿的孩子哭声的时候，而且她说这话与其说是真有这个意思，不如说是为了侮辱她……因为卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜就是这样的性格，只要孩子们一哭，哪怕是因为饿得慌，她也立刻动手去打他们。我看到，大约五点多钟的时候，索涅奇卡起来，包上头巾，披上斗篷，从屋里走了出去，到八点多钟回来了。她一回来，径直走到卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜跟前，一声不响地把三十个卢布摆到她面前的桌子上。这么做的时候她一句话也没有说，哪怕看她一眼也好，可连看都没看，只是拿了我们那块绿色德拉德达姆呢的大头巾（我们有这么一块公用的头巾，是德拉德达姆呢的），用它把头和脸全都蒙起来，躺到床上，脸冲着墙，只看见瘦小的肩膀和全身一个劲儿地抖个不停……而我，还是像不久以前那样躺着……当时我看到，年轻人，我看见，在这以后，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜也是那样一言不发，走到索涅奇卡床前，在她脚边跪了整整一夜，吻她的脚，不想起来，后来，她俩抱在一起，就这样睡着了……
两人一道……两人一道……而我……却醉醺醺地躺着。”
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①在毕业晚会上跳披巾舞是成绩优异的毕业生的特权。
②容量单位，一什托夫约等于一•二公升。
③见《旧约•创世纪》十九章二十四节：所多玛和蛾摩拉两城因罪孽深重被耶和华用硫磺和火烧毁。
④居鲁士，纪元前五五八——纪元前五二九年的波斯国王。
⑤指英国实证主义哲学家和生理学家乔治•刘易士（一八一七——一八七八）的《日常生活的生理学》，十九世纪六十年代，在俄国具有唯物主义观点的青年人中，这本书很受欢迎。
马尔梅拉多夫沉默了，仿佛他的声音突然断了。随后，他忽然匆匆斟了一杯酒，一口喝干，清了清嗓子。
“从那时候起，我的先生，”沉默了一会儿以后，他接着说，“由于发生了一件不幸的事，也由于有些居心不良的人告发，——特别是达里娅•弗兰佐芙娜起了一定作用，仿佛是为了没对她表示应有的尊敬，——从那时候起，我的女儿，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，就被迫领了黄色执照，因此不能和我们住在一起了。因为我们的女房东阿玛莉娅•费多罗芙娜不愿意让她住在这里（可是以前她倒帮过达里娅•弗兰佐芙娜的忙），再说列别贾特尼科夫先生……嗯……正是为了索尼娅，他和卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜之间才发生了那件不愉快的事。起初是他自己要跟索尼娅来往，这时却突然变得高傲自大了：‘怎么，’他说，‘我，一个这么有文化的人，竟要跟这样一个女人住在一幢房子里吗？’卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜不服气，为她辩解……于是就吵了起来…… 现在索涅奇卡多半是在黄昏来我们这里，给卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜帮帮忙，力所能及地给送点儿钱来……她住在裁缝卡佩尔纳乌莫夫的房子里，向他们租了一间住房，卡佩尔纳乌莫夫是个跛子，说话发音不清楚，他那一大家子人个个说话也都口齿不清。连他老婆说话发音也不清楚……他们都住在一间屋里，我的索尼娅另有一间屋子，是用隔板隔开的……嗯，是啊……是些最穷苦的穷人，话都说不清楚…&hellip
Part 1 Chapter 3
He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old student's overcoat, with his head on one little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of the sofa.
It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively agreeable. He had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of a servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation. He was in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely concentrated upon one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only servant, was rather pleased at the lodger's mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a week or so she would stray into his room with a broom. She waked him up that day.
"Get up, why are you asleep?" she called to him. "It's past nine, I have brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you're fairly starving?"
Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya.
"From the landlady, eh?" he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa.
"From the landlady, indeed!"
She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it.
"Here, Nastasya, take it please," he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers--"run and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher's."
"The loaf I'll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn't you rather have some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It's capital soup, yesterday's. I saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It's fine soup."
When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country peasant-woman and a very talkative one.
"Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you," she said.
He scowled.
"To the police? What does she want?"
"You don't pay her money and you won't turn out of the room. That's what she wants, to be sure."
"The devil, that's the last straw," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "no, that would not suit me . . . just now. She is a fool," he added aloud. "I'll go and talk to her to-day."
"Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so clever, do you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One time you used to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you do nothing now?"
"I am doing . . ." Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly.
"What are you doing?"
"Work . . ."
"What sort of work?"
"I am thinking," he answered seriously after a pause.
Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to laughter and when anything amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering and shaking all over till she felt ill.
"And have you made much money by your thinking?" she managed to articulate at last.
"One can't go out to give lessons without boots. And I'm sick of it."
"Don't quarrel with your bread and butter."
"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of a few coppers?" he answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought.
"And you want to get a fortune all at once?"
He looked at her strangely.
"Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly, after a brief pause.
"Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the loaf or not?"
"As you please."
"Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out."
"A letter? for me! from whom?"
"I can't say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will you pay me back?"
"Then bring it to me, for God's sake, bring it," cried Raskolnikov greatly excited--"good God!"
A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother, from the province of R----. He turned pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also suddenly stabbed his heart.
"Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness' sake; here are your three copecks, but for goodness' sake, make haste and go!"
The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her presence; he wanted to be left /alone/ with this letter. When Nastasya had gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it; then he gazed intently at the address, the small, sloping handwriting, so dear and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and write. He delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he opened it; it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces, two large sheets of note paper were covered with very small handwriting.
"My dear Rodya," wrote his mother--"it's two months since I last had a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even kept me awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will not blame me for my inevitable silence. You know how I love you; you are all we have to look to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one hope, our one stay. What a grief it was to me when I heard that you had given up the university some months ago, for want of means to keep yourself and that you had lost your lessons and your other work! How could I help you out of my hundred and twenty roubles a year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed, as you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch Vahrushin a merchant of this town. He is a kind-hearted man and was a friend of your father's too. But having given him the right to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt was paid off and that is only just done, so that I've been unable to send you anything all this time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall be able to send you something more and in fact we may congratulate ourselves on our good fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you. In the first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodya, that your sister has been living with me for the last six weeks and we shall not be separated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how everything has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed from you. When you wrote to me two months ago that you had heard that Dounia had a great deal to put up with in the Svidrigrailovs' house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all about it--what could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole truth to you, I dare say you would have thrown up everything and have come to us, even if you had to walk all the way, for I know your character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? And, besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then. What made it all so difficult was that Dounia received a hundred roubles in advance when she took the place as governess in their family, on condition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it was impossible to throw up the situation without repaying the debt. This sum (now I can explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) she took chiefly in order to send you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly then and which you received from us last year. We deceived you then, writing that this money came from Dounia's savings, but that was not so, and now I tell you all about it, because, thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better, and that you may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At first indeed Mr. Svidrigailov treated her very rudely and used to make disrespectful and jeering remarks at table. . . . But I don't want to go into all those painful details, so as not to worry you for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in spite of the kind and generous behaviour of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigailov's wife, and all the rest of the household, Dounia had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigailov, relapsing into his old regimental habits, was under the influence of Bacchus. And how do you think it was all explained later on? Would you believe that the crazy fellow had conceived a passion for Dounia from the beginning, but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes, considering his years and his being the father of a family; and that made him angry with Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and sneering behaviour to hide the truth from others. But at last he lost all control and had the face to make Dounia an open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of inducements and offering, besides, to throw up everything and take her to another estate of his, or even abroad. You can imagine all she went through! To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on account of the money debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose suspicions would have been aroused: and then Dounia would have been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it would have meant a terrible scandal for Dounia too; that would have been inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dounia could not hope to escape from that awful house for another six weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is and what a strong will she has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even in the most difficult cases she has the fortitude to maintain her firmness. She did not even write to me about everything for fear of upsetting me, although we were constantly in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband imploring Dounia in the garden, and, putting quite a wrong interpretation on the position, threw the blame upon her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so far as to strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and was shouting at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should be packed off at once to me in a plain peasant's cart, into which they flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dounia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only think now what answer could I have sent to the letter I received from you two months ago and what could I have written? I was in despair; I dared not write to you the truth because you would have been very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and yet what could you do? You could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would not allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart was so full of sorrow, I could not. For a whole month the town was full of gossip about this scandal, and it came to such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to church on account of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were intending to insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with pitch, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All this was set going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and throw dirt at her in every family. She knows everyone in the neighbourhood, and that month she was continually coming into the town, and as she is rather talkative and fond of gossiping about her family affairs and particularly of complaining to all and each of her husband--which is not at all right --so in a short time she had spread her story not only in the town, but over the whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but Dounia bore it better than I did, and if only you could have seen how she endured it all and tried to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God's mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigailov returned to his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia, he laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of Dounia's innocence, in the form of a letter Dounia had been forced to write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna came upon them in the garden. This letter, which remained in Mr. Svidrigailov's hands after her departure, she had written to refuse personal explanations and secret interviews, for which he was entreating her. In that letter she reproached him with great heat and indignation for the baseness of his behaviour in regard to Marfa Petrovna, reminding him that he was the father and head of a family and telling him how infamous it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenceless girl, unhappy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly and touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the servants, too, cleared Dounia's reputation; they had seen and known a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigailov had himself supposed --as indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken aback, and 'again crushed' as she said herself to us, but she was completely convinced of Dounia's innocence. The very next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her strength to bear this new trial and to do her duty. Then she came straight from the Cathedral to us, told us the whole story, wept bitterly and, fully penitent, she embraced Dounia and besought her to forgive her. The same morning without any delay, she went round to all the houses in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in the most flattering terms Dounia's innocence and the nobility of her feelings and her behavior. What was more, she showed and read to everyone the letter in Dounia's own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigailov and even allowed them to take copies of it--which I must say I think was superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving about the whole town, because some people had taken offence through precedence having been given to others. And therefore they had to take turns, so that in every house she was expected before she arrived, and everyone knew that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna would be reading the letter in such and such a place and people assembled for every reading of it, even many who had heard it several times already both in their own houses and in other people's. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this was unnecessary; but that's Marfa Petrovna's character. Anyway she succeeded in completely re-establishing Dounia's reputation and the whole ignominy of this affair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her husband, as the only person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. All of a sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respect and all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on the spot. This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match about. It began with his expressing through her his desire to make our acquaintance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer and begged for a speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly surprised, as it had all happened so quickly and 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 forty-five 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 twenty-five, 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 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, 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.
 
第二天，已经很迟了，他才醒来，夜里睡得很不安宁，睡眠并没能使他恢复精神。他醒来时火气很大，很容易激动，恶狠狠的，而且憎恨地看了看自己那间小屋。这是一间很小而且十分简陋的陋室，只有六步长，墙纸已经发黄，落满了灰尘，而且都快从墙上掉下来了，小屋那么矮，个子稍高一点儿的人在屋里会感到提心吊胆，老是觉得，似乎头就要撞到天花板上。家具配这小屋倒是挺合适的：三把远非完好无损的旧椅子，一张上过漆的桌子摆在墙角落里，桌上放着几本练习本和几本书；练习本和书上落满灰尘，单从这一点就可以看出，已经很久没有人碰过它们了；最后，还有一张笨重的大沙发，几乎占据了一面墙壁和半间屋子，沙发上曾经蒙着印花布面，可是现在面子已经破烂不堪，这张沙发也就是拉斯科利尼科夫的床铺。他经常和衣睡在沙发上，没有床单，把自己上大学时穿的那件已经破旧的大衣盖在身上，床头放了个小枕头，他把所有的内衣，不管是干净的，还是穿脏了的，统统都垫在枕头底下，好让枕头显得高一些。沙发前摆着一张小桌。
不修边幅，邋里邋遢，已经到了极点；但是在目前的精神状态下，拉斯科利尼科夫甚至觉得，这样倒挺惬意。他毅然决然地离群索居，就像乌龟缩进了龟甲，就连有责任服侍她的女仆有时朝他屋里看上一眼，一见到她的脸，也会惹得他大动肝火，使他痉挛。有一些过分专心致志思考什么问题的偏执狂往往就是这样的。他的女房东已经有两个星期不再给他送饭来了。尽管他没有饭吃，可直到现在他还没想过要去和她交涉一下。女房东的女厨子和唯一的女仆娜斯塔西娅倒有点儿喜欢房客的这种心情，于是索性不再来收拾、打扫他的房间了，只是一星期里有时偶尔有一次拿起扫帚来打扫一下。现在就是她叫醒了他。
“起来吧，还睡什么！”她站在他床前大声喊，“八点多了。
我给你送茶来了；要喝茶吗？大概饿瘦了吧？”
房客睁开眼，颤抖了一下，他认出了娜斯塔西娅。
“茶是房东叫你送来的吗？”他满脸病容，慢慢从沙发上欠起身来。
“哪会是房东啊！”
她们自己那把有裂纹的茶壶放到他面前，壶里是已经喝过又兑了水的茶，还放了两小块发黄的砂糖。
“给，娜斯塔西娅，请你拿着，”他在衣袋里摸了摸（他就这样和衣睡了一夜），掏出一小把铜币，“去给我买个小圆面包。再到灌肠店里多少买点儿灌肠，要便宜点儿的。”
“小圆面包我这就给你拿来，你要不要喝点儿菜汤，灌肠就别买了？挺好吃的菜汤，昨儿个的。还在昨天我就给你留下了，可你回来得迟。挺好吃的菜汤。”
菜汤拿来以后，他吃了起来，娜斯塔西娅在沙发上他的身边坐下，闲聊开了。她是个乡下来的女人，而且是个多嘴多舌的女人。
“普拉斯科韦娅•帕夫洛芙娜要到警察局告你去，”她说。
他使劲皱起眉头。
“去警察局？她要干什么？”
“你不给房钱，也不搬走。她要干什么，这还不清楚吗？”
“哼，见鬼，竟还有这么糟糕的事，”他把牙咬得喀喀地响，嘟嘟囔囔地说，“不，这对我来说，现在……可不是时候……她是个傻瓜，”他高声补上一句。“我今天就去找她，跟她谈谈。”
“傻嘛，她倒是傻，跟我一样，可你呢，你这个聪明人，像条口袋样整天躺着，有什么用处？你说，从前教孩子们念书，可现在为什么啥事也不干？”
“我在做……”拉斯科利尼科夫不乐意而且严肃地说。
“做什么？”
“工作……”
“什么工作？”
“我在想，”他沉默了一会儿，严肃地回答。
娜斯塔西娅忍不住哈哈大笑起来。她是个爱笑的人，每当有什么事情逗她笑的时候，她就不出声地笑个不停，笑得前仰后合，浑身发抖，一直笑到感到恶心，方才罢休。
“是不是想出很多钱来了？”她终于能说出话来了。
“没有靴子，不能去教孩子们念书。再说，教书，我才瞧不起呢。”
“你别往井里吐痰呀。”①
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①这是句语意双关的俏皮话。“教书，我才瞧不起呢”，逐字直译应该是：“呸，教书，我要啐它一口。”俄罗斯有句谚语：“别往井里吐痰，以后你也许会喝井里的水呢。”所以娜斯塔西娅叫他“别往井里吐痰”。
“教小孩子，给的钱很少。几个戈比能派什么用处？”他不乐意地继续说，仿佛是在回答自己心里的一些想法。
“你想一下子就发大财吗？”
他奇怪地瞅了她一眼。
“不错，是想发大财，”他沉默了一会儿，坚决地回答。
“哎哟，你可要慢慢来呀，要不，会吓坏人的；这真太可怕了。小圆面包要去买吗，还是不要了？”
“随便你。”
“啊，我忘了！昨儿个你不在的时候，来了一封给你的信。”
“信！给我的！谁来的？”
“谁来的，我可不知道。给了邮差三个戈比，钱是我自己的，你还给我吗？”
“那么拿来，看在上帝份上，拿来吧！”拉斯科利尼科夫焦急地大声说，“天哪！”
不一会儿，信拿来了。果然不错：是母亲从P省寄来的。他接信的时候，连脸都发白了。他已经很久没接到过信了；但现在还有点儿什么别的心事揪紧了他的心。
“娜斯塔西娅，你出去吧，看在上帝份上；喏，这是你的三个戈比，只不过看在上帝份上，你快点儿出去吧！”
信在他手里抖动着；他不想当着她的面拆开来：他想独自一人看这封信。娜斯塔西娅出去以后，他很快地把信拿到唇边吻了一吻；然后又久久地细细端详信封上地址的笔迹，端详曾经教他读书、写字的母亲那熟悉而又可爱的、细小的斜体字。他不忙着拆信；他甚至好像害怕什么似的。最后他拆开了：信很长，很厚，有两洛特①重，很小很小的小字密密麻麻地写满了两大张信纸。
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①俄罗斯重量单位，一洛特等于十二•八克。
“我亲爱的罗佳，”母亲写道，“已经有两个多月我没在信上和你谈心了，因此我很难过，有时夜里想啊，想啊，睡都睡不着。不过你大概不会为我这迫不得已的沉默责怪我。你知道我是多么爱你；你是我们的，是我和杜尼娅唯一的亲人，你是我们的一切，是我们的全部希望，我们的一切期望都寄托在你的身上。当我得知，你由于无以为生，已经辍学数月，而且教书和其他收入来源都已断绝时，我是多么难过！靠一年一百二十卢布养老金，我能拿什么帮助你呢？你自己也知道，四个月前寄给你的十五卢布是我以这笔养老金作抵押，向我们这儿的商人阿凡纳西•伊万诺维奇•瓦赫鲁申借来的。他是个好心人，还是你父亲的朋友呢。但是把领养老金的权利让给他以后，我必须等待着还清这笔债务，而直到现在债才还清，因此在这段时间里，我就什么也不能寄给你了。可是现在，谢天谢地，看来我又能再给你寄点儿钱去了，而且一般说来，我们现在甚至可以夸口说交了好运，而我正急于把这件事告诉你。第一，你是否能料到，亲爱的罗佳，你妹妹和我住在一起已经有一个半月了，而且今后我们将不再分离。感谢上帝，她所受的折磨已经结束了，不过我要按照顺序把一切原原本本地告诉你，好让你知道事情的前后经过，让你知道迄今我们一直瞒着你的这件事。两个月前你写信给我，说听别人说，似乎杜尼娅在斯维德里盖洛夫先生家受到许多粗暴无礼的对待，要我把真实情况告诉你，——当时我能怎样给你回信呢？如果把实情全都写信告诉你，你大概会丢下一切，哪怕步行，也要回到我们这里来，因为你的性格，你的感情，我都十分了解，你是决不会让自己的妹妹受人欺侮的。我自己已陷入悲观绝望的境地，可是我能做什么呢？当时连我也不了解全部真相。主要的难处在于，杜涅奇卡去年到他家去作家庭教师的时候，曾预支过一百卢布，条件是每月从她的薪水里扣还，因此在还清借款之前，不能离职。而她借这笔钱（现在可以把一切都告诉你了，亲爱的罗佳）主要是为了寄给你六十卢布，当时你是那么迫切地需要这些钱，而去年你已经从我们这儿收到这笔钱了。当时我们欺骗了你，写信说，这是从杜涅奇卡以前的积蓄中拿出来的，但事实并非如此；现在我把全部实情都告诉你，因为现在一切都突然好转了，而这是按照上帝的意志，我所以要告诉你全部实情，也是为了让你知道，杜尼娅是多么爱你，她有一颗多么善良的心。斯维德里盖洛夫先生起初对她的确十分粗暴无礼，同桌用餐时言行常常失礼，还嘲笑她……不过当这一切现在都已结束时，我不想详谈这些令人苦恼的往事，以免徒然让你为此感到激动。我说简单些吧，尽管斯维德里盖洛夫夫人玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜和家里所有其他人待她很好，光明正大，可杜涅奇卡还是十分痛苦，尤其是当斯维德里盖洛夫先生由于在军队里养成的老习惯，处于巴克斯①影响之下的时候。但后来怎样了呢？你要知道，这个任性胡来的家伙早就对杜尼娅产生了强烈的激情，怀有非分的想法，却用粗暴无礼和蔑视她来掩盖这一切。可能他想到自己已经上了年纪，又是一家之主，作了父亲，还会产生这种轻佻的念头，连自己也感到羞愧，而且害怕了，因此才不由自主地把脾气发到杜尼娅头上来吧。可也许他是想用自己的粗暴无礼和嘲笑来掩人耳目，隐瞒真相。但是他终于忍不住了，竟敢卑鄙无耻地公然向杜尼娅求婚，答应送给她很多东西，除此而外，还要抛弃一切，和她一同去另一个村庄，或者还要到国外去。你可以想象得出她的心里多么痛苦！不能立即辞职，不仅是因为借了债，而且是因为可怜玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，她可能突然产生怀疑，从而引起一场家庭纠纷。而且对杜涅奇卡来说，这也是很丢脸的事；这种事不会不被宣扬出去。这儿还有许许多多各对各样的原因，因此，六个星期以前，杜尼娅无论如何也不能下决心离开这家可怕的人家。当然，你了解杜尼娅，你知道她是多么聪明，而且性格多么坚强。杜涅奇卡能忍辱负重，即使在极端窘困的情况下，她也如此宽洪大量，保持坚强的意志。她甚至没有写信把这些事告诉我，以免让我难过，可我们是经常通信的。结局来得很突然，出乎意料。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜无意中偷听到她丈夫在花园里恳求杜尼娅，曲解了他的话，把一切都归咎于杜尼娅，认为她是这一切的根源。于是花园里立刻爆发了一场可怕的争吵：玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜甚至打了杜尼娅，什么话也不想听，大吵大闹，整整叫嚷了一个钟头，最后吩咐立刻用一辆普通的农民大车把杜尼娅送回城里，送到我这里来，把她的所有东西，内衣，衣服，统统都丢到车上，既没收拾，也没包扎。这时又下起了倾盆大雨。杜尼娅满腹委屈，受尽羞辱，还要和一个庄稼汉一起坐在一辆无篷大车上，整整走十七俄里路。现在你想想看，接到你两个月前给我的信，我怎么给你写回信，能给你写什么呢？我自己正处于悲观绝望的境地；我不敢把实情告诉你，因为你会感到非常痛苦，伤心和愤慨，再说你能做什么呢？大概你会毁了自己，而且杜涅奇卡也不让我告诉你；可是在我心里这么难过的时候，我也不能在信里尽写些不相干的琐事。整整一个月我们这儿闹得满城风雨，谣言不胫而走，纷纷议论这件事情，甚至弄到了这种地步，我和杜尼娅都不能到教堂去了，因为人们都向我们投来蔑视的目光，嘁嘁喳喳，风言风语，有人甚至当着我们的面高声议论。所有熟人都躲着我们，甚至不再向我们点头问好，我还确切得知，商店里的一些伙计和某些小公务员想以卑鄙的手段侮辱我们，拿柏油抹在我们的大门上②，闹得房东也开始要我们搬家了。这一切都是因为玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜挨家挨户散布谣言，责备杜尼娅，败坏她的名誉。我们这儿的人，她个个都认识，这个月里她经常进城，因为她有点儿多嘴多舌，心里藏不住一点儿秘密，喜欢谈论自己家里的事，尤其喜欢向每个人抱怨自己的丈夫，这可是个很坏的脾气，所以短短几天里，她就不但把事情闹得传遍全城，而且传遍了全县。我病倒了，杜涅奇卡却比我坚强，可惜你没看到，她是怎样忍受着这一切，还要安慰我，鼓励我！她是个天使！但上帝是仁慈的，由于他的善心，我们的苦难到了尽头：斯维德里盖洛夫先生良心发现，懊悔了，大概是可怜杜尼娅了吧，他向玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜提出了足以证明杜涅奇卡无辜的、充分和无可争议的证据，这是一封信，这信是在玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜在花园里碰到他们以前，杜尼娅迫不得已写给他的，而且已经交给了他，写信的目的，是拒绝他所坚持的当面解释和秘密约会，而在杜涅奇卡走后，这封信还留在斯维德里盖洛夫先生手里。在这封信里，她满腔愤怒、极其激烈地斥责他，而且恰恰是责备他对待玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的所作所为卑鄙可耻，提醒他，他是父亲，是个有家室的人，最后还谴责他说，折磨一个本来已经不幸和无力自卫的少女，要使她更加痛苦、不幸，在他来说，这是多么丑恶、卑鄙。总之，亲爱的罗佳，这封信写得如此光明正大，如此感人，以致我看这封信的时候泣不成声，而且至今我看这信的时候还不能不流眼泪。除此而外，仆人们也终于出来作证，为杜尼娅剖白，他们看到的和所了解的，远比斯维德里盖洛夫先生所认为的要多得多，一般说，这种事情总是如此。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜大为震惊，而且正如她向我们所承认的，她‘又一次感到痛不欲生’，然而她已经完全相信杜尼娅是清白的了，第二天，星期天，她坐车直接到大教堂去，满眼含泪跪在圣母像前，祈求圣母给她力量经受这一新的考验，让她能克尽自己的责任。随后，没去任何人那里，就从教堂一直来到我们家里，把一切都告诉了我们，痛哭流涕，悔恨不已，抱住杜尼娅，请求宽恕她。就在那天早晨，她又毫不迟延，径直从我们家出去，遍访城里每家每户，流着眼泪，对杜涅奇卡赞不绝口，用最美的言词为杜涅奇卡恢复名誉。说她清白无辜，她的感情和行为都是高尚的。不仅如此，她还把杜涅奇卡给斯维德里盖洛夫先生的亲笔信拿给所有人看，念给他们听，甚至让人抄录下来（照我看，这已经不必要了）。就这样，她一连几天走遍了全城所有人家；因为有些人为了别人有幸先接待她而表示不满，于是排定了次序，这样一来，每家都已经早就有人等待着她，而且人人都知道，哪一天玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜要在哪里念这封信，每次念信时，就连那些按顺序已经在自己家里和其他熟人家里听过好几次的人，又都跑了来再听一遍。我的意见是，这样做是多余的，完全是多余的；但是玛尔法• 彼特罗芙娜就是这样的性格。至少她已完全恢复了杜涅奇卡的名誉，这件事情全部卑鄙可耻的责任都落到了她丈夫、这个罪魁祸首的身上，使他蒙受了洗刷不掉的耻辱，因此我甚至可怜起他来；对这个狂妄乖戾的人的惩罚已经太严厉了。立刻有好几家人家请杜尼娅去教课，可是她都谢绝了。总之，大家都忽然对她特别尊敬。主要的是，所有这一切促成了一个意外的机遇，可以说，由于这一机遇，我们的全部命运现在正在发生变化。你要知道，亲爱的罗佳，有个未婚的男子向杜尼娅求婚，她已经表示同意，这正是我要赶快告诉你的。尽管没跟你商量，这件事就已经决定了，不过你大概既不会对我，也不会对妹妹有什么意见，因为你自己也可以看出，我们不可能等待，拖延到得到你的回信后再作决定。再说你不在这里，也不可能准确地作全面的考虑。事情是这样的。他，彼得•彼特罗维奇•卢任，已经是个七等文官，而且是玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的远亲，正是她大力促成了这门婚事。他先是通过她表示有意和我们认识，受到我们殷勤接待，喝了咖啡，第二天他却送来了一封信，信中十分有礼貌地提出求婚，并要求迅速给予最后的回答。他是个能干的人，而且是个忙人，现在他正急于到彼得堡去，所以珍惜每一分钟时间。当然，起初我们都十分惊讶，因为这一切都太快，而且太出乎意外了。那天我们在一起考虑了整整一天，犹豫不决。他是个殷实可靠、生活富裕的人，同时在两处供职，而且已经拥有一笔数目可观的财产。诚然，他已经四十五岁了，但他的外貌使人产生好感，还能讨女人喜欢，而且总的来说，他是个十分庄重和体面的人，只不过稍有点儿阴郁，还好像有些高傲自大。但也许只是第一眼看上去如此。对了，我要预先告诉你，亲爱的罗佳，你们不久将在彼得堡见面了，你见到他，如果第一眼看上去，觉得他有什么地方不讨你喜欢，可不要感情用事，过于匆忙地作出判断，而你是有这个脾气的。我说这话是以防万一，尽管我深信，他一定会让你产生良好的印象。再说，除此而外，要了解一个人，需要逐步逐步、小心谨慎地细心观察，才不致犯错误和抱有成见，而以后要改正错误和消除成见却是十分困难的。而彼得•彼特罗维奇，至少根据许多迹象来看，是一位十分可敬的人。第一次登门造访时他就对我们说，他是个正派人，不过在很多方面，用他自己的话来说，赞同‘我们最新一代人的信念’，而且是一切偏见的敌人。他还说了许多许多，因为他似乎有点儿爱虚荣，而且很喜欢人家听他说话，不过这几乎算不得什么缺点。我当然听不大懂，不过杜尼娅对我解释说，他这个人虽然没受过多少教育，可人是聪明的，而且看来心地善良。罗佳，你是了解你妹妹的性格的。这个姑娘性格坚强，深明事理，很有耐心，豁达大度，但她也有一颗热情的心，这我是十分了解的。当然，无论就她这方面，还是就他那方面来说，还谈不上有什么特别的爱情，但杜尼娅不但是个聪明姑娘，同时也是一个像天使样高尚的人，她把使丈夫获得幸福看作自己的责任，而他也会关心她的幸福，对于后面这一点，我们暂时没有充分的理由表示怀疑，虽然说实在的，事情是办得稍稍匆忙了些。况且他是个很会权衡得失的人，当然，他自己也会明白，杜涅奇卡与他结婚后生活越是幸福，他自己的幸福也就越加可靠。至于性格上的某些差异，某些昔日养成的习惯，甚至思想上的某些分歧（即使是最幸福的婚姻，这也是在所难免的），对于这一切，杜涅奇卡自己对我说，她认为自己完全可以处理得好，用不着担心，许多事情她都可以忍让，条件是，如果今后他们之间的关系是真诚的，互敬互爱的。譬如说吧，起初我觉得他好像态度生硬；不过要知道，这也可能正是因为他性情直爽的缘故，一定是这样的。再譬如说，在他求婚已获同意，他第二次来我们家的时候，在谈话中他说，认识杜尼娅之前，他就已决定娶一个清白无瑕、然而没有陪嫁的姑娘，而且一定要是一个已经经受过苦难的姑娘；因为，他解释说，丈夫不应接受妻子的任何恩赐。如果妻子认为丈夫是自己的恩人，那将会好得多。我得补充一句，他说这话措词比我写的要委婉和温和些，因为我忘记了他的原话，只记得大意，此外，他说这话绝对不是故意的，而显然是谈得起劲的时候脱口而出，因此以后甚至力图改正自己的话，把话说得委婉一些；不过我还是觉得这话似乎有点儿不客气，我把自己的想法告诉了杜尼娅。可是杜尼娅甚至不愉快地回答我说，‘言词还不是行动’，这当然是正确的。杜涅奇卡在作出决定以前，一夜没睡，她以为我已经睡着了，于是从床上起来，整整一夜在屋里踱来踱去，最后跪在圣像前，热情地祈祷了好久，第二天一清早就对我说，她决定了。
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①巴克斯是希腊神话中的酒神。
②俄罗斯风俗：在大门上抹柏油是对未出嫁的姑娘莫大的侮辱，表示她已失去贞操，遭受这样的侮辱之后，就嫁不出去了。
“我已经提到，彼得•彼特罗维奇现在已动身去彼得堡。在那里他有许多重要的大事，他想在彼得堡开办一个律师事务所。他早已在经办各种诉讼案件，前几天刚刚打赢了一场重要的民事诉讼的官司。他必须到彼得堡去，是因为要在那儿参政院里办一件重要案子。所以，亲爱的罗佳，他对你可能很有益处，甚至在各方面都能给予你帮助，我和杜尼娅已经认为，你甚至从今天起就可以明确地为自己的未来事业采取某些步骤，并认为自己的命运无疑已经完全确定了。噢，如果这能成为现实，那该多好！这是一件多么有益的事情，应当把这看作上帝直接赐予我们的恩惠。杜尼娅一心梦想着这件事。我们已经就此大胆向彼得•彼特罗维奇透露了几句。他话说得很谨慎，说是，当然啦，他没有秘书是不行的，与其把薪水给予外人，自然不如付给自己的亲戚，只要这位亲戚有能力担任这个职务（你还会没有能力吗！），不过又立刻表示怀疑，因为你在大学里上课，这就不会剩下多少时间在他的事务所里办公了。这一次话就说到这里为止，可是除此而外，现在杜尼娅别的什么都不想。现在她已经有好几天简直处于某种狂热状态，已经拟订了一个完整的计划，让你以后能成为彼得•彼特罗维奇法律事务方面的助手，甚至能成为他的合伙人，尤其是因为你本来就在法律系读书。罗佳，我完全同意她的意见，赞同她的一切计划，分享她的所有希望，认为它们都是完全可以实现的；而且尽管彼得•彼特罗维奇目前闪烁其词，——这是完全可以理解的，——杜尼娅却坚信，凭她对自己未来的丈夫施加的良好影响，一定能达到目的，对这一点她深信不疑。当然啦，我们都留神不要说漏了嘴，以免向彼得•彼特罗维奇透露我们今后幻想中的任何一点内容，主要是不要提到你将成为他的合伙人。他是个正派人，大概会对此十分冷淡，因为在他看来，这只不过是些空想。同样，无论是我，或是杜尼娅，都还没有向他透露过半个字，谈到我们强烈的希望：资助你读完大学；我们所以不说，是因为，第一，以后这将会是自然而然的，大概用不着别人多说，他自己就会提出来帮助你（这件事情，他还会拒绝杜涅奇卡吗），更加可能的是，你自己可以成为他事务所里的得力助手，不是以接受恩赐的方式，而是以领取应得的报酬的方式得到这种帮助。杜涅奇卡希望能作出这样的安排，我完全同意她的想法。第二，我们所以不说，是因为你们不久即将见面，我特别希望，在见面的时候能让你和他处于完全平等的地位。当杜尼娅兴高采烈地跟他谈起你的时候，他回答说，无论对什么人，都需要先亲自进行观察，与他接近，才能作出判断，还说，等他和你认识的时候，让他自己形成对你的意见吧。你听我说，亲爱的罗佳，我觉得，出于某些考虑（不过绝对不是考虑到彼得•彼特罗维奇的态度，而是出于我个人的某些考虑，甚至可以说，是出于老太婆的、女人的任性想法），——我觉得，也许在他们结婚以后，我最好还是像现在这样生活，而不要和他们住在一起。我完全相信，他是那样胸怀宽广，待人温和，一定会自己邀请我，主动提出，叫我不要与女儿分离，如果说迄今他还没有说起过，那自然是因为，这是不言而喻的；但是我将拒绝他的邀请。我这一生中不止一次注意到，丈母娘往往不太讨女婿欢喜，而我不仅不想成为任何人哪怕是极小的累赘，而且自己也想享有充分的自由，暂时我至少还有口饭吃，而且有像你和杜涅奇卡这样的两个孩子。如果可能，我要住到靠近你们两个人的地方，罗佳，我把最让人高兴的消息留到了信的末尾，因为，你要知道，我亲爱的朋友，在将近三年的离别以后，也许不久我们又将聚会在一起，三个人又将拥抱在一起了！我和杜尼娅去彼得堡，这已经肯定了，到底什么时候走，我不知道，但无论如何，这将很快，很快，甚至可能在一星期以后。一切都取决于彼得•彼特罗维奇所作的安排，他先在彼得堡熟悉一下环境，立刻就会通知我们。出于某些考虑，他希望尽可能早日举行婚礼，如果可能，甚至就在目前这个开斋期①结婚，如果由于时间短促，来不及的话，那么一过了圣母升天节斋期②，立刻就举行婚礼。噢，我将多么幸福地把你紧紧搂在胸前，让你紧贴着我的心啊！杜尼娅想到和你见面时的快乐，心情激动，不能自己，有一次开玩笑说，就是单为了这一点，她也会嫁给彼得•彼特罗维奇。她真是个天使！现在她不附笔给你写什么了，只叫我附带写上两句，就说，她有那么多、那么多话要对你说，现在却无法执笔，因为书不尽意，几行字只能使她感到心烦意乱，怎能说尽心中的千言万语；她叫我代她紧紧拥抱你，无数次吻你。不过尽管说不定我们不久即将见面，我还是要在近几天内尽可能多给你寄些钱去。现在因为大家得知杜涅奇卡要嫁给彼得•彼特罗维奇，所以我的信用也突然提高了，我肯定知道，阿凡纳西• 伊万诺维奇现在会信任我，以养老金作抵押，甚至肯借给我七十五卢布，那么我就也许能给你寄去二十五或者甚至三十卢布了。本想再多寄些，但我为我们旅途的开支担心；尽管彼得•彼特罗维奇心地那么好，分担了我们一部分赴京的费用，主动提出，我们托运行李和一只大箱子的费用由他负担（设法托那儿的熟人办理），可我们还是得考虑到达彼得堡以后的开销，到了那里，不能身无分文，至少头几天得有钱用。不过我和杜尼娅已经把一切都精确计算过了，原来路费花不了多少。从我们这儿到火车站总共只有九十俄里，为防万一，我们已经和我们认识的一个赶车的庄稼人讲好了；在车站，我和杜涅奇卡可以坐三等车走，这样也就十分满意了。所以，也许我寄给你的不止二十五卢布，而八成能设法寄去三十卢布。不过，够了；两张信纸全写满了，再也没剩下地方了；我们的事情真是整整一篇故事；是呀，多少事情全都凑到一块儿了！而现在，我亲爱的罗佳，拥抱你，直到不久我们见面的时候，妈妈为你祝福，愿上帝保佑你。你要爱杜尼娅，你的妹妹，罗佳；要像她爱你那样爱她，你要知道，她对你的爱是无限的，胜过爱她自己。她是天使，而你，罗佳，你是我们的一切——我们的全部希望，全部指望。只要你幸福，我们就也会幸福。你向上帝祈祷，罗佳，你是不是仍然相信创世主和我们救世主的仁慈？我心里真感到害怕，最近时髦的不信教的思想是不是会降临到你的头上？如果是这样的话，我要为你祈祷。你要记住，亲爱的，还在你的童年，你父亲在世的时候，你常坐在我膝上含糊不清地念祷词，那时候我们大家多么幸福啊！别了，或者最好说，再见！紧紧拥抱你，无数次地吻你。
终生爱你的
普莉赫里娅•拉斯科利尼科娃。”
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①东正教规定，只能有开斋期举行婚礼，斋期内不得举行婚礼。
②圣母升天节在俄历八月十五日，节前有两个星期斋期，从旧历八月一日至十五日（新历八月十三日至二十八日）。
从拉斯科利尼科夫一开始看信起，几乎在看信的全部时间里，他的脸上一直挂满泪珠；但是当他看完以后，脸色却变得惨白，由于抽搐，脸都扭歪了，一丝痛苦、懊恼和恶狠狠的微笑掠过他的嘴唇。他把头倒在很薄的破枕头上，思索起来，想了很久。他的心在猛烈地跳动，思想也如波涛一般激烈地翻腾。最后，他感到在这像大橱或箱子、墙纸已经发黄的小屋里又闷又热，憋得透不过气来。思想和视线都要求广阔的空间。他一把抓起帽子，走了出去，这一次已经不担心会在楼梯上遇到人；他已经把这回事忘记了。他穿过B大街，往瓦西利耶夫斯基岛那个方向走去，仿佛急于去那里办什么事，但是走路时习惯地不看道路，而是喃喃地自言自语着，甚至说出声来，这使过往的行人觉得十分奇怪。有许多人把他当成醉汉。
Part 1 Chapter 4
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 naive 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. Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailovs 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 Svidrigailovs. How are you going to save them from Svidrigailovs, 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 Svidrigailov! 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 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, 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 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.
 
母亲的信让他痛苦到了极点。但是关于信中最主要、最基本的一点，就是他还在看信的时候，也连一分钟都没怀疑过。最主要的实质性意见已经在他头脑里形成，而且完全决定了：“只要我活着，这门亲事就不会实现，让卢任先生见鬼去吧！”
“因为这事是显而易见的，”他自言自语，嘟嘟囔囔地说，同时得意地微笑着，满怀愤恨地预祝自己的决定必定成功。
“不，妈妈，不，杜尼娅，你们骗不了我！……她们还要为没征求我的意见，没得到我的同意就作了决定向我道歉呢！可不是吗！她们以为，现在已经不能破坏这门婚事了，可是咱们倒要瞧瞧，——能，还是不能！借口是多么冠冕堂皇：‘彼得•彼特罗维奇是这么一位大忙人，所以得赶快举行婚礼，越快越好’。不，杜涅奇卡，我什么都看得出来，也知道你打算跟我讲的那许多话是什么内容；也知道你整夜在屋里踱来踱去想些什么，还知道你跪在妈妈卧室里那个喀山圣母像①前祈祷什么。去各各地②是痛苦的。嗯……这么说，已经最终决定了：阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，请你嫁给一个精明能干、深明事理的人吧，他拥有一大笔资产（已经拥有一笔资产，这更可靠，更能给人留下深刻印象），同时在两处供职，而且赞同我们最新一代人的信念（妈妈在信上是这么说的），而且‘看来心地善良’，杜涅奇卡自己就是这么说的。看来这一点最重要了！于是这位杜涅奇卡就要嫁给这个看来了！……真妙极了！真妙极了！……
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①喀山圣母像是孤儿和穷人的保护者，在俄罗斯民间特别受人尊敬。
②各各地是耶路撒冷近郊的一个小丘，传说耶稣在这里给钉到了十字架上。现在“各各地”已成为苦难的同义词。
“……不过，真有意思，妈妈在信上为什么跟我提到‘最新一代’呢？只不过为了描述一个人的性格特征，还是有更深刻的用意：想要迎合我，让我对卢任先生产生好感？噢，她们真不简单！我怀着很大兴趣想要弄清的还有一个情况：在那一天和那天夜里，以及以后所有这些日子里，她们两人彼此开诚布公、毫不隐瞒究竟达到了什么程度？她们之间是不是把所有的话都直截了当地说出来了，还是两人都明白，彼此心里想的完全一致，所以用不着把所有的话都说出来，也毫无必要说出来。大概在某种程度上是这样的；从信上就可以看出：妈妈觉得他说话不客气，只是有点儿，可是天真的妈妈竟把自己的意见告诉了杜尼娅。杜尼娅自然生气了，所以 ‘不愉快地回答’。可不是吗！如果用不着提出天真的问题，事情就已经明明白白，如果已经决定，再也没有什么好讲的了，那也就不会让任何人生气了。而且她为什么要在信上给我写这样的话：‘你要爱杜尼娅，罗佳，而她爱你胜过爱她自己’；为了儿子，她同意牺牲女儿，她是否因此暗暗受到良心谴责呢。‘你是我们的指望，你是我们的一切！’噢，妈妈！……”他满腔愤怒，越来越恨，如果现在他碰到卢任先生，看来他准会把他杀了。
“嗯，这倒是真的，”他随着像旋风样在他脑子里飞速旋转的思绪继续想，“这倒是真的，‘要想了解一个人，得逐步和细心地进行观察’；不过卢任先生的为人却显而易见。主要的是，‘是个能干的人，而且看来心地善良’：他给托运行李，大箱子的运费由他负担，这可真是非同小可的事！瞧，他怎么会不是个心地善良的人呢？而她们两个，未婚妻和母亲，却雇一个庄稼汉，坐一辆席篷大车上路（不是吗，我就坐过这样的大车）！没关系！因为只有九十俄里，‘在车站，我们坐三等车走也就十分满意了’，就这样再走一千俄里。这很有道理：要量力而行嘛；而您呢，卢任先生，您干什么呢？要知道，这是您的未婚妻呀……而且您不可能不知道，母亲是用自己的养老金作抵押预先借来路费，不是吗？当然啦，你们这是合伙做一笔生意，生意对双方有利，股金相等，可见开支也得对半分摊，面包和盐合在一起，烟叶却要各抽各的，谚语就是这么说的。不过精明能干的人在这件事上稍有点儿欺骗了她们：托运行李的费用比她们的路费便宜，说不定根本不要花钱。她们怎么竟看不出这一点来，还是故意不理会呢？因为她们已经感到满意，心满意足了！也该多少想一想，这还只不过是开了个头，更厉害的还在后头呢！要知道，这儿重要的是什么：不是小气，不是极端吝啬，而是他的作风。要知道，这也是将来他婚后的作风，是预兆……然而妈妈干吗要花掉最后一点点钱呢？她带多少钱到彼得堡来？只带三个卢布，或者只带两张 ‘一卢布的票子’，就像那个……老太婆所说的……哼！以后她指望靠什么在彼得堡生活？由于某些原因，她不是已经猜到，他们结婚以后她不能与杜尼娅住在一起，就连最初一段时间也不可能吗？那个可爱的人大概说漏了嘴，让人看出了他的性格，尽管妈妈挥着双手否认这一点，说是：‘我自己拒绝接受’。那么她把希望寄托在谁的身上呢：指靠那一百二十卢布养老金，其中还要扣除向阿凡纳西•伊万诺维奇借的那笔债吗？她可以编织冬天用的三角头巾，还可以缝袖套，可是这会弄坏自己的老眼。再说，编织头巾，一年总共只能在那一百二十卢布之外增加二十个卢布，这我是知道的。这么说，还是得指望卢任先生情感高尚，慷慨大度，说是： ‘他自己会提出邀请，竭力劝我去住的’。别妄想了！席勒①笔下那些好心人总是这样：直到最后一刻，他们总是用孔雀羽毛把人打扮得十分漂亮，直到最后一刻，他们总是只往好的方面、而不往坏的方面去想；虽然他们也预感到坏的一面，但是无论如何事先对自己不说真话；单单是这么想一想，就使他们感到厌恶；他们挥着双手逃避真理，直到最后一刻，直到那个给打扮得十分漂亮的人亲自欺骗了他们。真想知道，卢任先生有没有勋章：我敢打赌，他的钮扣眼里有一枚安娜勋章②，跟包工头和商人们一道吃饭的时候，他都戴着它，大概在他举行婚礼的时候也会戴上的！不过，叫他见鬼去吧！……
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①德国诗人和剧作家席勒（一七五九——一八○五）对陀思妥耶夫斯基的创作有很大影响。
②圣安娜勋章共有四级，这里是指四级安娜勋章——一种无足轻重的勋章。
“……唉，妈妈，就不去说她了，上帝保佑她，她就是一个这样的人，不过杜尼娅是怎么回事？杜涅奇卡，亲爱的，要知道，我是了解您的！不是吗，我们最近一次见面的时候，您已经过了十九岁了：我已经了解您的性格。您瞧，妈妈在信上写道：‘杜涅奇卡能够忍辱负重’。这一点我是知道的。这一点，两年半以前我就知道了，而且从那以后，两年半时间里我一直在想着这一点，正是想着这一点： ‘杜涅奇卡能够忍辱负重’。既然她能忍受斯维德里盖洛夫先生以及由此而产生的一切后果，可见她当真能够忍辱负重。而现在她和妈妈都认为，卢任先生也是可以忍受的；这个人提出一套理论，说是从穷人家娶受了丈夫恩惠的妻子大有好处，而且几乎是初次会面的时候就说这样的话，她们竟认为，这样的人也是可以忍受的。嗯，就假定说，他是‘说漏了嘴’吧，尽管他是一个深明事理的人（可也许他根本不是说漏了嘴，而恰恰是想要尽快说明自己的看法），可是杜尼娅，杜尼娅呢？不是吗，对这个人她是看得清清楚楚的，她可是要跟这个人在一起生活的啊。要知道，她宁愿只吃黑面包和喝白开水，忍饥挨饿，也决不会出卖自己的灵魂，决不会贪图舒适的生活而出卖精神上的自由；即使是为了石勒苏益格—荷尔斯泰因①，她也决不会出卖自己，更不用说为了卢任先生了。不，据我所知，杜尼娅不是这样一个人……而且，当然啦，现在她也没变！……还用说吗！斯维德里盖洛夫一家是让人难以忍受的！为了两百卢布，一辈子在外省各地作家庭教师，东奔西走，也是痛苦的，不过我还是知道，我妹妹宁愿像黑人那样到种植场去作奴隶，或者像拉脱维亚人那样到波罗的海东部沿岸的德国人那里去做苦工②，也决不会有辱自己的尊严，践踏自己的感情，和一个她既不尊重也毫无共同语言的人结合在一起，——仅仅为了个人的利益而和他结为终身伴侣！即使卢任先生是用纯金铸就，或是用整块钻石雕成的，她也决不会同意作卢任先生合法的姘妇！现在她为什么同意了呢？这是怎么回事？谜底在哪里呢？事情是明摆着的：为了自己，为了自己过舒适的生活，甚至为了救自己的性命，她绝不会出卖自己，而为了别人，她却出卖了自己！为了一个亲爱的人，为了一个她热爱的人，她是肯出卖的！这就是事情的实质：为了哥哥，为了母亲，她会出卖自己！什么都肯出卖！噢，在这种情况下，只要一有必要，我们就会压制我们的道德感；我们就会把自由、安宁、甚至良心，把一切、一切都拿到旧货市场上去拍卖。牺牲性命也在所不惜！只要我们热爱的这些人能够幸福。不仅如此，我们还编造出一套强词夺理的理由，向耶稣会会员学习③，大概这样可以暂时安慰自己，让自己相信，应该如此，为了良好的目的，当真应该这样行事。我们就是这样的人，一切都如同白昼一般清楚。显而易见，这儿处于最重要位置的那个人不是别人，正是罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇•拉斯科利尼科夫。哼，那还用说吗，可以帮助他获得幸福，供他上大学，让他成为事务所的合伙人，可以使他的一生得到保障；大概以后他会成为富翁，成为一个体面的、受人尊敬的人，说不定甚至会作为一个享有荣誉的人而终其一生！可是母亲呢？不是吗，这儿所谈的是罗佳，她亲爱的罗佳，她的第一个孩子！为了这样的头生子，怎么能不牺牲女儿呢，哪怕是这么好的一个女儿！噢，亲爱的、不公正的心哪！而且，当然啦：在这种情况下，就连索涅奇卡那样的命运，我们大概也不会不肯接受吧！索涅奇卡，索涅奇卡•马尔梅拉多娃，只要世界还存在，索涅奇卡就永远不会消失！这牺牲，对这样的牺牲，你们俩充分估量过吗？估量过吗？能做得到吗？有没有好处？合乎情理吗？杜涅奇卡，您是不是明白，索涅奇卡的命运丝毫也不比与卢任先生在一起生活更加可憎可恶？‘这谈不上有什么爱情’，妈妈在信上这样说。如果除了没有爱情，连尊敬也不可能有，那会怎样呢，如果恰恰相反，已经有的反倒是厌恶、鄙视和极端的反感，那又会怎样呢？那么，可见结果又将是不得不‘保持整洁’了。是不是这样呢？您明白吗，您明白吗，您是否明白，这整洁意味着什么？你是不是明白，卢任的整洁与索涅奇卡的整洁是完全一样的，说不定更坏，更丑恶，更卑鄙，因为您，杜涅奇卡，到底是贪图并非必需的舒适生活，而她那里要考虑的恰恰是饿死的问题！‘杜涅奇卡，这整洁的代价是昂贵的，太昂贵了！’嗯，如果以后感到力不胜任，您会后悔吗？会有多少悲痛，多少忧愁，多少诅咒，瞒着大家，背着人们要流多少眼泪，因为您可不是玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，不是吗？到那时母亲会怎样呢？要知道，现在她已经感到不安，感到痛苦了；到那时，当她把一切都看清了的时候，又会怎样呢？而我又会怎样呢？……关于我，您到底是怎么想的？我不要您的牺牲，杜涅奇卡，我不要，妈妈！只要我活着，就决不会有这样的事，决不会有，决不会有！我不接受！”
他突然清醒过来，站住了。
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①石勒苏益格—荷尔斯泰因是日德兰半岛南部的一块土地。一八六四年，为争夺石勒苏益格和荷尔斯泰因公国，普鲁士与丹麦之间爆发了一场战争。一八六六年普鲁士和奥地利之间又为此发生战争。一八六七年这块地方成了普鲁士的两个省。十九世纪六十年代俄罗斯的报刊上报道了这一系列事件。
②美国黑人的痛苦处境以及拉脱维亚农民不堪忍受地主的剥削和压迫而逃亡的情况，都是十九世纪六十年代俄罗斯报纸上经常报道和评论的事情。
③指天主教耶稣会提出的口号：“目的可以证明手段是合法的”，“为了良好的目的，一切手段都是好的”（包括一切阴谋诡计、暗杀、收买等卑鄙的手段）。
“决不会有！为了让这样的事不至发生，你要做什么呢？制止吗？可你有什么权利？为了获得这样的权利，从你这方面来说，你能向她们作出什么允诺呢？等你大学毕业，有了工作，把自己的整个命运和前途都献给她们吗？我们听到过这一类的话，可这还是个未知数，而现在怎么办呢？要知道，得现在立刻就做点儿什么，这一点你明白吗？可现在你在做什么呢？你在夺走她们的最后一点点钱。要知道，她们的钱是以一百卢布养老金，以斯维德里盖洛夫先生家的薪水作抵押借来的！你，这个未来的百万富智，主宰她们命运的宙斯①，你有什么办法保护她们，使她们不受斯维德里盖洛夫一家和阿凡纳西•伊万诺维奇•瓦赫鲁申的剥削呢？十年以后吗？可是在这十年里，母亲会因为编织三角头巾熬瞎双眼，大概，光是哭也会把眼哭瞎的；由于省吃俭用，她会日渐憔悴，而妹妹呢？唉，你想想看吧，十年以后，或者在这十年里，妹妹会怎样呢？你猜到了吗？”
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①宙斯是希腊神话中最高的天神，诸神之王。
他就这样用这些问题折磨自己，嘲笑自己，甚至是怀着一种强烈的愉快心情这么做。其实，所有这些问题都不是新提出来的，不是突然产生的，而是早已使他感到痛苦的老问题，很久以前的老问题了。这些问题早就在折磨他的心灵，使他痛苦到了极点。所有现在的这些烦恼早已在他心灵里产生了，后来逐渐增强，日积月累，最近更发展成熟，形成一个可怕、古怪、不切实际的问题，以这个问题的形式凝聚集中了起来，这个问题开始折磨他的心灵和头脑，不可抗拒地要求得到解决。现在母亲的信好似一声霹雳，突然击中了他。显然，现在应该做的不是消极地发愁，难过，仅限于谈论问题无法解决，而一定得采取某种行动，立刻行动起来，越快越好，无论如何得作出决定，随便什么决定都行，或者……
“要不，就完全放弃生活！”他突然发狂似地大声叫喊，“顺从地听天由命，一劳永逸，放弃行动、生活和爱的一切权利，扼杀自己心中的一切！”
“您明白吗？您是不是明白，先生，已经无处可去意味着什么？”他突然想起马尔梅拉多夫昨天提出的问题，“因为得让每个人至少能有个可以去的地方……”
他突然打了个哆嗦：有一个念头，这念头也是昨天的，又掠过他的脑海。但是他颤栗并不是因为这个念头在脑海中掠过。因为他知道，他预感到它必然会“掠过”，而且已经在等着它了；这个念头也完全不是昨天才有的。但区别在于，一个月前，甚至昨天，它还仅仅是个幻想，而现在……现在它突然已经不是以幻想的形式，而是以一种可怕的，他完全陌生的新形式出现了，他自己突然意识到了这一点……不知什么东西在他头上猛撞了一下，他两眼一阵发黑。
他急忙向四周看了看，在寻找什么东西。他想要坐下，在寻找长椅子；当时他正在K林荫道上行走。可以看到前面有一条长椅，离他大约有一百来步远。他尽可能走得快一些；但是路上遇到一桩意外的事，有几分钟，这件事吸引了他的注意力。
他找到长椅的时候，发觉他前面二十来步远的地方，有一个女人在路上走，但起初他并没注意她，就像在此以前他从未注意在他面前一闪而过的一切东西一样。譬如说，这样的情况已经有好多次了：他回家去的时候，根本不记得走过的路，他已经习惯像这样走路了。但这个行路的女人身上不知有什么让人觉得奇怪，而且第一眼就惹人注目，因此他的注意力渐渐给吸引到她的身上，——起初是无意识地，甚至好像有点儿遗憾似的，后来却越来越强烈地引起他的注意。他突然想要弄清，这个女人身上到底是什么让人觉得奇怪。第一，她大概是个很年轻的姑娘，天这么热，她出来却既不戴帽子，也不打伞，也没戴手套，而且有点儿好笑地挥舞着双手。她穿一件用一种轻柔的丝织品衣料（“绸子”）做的连衫裙，可是不知为什么穿得也很奇怪，扣子都没好好扣上，后面腰部底下，就在裙子的最上端，撕开一条裂口；有一大块耷拉下来，晃来晃去。一块很小的三角头巾搭在她裸露的脖子上，但不知怎的歪到了一边。除此而外，那姑娘走路脚步不稳，踉踉跄跄，甚至摇摇晃晃。这终于吸引了拉斯科利尼科夫的全部注意力。就在长椅旁边，他和这姑娘遇到了一起，但是一走到长椅前，她突然一下子倒到长椅的一头，把头一仰，靠到椅背上，闭上了眼，看样子是由于极端疲倦的缘故。他仔细看了看她，立刻猜到，她已经完全喝醉了。这景象让人看了觉得奇怪，而且不合情理。他甚至想，是不是他弄错了。他面前是一张非常年轻的小脸，约摸十六岁，甚至也许只有十五岁，——一张小小的脸，相当漂亮，淡黄色的头发，但是满脸通红，而且好像有点儿浮肿。看来这姑娘神智已经不大清楚；她把一条腿搭到另一条腿上，而且裸露得太多了，根据一切迹象来看，她几乎没意识到自己是在街上。
拉斯科利尼科夫没有坐下，又不想走开，而是犹豫不决地站在她的面前。这条林荫道上总是阒无一人，现在，下午一点多钟，天又那么热，几乎不见一个人影。然而有一位先生就在旁边十四、五步远的地方，在林荫道边上站住了，从他的神情上可以看出，他正怀着某种目的，很想也到这个姑娘跟前来。大概他也是从老远就看到她，跟踪而来，可是拉斯科利尼科夫妨碍了他。他不时向拉斯科利尼科夫投来凶恶的目光，不过又竭力不想让拉斯科利尼科夫看到，并且急不可耐地等着这个让他讨厌的、衣衫褴褛的家伙走开，自己好走近前去。事情是很清楚的。这位先生三十来岁，身体健壮，肥胖，脸色红润，粉红色的嘴唇，留着两撇小胡子，衣著考究入时。拉斯科利尼科夫勃然大怒；他突然想要设法侮辱一下这个肥胖的花花公子。他暂时丢下这个姑娘，走到那位先生跟前。
“嗳，是您呀，斯维德里盖洛夫！您在这儿干吗？”他高声喊，同时攥紧拳头，狞笑着，由于愤怒，弄得嘴唇上沾满了唾沫。
“这是怎么回事？”那位先生皱起眉头，露出傲慢而惊诧的神情，严厉地问。
“您给我滚开，就是这么回事！”
“你怎么敢，骗子！……”
他挥了挥皮鞭。拉斯科利尼科夫攥着拳头朝他扑了过去，甚至没考虑到，这个身体健壮的先生能对付两个像他这样的人。但就在这时有人从后面牢牢抓住了他，一个警察站到了他们两人中间。
“够了，先生们，公共场所不准斗殴。你们要干什么？您是什么人？”他看清拉斯科利尼科夫身上的衣服破烂不堪，严厉地问。
拉斯科利尼科夫仔细瞅了瞅他。这是一张看上去威武雄壮的、士兵的脸，留着两撇灰白色的小胡子，一脸络腮胡须，眼神好像很精明的样子。
“我正要找您，”他一把抓住警察的手，高声说。“我以前是大学生，拉斯科利尼科夫……这一点您也可以看得出来，”
他对那个先生说，“请您过来，我要让您看看……”
说着，他抓住警察的手，把他拉到长椅跟前。
“喏，请看，她已经完全喝醉了，刚才在林荫道上走：谁知道她是什么人，不过不像是干这一行的。最有可能是在什么地方让人灌醉了，诱骗了她……是头一次…… 您懂吗？而且就这样把她撵到街上来了。请看，她的连衫裙给撕成了什么样子，请看，衣服是怎么穿着的：是别人给她穿上的，而不是她自己，而且给她穿衣服的是不会给人穿衣服的手，是男人的手。这显而易见。啊，现在请您再往这边看看：刚刚我想跟他打架的这个花花公子，我并不认识，我是头一次看到他；但是他也是刚刚在路上看见她的，她喝醉了，自己无法控制自己，现在他很想到她跟前来，把她弄到手，——因为她正处于这种状态，——带到什么地方去……大概就是这样；请您相信，我的判断准没有错。我亲眼看到，他在注意观察她，跟踪她，只不过我碍他的事，现在他正等着我走开。瞧，现在他稍走开了一些，站在那儿，好像是在卷烟卷儿……我们怎样才能制止他，不让他的阴谋得逞？我们怎样才能设法送她回家，——请您想想办法吧！”
警察立刻明白了，并且思索起来。那个胖先生的意图当然不难了解，只剩下这个小姑娘让人弄不清是怎么回事。警察弯下腰，凑得更近一些，仔细看看她，他的脸上露出真心实意怜悯她的神情。
“唉，多可怜哪！”他摇摇头，说，“还完全像个孩子。让人骗了，准是这样。喂，小姐，”他开始呼唤她，“请问您住在哪里？”姑娘睁开疲倦而无精打采的眼睛，毫无表情地看了看问她的人，挥了挥手。
“喂，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，“喏（他在衣袋里摸了摸，掏出二十个戈比；袋里还有钱），给，请您叫辆马车，吩咐车夫照地址送她回去。不过我们还得问问她的地址！”
“小姐，小姐？”警察收下钱，又开始叫她，“我这就给您叫一辆马车，亲自送您回去。请告诉我，送您去哪儿呀？啊？
请问您家住在哪里？”
“走开！……缠得人烦死了！”小姑娘含糊不清地说，又挥了挥手。
“哎哟，哎哟，这多不好；唉，多丢人哪，小姐，多丢人哪！”他又摇摇头，有点儿奚落，又有点儿惋惜和气愤。“这可真是件难分的事！”他对拉斯科利尼科夫说，说着又从头到脚把他匆匆打量了一遍。大概他觉得这个人很奇怪：穿着这么破烂的衣服，却要给人钱！
“您看到她，离这儿远吗？”警察问他。
“我告诉您：她在我前面走，摇摇晃晃地，就在这儿林荫道上。一走到长椅这儿，立刻就倒到椅子上了。”
“唉，上帝呀，如今世上发生了多么可耻的事啊！这么年轻，可已经喝得醉醺醺的！让人骗了，就是这么回事！瞧，她的连衫裙也给撕破了……唉，如今怎么尽出些道德败坏的事！……好像还是名门出身呢，不过也许是穷人家的……如今这样的事多着呢。看样子娇滴滴的，像是个小姐，”他又弯下腰去看她。
也许他也有这样的女儿——“像个小姐，而且娇滴滴的”，行为举止彬彬有礼，追逐时髦，衣著入时……“主要的是，”拉斯科利尼科夫很关心地说，“可别让她落到这个坏蛋手里！还不知他会怎样糟塌她呢！一眼就可以看出，他想要干什么；瞧这个坏蛋，他还不走开！”
拉斯科利尼科夫高声说，还伸出手来直指着他。那人听到了，又要发怒，可是改了主意，只用蔑视的目光瞅了他一眼。随后那人慢慢地再走开十来步，又站住了。
“不让她落到他手里，这倒办得到，”警察若有所思地回答。“只要她说出，送她到哪里去，不然……小姐，小姐！”他又弯下了腰。
她突然完全睁开眼，仔细看了看，仿佛明白是怎么回事了，于是从长椅子上站起来，往她来的那个方向走回去。
“呸，这些不要脸的家伙，纠缠不休！”她又挥挥手，说。她走得很快，但仍然摇晃得很厉害。花花公子也跟着她走了。不过是在另一条林荫道上，一边走，一边目不转睛地盯着她。
“请别担心，我不会让她落到他手里的，”留小胡子的警察坚决地说，于是跟在他们后面走了。
“唉，如今怎么尽出些道德败坏的事！”他高声叹息着重复说。
这时拉斯科利尼科夫仿佛让什么给整了一下似的；刹时间感到心里十分难过。
“喂，请听我说！”他追着小胡子大声喊。
小胡子回过头来。
“您别管了！关您什么事？您别管了！让他去关心她吧（他指指那个花花公子）。关您什么事？”
警察不懂他的意思，睁大了眼睛望着他。拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。
“嘿！”警察挥挥手说，于是跟在花花公子和那个小姑娘后面走了，大概他要么是把拉斯科利尼科夫当成了疯子，要么是把他看作比疯子更糟的人。
“把我的二十戈比带走了，”只剩下了拉斯科利尼科夫一个人，这时他气愤地说。“哼，让他也去跟那个人要几个钱，允许那人把姑娘带走，事情就这么完了，算了……我干吗要卷进来，帮什么忙呢！用得着我来帮忙吗？我有没有帮忙的权利？让他们互相把对方活活吃掉好了，——与我什么相干？我哪有权利把这二十戈比送给别人。难道这钱是我的吗？”
他虽然说了这些奇怪的话，却感到心情十分沉重。他坐到空下来的长椅子上。他的思绪纷乱，心不在焉……这时他根本什么也不能思考了。他倒希望完全失去知觉，忘记一切，然后一觉醒来，一切重新开始……
“可怜的小姑娘！”他看看已经没有人坐着的长椅子的一端，说。 “她会清醒过来，痛哭一场，以后母亲会知道……先把她打一顿，后来又拿鞭子抽她，痛苦，羞辱，说不定会把她赶出去……即使不把她赶出去，那些达里娅•弗兰佐芙娜之类的人也会有所风闻，于是我们这个小姑娘就要东奔西走……以后不久就会进医院（那些住在十分清白的母亲家里，瞒着她们背地里悄悄干不正当勾当的姑娘总是这样），那么以后呢……以后又进医院……喝酒……小酒馆……又是医院……两三年后就成了残废，从出生以来，她总共只活了十九年，或者十七年……难道我没有看到过这样的姑娘吗？她们是怎么沦落到了这步田地的？可是，瞧，她们都沦落到了这步田地……呸！管她们呢！据说，就应该如此。据说，每年都应该有这么百分之几①去……去某个地方……去见鬼，想必是为了让其余的人保持纯洁，不受妨害。百分之几！真的，他们的这些话怪好听的：这些话那么令人欣慰，合乎科学。说是只有百分之几，因此没有什么好担心的。如果用另一个词儿，那么……也许会更让人感到不安……万一杜涅奇卡也落到这个百分之几里呢！……不是落入这个百分之几，就是落入那个百分之几呢？……”
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①指比利时数学家、经济学家、统计学家A•凯特列的理论。他的著作译成俄文后，一八六五——一八六六年俄罗斯报刊上也常讨论这个问题。
“不过我这是往哪儿去呀？”他突然想。“奇怪。我出来是有个什么目的的，不是吗。一看完信，我就出来了……我是去瓦西利耶夫斯基岛，去找拉祖米欣，我要去哪儿，现在……想起来了。不过，去干什么呢？去找拉祖米欣的想法为什么恰恰是现在忽然闯进了我的脑子？这真奇怪。”
他对自己的行动感到诧异。拉祖米欣是他以前大学里的同学。奇怪的是，拉斯科利尼科夫在大学里的时候几乎没有朋友，不与大家来往，不去找任何人，也不高兴别人来找他。不过不久大家也就不理睬他了。他既不参加同学们的聚会，也不参加别人的议论，也不参加娱乐活动，什么也不参加。他只是用功读书，不知爱惜自己的身体，大家都为此尊敬他，但是谁也不喜欢他。他很穷，有点儿目空一切，高傲自大，不爱交际；仿佛心里隐藏着什么秘密似的。他的有些同学觉得，他傲慢地把他们、把他们大家好像都看作小孩子，仿佛无论就文化程度、学识和信念来说，他都胜过他们大家，他认为，他们的信念和兴趣都是低级的。
不知为什么，他和拉祖米欣倒是情投意合，其实倒也说不上情投意合，而是和拉祖米欣比较接近，也较为坦率。不过，和拉祖米欣的关系也不可能不是如此。这是一个异常快活和善于交际的小伙子，善良到了憨厚的程度。不过在这憨厚的外表下却暗藏着思想的深刻和自尊。他最要好的同学都知道这一点，大家都喜欢他。他很聪明，虽说有时当真有点儿单纯而轻信。他的外貌很富有表情——身材高大，瘦瘦的，脸总是刮得不大干净，一头黑发。有时他也胡闹，是个出名的大力士。有一天夜里，和朋友们在一起的时候，他一拳头打倒了一个两俄尺十二俄寸①高的警察。他酒量很大，可以喝个没完，可是也能滴酒不沾；有时他调皮起来甚至会达到令人不能容忍的地步，但也能一本正经，毫不调皮。拉祖米欣还有一个引人注意的特点，任何失败永远也不会使他感到不安，任何恶劣的处境似乎也不能使他感到气馁。他可以哪怕是住在房顶上，能忍受别人无法忍受的饥寒。他很穷，而且完全是靠自己维持自己的生活，有什么工作就做什么工作，这样来挣点儿钱。他有数不尽的财源，当然是靠工作挣钱。有一年，整整一冬他屋里根本没生炉子，并且断言，这样甚至更为愉快，因为屋里冷，睡得就更香甜。目前他也不得不暂时中断学业，离开大学，但辍学不会太久，他正竭尽全力设法改善经济状况，好继续求学。拉斯科利尼科夫已经有将近四个月没去他那儿了，拉祖米欣甚至不知道他住在哪里。有一次，大约两个月以前，他们曾在街上不期而遇，但是拉斯科利尼科夫不理睬他，甚至走到马路对面去，以免让他看见。拉祖米欣虽然看到了他，可是从一旁走了过去，不愿意打搅朋友。
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①一俄尺等于七一厘米，一俄寸等于四•四四厘米。两俄尺十二俄寸等于一米九七。
Part 1 Chapter 5
"Of course, I've been meaning lately to go to Razumihin's to ask for work, to ask him to get me lessons or something . . ." Raskolnikov thought, "but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he shares his last farthing with me, if he has any farthings, so that I could get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give lessons . . . hm . . . Well and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers I earn? That's not what I want now. It's really absurd for me to go to Razumihin. . . ."
The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him even more than he was himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this apparently ordinary action.
"Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by means of Razumihin alone?" he asked himself in perplexity.
He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantastic thought came into his head.
"Hm . . . to Razumihin's," he said all at once, calmly, as though he had reached a final determination. "I shall go to Razumihin's of course, but . . . not now. I shall go to him . . . on the next day after It, when It will be over and everything will begin afresh. . . ."
And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.
"After It," he shouted, jumping up from the seat, "but is It really going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?" He left the seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards, but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all /this/ had for a month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.
His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract his attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked round, he forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness, no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly painted summer villa standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies, and children running in the gardens. The flowers especially caught his attention; he gazed at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and counted his money; he found he had thirty copecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday," he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown reason, but he soon forgot with what object he had taken the money out of his pocket. He recalled it on passing an eating-house or tavern, and felt that he was hungry. . . . Going into the tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked away. It was a long while since he had taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once, though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep.
In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system.
Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood in the little town of his birth. He was a child about seven years old, walking into the country with his father on the evening of a holiday. It was a grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his dream than he had done in memory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the last market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was always a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking figures were hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when he met them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty track, the dust of which was always black. It was a winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his father and mother, when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head. Near his grandmother's grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He did not remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave. And now he dreamt that he was walking with his father past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he was holding his father's hand and looking with dread at the tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracted his attention: there seemed to be some kind of festivity going on, there were crowds of gaily dressed townspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts, all singing and all more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern stood a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at those great cart- horses, with their long manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts of such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants' nags which he had often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in a rut. And the peasants would beat them so cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden there was a great uproar of shouting, singing and the balalaika, and from the tavern a number of big and very drunken peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders.
"Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll take you all, get in!"
But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the crowd.
"Take us all with a beast like that!"
"Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?"
"And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!"
"Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. "The bay has gone with Matvey," he shouted from the cart--"and this brute, mates, is just breaking my heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She's just eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I'll make her gallop! She'll gallop!" and he picked up the whip, preparing himself with relish to flog the little mare.
"Get in! Come along!" The crowd laughed. "D'you hear, she'll gallop!"
"Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!"
"She'll jog along!"
"Don't you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!"
"All right! Give it to her!"
They all clambered into Mikolka's cart, laughing and making jokes. Six men got in and there was still room for more. They hauled in a fat, rosy-cheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing. The crowd round them was laughing too and indeed, how could they help laughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a gallop! Two young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to help Mikolka. With the cry of "now," the mare tugged with all her might, but far from galloping, could scarcely move forward; she struggled with her legs, gasping and shrinking from the blows of the three whips which were showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously thrashed the mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop.
"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd whose appetite was aroused.
"Get in, all get in," cried Mikolka, "she will draw you all. I'll beat her to death!" And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside himself with fury.
"Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they doing? Father, they are beating the poor horse!"
"Come along, come along!" said his father. "They are drunken and foolish, they are in fun; come away, don't look!" and he tried to draw him away, but he tore himself away from his hand, and, beside himself with horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She was gasping, standing still, then tugging again and almost falling.
"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to that. I'll do for her!"
"What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?" shouted an old man in the crowd.
"Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a cartload," said another.
"You'll kill her," shouted the third.
"Don't meddle! It's my property, I'll do what I choose. Get in, more of you! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop! . . ."
All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the mare, roused by the shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even the old man could not help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast like that trying to kick!
Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat her about the ribs. One ran each side.
"Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes," cried Mikolka.
"Give us a song, mates," shouted someone in the cart and everyone in the cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. The woman went on cracking nuts and laughing.
. . . He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across the face, he did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard, who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the hand and would have taken him away, but he tore himself from her and ran back to the mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more.
"I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down the whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort brandished it over the mare.
"He'll crush her," was shouted round him. "He'll kill her!"
"It's my property," shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.
"Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?" shouted voices in the crowd.
And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but lurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on one side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six whips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised again and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow.
"She's a tough one," was shouted in the crowd.
"She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her," said an admiring spectator in the crowd.
"Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off," shouted a third.
"I'll show you! Stand off," Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. "Look out," he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on the ground like a log.
"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything they could come across--whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.
"You butchered her," someone shouted in the crowd.
"Why wouldn't she gallop then?"
"My property!" shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to beat.
"No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices were shouting in the crowd.
But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips. . . . Then he jumped up and flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried him out of the crowd.
"Come along, come! Let us go home," he said to him.
"Father! Why did they . . . kill . . . the poor horse!" he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.
"They are drunk. . . . They are brutal . . . it's not our business!" said his father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He tried to draw a breath, to cry out--and woke up.
He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and stood up in terror.
"Thank God, that was only a dream," he said, sitting down under a tree and drawing deep breaths. "But what is it? Is it some fever coming on? Such a hideous dream!"
He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.
"Good God!" he cried, "can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open . . . that I shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble; hide, all spattered in the blood . . . with the axe. . . . Good God, can it be?"
He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.
"But why am I going on like this?" he continued, sitting up again, as it were in profound amazement. "I knew that I could never bring myself to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that . . . /experiment/, yesterday I realised completely that I could never bear to do it. . . . Why am I going over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile . . . the very thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.
"No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted, granted that there is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last month is clear as day, true as arithmetic. . . . My God! Anyway I couldn't bring myself to it! I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Why, why then am I still . . . ?"
He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at finding himself in this place, and went towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily. He felt he had cast off that fearful burden that had so long been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a sense of relief and peace in his soul. "Lord," he prayed, "show me my path--I renounce that accursed . . . dream of mine."
Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he was not conscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that had been forming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!
Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him during those days, minute by minute, point by point, he was superstitiously impressed by one circumstance, which, though in itself not very exceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the predestined turning-point of his fate. He could never understand and explain to himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more convenient for him to go home by the shortest and most direct way, he had returned by the Hay Market where he had no need to go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. It is true that it happened to him dozens of times to return home without noticing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always asking himself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance meeting happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his life when he was just in the very mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting was able to exert the gravest and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose!
It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market people were closing their establishments or clearing away and packing up their wares and, like their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and costermongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly liked this place and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in any attire without scandalising people. At the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up to go home, but were lingering in conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn his watch and make his /experiment/. . . . He already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, who made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing astonishing about this meeting.
"You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," the huckster was saying aloud. "Come round to-morrow about seven. They will be here too."
"To-morrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to make up her mind.
"Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna," gabbled the huckster's wife, a lively little woman. "I look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not your own sister either-nothing but a step-sister and what a hand she keeps over you!"
"But this time don't say a word to Alyona Ivanovna," her husband interrupted; "that's my advice, but come round to us without asking. It will be worth your while. Later on your sister herself may have a notion."
"Am I to come?"
"About seven o'clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to decide for yourself."
"And we'll have a cup of tea," added his wife.
"All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began slowly moving away.
Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had learnt, he had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and only companion, would be away from home and that therefore at seven o'clock precisely the old woman /would be left alone/.
He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man condemned to death. He thought of nothing and was incapable of thinking; but he felt suddenly in his whole being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided.
Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he could not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of the plan than that which had just presented itself. In any case, it would have been difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty, with greater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and investigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone.
 
“真的，不久前我还曾想请拉祖米欣给我找点儿活干，请他或者让我去教书，或者随便给我找个什么别的工作……”拉斯科利尼科夫想起来了，“不过现在他能用什么办法帮助我呢？即使他给我找到教书的工作，即使他连自己最后的几个戈比也分给我一些，如果他手头有钱的话，那么我甚至可以买双靴子，把衣服弄得像样一些，好去教课……嗯……哼，可是以后呢？几个戈比，我能派什么用处？难道现在我只是需要弄几个钱来用吗？真的，我去找拉祖米欣，这真好笑……”
他为什么要去找拉祖米欣，现在这个问题搅得他心神不宁，甚至比他原来所想象的还要让他心烦意乱；他焦急地在这一似乎最平常的行动中寻找某种预兆不祥的含意。
“怎么，莫非我想仅仅靠拉祖米欣来解决所有问题，在拉祖米欣这儿为一切困难找到出路吗？”他惊讶地问自己。
他苦苦思索，还揉揉自己的前额，真是怪事，经过很长时间深思熟虑之后，不知怎的，仿佛无意之中，几乎是自然而然地，他的脑子里突然出现了一个很怪的想法。
“嗯……去找拉祖米欣，”他突然完全平静地说，仿佛已经作出最后决定，“我要去找拉祖米欣，这当然……不过——不是现在……我要去找他……要在那件事以后第二天再去，在那件事已经办完，一切都走上新轨道的时候再去……”
他突然头脑清醒过来。
“在那件事以后，”他霍地从长椅子上站起来，大声说，“可难道那件事会发生吗？莫非真的会发生吗？”
他离开长椅子走了，几乎是跑着离开的；他想回转去，回家去，但他突然又对回家去感到十分厌恶：这一切正是在那里，在那半间小屋里，在这个可怕的大橱里酝酿成熟的，酝酿成熟已经有一个多月了，于是他信步朝前走去。
他那神经质的颤栗变成了热病发作的战栗；他甚至觉得一阵阵发冷；天这么热，他却觉得冷。由于内心的某种需要，他几乎无意识地、仿佛想努力注视迎面遇到的一切，似乎是竭力寻找什么能分散注意力的东西，但是这一点他几乎做不到，却不断陷入沉思。每当他浑身颤栗着，又抬起头来，环顾四周的时候，立刻就忘记了刚刚在想什么，甚至忘记了他刚刚走过的路。就这样，他走遍了瓦西利耶夫斯基岛，来到了小涅瓦河边，过了桥，转弯往群岛①走去。起初，绿荫和凉爽的空气使他疲倦的双眼，那双看惯城市里的灰尘、石灰、相互挤压的高大房屋的眼睛，倦意顿失，感到十分舒适。这儿既没有闷热的感觉，也没有刺鼻的恶臭，也没有小酒馆。但不久这些新鲜、愉快的感觉又变成了痛苦和惹人发怒的感觉。有时他在掩映在绿荫丛中的别墅前站住，往篱笆里面张望，远远看到，阳台和露台上有几个盛装的妇女，花园里有几个正在奔跑的孩子。特别吸引他注意的是那些鲜花；他看花总是看得最久。他也遇到过一些四轮马车，男女骑手；他用好奇的目光目送着他们，在他们从视野中消失之前，就又忘记了他们。有一次他站下来，数了数自己的钱；发现大约还有三十个戈比。“二十戈比给了警察，三戈比还给了娜斯塔西娅，那是她为那封信代付的钱……——这么说，昨天给了马尔梅拉多夫一家四十七戈比，要么是五十戈比，”他想，不知为什么这样计算着，但是不一会儿，甚至又忘了，他把钱从口袋里掏出来是为了什么。路过一家像是小饭馆的饮食店时，他想起了钱，同时感觉到他想吃点儿东西。他走进小饭馆，喝了一杯伏特加，吃了一个不知是什么馅的馅饼。又到了路上，他才把馅饼吃完。他很久没喝伏特加了，虽然现在他只喝了一杯，但酒劲立刻就冲上来了。他的腿突然沉重起来，他强烈地感到想要睡觉。他往回家的路上走去；但是已经走到了彼特罗夫斯基岛，他却感到疲惫不堪，于是站住了，离开道路，走进灌木丛，倒到草地上，立刻进入梦乡。
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①指涅瓦河中的群岛。夏天，陀思妥耶夫斯基喜欢在群岛上散步。
一个处于病态中的人作梦，梦境往往异常清晰、鲜明，而且与现实极其相象。有时会出现一些非常可怕的情景，但同时梦境和梦的全过程却是那么真实可信，而且有一些那样巧妙、出人意料、然而与整个梦境又极其艺术地协调一致的细节，就连作梦者本人醒着的时候也想不出这样的情节，哪怕他是像普希金或屠格涅夫那样的艺术家。这样的梦，这种病态的梦，总是让人好长时间不能忘却，并对那个病态的、已经十分紧张兴奋的人体产生强烈的印象。
拉斯科利尼科夫作了个可怕的梦。他梦见了自己的童年，还是在他们那个小城里。他只有六、七岁，在一个节日的傍晚，他和自己的父亲一起在城外散步。天阴沉沉的，是闷热的一天，那地方和他记忆里保存的印象一模一样：他记忆中的印象甚至比现在他在梦中看到的景象模糊得多。小城宛如置于掌中，四周十分空旷，连一棵柳树都没有；遥远的远方，天边黑压压的，有一片小树林。离城边最后一片菜园几步远的地方有一家酒馆，这是家大酒馆，每当他和父亲出城散步，路过这家酒馆的时候，它总是会使他产生极不愉快的印象，甚至让他感到害怕。那里总是有那么一大群人，狂呼乱叫，哈哈大笑，高声谩骂，声音嘶哑地唱歌，根本唱不成调，还经常打架；常常有一些醉鬼和面貌很可怕的人在酒馆周围闲逛……一碰到他们，他就紧紧偎依在父亲身上，浑身发抖。酒馆旁有一条道路，一条乡村土路，总是尘土飞扬，而且路上的尘土总是那么黑。土路曲折蜿蜒，在三百步开外的地方，打右边绕过城市的墓地。墓地中间有一座绿色圆顶的石头教堂，每年有一两次，他要跟父母一起去教堂作弥撒，追荐已经去世很久、他从未见过的祖母。去作弥撒的时候，他们总是带着一盘蜜饭，饭用一个白盘子盛着，再包上餐巾，蜜饭像糖一样甜，是用大米做的，还拿葡萄干嵌在饭上，做成个十字架的形状。他喜欢这座教堂和教堂里那些古老的圣像，圣像大部分都没有金属衣饰，他也喜欢那个脑袋颤颤巍巍的老神甫。祖母的坟上盖着石板，祖母坟旁还有座小坟，那是他小弟弟的坟墓，小弟弟生下来六个月就死了，他也根本不知道他，记不得了：可是大家都对他说，他有个小弟弟，每次他来墓地，都要按照宗教仪式，恭恭敬敬地对着那座小坟画十字，向它鞠躬行礼，还要吻吻它。他梦见：他和父亲顺着那条路去墓地，打从那家酒馆旁边经过；他拉着父亲的手，恐惧地回头望望酒馆。一个特殊的景象吸引了他的注意力：这一次这儿好像是在举办游园会，一群打扮得漂漂亮亮的城市妇女，乡下女人，她们的丈夫，还有形形色色偶然聚集在这里的人。大家都喝醉了，大家都在唱歌，酒馆的台阶旁停着一辆大车，不过是一辆奇怪的大车。这是一辆通常套着拉车的高头大马的大车，这种大车通常是用来运送货物和酒桶的。他总是喜欢看这些拉车的高头大马，它们的鬃毛很长，腿很粗，迈着匀称的步子，走起来不慌不忙，拉着的货物堆积如山，它们却一点儿也不吃力，似乎拉着车反倒比不拉车还轻松。可现在，真是怪事，这么大的一辆大车上套着的却是一匹庄稼人养的、又瘦又小、黄毛黑鬃的驽马，他常常看到，像这样的马有时拚命用力拉着满载木柴或干草的高大的大车，尤其是当大车陷进泥泞或车辙里的时候，庄稼人总是用鞭子狠狠地抽它，打得那么痛，有时鞭子劈头盖脸地打下来，甚至打到它的眼睛上，他那么同情、那么怜悯地看着这可怕的景象，几乎要哭出来，这时妈妈总是拉着他离开小窗子。但是突然人声嘈杂，吵吵嚷嚷：从酒馆里出来一些喝得酩酊大醉、身材高大的庄稼汉，他们穿着红色和蓝色的衬衫，披着厚呢上衣，高声叫嚷着，唱着歌，还弹着三弦琴。“坐上去，大家都坐上去！”有一个叫喊着，他还年轻，脖子那么粗，一张红通通的胖脸，红得像胡萝卜，“我送大家回去，上车吧！”
但是立刻爆发了一阵哄笑和惊叫声：
“这样一匹不中用的马会拉得动！”
“米科尔卡，你疯了：把这么小一匹小母马套到这么大一辆大车上！”
“这匹黄毛黑鬃马准能活二十年，弟兄们！”
“坐上来吧，我送大家回家！”米科尔卡又高声叫嚷，说着头一个跳上大车，拉起缰绳，站在大车的前部。“那匹枣红马不久前让马特维牵走了，”他在车上叫喊，“可这匹母马，弟兄们，只是让我伤心：真想打死它，白吃粮食。我说，坐上来吧！我要让它快跑！它会跑得像飞一样！”说着他拿起鞭子，满心欢喜地准备鞭打那匹黄毛黑鬃马。
“嘿，上车吧，干吗不上啊！”人群中有人在哈哈大笑。
“听到了吗，它会飞跑呢！”
“它大概有十年没跑了吧。”
“它跳起来了！”
“别可怜它，弟兄们，每人拿根鞭子，准备好！”
“对呀！抽它！”
大家哈哈大笑着，说着俏皮话，全都爬上米科尔卡的大车。上去了五、六个人，还可以再坐几个。把一个面色红润的胖女人也拖到了车上。她穿一身红布衣裳，戴一顶饰有小玻璃珠的双角帽子，脚上穿一双厚靴子，嘴里嗑着核桃，不时嘻嘻地笑着。四周人群也在嘻笑，而且说实在的，怎么能不笑呢：这么瘦弱的一匹母马，拉着这么重的一辆大车，还要飞跑！车上有两个小伙子立刻一人拿了一条鞭子，好帮着米科尔卡赶车。只听一声喊：“驾！”小母马拼命用力拉动了大车，可是不仅不能飞跑，就连迈步都几乎迈不开，只能一小步一小步地往前挪，呼哧呼哧地喘着气，被雨点般落到它身上的三条鞭子抽得四条腿直打弯。大车上和人群中的笑声更响了，可是米科尔卡发起火来，怒气冲冲地鞭打母马，鞭子不停地落下去，越来越快，好像他当真认为，这匹马准会飞也似地奔跑。
“让我也上去，弟兄们！”人群中有个也想上去寻开心的小伙子大声喊。
“上来吧！大家都坐上来！”米科尔卡高声叫嚷，“大家都上来，它也拉得动。我打死它！”他一鞭又一鞭，起劲地抽打着，气得发狂，都不知要拿什么打它才觉得解气了。
“爸爸，爸爸，”拉斯科利尼科夫对父亲叫喊，“爸爸，他们干什么呀！爸爸，他们在打可怜的马！”
“咱们走吧，走吧！”父亲说，“是些醉鬼，在胡闹，他们都是傻瓜。咱们走，别看了！”说着想要领他走开，可是他挣脱了父亲的手，无法控制自己，向那匹马跑去。但是可怜的马已经快不行了。它气喘吁吁，站住，又猛一拉，几乎跌倒在地下。
“往死里打！”米科尔卡叫嚷，“非打不可。我打死它！”
“难道你丧尽天良了吗，恶魔！”人群中有个老头儿大声喊。
“哪儿见过这样的事，让这么瘦的小马拉这么重的车，”另一个补上一句。
“会把它累死的！”第三个高声叫嚷。
“别多管闲事！马是我的！我想怎么着，就怎么着。再上来几个！大家都上车！我一定要叫它飞跑！……”
突然爆发了一阵连续不断的笑声，压倒了一切：小母马受不了越抽越快的鞭打，无能为力地尥起蹶子来了。就连那个老头儿也忍不住笑了。真的：这么一匹瘦弱的母马还会尥蹶子！
人群中的两个小伙子又一人拿了一根鞭子，跑到那马跟前，从两边抽它。他们各人从自己那一边跑过去。
“抽它的脸，抽它的眼，照准眼睛抽！”米科尔卡叫喊。
“唱起来吧，弟兄们！”有人从大车上喊，车上的人全都随声附和。唱起一首豪放欢快的歌，铃鼓叮叮噹噹地响，唱叠句的时候，有人在吹口哨，那个女人嗑着核桃，在嘿嘿地笑。
……拉斯科利尼科夫在那匹马旁边奔跑，他跑到前面去，看到人们怎样抽打它的眼睛，照准它的眼睛猛抽！他哭了。他的心剧烈地跳动，泪如泉涌。打马的人中有一个用鞭子碰到了他的脸，他一点儿也感觉不到，他难过极了，大声叫喊着，向那个摇着头谴责这一切的、须发苍白的老头儿跑去。一个女人拉住他的手，想要领他走开，但是他挣脱出来，又跑到马跟前去。那马已经作了最后的努力，不过又尥起蹶子来了。
“见它妈的鬼去吧！”米科尔卡狂怒地叫喊。他丢掉鞭子，弯下腰，从大车底部拖出一根又长又粗的辕木，用两只手抓住它的一头，用力在那匹黄毛黑鬃马的头上挥舞着。
“会把它打死的！”周围的人大声喊。
“会打死的！”
“是我的马！”米科尔卡叫喊，说着抡起辕木打了下去。听到沉重的一击声。
“揍它，揍它！干吗不打了！”人群中许多声音在喊。
米科尔卡又抡起辕木，又是沉重的一击，打到那匹倒楣的驽马的背上。马的屁股坐下去了，但是它又跳起来，猛一拉，用尽最后一点儿力气，一会儿往左，一会儿往右，拼命想拉动大车；但四面八方六条鞭子一齐向它打来，那根辕木又高高举起，第三次落到它的身上，然后是第四次，有节奏地用力猛打下来，因为不能一下就把它打死，米科尔卡气得发狂。
“还不容易死呢！”周围一片叫喊声。
“这就要倒下去了，准没错儿，弟兄们，它这就要完蛋了！”
人群中一个爱看热闹的高声说。
“干吗不给它一斧子！一斧子就能结果它的性命，”第三个大声喊。
“哼，别指手画脚了！闪开！”米科尔卡发疯似地大喊一声，丢掉辕木，又朝大车弯下腰去，推出一根铁棒来。“当心！”他大喊一声，使出全身力气，抡起铁棒，朝那匹可怜的马猛打过去。一棒打下去，只听到喀嚓一声响；母马摇摇晃晃，倒下去了。本来它还想再用力拉车，但铁棒又猛打到它的背上，于是它倒到地上，仿佛一下子把它的四条腿全砍断了。
“打死它！”米科尔卡大声喊，他好像控制不住自己，从大车上跳了下来。几个也是满脸通红、喝得醉醺醺的小伙子随手抓起鞭子、棍棒、辕木，朝那匹奄奄一息的母马跑去。米科尔卡站到一边，抡起铁棒狠狠地打它的背脊。马伸着脑袋，痛苦地长长吁了一口气，慢慢断了气。
“打死了！”人群中许多人喊。
“谁叫它不跑呢！”
“是我的马！”米科尔卡手持铁棒，两眼充血，高声大喊。他站在那儿，仿佛因为已经再也没有什么可打而感到遗憾。
“唉，这么说，你当真是丧尽天良了！”人群中已经有许多声音在大声叫喊。
但可怜的孩子已经无法控制自己。他高声叫喊着，从人丛中挤进去，冲到那匹黄毛黑鬃马前，抱住鲜血淋漓、已经死了的马脸，吻它，吻它的眼睛，吻它的嘴唇…… 随后他突然跳起来，发疯似地攥着两只小拳头朝米科尔卡扑了过去。就在这一瞬间，已经追了他好久的父亲一把抓住他，终于把他拉出了人群。
“咱们走吧！走吧！”父亲对他说，“咱们回家吧！”
“爸爸！他们为什么……把可怜的马……打死了！”他抽抽搭搭地说，但是他喘不过气来，他的话变成了叫喊，从他憋得难受的胸膛里冲了出来。
“是些醉鬼，他们在胡闹，不关我们的事，咱们走吧！”父亲说。他双手抱住父亲，但是他的胸部感到气闷，憋得难受。
他想喘一口气，大喊一声，于是醒了。
他醒来时浑身是汗，头发也给汗水浸得湿淋淋的，他气喘吁吁，恐惧地欠起身来。
“谢天谢地，这只不过是一个梦，”他说，说着坐到树下，深深地喘了口气。“不过这是怎么回事？我是不是发烧了：作了一个这么岂有此理的梦！”
他全身仿佛散了架；心烦意乱，郁郁不乐。他把胳膊肘放到膝盖上，用双手托住自己的头。
“天哪！”他突然大喊一声，“难道，难道我真的会拿起斧头，照准脑袋砍下去，砍碎她的头盖骨……会在一摊黏搭搭、热呼呼的鲜血上滑得站不住脚，会去撬锁，偷窃，吓得发抖吗；难道我会浑身溅满鲜血，去躲藏起来……还拿着斧头……上帝啊，难道真会这样吗？”
他说这些话的时候，抖得像一片树叶。
“我这是怎么了！”他继续想，更往下低下头，仿佛十分惊讶，“因为我知道，这我可受不了，那么为什么直到现在我一直在折磨自己呢？要知道，还在昨天，昨天，当我去进行这次……试探的时候，要知道，昨天我就完全明白了，我受不了……那我为什么现在还要想它呢？为什么直到现在我还犹豫不决呢？不是吗，还在昨天，下楼梯的时候，我就说过，这是肮脏的，卑污的，恶劣的，恶劣的……要知道，清醒的时候，单是这么想一想，我就感到恶心，感到恐惧……”
“不，我决受不了，决受不了！即使，即使所有这些计算都毫无疑问，即使这个月以来所决定的一切都像白昼一般清楚，像算术一样准确。上帝啊！要知道，反正我还是下不了决心！要知道，我准受不了，准受不了！……为什么，为什么直到现在……”
他站起来，惊异地环顾四周，仿佛连他来到这里也让他感到惊讶，于是他走上了T桥。他面色苍白，两眼发光，四肢疲惫无力，可是他突然感到呼吸好像轻松了些。他觉得已经丢掉了压在他身上这么久的可怕的重担，他心里突然感到轻松、宁静。“上帝啊！”他祷告说，“请把我的路指给我吧，我要放弃这该死的……我的梦想！”
过桥时他心情平静、悠然自得地望着涅瓦河，望着鲜红的落日撒在空中的鲜红的晚霞。别看他很虚弱，但他甚至没感到疲倦。仿佛一个月来一直在他心里化脓的那个脓疮突然破了。自由！自由！现在他摆脱了这些妖术，魔法，诱惑和魔力，现在他自由了！
后来，每当他想起这时的情况，每当他一分钟一分钟、一点一点地回忆这些天来所发生的一切的时候，有一个情况总是让他感到吃惊，甚至惊讶到了迷信的程度，虽然实际上这情况并不十分特殊，但后来他却老是觉得，好像这是他命中注定的。这就是：他怎么也弄不懂，而且无法解释，他已经很累了，疲惫不堪，对他来说，最好是走一条最近的直路回家，可是为什么他却要穿过干草广场回去，而去干草广场完全是多余的。绕的弯不算大，但显然完全没有必要。当然啦，他回家时记不得自己所走的路，这样的事已经发生过几十次了。但是，为什么呢？他常常问，那次在干草广场上（他甚至用不着经过那里）的相遇，那次对他如此重要、如此具有决定意义、同时又是那样纯属偶然的相遇，为什么不早不迟，恰恰是现在，在他一生中的那个时刻、那一分钟发生？而且恰恰是在他正处于那种心情、那种情况之下的时候？而只有在这种情况下，它，那次相遇才会对他一生的命运产生最具有决定意义、举足轻重的影响。仿佛那次相遇是故意在那儿等着他似的！
他经过干草广场的时候，大约是九点钟左右。所有摆摊的、顶着托盘的小贩，还有在大小铺子里做生意的商贩，全都关上店门，或者收拾起自己的货物，像他们的顾客一样，各自回家了。开设在底层的那些饭馆附近，还有干草广场上一幢幢房子的那些又脏又臭的院子里，特别是那些小酒馆旁边，聚集着许多形形色色、各行各业的手艺人和衣衫褴褛的人。拉斯科利尼科夫毫无目的出来闲逛的时候，多半喜欢来这些地方，也喜欢到附近几条胡同里去。在这些地方，他的破衣服不会招来任何人高傲蔑视的目光，可以爱穿什么就穿什么，而不会惹恼别人。在K胡同口一个角落里，一个小市民和一个女人，他的妻子，摆着两张桌子在做生意，卖的是线、带子、印花布头巾，以及诸如此类的东西。他们也打算回家了，可是因为和一个走过来的熟人闲聊，所以就耽搁了一会儿。这熟人是莉扎薇塔•伊万诺芙娜，或者跟大家一样，就叫她莉扎薇塔，就是那个十四等文官的太太、放高利贷的老太婆阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜的妹妹，昨天拉斯科利尼科夫才去过老太婆那儿，用一块表作抵押跟她借钱……而且是去进行试探……他早已了解这个莉扎薇塔的一切情况；就连她，也有点儿认识他。这是个高个子、迟钝、胆小、性情温和的老姑娘，差不多是个白痴，三十五岁，完全是她姐姐的奴隶，整天整夜给姐姐干活，在姐姐面前会吓得浑身发抖，甚至常挨姐姐的打。她拿着个包袱，若有所思地站在那个小市民和他老婆跟前，留心听他们说话。那两个正特别热心地向她解释什么。拉斯科利尼科夫突然看到她的时候，一种奇怪的感觉，仿佛是十分惊讶的感觉，一下子支配了他，虽说遇到她并没有任何可以惊讶的地方。
“莉扎薇塔•伊万诺芙娜，您可以自己作主嘛，”小市民高声说。“您明儿个来，六点多钟。他们也会来的。”
“明儿个？”莉扎薇塔拖长声音、若有所思地说，好像拿不定主意。
“唉，准是阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜吓唬您了！”商贩的妻子，一个机智果断的女人，像爆豆似不停地说。“我看您完全像个小孩子。她又不是您亲姐姐，跟您不是一个妈，可样样都让您听她的。”
“是嘛，这一次您跟阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜什么也别说，”丈夫打断了她的话，“我给您出个主意，不用她同意，您就来我们这儿。这是件有好处的事儿。以后您姐姐也会明白的。”
“那您来吗？”
“六点多钟，明天；他们也会来的；您自己决定好了。”
“我们还要生上茶炊，请你们喝茶呢，”妻子补上一句。
“好吧，我来，”莉扎薇塔说，可一直还在犹豫不决，说罢慢慢地走了。
拉斯科利尼科夫这时已经走过去了，再也听不见他们的谈话。他轻轻地、悄悄地走了过去，竭力不听漏他们的每一句话。他最初感到的惊讶渐渐变成了恐惧，仿佛有一股冷气掠过他的背脊。他得知，突然意想不到地，完全出乎意外地得知，明天，晚上七点整，莉扎薇塔，老太婆的妹妹，也就是和她住在一起的唯一的一个人，不在家，可见晚上七点整只有老太婆独自一人待在家里。
离他的住所只剩几步路了。他像一个被判处死刑的人走进自己屋里。他什么也没思考，而且也完全丧失了思考力；但是他突然以全身心感觉到，他再也没有思考的自由，再也没有意志，一切突然都最后决定了。
当然啦，他心中有个计划，即使他曾整年整年等待一个适当的时机，也不可能期望会有比目前突然出现的机会更好，能更顺利地实现这一计划的时机了。无论如何，很难在头天晚上确切得知，而且尽可能了解得准确无误，尽可能少冒险，不必一再冒险去打听和调查，就能确知，明天，某时某刻，打算去谋害的那个老太婆只有独自一人在家。
Part 1 Chapter 6
Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all women's things. As the things would have fetched little in the market, they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta's business. She undertook such jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have said already, she was very submissive and timid.
But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable. And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something strange and mysterious, as it were, the presence of some peculiar influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered the address; he had two articles that could be pawned: his father's old silver watch and a little gold ring with three red stones, a present from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he knew nothing special about her. He got two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him.
Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here someone seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student began telling his friend various details about Alyona Ivanovna.
"She is first-rate," he said. "You can always get money from her. She is as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand roubles at a time and she is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy. . . ."
And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high.
"There's a phenomenon for you," cried the student and he laughed.
They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened with great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about her. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister, being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked day and night for her sister, and besides doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and worked as a charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare to accept an order or job of any kind without her sister's permission. The old woman had already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money was left to a monastery in the province of N----, that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with child.
"But you say she is hideous?" observed the officer.
"Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet."
"You seem to find her attractive yourself," laughed the officer.
"From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill that damned old woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest conscience-prick," the student added with warmth. The officer laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!
"Listen, I want to ask you a serious question," the student said hotly. "I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand? You understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand," answered the officer, watching his excited companion attentively.
"Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman's money which will be buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from vice, from the Lock hospitals--and all with her money. Kill her, take her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in exchange--it's simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence! No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta's finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated."
"Of course she does not deserve to live," remarked the officer, "but there it is, it's nature."
"Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there would never have been a single great man. They talk of duty, conscience--I don't want to say anything against duty and conscience; --but the point is, what do we mean by them. Stay, I have another question to ask you. Listen!"
"No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!"
"Well?"
"You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the old woman /yourself/?"
"Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it. . . . It's nothing to do with me. . . ."
"But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there's no justice about it. . . . Let us have another game."
Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just conceiving . . . /the very same ideas/? And why, just at the moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint. . . .
*****
On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as it were crushing him.
He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o'clock the next morning, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot.
"My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indignantly. "And he is always asleep."
He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his garret and sank back on the sofa again.
"Going to sleep again," cried Nastasya. "Are you ill, eh?"
He made no reply.
"Do you want some tea?"
"Afterwards," he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning to the wall.
Nastasya stood over him.
"Perhaps he really is ill," she said, turned and went out. She came in again at two o'clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing him.
"Why are you lying like a log?" she shouted, looking at him with repulsion.
He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor.
"Are you ill or not?" asked Nastasya and again received no answer. "You'd better go out and get a breath of air," she said after a pause. "Will you eat it or not?"
"Afterwards," he said weakly. "You can go."
And he motioned her out.
She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went out.
A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and began to eat.
He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal he stretched himself on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-dreams and such strange day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a complete circle; all the party were at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured stones and over the clean sand which glistened here and there like gold. . . . Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up wide awake as though someone had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening on the staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if everyone was asleep. . . . It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing yet. . . . And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted haste. But the preparations to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on thinking of everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it into his overcoat--a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two, took off his wide, strong summer overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed outside when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got ready long before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still have had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a fortnight before.
When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out the /pledge/, which he had got ready long before and hidden there. This pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron, which he had also picked up at the same time in the street. Putting the iron which was a little the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and tied up the parcel so that it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give weight, so that the woman might not guess the first minute that the "thing" was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard someone suddenly about in the yard.
"It struck six long ago."
"Long ago! My God!"
He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the most important thing to do--to steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never for a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans.
And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasya was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her about. And so, when the time came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything was over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry --that would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off trifling details, until /he could believe in it all/. But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get up and simply go there. . . . Even his late experiment (i.e. his visit with the object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say "come, let us go and try it--why dream about it!"--and at once he had broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last resort he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were forcing and drawing him to it.
At first--long before indeed--he had been much occupied with one question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He had come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The question whether the disease gives rise to the crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied by something of the nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to decide.
When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the simple reason that his design was "not a crime. . . ." We will omit all the process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far ahead already. . . . We may add only that the practical, purely material difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his mind. "One has but to keep all one's will-power and reason to deal with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the business. . . ." But this preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly.
One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left the staircase. When he reached the landlady's kitchen, the door of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya's absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed.
"What made me think," he reflected, as he went under the gateway, "what made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment! Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?"
He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in his anger. . . . A dull animal rage boiled within him.
He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk for appearance' sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more revolting. "And what a chance I have lost for ever!" he muttered, standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter's little dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter's room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right caught his eye. . . . He looked about him--nobody. He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called the porter. "Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide open." He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood; at once, before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both hands into his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him! "When reason fails, the devil helps!" he thought with a strange grin. This chance raised his spirits extraordinarily.
He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of his hat. "Good heavens! I had the money the day before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!" A curse rose from the bottom of his soul.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the other side. . . .
When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much afraid now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer garden were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit to the town. Then he was interested by the question why in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to reality. "What nonsense!" he thought, "better think of nothing at all!"
"So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that meets them on the way," flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought. . . . And by now he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck once. "What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be fast!"
Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one noticed him and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his head--he had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman's room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was already on the stairs. . . .
Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went on. "Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but . . . it's two storeys above them."
And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman's was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn off--they had gone away! . . . He was out of breath. For one instant the thought floated through his mind "Shall I go back?" But he made no answer and began listening at the old woman's door, a dead silence. Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently . . . then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose. "Am I very pale?" he wondered. "Am I not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful. . . . Had I better wait a little longer . . . till my heart leaves off thumping?"
But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer, he slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly.
No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her habits . . . and once more he put his ear to the door. Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose), or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door. someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as he was doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed to have her ear to the door. . . . He moved a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that he might not have the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly, and without impatience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was almost unconscious of his body. . . . An instant later he heard the latch unfastened.
 
后来拉斯科利尼科夫有机会得知，那个小市民和他老婆究竟是为什么叫莉扎薇塔上他们那儿去。事情很平常，并没有任何特殊情况。有一家外地来的人家，家境败落，要卖掉旧东西、衣服等等，全都是女人用的。因为在市场上卖不合算，所以要找个代卖东西的女小贩，而莉扎薇塔正是干这一行的：她给人代卖东西，拿点儿佣金，走东家串西家地跑生意，而且经验丰富，因为她为人诚实，不讨价还价：她说个什么价，就照这个价钱成交。一般说，她话不多，而且就像已经说过的，她又挺和气，胆子也小……
可是最近一段时间，拉斯科利尼科夫变得迷信起来。过了很久以后，他身上还留有迷信的痕迹，几乎是不可磨灭了。后来他总是倾向于认为，在整个这件事情上，似乎有某种奇怪和神秘的东西，仿佛有某些特殊的影响和巧合。还在去年冬天，他认识的一个大学生波科列夫要去哈尔科夫的时候，有一次在谈话中把老太婆阿廖娜• 伊万诺芙娜的地址告诉了他，以备他如有急需，要去抵押什么东西。很久他都没去找她，因为他在教课，生活还勉强能够过得去。一个半月以前他想起了这个地址；他有两样可以拿去抵押的东西：父亲的一块旧银表和一枚镶着三颗红宝石的小金戒指，这是妹妹在临别时送给他作纪念的。他决定拿戒指去；找到老太婆以后，虽然还不了解她为人有什么特殊的地方，但第一眼看上去，就对她有一种无法克服的厌恶情绪，从她那里拿了两张“一卢布的票子”，顺路去一家很蹩脚的小饭馆吃东西。他要了一杯茶，坐下来，陷入沉思。就像小鸡要破壳而出那样，他的脑子里忽然出现一个奇怪的想法，这想法使他非常、非常感兴趣。
几乎紧挨着他，另一张小桌旁坐着一个大学生和一个年轻军官，他根本不认识这个大学生，也不记得以前见过他。大学生和军官打了一盘台球，然后坐下来喝茶。突然他听到大学生对军官谈起那个放高利贷的阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜，说她是十四等文官的太太，还把她的地址告诉了他。单单是这一点就让拉斯科利尼科夫觉得有点儿奇怪了：他刚刚从她那儿来，恰好这里就在谈论她。当然，这是巧合，然而这时他正无法摆脱一个极不寻常的印象，而这里恰好有人仿佛是在讨好他：那个大学生突然把这个阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜各方面的详细情况都讲给他的朋友听。
“她这个人挺有用，”他说，“总是能从她那儿弄到钱。她很有钱，就跟犹太人一样，可以一下子借出去五千卢布，不过，就是只值一卢布的抵押品，她也不嫌弃。我们有很多人去过她那儿。不过她是个坏透了的缺德鬼……”
于是他开始叙述，她是多么狠心，反复无常，只要抵押品过期一天，这件东西就算完了。她借给的钱只有抵押品价值的四分之一，却要收取百分之五、甚至百分之七的月息，等等。大学生滔滔不绝地说个不停，还告诉那个军官，除此而外，老太婆有个妹妹，叫莉扎薇塔，这个矮小可恶的老太婆经常打她，完全拿她当奴隶使唤，当她是个小孩子，可是莉扎薇塔至少有两俄尺八俄寸高……
“不是吗，这也是十分罕见的现象啊！”大学生提高声调说，并且哈哈大笑起来。
他们又谈起莉扎薇塔来了。谈论她的时候，大学生特别高兴，而且一直在笑，那军官很感兴趣地听着，还请大学生让这个莉扎薇塔到他那里去，给他补内衣。拉斯科利尼科夫连一句话也没听漏，一下子就了解到了一切：莉扎薇塔是妹妹，是老太婆的异母妹妹，她已经三十五岁了。她白天夜里都给姐姐干活，在家里既是厨娘，又是洗衣妇，除此而外，还做针钱活儿拿出去卖，甚至去给人家擦地板，挣来的钱全都交给姐姐。不经老太婆允许，她不敢自作主张接受任何订做的东西或替人家干活。老太婆已经立下遗嘱，莉扎薇塔自己也知道，根据遗嘱，除了一些动产、椅子以及诸如此类的东西，她连一个钱也得不到；所有的钱都指定捐献给H省的一座修道院，作为永久追荐她亡魂的经费。莉扎薇塔是个普通市民，而不是官太太，她没出嫁，长得不好看，身体的各部分极不相称，个子高得出奇，一双很长的外八字脚，总是穿一双破羊皮鞋，可是挺爱干净。使大学生感到惊奇和好笑的，主要是莉扎薇塔经常怀孕……
“你不是说她是个丑八怪吗？”军官说。
“不错，她皮肤那么黑，真像是个男扮女装的士兵，不过，你要知道，她可根本不是丑八怪。她的脸和眼睛那么善良。甚至是非常善良。证据就是——许多人都喜欢她。她那么安详，温顺，唯命是从，很随和，什么她都同意。她笑起来甚至还挺好看呢。”
“这么说你也喜欢她了，不是吗？”军官笑了起来。
“由于她怪。不，我要告诉你一件事。我真想杀了这个该死的老太婆，抢走她的钱，请你相信，我一点儿也不会感到良心的谴责”，大学生激动地又加上了一句。
军官又哈哈大笑起来。拉斯科利尼科夫却不由得颤栗了一下。这多么奇怪！
“对不起，我要向你提一个严肃的问题，”大学生激动起来。“当然，刚才我是开玩笑，不过你看：一方面是个毫无用处、毫无价值、愚蠢凶恶而且有病的老太婆，谁也不需要她，恰恰相反，她对大家都有害，她自己也不知道，她为什么活着，而且要不了多久，老太婆自己就会死掉。你明白我的意思吗？明白吗？”
“嗯，我明白，”军官凝神注视着情绪激动的大学生，回答说。
“你听我说下去。另一方面，一些年轻的新生力量，由于得不到帮助，以致陷入绝境，这样的人成千上万，到处都是！千百件好事和创举，可以用注定要让修道院白白拿去的、老太婆的那些钱来兴办，并使之得到改善！成千上万的人也许能走上正路；几十个家庭也许会免于贫困、离散、死亡、堕落，不至给送进性病医院，—— 而这一切都可以用她的钱来办。杀死她，拿走她的钱，为的是日后用这些钱献身于为全人类服务、为大众谋福利的事业：做千万件好事，能不能赎一桩微不足道的小罪，使罪行得到赦免，你认为呢？牺牲一个人的性命，成千上万人就可以得救，不至受苦受难，不至妻离子散。一个人的死换来百人的生——这不就是数学吗！再说，以公共利益来衡量，这个害肺病的、愚蠢凶恶的老太婆的生命又有什么意义呢？不过像只虱子，或者蟑螂罢了，而且还不如它们呢，因为老太婆活着是有害的。她吸别人的血，她吃人：前两天她还满怀仇恨地咬了莉扎薇塔的手指头：差点儿给咬断了！”
“当然啦，她不配活着，”军官说，“不过，要知道，这是天意。”
“唉，老兄，要知道，天意也可以改正，可以引导，不然就会陷入偏见。不然的话，那就连一个伟人也不会有了。大家都说：‘责任，良心’，我绝不反对责任和良心，不过，我们是怎样理解责任和良心呢？别忙，我再向你提一个问题。你听着！”
“不，你先别忙；我向你提个问题。你听着！”
“好，提吧！”
“嗯，现在你大发议论，夸夸其谈，可是请你告诉我：你会亲自去杀死这个老太婆吗，还是不会呢？”
“当然不会！我是为了正义……但这不是我的事……”
“可照我看，既然你自己下不了决心，那么这就谈不上什么正义！走，咱们再去打盘台球吧！”
“拉斯科利尼科夫心情异常激动。当然，这些话全都是最普通和最常听到的，他已经听到过不止一次了，只不过是用另外的形式表达出来，谈的也是另外一些话题，都是青年的议论和想法。但为什么恰恰是现在，他自己头脑里刚刚产生了……完全一模一样的想法，他就恰好听到了这样的谈话和这样的想法？而且为什么恰巧是在这个时候，他从老太婆那儿出来，刚刚产生了这个想法，恰好就听到了关于这个老太婆的谈话？……他总觉得，这种巧合是很奇怪的。在事情的继续发展中，小饭馆里这场毫无意义的谈话竟对他产生了极不寻常的影响：仿佛这儿真的有什么定数和上天的指示似的……
从干草广场回来以后，他急忙坐到沙发上，一动不动地坐了整整一个小时。这时天已经黑了；他没有蜡烛，而且根本就没产生点蜡烛的想法。他始终想不起来：那时候他是不是想过什么？最后，他感觉到不久前发作过的热病又发作了，在打冷战，于是怀着喜悦的心情想，可以在沙发上躺下了。不久强烈的睡意袭来，像铅一般沉重，压到了他的身上。
他睡的时间异常久，而且没有作梦。第二天早晨十点钟走进屋里来的娜斯塔西娅好不容易才叫醒了他。她给他送来了茶和面包。茶又是喝过后兑了水，冲淡了的，而且又是盛在她自己的茶壶里。
“瞧你睡得这么熟！”她气呼呼地叫嚷，“他老是睡！”
他努力欠起身来。他头痛；他本来已经站起来了，在他这间小屋里转了个身，又一头倒到沙发上。
“又睡！”娜斯塔西娅大声喊，“你病了，还是怎么的？”
他什么也没回答。
“要喝茶吗？”
“以后再喝，”他又合上眼，翻身对着墙壁，努力说了这么一句。娜斯塔西娅在他旁边站了一会儿。
“也许真的病了，”她说，于是转身走了。
下午两点她又进来了，端来了汤。他还像不久前那样躺着。茶放在那儿，没有动过。娜斯塔西娅甚至见怪了，恼怒地推他。
“干吗老是睡！”她厌恶地瞅着他，高声叫喊。他欠起身，坐起来，可是什么也没对她说，眼睛看着地下。
“是不是病了？”娜斯塔西娅问，又没得到回答。
“你哪怕出去走走也好哇，”她沉默了一会儿，说，“哪怕去吹吹风也好。要吃点儿东西吗？”
“以后再吃，”他有气无力地说，“你走吧！”说着挥了挥手。
她又站了一会儿，同情地瞅了瞅他，就出去了。
过了几分钟，他抬起眼来，好长时间看着茶和汤。然后拿起面包，拿起汤匙，开始喝汤。
他吃了不多一点儿，没有胃口，只吃了三、四汤匙，仿佛是不知不觉吃进去的。头痛稍减轻了些。吃过午饭，他又伸直身子躺到沙发上，可是已经睡不着了，而是脸朝下埋在枕头里，一动不动地趴在沙发上。各种各样的幻想，出现在他的头脑里，都是一些稀奇古怪的幻想：他最经常梦想的是，他在非洲的某个地方，在埃及，在一片绿洲上。商队在休息，骆驼都安安静静地躺着；四周棕榈环绕；大家正在用餐。他却一直在喝水，径直从小溪里舀水喝，小溪就在身旁潺潺地流着。那么凉爽，不可思议、奇妙无比、清凉的淡蓝色溪水流过五彩斑斓的石头，流过那么干净、金光闪闪的细沙……突然他清清楚楚听到了噹噹的钟声。他颤栗了一下，清醒过来，微微抬起头朝窗子望了望，揣测现在是什么时候，突然他完全清醒了，一下子跳起来，就像是有人把他从沙发上揪了下来。他踮着脚尖走到门前，轻轻地把门打开一条缝，侧耳倾听楼下的动静。他的心在狂跳，跳得可怕。但楼梯上静悄悄的，好像大家都已经睡了……他觉得奇怪和不可思议：他竟能从昨天起就这么迷迷糊糊一直睡到现在，还什么都没做，什么也没准备好……而这时候大概已经打过六点了……睡意和昏昏沉沉的感觉已经消失，代替它们突然控制了他的，是一阵异常狂热、又有些惊慌失措的忙乱。不过要准备的事情并不多。他集中注意力，尽量把一切都考虑到，什么也不要忘记；而心一直在狂跳，跳得这么厉害，连呼吸都感到困难了。第一，得做个环扣，把它缝到大衣上，——这只要一分钟就够了。他伸手到枕头底下摸了摸，从胡乱塞在枕头下的几件内衣中摸到一件已经破旧不堪、没洗过的衬衫。他从这件破衬衫上撕下一条一俄寸宽、八俄寸长的破布，再把这条破布对折起来，从身上脱下那件宽大、结实、用一种厚布做成的夏季大衣（他的唯一一件外衣），动手把布条的两端缝在大衣里子的左腋下面。缝的时候，他两手发抖，但是尽力克制住，缝上以后，他又把大衣穿上，从外面什么也看不出来。针和线他早就准备好了，用纸包着，放在小桌子上。至于那个环扣，这是他自己很巧妙的发明：环扣是用来挂斧头的。拿着斧头在街上走当然不行。如果把斧头藏在大衣底下，还是得用手扶着它，那就会让人看出来。现在有了环扣，只要把斧头挂进环扣里，斧头就会一路上稳稳地挂在里面，挂在腋下。把一只手伸进大衣侧面的衣袋里，就能扶着斧柄，以免它晃来晃去；因为大衣很宽大，真像条口袋，所以从外面看不出他隔着衣袋用手扶着什么东西。这个环扣也是他在两星期前就想好了的。
缝好了环扣，他把几只手指伸进他的“土耳其式”沙发与地板之间的窄缝里，在靠左边的角落上摸索了一阵，掏出早已准备好、藏在那里的那件抵押品。不过这根本不是什么抵押品，只不过是一块刨光的小木板，大小和厚薄很像个银烟盒。这块小木板是他一次出去散步时，在一个院子里偶然拾到的，那院子的厢房里不知有个什么作坊。后来他又给这块小木板加上了一片光滑的薄铁片，——大概是从什么东西上拆下来的破铁片，——也是那时候从街上拾来的。他把小木板和铁片叠放在一起，铁片比木板小些，他用线十字交叉把它们牢牢捆在一起；然后用一张干净的白纸把它们整整齐齐、十分考究地包上，再扎起来，扎得很不容易解开。这是为了在老太婆解结的时候分散她的注意力，这样就可以利用这一短暂的时间了。加上铁片，是为了增加重量，让老太婆至少在头一分钟不至猜到，这“玩意儿”是木头的。这一切都暂时藏在他的沙发底下。他刚把抵押品拿出来，突然院子里什么地方有人大声喊：
“早就过六点了！”
“早就过了！我的天哪！”
他冲到门口，侧耳谛听，一把抓起帽子，像只猫一样，小心翼翼，悄无声息地走下一共有十三级的楼梯。现在他必须去做的是一件最重要的事情——从厨房里偷一把斧头。干这件事得用斧头，这是他早已决定了的。他还有一把花园里修枝用的折刀；但是他不能指望用折刀去干这件事，尤其不能指望自己会有那么大的力气，因此最后决定要用斧头。顺便指出，在这件事情上，他已经作出的一切最终决定都有一个特点。这些决定都有这么一个特性：决定越是已经最终确定下来，在他看来就越觉得它们荒谬，不合理。尽管他一直在进行痛苦的内心斗争，但是在这段时间里，他却始终不能确信自己的计划是可以实现的。
即使他的确已经把一切，直到最后一个细节，都详细研究过，而且作出了最后决定，再也没有任何怀疑了，——可现在似乎他还是会像放弃一件荒谬、骇人听闻、不可能实现的事情一样，放弃这一计划。而实际上尚未解决的难题和疑问还多得不计其数。至于上哪儿去弄斧头，这件不足道的小事却丝毫也不让他担心，因为这再容易不过了。是这么回事：娜斯塔西娅经常不在家，特别是晚上，她要么去邻居家串门，要么上小铺里去买东西，厨房门却总是敞着。就是为此，女房东常跟她吵架。那么到时候只要悄悄溜进厨房，拿了斧头，然后，过了一个钟头（等一切都已经办完以后），再溜进去，放还原处就行了。不过还是有些疑问：就假定说，过一个钟头他就回来，把斧头放回去吧，可是万一娜斯塔西娅突然回来了呢。当然啦，得从门旁走过去，等她再出去。可是万一这时候她发现斧头不见了，动手寻找，大声嚷嚷起来呢，——
那可就要引起怀疑，或者至少也是件会引起猜疑的事。
不过这还都是些他没开始考虑、也没时间考虑的小事。他考虑的是主要问题，至于那些小事，留待以后，等他自己对一切都已深信不疑的时候再说。但要对一切深信不疑，这似乎是根本不可能实现的。至少他自己觉得是这样。例如，他无论如何也不能设想，有朝一日他会结束考虑，站起来，真的上那里去……就连不久前他作的那次试探（也就是为了最后察看那个地方而作的访问），他也只不过是去试探一下而已，而远不是当真的，而是这样：“让我”，他这样对自己说，“让我去试试看吧，干吗只是幻想呢！”——可是他立刻感到受不了了，十分痛恨自己，唾弃这一切，并逃之夭夭。然而，以道德观点来看，是否允许做这样的事，就这方面的问题所作的一切分析却已经结束了：诡辩犹如剃刀一般锋利，论据丝毫不容反驳，他自己已经没有有意识的反对意见了。但是尽管如此，他还是简直不相信自己，并执拗地、盲目地试探着从各方面寻找反驳的理由，仿佛有人强迫他、诱使他去这么做。最后一天来得这么突然，一切好像一下子都决定了，这一天几乎完全是在机械地影响他：仿佛有人拉住他的手，无法抗拒地、盲目地、以一种超自然的力量不容反对地拉着他跟随着自己。就好像他衣服的一角让车轮轧住，连他也给拖到火车底下去了。
最初，——不过，已经是很久以前了，——有一个问题使他很感兴趣：为什么几乎一切罪行都这么容易被发觉和败露，而且几乎所有罪犯都会留下如此明显的痕迹？他逐渐得出各种各样很有意思的结论，照他看，最主要的原因与其说在于掩盖罪行，实际上是不可能的，不如说在于犯罪者本人；罪犯本人，而且几乎是每一个罪犯，在犯罪的那一瞬间都会意志衰退，丧失理智，恰恰相反，正是在最需要理智和谨慎的那一瞬间，幼稚和罕见的轻率却偏偏取代了意志和理智。根据他的这一信念，可以得出结论：这种一时糊涂和意志衰退犹如疾病一般控制着人，渐渐发展，到犯罪的不久前达到顶点；在犯罪的那一瞬间以及此后若干时间内，仍然保持这种状态不变，至于这会持续多久，就要看各人的情况了；以后也会像各种疾病一样消失。问题是：是疾病产生犯罪呢，还是犯罪本身，由于它的特殊性质，总是伴随着某种类似疾病的现象？他尚未感觉到自己能解决这个问题。
得出这样的结论以后，他断定，他本人，在他这件事情上，不可能发生这一类病态心理变化，在实行这一经过深思熟虑的计划时，他绝不会失去理智和意志，而这仅仅是因为，他所筹划的——“不是犯罪”……使他得以作出最终决定的整个过程，我们就略而不谈了吧；就是不谈这些，我们也已经扯得太远了……我们只补充一点，这件事情中那些实际的、纯粹技术性的困难，在他的头脑里只起最次要的作用。“只要对这些困难保持清醒的头脑和意志，到时候，到必须了解一切细节，了解事情的一切微妙之处的时候，一切困难都会克服的……”但事情并未开始。他一直完全不相信自己的最后决定，而当时候到了，却一切都不是那么一回事，不知怎的似乎那么突然，甚至几乎是出乎意料。
他还没下完楼梯，一个最微不足道的意外情况就使他束手无策，不知所措了。他走到和往常一样总是敞着的、女房东的厨房门前，小心翼翼地往厨房里瞟了一眼，想事先看清：娜斯塔西娅不在的时候，女房东本人是不是在那儿？如果她不在厨房里，那么她的房门是不是关好了？以免他进去拿斧头的时候，她从自己屋里朝外张望，恰好看见。但是当他突然看到，这一次娜斯塔西娅不但在家，在厨房里，而且还在干活，正从篮子里拿出几件内衣，分别晾到绳子上去，这时他感到多么惊讶！她一看到他，立刻停住不晾衣服了，回过头来望着他，一直到他走了过去。他转眼望着别处，走了过去，装作什么也没看见。但事情已经完了，因为没有斧子！他受到了一次可怕的打击。
“我凭什么，”走到大门口的时候，他想，“我凭什么断定这个时候她一定不在家？为什么，为什么，为什么我想当然作出这样的判断？”他仿佛吃了一次败仗，甚至感到自尊心受了伤害。由于愤怒，他想嘲笑自己……他心中隐隐升起一股兽性的怒火。
在大门口他犹豫不决地站住了。他不愿为了作作样子，就这样到街上去散步；回家去吧——他就更不愿意了。“而且失去了一个多好的机会啊！”他含糊不清地说，无目的地站在大门口，正对着管院子的人那间阴暗的小屋，小屋的门也在敞着。突然他颤栗了一下。离他两步远的管院子的人的小屋里，一条长凳底下，靠右边有个什么东西亮闪闪的，闯入他的眼帘……他向四面张望了一下，一个人也没有。他踮着脚尖走到管院子的人住房门前，下了两级台阶，用微弱的声音喊了一声管院子的。“果然，不在家！不过，就在附近什么地方，就在院子里，因为房门大敞着。”他飞速奔向斧头（这是一把斧头），从长凳子底下把放在两块劈柴之间的斧头拖了出来；他没出屋，就在那儿把斧头挂到环扣上，双手插进衣袋，然后走出管院子的人的小屋；谁也没有发觉！“理智不管用，魔鬼来帮忙！”他古怪地冷笑着想。这一机会使他受到极大的鼓舞。
他在路上慢慢地走着，神情庄重，不慌不忙，以免引起怀疑。他很少看过路的行人，甚至竭力完全不看他们的脸，尽可能不惹人注意。这时他想起了他那顶帽子。“我的天哪！前天我就有钱了，可是没能换一顶制帽！”他从心里咒骂自己。
他偶然往一家小铺里望了一眼，看到壁上的挂钟已经七点过十分了。得赶快走，可同时又得绕个弯儿：从另一边绕到那幢房子那儿去……
从前他偶然想象这一切的时候，有时他想，他会很害怕。但现在他并不十分害怕，甚至完全不觉得害怕。此时此刻，他感兴趣的甚至是一些不相干的想法，不过感兴趣的时间都不久。路过尤苏波夫花园①的时候，他想起建造高大喷泉的计划，甚至对此很感兴趣，他还想到，这些喷泉会使所有广场上的空气都变得十分清新。渐渐地他产生了这样的信念：如果把夏季花园②扩大到马尔索广场，甚至和米哈依洛夫宫周围的花园连成一片，那么对于城市将是一件十分美好、极其有益的好事。这时他突然对这样一种现象发生了兴趣：为什么恰恰是在所有大城市里，人们并不是由于需要，但不知为什么却特别喜欢住在城市里那些既无花园，又无喷泉，又脏又臭，堆满各种垃圾的地区？这时他想起自己在干草广场上散步的情况，刹时间清醒起来。“胡思乱想，”他想，“不，最好什么也别想！”
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①尤苏波夫花园是尤苏波夫公爵的私人花园，在叶卡捷林戈夫斯基大街（现在的李姆斯基—科萨科夫大街）对面的花园街上，现在是儿童公园。
②最有名的古老花园之一。
“大概那些给押赴刑场的人就是像这样恋恋不舍地想着路上碰到的一切东西吧，”这个想法在他脑子里忽然一闪，不过仅仅是一闪而过，就像闪电一样；他自己赶快熄灭了这个想法的火花……不过，已经不远了，瞧，就是这幢房子，就是这道大门。不知什么地方钟噹地一声响。“怎么，莫非已经七点半了吗？不可能，大概这钟快了！”
他运气不错，进大门又很顺利。不仅如此，甚至好像老天帮忙似的，就在这一瞬间，刚刚有一辆装干草的大车在他前面驶进了大门，他从门口进去的这段时间，大车完全遮住了他，大车刚从大门驶进院子，一眨眼的工夫，他就从右边溜了进去。可以听到，大车的另一边有好几个人的声音在叫喊、争吵，可是谁也没有发觉他，迎面也没遇到任何人。冲着这个正方形大院子的许多窗户这时候全都敞着，不过他没抬头——没有力气抬头。去老太婆那儿的楼梯离得不远，一进大门往右拐就是。他已经到了楼梯上……
他松了口气，用一只手按住怦怦狂跳不已的心，马上摸了摸那把斧头，又一次把它扶正，然后小心翼翼、悄悄地上楼，不时侧耳倾听。不过那时候楼梯上也阒无一人；所有房门都关着；没遇到任何人。不错，二楼一套空房子的房门大敞着，有几个油漆工在里面干活，不过他们也没看他。他站了一会儿，想了想，然后继续往上走。“当然啦，最好这儿根本没有这些人，不过……上面还有两层楼呢。”
啊，这就是四楼了，这就是房门，这就是对面那套房子；那套房子是空着的。三楼上，老太婆住房底下的那套房子，根据一切迹象来看，也是空着的：用小钉钉在门上的名片取下来了——搬走了！……他感到呼吸困难。有一瞬间一个想法在他脑子里一闪而过： “是不是回去呢？”可是他没有回答自己的问题，却侧耳倾听老太婆住房里的动静：死一般的寂静。随后他又仔细听听楼梯底下有没有动静，很用心地听了很久…… 然后，最后一次朝四下里望了望，悄悄走到门前，让自己心情平静下来，再一次摸摸挂在环扣上的斧头。“我脸色是不是发白……白得很厉害吗？”他不由得想， “我是不是显得特别激动不安？她很多疑……是不是再等一等……等心不跳了？……”
但心跳没有停止。恰恰相反，好像故意为难似的，跳得越来越厉害，越来越厉害……他忍不住了，慢慢把手伸向门铃，拉了拉铃。过了半分钟，又拉了拉门铃，拉得更响一些。
没有反应。可别胡乱拉铃，而且他这样做也不合适。老太婆当然在家，不过她疑心重重，而且就只有她独自一个人。他多少有点儿了解她的习惯……于是又一次把耳朵紧贴在门上。是他的听觉如此敏锐呢（一般说这是难以设想的），还是当真可以听清里面的声音，不过他突然听到了仿佛是手摸到门锁把手上的小心翼翼的轻微响声，还听到了仿佛是衣服碰到门上的窸窸窣窣的响声。有人不动声色地站在门锁前，也像他在外面这样，躲在里面侧耳谛听，而且好像也把耳朵贴到了门上……
他故意稍动了动，稍微提高声音含糊不清地说了句什么，以免让人看出他在躲躲藏藏；然后又第三次拉了拉门铃，不过拉得很轻，大模大样地，让人听不出有任何急不可耐的情绪。后来回想起这一切，清晰地、鲜明地回忆起这一切时，这一分钟已永远铭刻在他的心中；他不能理解，他打哪儿来的这么多花招，何况他的头脑这时已失去思考能力，连自己的身躯他也几乎感觉不到了……稍过了一会儿，听到了开门钩的响声。
Part 1 Chapter 7
The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly made a great mistake.
Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took hold of the door and drew it towards him to prevent the old woman from attempting to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did not let go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with it on to the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him.
"Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna," he began, trying to speak easily, but his voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. "I have come . . . I have brought something . . . but we'd better come in . . . to the light. . . ."
And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed.
"Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?"
"Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me . . . Raskolnikov . . . here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other day . . ." And he held out the pledge.
The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for another half minute, he thought he would have run away from her.
"Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?" he said suddenly, also with malice. "Take it if you like, if not I'll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry."
He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor's resolute tone evidently restored her confidence.
"But why, my good sir, all of a minute. . . . What is it?" she asked, looking at the pledge.
"The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know."
She held out her hand.
"But how pale you are, to be sure . . . and your hands are trembling too? Have you been bathing, or what?"
"Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale . . . if you've nothing to eat," he added, with difficulty articulating the words.
His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge.
"What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the pledge in her hand.
"A thing . . . cigarette case. . . . Silver. . . . Look at it."
"It does not seem somehow like silver. . . . How he has wrapped it up!"
Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall. . . . A sudden giddiness came over him.
"But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with vexation and moved towards him.
He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung it with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once brought the axe down, his strength returned to him.
The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat's tail and fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was so short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still held "the pledge." Then he dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood gushed as from an overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively.
He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her pocket (trying to avoid the streaming body)--the same right-hand pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get smeared with blood. . . . He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two minutes' hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken--it was a purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the crosses on the old woman's body and rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.
He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress, then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his blood- stained hands on the red brocade. "It's red, and on red blood will be less noticeable," the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to himself. "Good God, am I going out of my senses?" he thought with terror.
But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned out to be various articles made of gold among the clothes--probably all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed--bracelets, chains, ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he had not time to take many. . . .
He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bedroom.
In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees babies' mouths, when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most necessary and natural action at the moment, for the axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatching up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry.
Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and, perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the room for anything in the world.
But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window. There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind--the idea that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing something utterly different from what he was now doing. "Good God!" he muttered "I must fly, fly," and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had never known before.
He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung, was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!
He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.
"But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away. . . ."
He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the staircase.
He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway, two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding. "What are they about?" He waited patiently. At last all was still, as though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone began going downstairs humming a tune. "How is it they all make such a noise?" flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and waited. At last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.
The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming /there/, to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now /he/ had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one's arms.
At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one another, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door divided them and he was listening.
The visitor panted several times. "He must be a big, fat man," thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream indeed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly.
As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the fastening, but /he/ might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him again. "I shall fall down!" flashed through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he recovered himself at once.
"What's up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!" he bawled in a thick voice, "Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?"
And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority and an intimate acquaintance.
At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the stairs. someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at first.
"You don't say there's no one at home," the new-comer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the bell. "Good evening, Koch."
"From his voice he must be quite young," thought Raskolnikov.
"Who the devil can tell? I've almost broken the lock," answered Koch. "But how do you come to know me?
"Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiards at Gambrinus'."
"Oh!"
"So they are not at home? That's queer. It's awfully stupid though. Where could the old woman have gone? I've come on business."
"Yes; and I have business with her, too."
"Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie--aie! And I was hoping to get some money!" cried the young man.
"We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It's out of my way. And where the devil she can have got to, I can't make out. She sits here from year's end to year's end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!"
"Hadn't we better ask the porter?"
"What?"
"Where she's gone and when she'll be back."
"Hm. . . . Damn it all! . . . We might ask. . . . But you know she never does go anywhere."
And he once more tugged at the door-handle.
"Damn it all. There's nothing to be done, we must go!"
"Stay!" cried the young man suddenly. "Do you see how the door shakes if you pull it?"
"Well?"
"That shows it's not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how the hook clanks?"
"Well?"
"Why, don't you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they were all out, they would have locked the door from the outside with the key and not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don't you see. So there they are sitting inside and don't open the door!"
"Well! And so they must be!" cried Koch, astonished. "What are they about in there?" And he began furiously shaking the door.
"Stay!" cried the young man again. "Don't pull at it! There must be something wrong. . . . Here, you've been ringing and pulling at the door and still they don't open! So either they've both fainted or . . ."
"What?"
"I tell you what. Let's go fetch the porter, let him wake them up."
"All right."
Both were going down.
"Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter."
"What for?"
"Well, you'd better."
"All right."
"I'm studying the law you see! It's evident, e-vi-dent there's something wrong here!" the young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs.
Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began touching the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure once more that it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he bent down and began looking at the keyhole: but the key was in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be seen.
Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of delirium. He was even making ready to fight when they should come in. While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, while they could not open the door! "Only make haste!" was the thought that flashed through his mind.
"But what the devil is he about? . . ." Time was passing, one minute, and another--no one came. Koch began to be restless.
"What the devil?" he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy boots on the stairs. The steps died away.
"Good heavens! What am I to do?"
Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door--there was no sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.
He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below--where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to the flat.
"Hey there! Catch the brute!"
Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.
"Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!"
The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. "They!"
Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling "come what must!" If they stopped him--all was lost; if they let him pass--all was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only a flight from him--and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at work, and which, as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the middle of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the wall and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing. Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.
No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through the gateway and turned to the left in the street.
He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. "Should he slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!"
At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet. "My word, he has been going it!" someone shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank.
He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from quite a different direction.
He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his house! he was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe. And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody's yard. But it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter's room was closed but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that the porter was at home. But he had so completely lost all power of reflection that he walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him, "What do you want?" he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe back under the bench, and even covering it with the chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his room; the landlady's door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was--he did not sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts. . . .
 
像那次一样，房门开了很窄的一条缝，又是两道锐利和不信任的目光从黑暗中注视着他。这时拉斯科利尼科夫发慌了，犯了一个严重错误。
他担心，因为只有他们两个人，老太婆会觉得害怕，而且也不指望他的这副样子能消除她的疑心，于是他一把抓住房门，朝自己这边猛一拉，以免老太婆忽然又想把门关上。看到这一情况，她没有把门拉回去，可是也没放开门锁上的把手，这样一来，他差点儿没有把她连门一道拉到楼梯上来。看到她拦在门口。不放他进去，他一直朝她走了过去，她惊恐地往旁边一闪，想要说什么，可是又好像说不出来，于是瞪大了双眼直瞅着他。
“您好，阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜，”他尽可能随随便便地说，可是他的声音不听话，猝然中断了，而且颤抖起来，“我给您……拿来一样东西……嗯，最好咱们还是到这儿来……到亮处来……”说着，他丢下她，不待邀请，径直走进屋里。老太婆跟在他后面跑进来；滔滔不绝地说起来了。
“上帝啊！您要干什么？……您是什么人？您有什么事？”
“得了吧，阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜……您的熟人……拉斯科利尼科夫……瞧，拿来了抵押品，前两天说过要拿来的……”说着，他把抵押品递给她。
老太婆瞅了瞅那件抵押品，但立刻又用双眼盯着这个不速之客的眼睛。她十分留心、恶狠狠地、怀疑地瞅着他。约摸过了一分钟光景；他甚至好像觉得，她眼里有类似嘲笑的神情，似乎她已经什么都猜到了。他感到惊慌失措，几乎感到可怕，可怕到了这种程度，似乎她再这样一言不发地瞅着他，再瞅上半分钟，他就会从这儿逃跑了。
“唉，您干吗这样看着我，就像不认识似的？”他突然恶狠狠地说。“想要，就拿去，不想要，我就去找别人，我没空。”
他本不想说这些话，可是这些话却突然脱口而出。
老太婆镇静下来了，看来，客人的坚决语调使她受到了鼓舞。
“你这是怎么回事，我的爷，这么突然……这是什么啊？”
她瞅着那件抵押品，问。
“银烟盒：上次我不是说过了吗。”
她伸出手来。
“可您脸色怎么这么白？手也在发抖！吓了一跳，是吗，先生？”
“寒热病发作了，”他断断续续地回答。“不由自主地脸色发白……既然没有吃的，”他补上一句，勉强才把这句话说了出来。他又没有力气了。但是这回答似乎合情合理；老太婆把抵押品接了过去。
“这是什么啊？”她问，手里掂量着那件抵押品，又一次盯着拉斯科利尼科夫仔细看了看。
“这东西……烟盒……是银子的……您看看吧。”
“可怎么，好像不是银的……咦，捆起来了。”
她竭力想解开捆在上面的细绳，转身面对窗户，冲着亮光（别看天气闷热，她的窗子全都关着），有几秒钟背对他站着，完全不管他了。他解开大衣，从环扣上取下斧头，不过还没有完全拿出来，而只是用右手在衣服里面轻轻握着它。他的手非常虚弱；他自己感觉到，每一瞬间手都越来越麻木，越来越僵硬了。他担心会放开手，把斧头掉下去……突然他好像头晕起来。
“哼，他这是捆了件什么东西啊！”老太婆恼怒地喊了一声，朝他这边动了动。
再不能错过这一刹那的时间了。他把斧头完全拿了出来，双手抡起斧头，几乎不知不觉，几乎毫不费力，几乎不由自主地用斧背打到她的头上。这时他似乎根本没有力气。但是他刚一把斧头打下去，身上立刻有了力气。
和往常一样，老太婆头上没包头巾。她那稀疏、斑白、和往常一样厚厚搽了一层油的浅色头发，编成一条老鼠尾巴似的细辫子，盘在头上，后脑勺上翘着一把角质的破梳子。一斧下去，正打在她的头顶上，这也是因为她个子矮小，才使他正好击中了头顶。她叫喊了一声，但声音十分微弱，于是突然全身缩下去坐到了地板上，不过还是举起双手想保护自己的脑袋。她一只手里还在拿着那件“抵押品”。这时他使出浑身的力气又打了一下，两下，一直是用斧背，而且都打在头顶上。血恰似从翻倒的杯子里迸涌出来，身子仰面倒了下去。他往后退去，让她完全倒下，并立刻俯下身子，看看她的脸；她已经死了。她两只眼睛瞪得老大，眼珠仿佛想从眼眶里跳出来，由于抽搐，前额和脸都皱起来了，变得很难看。
他把斧头放到地板上、死者的旁边，立刻伸手去摸她的衣袋，竭力不让还在流淌的血沾到手上，——他摸的就是上次她从里面掏出钥匙来的右边的口袋。他头脑完全清醒，神智不清和头晕已经消失，不过手一直还在发抖。他后来回想起当时的情况，那时他甚至非常细心，十分谨慎，一直竭力不让身上沾上血迹……他立刻掏出钥匙；所有钥匙都像上次一样串作一串，串在一个小钢圈儿上。他立刻拿着钥匙跑进卧室。这是一间很小的房间，屋里有个供着圣像的、老大的神龛。另一边靠墙摆着一张大床，很干净，上面有一床棉被，被面是用零碎绸缎拼接起来的。第三面墙边放着一个抽屉柜。怪事：他刚把钥匙插到抽屉柜的锁孔上，刚刚听到钥匙的响声，突然感到全身一阵痉挛。他突然又想丢下一切，离开这里。但这仅仅是一瞬间的事；要走已经迟了。他甚至嘲笑自己了，突然又一个让人惊慌不安的想法使他吃了一惊。他突然好像觉得，老太婆大概还活着，还可能苏醒过来。他丢下钥匙和抽屉柜，跑回尸体那里，拿起斧头，又一次对准老太婆抡起斧子，但是没有打下去。毫无疑问，她已经死了。他弯下腰，又在近处仔细看了看她，他清清楚楚看到，颅骨给打碎了，甚至稍稍歪到了一边。他本想用手指摸一摸，但立刻把手缩了回来；就是不摸也看得出来。这时血已经流了一大摊。突然他发现，她脖子上有一根细线带，他拉了拉它，但线带很结实，拉不断，而且让血给弄湿了。他试着从她怀里把它拉出来，但不知有什么东西碍事，给挡住了。他急不可耐地又抡起斧头，本想从上边，就在这儿，在尸体上砍断那根细带，可是没敢这么做；他忙乱了两分钟光景，两手和斧头都沾上了鲜血，好不容易割断那根细带，没让斧头碰到尸体，把线带拉了出来；他没弄错——这是钱袋。线带上挂着两个十字架，一个是柏木做的，一个是铜的，除了十字架，还有一个小珐琅圣像；和这些东西一起，还挂着一个油渍斑斑、不大的麂皮钱袋，钱袋上还有个小钢圈儿和小圆环。钱袋装得满满的；拉斯科利尼科夫没有细看，就把它塞进了衣袋，两个十字架却丢到了老太婆的胸膛上，这一次还拿了斧头，然后跑回卧室。
他很着急，抓起那些钥匙，又忙乱起来。但是不知怎的总是不顺利：钥匙都插不进锁孔。倒不是因为他的手抖得那么厉害，但他总是弄错：例如，他明明看出，不是这把钥匙，插不进去，可还是往里插。他突然想起，也猜出，这把和其他几把小钥匙挂在一起的、带锯齿的大钥匙肯定不是开抽屉柜的（上次他就想到了），而是开一个什么小箱子的，或许所有财物都藏在这个小箱子里。他丢开抽屉柜，立刻爬到床底下，因为他知道，老太婆们通常都是把小箱子放在床底下的。果然不错：那里有个相当大的箱子，一俄尺多长，箱盖是拱形的，蒙着红色的精制山羊皮，上面还钉着些小钢钉。那把带锯齿的钥匙刚好合适，把箱子开开了。最上面是一条白被单，被单底下是一件兔皮小袄，上面蒙着红色的法国图尔绸；皮袄下面是一件绸连衫裙，再下面是一条披巾，再往底下好像都是些破破烂烂的旧衣服。他首先在那块红色法国图尔绸上擦净自己那双沾满血污的手。“这是红的，在红色的东西上，血看不大出来”，他这样考虑，可是突然醒悟过来：“上帝啊！
我疯了吗？”他惊恐地想。
但是他刚翻了翻这堆破旧衣服，突然从皮袄底下滑出一块金表来。他赶紧把这堆东西全都翻了一遍。真的，在那些破旧衣服里混杂着一些金首饰，——大概都是些抵押品，有会来赎回的，也有不会来赎的，——镯子，表链，耳环，佩针，还有些别的东西。有的装在小盒子里，另一些只不过用报纸包着，不过包得整整齐齐，看来十分珍惜，而且包了两层纸，还用带子捆着。他毫不迟延，立刻把这些东西塞满裤袋和大衣口袋，既不挑选，也没把那些小包和小盒子打开看看；东西这么多，他没来得及拿……
突然好像听到老太婆所在的那间屋里有人走动的声音。他住了手，像死人样一动不动。但是毫无动静，这么说，是他的幻觉。突然清清楚楚传来一声轻微的叫喊，或者似乎是有人轻轻地、断断续续地呻吟，随即又住了声。后来又是死一般的寂静，约摸有一两分钟寂静无声。他蹲在箱子旁边，等待着，大气也不敢出，但是突然跳起来，拿了斧头，跑出了卧室。
莉扎薇塔站在房屋中间，双手抱着个大包袱，呆呆地望着被人杀害的姐姐，脸色白得跟麻布一般，似乎连叫喊的力气都没有了。看到他跑出来，她像片树叶样浑身打战，轻轻颤抖，脸上一阵痉挛；她微微抬起一只手，张开了嘴，但还是没有叫喊，于是慢慢地后退着躲开他，退到墙角落里，两眼直愣愣地盯着他，可是一直没有叫喊，仿佛由于气不足，喊不出来。他拿着斧头向她扑了过去：她的嘴唇抽搐，扭歪了，样子那么悲哀，就像很小的小孩子叫什么给吓着了，直盯着让他们感到害怕的那个东西，想大声叫喊时一样。这个可怜的莉扎薇塔老实到了这种程度，甚至没有抬起手来护着自己的脸，虽说在这时候，这是最必须、也是最自然的动作，因为斧头正对准她的脸高高举了起来。她只是稍稍抬起空着的左手，不过离脸还很远，慢慢地向他伸过去，仿佛是要推开他。斧刃正劈到她的颅骨上，立刻把前额的上半部，几乎到头顶，都劈作两半。她一下子倒了下去。拉斯科利尼科夫完全惊慌失措了，拿起她的包袱，又把它扔掉，往前室跑去。
他越来越害怕了，尤其是在完全出乎意外地第二次杀人以后。他想快点儿逃离这儿。如果那时候他能较为正确地想象和思考；如果他哪怕还能考虑到自己处境的困难，考虑到他已毫无出路，考虑到他是多么不像话，多么荒唐，同时能够理解，要想从这儿逃走，逃回家去，他还得克服多少困难，甚至还得再干多少罪恶勾当，那么很有可能，他会扔掉一切，立刻前去自首，这甚至不是由于为自己感到害怕，而仅仅是由于对他所干的事感到恐怖和厌恶。他心中的厌恶情绪特别强烈，而且时刻都在增长。现在他无论如何也不会再到那个箱子跟前去，甚至再也不会进那两间房间了。
但是渐渐地他有点儿心不在焉了，甚至仿佛陷入沉思：有时他似乎忘却了一切，或者不如说，忘记了主要的事情，却牢牢记住了一些不足道的小事。不过他朝厨房里望了望，看到长凳子上放着个水桶，桶里有半桶水，于是想到，该洗净自己的手和斧子。他的双手都沾满了血，黏糊糊的。他把斧刃放进水里，拿起放在小窗台上破碟子里的一小块肥皂，就在桶里洗起手来。洗净了手，他把斧头也拿出来，洗净沾在铁上的血，然后花了好长时间，大约有三分钟的样子，洗净木头上沾上了血的地方，甚至试着用肥皂来洗掉上面的血迹。然后，就在那儿，拿晾在厨房里绳上的一件内衣把一切全都擦干，随后又在窗前把斧头细心地检查了一遍，检查了很久。没有留下痕迹，只不过斧柄还是潮的。他细心地把斧头套在大衣里面的环扣里。然后，在厨房里暗淡的光线下尽可能仔细检查了一下大衣、长裤和靴子。从外表看，第一眼看上去似乎什么也没有；只不过靴子上有几点污迹。他把一块抹布浸湿，擦净了靴子。不过他知道，他检查得不够仔细，说不定还有什么他没发现的、很显眼的痕迹。他站在房屋当中陷入沉思。他心中产生了一个痛苦的、模模糊糊的想法，——这想法就是：他疯了，在这个时候他已经既不能思考，也无力保护自己，而且也许根本就不应该做他现在所做的这一切……“我的天哪！应该逃跑，逃跑！”他喃喃地说，于是往前室跑去。但这儿却有一桩惊恐的事等待着他，这样惊恐的事，当然啦，他还从未经受过。
他站在那儿，看着，不相信自己的眼睛：外面的门，从前室通往楼梯的门，外面的房门，就是不久前他拉门铃、从那里进来的那道房门开着，甚至开了有整整一个手掌那么宽的一道缝：在整个这段时间里既没锁上，也没扣上门钩！老太婆在他进去以后没有把门锁上，可能是由于谨慎。可是天哪！后来他不是看到莉扎薇塔了吗！他怎么能，怎么能没想到，她总得从什么地方进来！总不会是穿墙进来的吧。
他冲到门前，把门扣上了。
“不过不对，又做错了！该走了，该走了……”
他开开门钩，打开房门，听听楼梯上有没有动静。
他留神听了好久。下边不知哪里，大概是大门口，有两个人的声音在高声刺耳地叫喊，争吵，对骂。“他们在干什么？……”他耐心等着。终于一下子静了下来，叫喊声突然停了；人也散了。他已经想要出去了，但是突然下面一层楼上，通楼梯的房门砰地一声开开了，有人哼着不知是什么曲调，往楼下走去。“他们干吗老是这么吵闹！”这想法在他头脑里忽然一闪。他又掩上房门，等着。终于一切都静下来，一个人也没有了。他已经往楼梯上迈了一步，突然又传来不知是什么人的、新出现的脚步声。
这脚步声是从很远的地方传来的，刚刚上楼，但是他记得清清楚楚，刚一听到响声，不知为什么他就怀疑，这一定是来这儿，到四楼来找老太婆的。为什么呢？是不是脚步声那么特别，那么值得注意呢？脚步声沉重，均匀，从容不迫。听，他已经走完第一层的楼梯，又在往上走；听得越来越清楚，越来越清楚了！可以听到上来的那个人很吃力的喘息声。听，已经上第三层了……往这儿来了！他突然觉得，他好像全身都僵硬了，这就跟在梦中一样，梦见有人追他，已经离得很近了，想要杀死他，可他仿佛在原地扎了根，连手都不能动弹了。
最后，当这个客人已经开始上四楼的时候，他这才突然打了个哆嗦，还是及时迅速、机警地从穿堂溜进屋里，随手关上了房门。然后抓起门钩，轻轻地、悄无声息地把它扣进铁环。本能帮助了他。扣上门以后，他立刻屏住呼吸，就躲在了房门后面。那个不速之客已经来到门前。现在他们两个是面对面站着，就像不久前他和老太婆隔着房门面对面站着一样，他在侧耳倾听。
客人很吃力地喘了好几口气。“这个人大概是个大胖子”，拉斯科利尼科夫想，手里紧握着斧头。真的，好像这一切都是在作梦。客人拉住门铃，用力拉了拉。
白铁门铃刚一响，他突然好像觉得，房间里有人在动。有几秒钟他甚至认直仔细听了听。陌生人又拉了一次门铃，又等了等，突然急不可耐地使出全身的力气猛拉房门上的把手。拉斯科利尼科夫惊恐地瞅着在铁环里跳动的门钩，隐隐怀着恐惧心情等待着，眼看门钩就要跳出来了。真的，这似乎是可能的：拉得那么猛。他本想用手按住门钩，可是那个人会猜到的。他的头好像又眩晕起来。“我这就要昏倒了！”这个想法在他脑子里突然一闪，可是阳生人说话了，于是他立刻惊醒过来。
“她们在里面干什么，是睡大觉呢，还是有人把她们掐死了！该死的！”他好像从大桶里吼叫。“嗳，阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜，老巫婆！莉扎薇塔•伊万诺芙娜，没法儿形容的美人儿！请开门！嘿，该死的，她们在睡觉，还是怎么的？”
他暴跳如雷，又使出最大的力气一连拉了十次门铃。不用说这是个对这家人颇有权势、跟她们关系亲密的人。
就在这时候，突然从楼梯上不远的地方传来一阵匆匆忙忙、然而是小步行走的脚步声。又有人走过来了。一开头拉斯科利尼科夫没有听清。
“莫非一个人也不在家？”那个走过来的人声音响亮而愉快地对第一个来访者喊道，后者一直还在拉铃。“您好哇，科赫！”
“听声音，大概是个很年轻的人”拉斯科利尼科夫突然想。
“鬼知道她们，门上的锁差点儿没弄断了，”科赫回答。
“可请问您是怎么认得我的？”
“啊，是这么回事！前天，在‘加姆布里乌斯’①我一连赢了您三盘台球。”
--------
①“加姆布里乌斯”——“加姆布里乌斯”啤酒公司在瓦西利耶夫斯基岛上开的啤酒馆。加姆布里乌斯是传说中佛来米的国王，据说啤酒是他发明的。
“啊——啊——啊……”
“这么说她们不在家吗？奇怪。不过，胡闹，真糟糕。老太婆能上哪儿去呢？我有事。”
“我也有事呀，老兄！”
“唉，怎么办呢？看来，只好回去了。唉——！我本想弄点儿钱呢，”年轻人大声嚷。
“当然只好回去，可是为什么约我来呢？老巫婆自己约我这个时候来的。要知道，我是绕了个弯儿特意赶来的。可是见鬼，我真不明白，她上哪儿闲逛去了？老巫婆一年到头坐在家里，有病，腿痛，可是这会儿却突然散步去了！”
“不去问问管院子的吗？”
“问什么？”
“她上哪儿去了，什么时候回来？”
“嗯哼……见鬼……问……可要知道，她哪儿也不去……”他又拉了拉门锁上的把手。“见鬼，毫无办法，走吧！”
“等等！”年轻人突然叫喊起来，“您瞧：看到了吗，拉门的时候，门动了动？”
“那又怎么呢？”
“可见门没上锁，而是销着，也就是用门钩扣着的！听到门钩响了吗？”
“那又怎么呢？”
“唉，您怎么还不明白？这就是说，她们两人当中总有人在家。要是她们都出去了，就会用钥匙从外面把门锁上，而不会从里面把门扣上。可现在，——您听到了，门钩在嗒嗒地响？要从里面把门扣上，得有人在家才行，明白了吗？可见她们在家，可就是不开门！”
“哦！真的！”感到惊讶的科赫高声叫嚷起来。“那么她们在里面干什么？”于是他又发疯似地拉起门来。
“等等！”那个年轻人又叫喊起来，“您别拉了！这有点儿不对头……您不是已经拉过铃，拉过门了吗——可她们就是不开；这么说，要么是她们俩都昏迷不醒，要么就是……”
“什么？”
“这么着吧：咱们去叫管院子的；让他来叫醒她们。”
“是个办法！”两人一起往楼下走去。
“等等！请您留在这儿，我跑下去叫管院子的。”
“干吗留下？”
“这有什么关系呢？……”
“好吧……”
“要知道，我打算当法院侦查员！显然，显—而—易—见，这有点儿不对头！”年轻人着急地叫嚷着，跑下去了。
科赫留了下来，又轻轻拉了拉门铃，铃噹地响了一声；随后他仿佛在反复思考，细心察看，轻轻转动门把手，往外一拉，然后放开，想再一次证实，门只是用门钩扣着。然后气喘吁吁地弯下腰，往锁孔里张望；可是钥匙从里面插在锁孔里，所以什么也看不见。
拉斯科利尼科夫站在门边，紧紧攥着斧头。他仿佛在发高烧。他甚至作好了准备，等他们一进来，就和他们搏斗。当他们敲门和商议的时候，有好几次他突然起了这样的念头：从门后对他们大声叫喊，一下子把一切全都结束。有时他想和他们对骂，戏弄他们，直到把门打开。“但愿快一点儿！”这个想法在他脑子里一闪而过。
“可是他，见鬼……”
时间在流逝，一分钟，又一分钟——一个人也没来。科赫动了动。
“可是见鬼！……”他突然喊了一声，不耐烦地离开了自己的岗位，也匆匆下楼去了，只听见靴子在楼梯上橐橐地响。
脚步声沉寂了。
“上帝啊，怎么办呢？”
拉斯科利尼科夫取下门钩，把门打开一条缝，什么声音也听不到，突然，他一点也不犹豫，走了出来，随手掩上房门，尽可能把它关紧一些，然后下楼去了。
他已经下了三道楼梯，下面突然传来一阵很厉害的喧闹声，——躲到哪儿去呢！无处可以藏身。他本已往回跑，想要回到房间里去。
“哎，妖怪，魔鬼！抓住他！”
有人高声叫嚷着，不知从哪套房子里冲出来，不是跑下去，而像是从楼梯上跌了下去，同时还扯着嗓子大喊：
“米季卡！米季卡！米季卡！米季卡！米季卡！叫鬼把你抓——了——去！”
喊声结束时变成了尖叫；最后的尾音已经是从院子里传来的了；一切复归于寂静。但就在这一瞬间，有好几个人急速地高声说着话，闹嚷嚷地上楼来了。一共有三、四个人。他听出了那个年轻人的声音。“是他们！”
他完全绝望了，一直迎着他们走去：豁出去了！他们拦住他，那就全完了；让他走，也完了：他们准会记住他。他们已经快要碰到一起了；在他们之间总共只剩了一道楼梯，——可是突然出现了救星！离他只有几级楼梯，右边有一套空房子，房门大敞四开，就是二楼上有一些工人在里面油漆房间的那套房子，可这会儿，就像老天帮忙似的，工人都出去了。大概刚才正是他们那样高声叫喊着跑了出去。地板刚刚漆过，房屋中间放着一个小桶和一个小罐，里面盛着油漆和一把刷子。转瞬间他就溜进敞着的门内，躲在墙后边，而且躲得正是时候：他们已经站在楼梯平台上了。接着他们拐弯往上走去，高声谈论着，从门前经过，上四楼去了。他等了一下，踮着脚尖走出房门，跑下楼去。
楼梯上一个人也没有！大门口也没有人。他急忙穿过门洞，往左一拐，来到了街上。
他十分清楚，清清楚楚地知道，这时他们已经在那套房子里了，看到房门没扣，他们感到十分惊讶，可房门刚刚还是扣着的，他们已经在看尸体了，而且不消多久就会猜到，而且完全明白，刚刚凶手就在这儿，他不知躲到哪里，从他们身边溜走，逃跑了；大概他们还会猜到，他们上楼的时候，他是躲在那套空房子里。然而无论如何他也不敢加快脚步，走得太快，尽管到第一个拐弯处已经只剩下百来步远了。“要不要溜进哪个门洞里，在那儿不熟悉的楼梯上等一会儿？不，真要命！是不是把斧头扔掉呢？要不要叫辆马车！糟糕，真糟糕！”
终于看到一条胡同；他半死不活地转弯进了胡同；这时他已经有一半得救了，他明白这一点：在这儿嫌疑会小一些，何况这里来来往往的人多得很，他会像一粒沙一样消失在人群之中。但是所有这些折磨已经使他疲惫不堪，他只是勉强还在行走。他汗如雨下；脖于全都湿了。“瞧，他喝醉了！”当他走到运河边的时候，有人冲着他喊了一声。
他现在有点儿精神恍惚，越往前走，越发控制不住自己。可是他记得，当他走到运河边的时候，突然吃了一惊，因为这儿人少，更容易惹人注意，于是想转回小胡同去。尽管他几乎要跌倒了，可还是绕了个弯，从完全不同的另一个方向走回家去。
他进自己住房的大门时，神智不十分清醒；至少到已经上了楼梯，这才想起那把斧头来。可还有一件非常重要的任务必须完成：把斧子放回去，而且要尽可能不被发觉。当然，他已经失去思考的能力了，也许他根本不把斧头放回原处，而是把它扔到别人家的院子里，哪怕是以后去这么做，也要比现在放回去好得多。
但一切都很顺利。管院子的人住的小屋门掩着，不过没有锁上，可见管院子的人大半在家，可是他已经失去思考的能力，所以连想也没想，就径直走近管院子的人的住房，推开了门。如果管院子的人问他：“有什么事？”说不定他会把斧子直接交给他。可是管院子的人又没在家，他立刻把斧子放回长凳底下原来的地方；甚至仍然用劈柴把它遮住。以后，直到他回到自己屋里，连一个人，连一个人影也没碰到；女房东的门关着。走进自己屋里，他立刻和衣倒到长沙发上，他没睡，但是处于一种昏昏沉沉的状态。如果当时有人走进他屋里未，他准会立刻跳起来，大声叫喊。一些杂乱无章的思想片断飞也似掠过他的脑海；但是他一点儿也弄不懂自己在想什么，甚至尽管想努力集中思想，却怎么也不能让思想停留在某一点上……
Part 2 Chapter 1
So he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at such moments he noticed that it was far into the night, but it did not occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was beginning to get light. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion. Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which he heard every night, indeed, under his window after two o'clock. They woke him up now.
"Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns," he thought, "it's past two o'clock," and at once he leaped up, as though someone had pulled him from the sofa.
"What! Past two o'clock!"
He sat down on the sofa--and instantly recollected everything! All at once, in one flash, he recollected everything.
For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came over him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that his teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and began listening--everything in the house was asleep. With amazement he gazed at himself and everything in the room around him, wondering how he could have come in the night before without fastening the door, and have flung himself on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near his pillow.
"If anyone had come in, what would he have thought? That I'm drunk but . . ."
He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and he began hurriedly looking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes; were there no traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began taking off everything and looking over again. He turned everything over to the last threads and rags, and mistrusting himself, went through his search three times.
But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where some thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge of his trousers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the frayed threads. There seemed to be nothing more.
Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken out of the old woman's box were still in his pockets! He had not thought till then of taking them out and hiding them! He had not even thought of them while he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he rushed to take them out and fling them on the table. When he had pulled out everything, and turned the pocket inside out to be sure there was nothing left, he carried the whole heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bottom of the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all the things into the hole under the paper: "They're in! All out of sight, and the purse too!" he thought gleefully, getting up and gazing blankly at the hole which bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror; "My God!" he whispered in despair: "what's the matter with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?"
He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place.
"But now, now, what am I glad of?" he thought, "Is that hiding things? My reason's deserting me--simply!"
He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair beside him his old student's winter coat, which was still warm though almost in rags, covered himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and delirium. He lost consciousness.
Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again.
"How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that! Such a piece of evidence!"
He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits among his linen under the pillow.
"Pieces of torn linen couldn't rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I think not, I think not, any way!" he repeated, standing in the middle of the room, and with painful concentration he fell to gazing about him again, at the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten anything. The conviction that all his faculties, even memory, and the simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to be an insufferable torture.
"Surely it isn't beginning already! Surely it isn't my punishment coming upon me? It is!"
The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them!
"What is the matter with me!" he cried again, like one distraught.
Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces . . . his reason was clouded. . . . Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the purse too. "Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my pocket!"
In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!--there were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!
"So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and memory, since I guessed it of myself," he thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief; "it's simply the weakness of fever, a moment's delirium," and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He flung off his boots; "traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with blood;" he must have unwarily stepped into that pool. . . . "But what am I to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?"
He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room.
"In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away," he repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, "and at once, this minute, without lingering . . ."
But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.
And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to "go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!" Several times he tried to rise from the sofa, but could not.
He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.
"Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!" shouted Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. "For whole days together he's snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It's past ten."
"Maybe he's not at home," said a man's voice.
"Ha! that's the porter's voice. . . . What does he want?"
He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a positive pain.
"Then who can have latched the door?" retorted Nastasya. "He's taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake up!"
"What do they want? Why the porter? All's discovered. Resist or open? Come what may! . . ."
He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.
His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.
Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded paper sealed with bottle-wax.
"A notice from the office," he announced, as he gave him the paper.
"From what office?"
"A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office."
"To the police? . . . What for? . . ."
"How can I tell? You're sent for, so you go."
The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to go away.
"He's downright ill!" observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a moment. "He's been in a fever since yesterday," she added.
Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without opening it. "Don't you get up then," Nastasya went on compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. "You're ill, and so don't go; there's no such hurry. What have you got there?"
He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so fallen asleep again.
"Look at the rags he's collected and sleeps with them, as though he has got hold of a treasure . . ."
And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.
Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that with a person who was going to be arrested. "But . . . the police?"
"You'd better have some tea! Yes? I'll bring it, there's some left."
"No . . . I'm going; I'll go at once," he muttered, getting on to his feet.
"Why, you'll never get downstairs!"
"Yes, I'll go."
"As you please."
She followed the porter out.
At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.
"There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed, thank God!" Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent.
"But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the police! And why just to-day?" he thought in agonising bewilderment. "Good God, only get it over soon!"
He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter --not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
He began, hurriedly dressing. "If I'm lost, I am lost, I don't care! Shall I put the sock on?" he suddenly wondered, "it will get dustier still and the traces will be gone."
But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he picked it up and put it on again--and again he laughed.
"That's all conventional, that's all relative, merely a way of looking at it," he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his mind, while he was shuddering all over, "there, I've got it on! I have finished by getting it on!"
But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.
"No, it's too much for me . . ." he thought. His legs shook. "From fear," he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. "It's a trick! They want to decoy me there and confound me over everything," he mused, as he went out on to the stairs--"the worst of it is I'm almost light-headed . . . I may blurt out something stupid . . ."
On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as they were in the hole in the wall, "and very likely, it's on purpose to search when I'm out," he thought, and stopped short. But he was possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. "Only to get it over!"
In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going round--as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the street on a bright sunny day.
When he reached the turning into /the/ street, in an agony of trepidation he looked down it . . . at /the/ house . . . and at once averted his eyes.
"If they question me, perhaps I'll simply tell," he thought, as he drew near the police-station.
The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with a book in his hand. "A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is here," and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask questions of anyone.
"I'll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything . . ." he thought, as he reached the fourth floor.
The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost the whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There, too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.
After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room. All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience drew him on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queer-looking set. He went up to one of them.
"What is it?"
He showed the notice he had received.
"You are a student?" the man asked, glancing at the notice.
"Yes, formerly a student."
The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye.
"There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no interest in anything," thought Raskolnikov.
"Go in there to the head clerk," said the clerk, pointing towards the furthest room.
He went into that room--the fourth in order; it was a small room and packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms. Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face, excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced at it, said: "Wait a minute," and went on attending to the lady in mourning.
He breathed more freely. "It can't be that!"
By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have courage and be calm.
"Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself! Hm . . . it's a pity there's no air here," he added, "it's stifling. . . . It makes one's head dizzier than ever . . . and one's mind too . . ."
He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing his self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it, something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess something from his face.
He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile face that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and foppish, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who was in the room, and said them fairly correctly.
"Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down," he said casually to the gaily- dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing as though not venturing to sit down, though there was a chair beside her.
"Ich danke," said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated about the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She smelt of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness.
The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of his shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and sat down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped from her seat on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to sit down again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He had a reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his face, and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except a certain insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of his humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a very long and direct look on him, so that he felt positively affronted.
"What do you want?" he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance.
"I was summoned . . . by a notice . . ." Raskolnikov faltered.
"For the recovery of money due, from /the student/," the head clerk interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. "Here!" and he flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. "Read that!"
"Money? What money?" thought Raskolnikov, "but . . . then . . . it's certainly not /that/."
And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A load was lifted from his back.
"And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?" shouted the assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and more aggrieved. "You are told to come at nine, and now it's twelve!"
"The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago," Raskolnikov answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. "And it's enough that I have come here ill with fever."
"Kindly refrain from shouting!"
"I'm not shouting, I'm speaking very quietly, it's you who are shouting at me. I'm a student, and allow no one to shout at me."
The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat.
"Be silent! You are in a government office. Don't be impudent, sir!"
"You're in a government office, too," cried Raskolnikov, "and you're smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to all of us."
He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.
The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant superintendent was obviously disconcerted.
"That's not your business!" he shouted at last with unnatural loudness. "Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don't pay your debts! You're a fine bird!"
But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second time, and still did not understand.
"What is this?" he asked the head clerk.
"It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not to leave the capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed against you according to the law."
"But I . . . am not in debt to anyone!"
"That's not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We therefore summon you, hereupon."
"But she is my landlady!"
"And what if she is your landlady?"
The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of compassion, and at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a novice under fire for the first time--as though he would say: "Well, how do you feel now?" But what did he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery! Was that worth worrying about now, was it worth attention even! He stood, he read, he listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but all mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger, that was what filled his whole soul that moment without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment something like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov's disrespect, still fuming and obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the unfortunate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in with an exceedingly silly smile.
"You shameful hussy!" he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The lady in mourning had left the office.) "What was going on at your house last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you're a scandal to the whole street. Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why, I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you . . . you . . . !"
The paper fell out of Raskolnikov's hands, and he looked wildly at the smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh . . . all his nerves were on edge.
"Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not be stopped except by force.
As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the storm. But, strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of abuse became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her word: and at last she found it.
"There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain," she pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently, though with a strong German accent, "and no sort of scandal, and his honour came drunk, and it's the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain, and I am not to blame. . . . Mine is an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles again, and then he lifted up one leg, and began playing the pianoforte with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honourable house, and he /ganz/ broke the piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said so. And he took up a bottle and began hitting everyone with it. And then I called the porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl and hit him in the eye; and he hit Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek. And it was so ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and I screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and stood in the window, squealing like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! Fie upon him! And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr. Captain, he tore /sein rock/. And then he shouted that /man muss/ pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five roubles for /sein rock/. And he is an ungentlemanly visitor and caused all the scandal. 'I will show you up,' he said, 'for I can write to all the papers about you.'"
"Then he was an author?"
"Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an honourable house. . . ."
"Now then! Enough! I have told you already . . ."
"Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk repeated significantly.
The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly shook his head.
". . . So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, and I tell it you for the last time," the assistant went on. "If there is a scandal in your honourable house once again, I will put you yourself in the lock-up, as it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an author took five roubles for his coat-tail in an 'honourable house'? A nice set, these authors!"
And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. "There was a scandal the other day in a restaurant, too. An author had eaten his dinner and would not pay; 'I'll write a satire on you,' says he. And there was another of them on a steamer last week used the most disgraceful language to the respectable family of a civil councillor, his wife and daughter. And there was one of them turned out of a confectioner's shop the other day. They are like that, authors, literary men, students, town-criers. . . . Pfoo! You get along! I shall look in upon you myself one day. Then you had better be careful! Do you hear?"
With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying in all directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at the door, she stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a fresh, open face and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the superintendent of the district himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste to curtsy almost to the ground, and with mincing little steps, she fluttered out of the office.
"Again thunder and lightning--a hurricane!" said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. "You are aroused again, you are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!"
"Well, what then!" Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly nonchalance; and he walked with some papers to another table, with a jaunty swing of his shoulders at each step. "Here, if you will kindly look: an author, or a student, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an I O U, won't clear out of his room, and complaints are constantly being lodged against him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest against my smoking in his presence! He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him, please. Here's the gentleman, and very attractive he is!"
"Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder, you can't bear a slight, I daresay you took offence at something and went too far yourself," continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov. "But you were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you, but explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no stopping him! And then it's all over! And at the bottom he's a heart of gold! His nickname in the regiment was the Explosive Lieutenant. . . ."
"And what a regiment it was, too," cried Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified at this agreeable banter, though still sulky.
Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally pleasant to them all. "Excuse me, Captain," he began easily, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomitch, "will you enter into my position? . . . I am ready to ask pardon, if I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student, sick and shattered (shattered was the word he used) by poverty. I am not studying, because I cannot keep myself now, but I shall get money. . . . I have a mother and sister in the province of X. They will send it to me, and I will pay. My landlady is a good- hearted woman, but she is so exasperated at my having lost my lessons, and not paying her for the last four months, that she does not even send up my dinner . . . and I don't understand this I O U at all. She is asking me to pay her on this I O U. How am I to pay her? Judge for yourselves! . . ."
"But that is not our business, you know," the head clerk was observing.
"Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain . . ." Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously oblivious of him. "Allow me to explain that I have been living with her for nearly three years and at first . . . at first . . . for why should I not confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it was a verbal promise, freely given . . . she was a girl . . . indeed, I liked her, though I was not in love with her . . . a youthful affair in fact . . . that is, I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those days, and I led a life of . . . I was very heedless . . ."
"Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we've no time to waste," Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph; but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it exceedingly difficult to speak.
"But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain . . . how it all happened . . . In my turn . . . though I agree with you . . . it is unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said to me . . . and in a friendly way . . . that she had complete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never, never--those were her own words--make use of that I O U till I could pay of myself . . . and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?"
"All these affecting details are no business of ours." Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. "You must give a written undertaking but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that."
"Come now . . . you are harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.
"Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
"Write what?" the latter asked, gruffly.
"I will dictate to you."
Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt completely indifferent to anyone's opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a little, he would have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where had those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter's triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German women, debts, police- offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something was happening to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could never more appeal to these people in the police-office with sentimental effusions like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not police-officers, it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation. And what was most agonising--it was more a sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the sensations he had known in his life.
The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that he would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on.
"But you can't write, you can hardly hold the pen," observed the head clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. "Are you ill?"
"Yes, I am giddy. Go on!"
"That's all. Sign it."
The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.
Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away, he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat to carry it out. "Hadn't I better think a minute?" flashed through his mind. "No, better cast off the burden without thinking." But all at once he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him:
"It's impossible, they'll both be released. To begin with, the whole story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked his way if he had been going with such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an hour at the silversmith's below, before he went up to the old woman and he left him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider . . ."
"But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state themselves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes later when they went up with the porter, it turned out the door was unfastened."
"That's just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in; and they'd have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the porter too. /He/ must have seized the interval to get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing himself and saying: 'If I had been there, he would have jumped out and killed me with his axe.' He is going to have a thanksgiving service--ha, ha!"
"And no one saw the murderer?"
"They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah's Ark," said the head clerk, who was listening.
"It's clear, quite clear," Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly.
"No, it is anything but clear," Ilya Petrovitch maintained.
Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not reach it. . . .
When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a chair, supported by someone on the right side, while someone else was standing on the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim Fomitch standing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from the chair.
"What's this? Are you ill?" Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply.
"He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing," said the head clerk, settling back in his place, and taking up his work again.
"Have you been ill long?" cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where he, too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at the sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.
"Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in reply.
"Did you go out yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Though you were ill?"
"Yes."
"At what time?"
"About seven."
"And where did you go, my I ask?"
"Along the street."
"Short and clear."
Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch's stare.
"He can scarcely stand upright. And you . . ." Nikodim Fomitch was beginning.
"No matter," Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly.
Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing at the head clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There was a sudden silence. It was strange.
"Very well, then," concluded Ilya Petrovitch, "we will not detain you."
Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely.
"A search--there will be a search at once," he repeated to himself, hurrying home. "The brutes! they suspect."
His former terror mastered him completely again.
 
他就这样躺了很久。有时他似乎醒了，于是发觉早已是夜里了，可是他根本不想起来。最后他发觉，天已经明亮起来。他仰面躺在沙发上，由于不久前昏迷不醒，这时还在呆呆地出神。一阵阵可怕而绝望的哀号从街上传到他的耳中，听起来十分刺耳，不过每天夜里两点多钟他都听到自己窗下有这样的号哭声。现在正是这号哭声吵醒了他。“啊！那些醉鬼已经从小酒馆里出来了，”他想，“两点多了，”想到这里，他突然一跃而起，仿佛有人把他从沙发上猛一下子拉了起来。
“怎么，已经两点多了！”他坐到沙发上，——这时他想起了一切！突然，霎时间一切都想起来了！
最初一瞬间，他想，他准会发疯。一阵可怕的寒颤传遍他的全身；不过寒颤是由于发烧，他还在睡着的时候，身上早就开始发烧了。现在突然一阵发冷，冷得牙齿捉对儿厮打，浑身猛烈地颤抖起来。他打开房门，听听外面有什么动静：整幢房子里全都完全进入梦乡。他惊奇地打量了一下自己，环顾屋内的一切，他不明白：昨天他进来以后怎么能不扣上门钩，不仅没脱衣服，竟连帽子也戴着，就倒到沙发上了呢？帽子掉了，滚到了枕头旁边的地板上。“如果有人进来过，他会怎么想呢？认为我喝醉了，不过……”他冲到窗前。天已经相当亮了，他赶快从头到脚，上上下下把自己身上的一切全都仔细检查了一遍，还仔细察看了大衣：有没有什么痕迹？不过这样看还不行：他打着寒颤，动手脱下所有衣服，又仔仔细细检查了一遍。他把衣服都翻过来，连一根线、一块布也不放过，但是还不相信自己，反复检查了三遍。可是什么都没发现，看来没留下任何痕迹；只是在裤腿角上磨破了的地方耷拉着的毛边上留有几块很浓的、已经凝结起来的干血。他拿起一把大折刀，把毛边割了下来。好像再没有什么了。突然他想起来了，他从老太婆身上和箱子里拿来的钱袋和那些东西，到现在还都分别装在他的几个口袋里！到现在他还没想到要把它们拿出来，藏起来！就连现在，他察看衣服的时候，竟还没有想到它们！这是怎么搞的？他立刻急急忙忙把它们掏出来，丢在桌子上。他把这些东西全都拿了出来，连口袋都翻过来看了看，看是不是还有什么留在里面，然后把这堆东西都拿到墙角落里。那个角落里，墙脚下有个地方从墙上脱落下来的墙纸给撕掉了，他立刻动手把这一切塞进那儿的一个窟窿里，塞到墙纸下面，“塞进去了！所有东西都看不见了，钱袋也藏起来了！” 他高兴地想，欠起身来，神情木然地望着那个角落，望着那个塞得凸起来的窟窿。突然他惊恐地全身颤栗了一下：“我的天哪，”他绝望地喃喃地说：“我怎么啦？难道这就叫藏起来了吗？难道是这样藏的吗？”
不错，他本不打算拿东西；他想只拿钱，因此没有事先准备好藏东西的地方，“不过现在，现在我有什么好高兴的呢？”他想，“难道是这样藏东西？我真是失去理智了！”他疲惫不堪地坐到长沙发上，立刻，一阵让人受不了的寒颤又使他浑身颤抖起来。他无意识地把放在旁边椅子上他上大学时穿的一件冬大衣拉了过来，大衣是暖和的，不过已经差不多全都破了，他把大衣盖在身上，睡梦立刻袭来，他又说起胡话来了。他昏昏沉沉地睡着了。
没过五分钟，他又一跃而起，立刻发狂似地又扑向自己那件夏季大衣。“我怎么能又睡着了，可是还什么都没做呢！真的，真的：腋下的那个环扣到现在还没拆下来呢！忘了，这样的事都忘了！这样一件罪证！”他把环扣扯下来，赶快把它撕碎，塞到枕头底下那堆内衣里。“撕碎的粗麻布片无论如何也不会引起怀疑；好像是这样，好像是这样！”他站在房屋中间一再重复说，并且集中注意力，又开始细心察看四周，察看地板，到处都仔细看看，看是不是还遗漏了什么东西，由于过分紧张，他感到十分痛苦。他深信自己丧失了一切能力，连记忆，连简单的思考能力都已丧失殆尽，这想法在折磨他，使他无法忍受。“怎么，莫非已经开始了，莫非惩罚已经到来了吗？就是的，就是的，就是如此！”真的，他从裤子上割下来的一条条毛边就这样乱扔在房屋中间的地板上，有人一进来就会看见！“唉，我这是怎么了？”他又高声叫嚷，好像六神无主，不知所措。
这时他脑子里出现了一个奇怪的想法：说不定他的所有衣服上都沾满了血，也许有许多血迹，只不过他没看见，没有发觉，因为他的思考力衰退了，思想不能集中……丧失了理智……他突然想起，钱袋上也有血迹。“哎呀！这么说，口袋里面想必也有血迹了，因为钱袋上的血还没干，我就把它塞进了口袋里！”他立刻把口袋翻过来，——果然不错——口袋的里子上血迹斑斑点点！“可见我还没有完全丧失理智，可见我还有思考力和记忆力，既然我自己忽然想了起来，想到了这一点！”他得意洋洋地想，高兴地深深呼了口气，“只不过是因为发烧，身体虚弱，瞬息间处于谵妄状态，”于是他把左面裤袋上的衬里全都撕了下来。这时阳光照到了他左脚的靴子上：从破靴了里露出的袜子上好像也有血迹。他甩掉靴子：“真的是血迹！袜子尖上全让血浸透了”；大概当时他不小心踩到了那摊血上……“不过现在该怎么办？这只袜子，那些毛边，还有口袋衬里，都藏到哪里去呢？”
他把这些东西归拢到一起，抓在手里，站在房屋中间。
“扔到炉子里吗？可是首先就会搜查炉子。烧掉吗？可是用什么来烧呢？连火柴都没有。不，最好是到什么地方去，把这些东西全都扔掉。“对了！最好扔掉！”他反复说，又坐到长沙发上，“而且马上就去，毫不迟延，立刻就走！……”可是非但没走，他的头却又倒到了枕头上；一阵难以忍受的寒颤又使他一动也不能动了；他又把那件大衣拉到自己身上。好长时间，一连好几个钟头，他好像一直还在隐隐约约、断断续续地想：“对，马上，毫不迟延，随便去哪里，把这些东西全都扔掉，别再看到它们，快，快点儿！”有好几次他试图挣扎着从沙发上起来，可是已经站不起来了。把他彻底惊醒的是一阵猛烈的敲门声。
“喂，开开呀，你还活着没有？他一直在睡！”娜斯塔西娅用拳头敲着门，大声叫喊，“整天整天地睡，像狗一样！就是条狗！开开呀，还是不开呢。都十点多了。”
“也许，不在家！”一个男人的声音说。
“啊！这是管院子的人的声音……他要干什么？”
他一跃而起，坐在沙发上。心跳得厉害，甚至觉得心痛。
“那门钩是谁扣上的？”娜斯塔西娅反驳说，“瞧，锁起来了呢！怎么，怕把他偷走吗？开门，聪明人，醒醒吧！”
“他们要干什么？管院子的干吗要来？一切都清楚了。是拒捕，还是开门？完了……”
他欠起身来，弯腰向前，拿掉门钩。
他这间小屋整个儿就只有这么大，不用从床上起来，就可以拿掉门钩。
果然不错：门口站着管院子的和娜斯塔西娅。
娜斯塔西娅有点儿奇怪地打量了他一下。他带着挑衅和绝望的神情朝管院子的瞅了一眼。管院子的默默地递给他一张用深绿色火漆封住的、对折着的灰纸。
“通知，办公室送来的，”他一面把那张纸递过去，一面说。
“什么办公室？……”
“就是说，叫你去警察局，去办公室。谁都知道，是什么办公室。”
“去警察局！……去干什么？……”
“我怎么知道呢。要你去，你就去。”他仔细看了看他，又往四下里望望，转身走了出去。
“你好像病得很厉害？”娜斯塔西娅目不转睛地瞅着他，说，有一瞬间，管院子的也回过头来。“从昨儿个起你就在发烧，”她加上一句。
他没回答，手里拿着那张纸，没有拆开它。
“那你就别起来了，”娜斯塔西娅可怜起他来，看到他从沙发上把脚伸下来，于是接下去说。“病了，就别去：又不急。
你手里拿的是什么？”
他一看：右手里拿着割下来的几条毛边，一只袜子，还有几块从口袋上撕下来的衬里。他就这样拿着它们睡着了。后来他想了一阵，想起来了，原来他发烧的时候半睡半醒，把这些东西紧紧攥在手里，就这样又睡着了。
“瞧，他弄来了些什么破烂儿，攥着它们睡觉，就好像攥着什么宝贝儿似的……”娜斯塔西娅病态地、神经质地大笑起来。他立刻把这些东西塞到大衣底下，并且拿眼睛死死地盯着她。虽然那时候他不大可能完全有条有理地进行思考，可是他感觉到，如果来逮捕他，是不会像这样对待他的。“可是……警察局？”
“喝茶吗？要，还是不要？我给你拿来；茶还有呢……”
“不要……我要出去：我这就出去，”他站起来，含糊不清地说。
“去吧，恐怕连楼梯都下不去呢？”
“我要出去……”
“随你的便。”
她跟在管院子的人后面走了。他立刻冲到亮处，仔细察看袜子和毛边：“有血迹，不过不十分明显；血迹都弄脏了，有些给蹭掉了，而且已经褪了色。事先不知道的人什么也看不出来。那么娜斯塔西娅从远处什么也不会发现，谢天谢地！”于是他心惊胆战地拆开通知书，看了起来；他看了很久，终于明白了。这是警察分局送来的一张普通通知书，叫他今天九点半到分局局长办公室去。
“什么时候有过这种事？就我本身而言，我和警察局从来不发生任何关系！而且为什么恰好是今天？”他痛苦地困惑不解地思索着。“上帝啊，但愿快点儿吧！”他本想跪下来祈祷，可是连他自己也笑了起来，——不是笑祈祷，而是笑自己。他急忙穿上衣服。“完蛋就完蛋吧，反正一样！把袜子也穿上！”他突然想，“踩在尘土里会弄得更脏，血迹就看不出来了”。但是他刚刚穿上，立刻又怀着厌恶和恐惧的心情猛一下子把它拉了下来。脱下来了，可是想到没有别的袜子，于是拿过来又穿上，—— 而且又大笑起来。“这一切都是有条件的，一切都是相对的，这一切都只不过是形式而已，”他匆匆地想，并没完全意识到自己在想什么，可是他浑身都在发抖， “瞧，这不是穿上了！结果是穿上了！”然而笑立刻变成了悲观绝望。
“不，我受不了……”他不由得想。他的腿在发抖。“由于恐惧，”他含糊不清地自言自语。由于发烧，头又痛又晕。“这是耍花招！这是他们想耍个花招引诱我，突然迫使我中他们的圈套”，他走到楼梯上，还在继续暗自思忖。“糟糕的是，我几乎是在呓语……我可能说漏嘴，说出些蠢话来……”
在楼梯上他想起，所有东西还都藏在墙纸后面的窟窿里，“大概是故意要等他不在家里的时候来这儿搜查，”想起这件事来，他站住了。但是悲观绝望和对死亡的犬儒主义态度——如果可以这样说的话——突然控制了他，因此他挥了挥手，又往前走去。
“不过但愿会快一点儿！……”
街上又热得让人无法忍受；这些天里哪怕能下一滴雨也好哇。又是灰尘，砖头，石灰，又是小铺里和小酒馆里冒出的臭气，又是随时都会碰到的醉鬼，芬兰小贩和几乎快散架的破旧出租马车。太阳明晃晃地照射到他的眼睛上，照得他头昏目眩，——一个正在发烧的人在阳光强烈的日子里突然来到街上，通常都会有这样的感觉。
走到昨天去过的那条街道的转弯处，他怀着痛苦而又十分担心的心情望了望它，望了望那幢房子……立刻就把目光挪开了。
“如果问我，说不定我就会说出来”，他走近办公室时，心里想。
办公室离他住的地方大约有四分之一俄里。办公室刚刚搬进这幢新房子、四楼上的一套新住房里。那套旧房子里，他曾经偶尔去过一下，不过那是很久以前了。走进大门，他看到右边有一道楼梯，有个好像庄稼汉模样的人，手拿户口簿，正从楼梯上下来：“这么说，是个管院子的；这么说，这儿就是办公室了”，他猜想是这样，于是就上楼了。他不想问人，什么也不想问。
“我进去，跪下，把什么都说出来……”走上四层楼时，他这样想。
楼梯又窄又陡，上面尽是污水。四层楼上所有住房的厨房都冲着这道楼梯大敞着门，几乎整天都这么敞着，因此极其闷热。腋下挟着户口簿的管院子的人、警察局里送信的信差、以及有事上警察局来的形形色色的男男女女，有的上来，有的下去。办公室的门也大敞着。他走了进去，在前室里站住了。有些庄稼汉模样的人都站在这儿等着。这里也闷热得让人无法忍受，除此而外，这些新油漆过的房间里，用带臭味的干性油调和的油漆还没完全干透，那股新油漆味直冲鼻子，让人感到恶心，稍等了一会儿，他考虑，还得再往前走，到前面一间屋里去。所有房间都又小又矮。强烈的急不可耐的心情促使他越来越往前走。谁也没注意他。第二间房间里有几个司书正在抄写，他们穿的衣服也许只比他的衣服稍好一点儿，看样子都是些古里古怪的人，他去找其中的一个。
“你有什么事？”
他把办公室送去的通知书拿给他看。
“您是大学生？”那人看了看通知书，问。
“是的，以前是大学生。”
司书把他打量了一下，不过毫无好奇的样子。这是个头发特别蓬乱的人，看他眼里的神情，好像他有个固定不变的想法。
“从这一个这儿什么也打听不出来，因为对他来说，什么全都一样，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。
“往那边去，找办事员去，”司书说，用手指往前指了指最后那间房间。
他走进这间屋子（按顺序是第四间），房间狭小，里面挤满了人，——这些人都比那些房间里的人穿得稍干净些。来访者中有两位女士。一个服丧，穿得差一些，坐在办事员对面，正在听他口授，写着什么。另一位太太很胖，脸色红得发紫，脸上还有些斑点，是个惹人注意的女人，她衣著十分华丽，胸前佩戴着茶碟那么大的一枚胸针，站在一旁等着。拉斯科利尼科夫把自己的通知书递给办事员。他匆匆看了一眼，说：“请等一等，”于是继续给那位穿孝服的太太口授。
他较为畅快地舒了口气。“大概不是那件事！”他精神渐渐振作起来，为不久前自己的那些胡思乱想感到惭愧，竭力鼓起勇气，镇定下来。
“只要说出一句蠢话，只要稍有点儿不小心，我就会出卖自己！嗯哼……可惜这儿空气不流通，”他又补上一句，“闷得慌……头晕得更厉害……神智也……”
他感到心烦意乱，思绪混乱极了。他担心不能控制自己。他竭力想用什么别的事来分散自己的注意力，随便想点儿什么旁的、完全不相干的事，但是他做不到。不过，那个办事员却引起他很大的兴趣：他总想根据办事员脸上的神情猜出什么来，弄清找他有什么事。这是个很年轻的人，二十一、二岁，生着一张黝黑的、机警善变的脸，看上去比他的实际年龄要大一些，衣著入时，像个绔绔子弟，头发在后脑勺上平分开，梳得整整齐齐，厚厚地搽了一层油，那些用刷子刷得干干净净的白皙的手指上戴着好几个戒指，有镶宝石的，也有不镶宝石的，坎肩上挂着金链。他甚至还和来这儿的一个外国人说了两句法语，说得还算过得去。
“露意扎•伊万诺芙娜，您坐下啊，”他对那个衣著华丽、脸色红得发紫的太太说，她一直站着，好像不敢自己坐下，尽管她身旁就有把椅子。
“Ich　danke①！”她说，于是轻轻地坐下了，身上的绸衣发出一阵窸窸窣窣的响声。她那件饰有白色花边的浅蓝色连衫裙，像个大气球样在椅子周围扩散开来，几乎占据了半间屋子。闻到了一股香水味。不过那位太太显然感到不好意思了，因为她占了半个房间，身上还散发出一阵阵浓郁的香水味，虽然她羞答答地、同时又涎皮赖脸地微笑着，可是明显地感到局促不安。
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①德语，谢谢。
那位服丧的太太终于办完手续，站了起来。突然，随着一阵橐橐的脚步声，雄赳赳地走进一个军官来，他走路的姿势很特别，不知怎的，每走一步，肩膀就扭动一下，进来后，他把缀有帽徽的制帽往桌子上一扔，随即坐到了扶手椅上。那位胖太太一看到他，立刻从座位上霍地站起身来，脸上带着特别高兴的神情向他行了个屈膝礼；但是军官一点儿也不注意她，她却已经不敢当着他的面再坐下去了。这是分局的副局长，两撇浅红褐色的小胡子平平地伸往左右两边，五官小得出奇，不过除了有点儿傲慢无礼，脸上并没什么特殊表情。他有点儿怒气冲冲地斜着眼睛瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫：他穿的那身衣服实在是太破太脏了，而且尽管他的样子让人瞧不起，他的神情气派却与他的衣著并不相称；拉斯科利尼科夫由于不够谨慎，竟毫不客气地直瞅着那个军官，而且瞅的时间太久了，后者甚至觉得受了侮辱。
“你有什么事？”他大喊一声，这样一个衣衫褴褛的人在他闪电似的目光下竟然不会惊慌失措，这使他感到惊讶。
“你们叫我来的……有通知书……”拉斯科利尼科夫很随便地回答。
“这是件追索欠款的案件，向这个大学生”，办事员放下手头的公文，慌忙说。“这就是的！”他把一本本子丢给拉斯科利尼科夫，把一个地方指给他看，“您看看吧！”
“欠款？什么欠款？”拉斯科利尼科夫想，“不过……看来大概不是那件事！”他由于喜悦而颤栗了。他突然感到心里说不出的轻松，轻松极了。真是如释重负。
“先生，通知是让您几点钟来？”中尉大声叫喊，不知为什么他越来越感到自己受了侮辱，“让您九点来，可现在已经十一点多了！”
“一刻钟前才把通知书交给我，”拉斯科利尼科夫扭过头来，高声回答，他也突然出乎自己意外地大发脾气，甚至对此感到有点儿满意。“而且我有病，发着烧就来了，这还不够吗！”
“请不要大声嚷嚷！”
“我并没大声嚷嚷，而是平心静气地说话，您却对我大喊大叫；可我是个大学生，不允许别人对我高声叫嚷。”
副局长气得暴跳如雷，最初一刹那甚至什么话也说不出来，从他嘴里只是飞出一些唾沫。他从座位上跳了起来。
“请您住——嘴！您是在政府机关里。不要出——出——
言不逊，先生！”
“您也是在政府机关里，”拉斯科利尼科夫高声大喊，“您不但大喊大叫，还在抽烟，可见您不尊重我们大家。”拉斯科利尼科夫说完这些，心里感到说不出来的快乐。
办事员面带微笑瞅着他们两个。性情暴躁的中尉显然无言以对。
“这不关您的事！”最后他高声叫嚷，声音高得有点儿不自然，“现在请提出向您要求的书面答复。让他看看，亚历山大•格里戈里耶维奇。有告您的状子！您不还钱！瞧，好一头雄鹰，好神气啊！”
但拉斯科利尼科夫已经不再听了，急忙一把拿过诉状，赶紧寻找谜底。他看了一遍，又一遍，还是没看懂。
“这是什么？”他问那个办事员。
“这是凭借据向您追索欠款。您必须或者付清全部欠款，连同诉讼费、逾期不还的罚款以及其他费用，或者提出书面答复，说明什么时候可以还清欠款，同时承担义务：在还清债务之前不离开首都，也不得变卖和隐藏自己的财产。债权人却可以变卖您的财产，并依法控告您。”
“可我……没欠任何人的钱啊！”
“这可不关我们的事了。我们收到一张逾期未还而且拒付的、一百十五卢布的借据，要求追索这笔欠款；这张借据是您于九个月前交给八等文官的太太、扎尔尼岑娜寡妇的，后来又从扎尔尼岑娜寡妇手里转让给了七等文官切巴罗夫，我们就是为了这件事请您来作答复的。”
“可她不就是我的女房东吗？”
“是女房东，那又怎么呢？”
办事员面带同情和宽容的微笑看着他，同时又有点儿洋洋得意的样子，仿佛是在看着一个涉世未深，刚刚经受锻炼的雏儿，问：“现在你自我感觉如何？”但是现在什么借据啦，什么追索欠款啦，这些与他有什么相干，关他什么事呢！现在这也值得担心，甚至值得注意吗！他站在那儿，在看，在听，在回答，甚至自己提出问题，但是做这一切都是无意识地。保全自己，获得了胜利，摆脱了千钧一发的危险而得救，——这就是他此时此刻的感受，他以全身心感觉到了这一胜利，既用不到有什么预见，也不必作什么分析，无须对未来进行猜测，也无须寻找什么谜底，不再怀疑什么，再没有任何问题。这是充满欢乐的时刻，这欢乐是直觉的，纯属动物本能的欢乐。但是就在这一瞬间，办公室里发生了一件犹如电闪雷鸣的事情。那个因为有人胆敢不尊敬他而感到震惊的中尉，余怒未消，气得面红耳赤，显然，他想维护自己受到伤害的尊严，竟对那个倒楣的 “胖太太”破口大骂，而她，从他一进来，就面带极其愚蠢的微笑，一直在瞅着他。
“你这个不三不四的下流货！”他突然扯着嗓子大喊大叫（那位穿孝服的太太已经出去了），“昨天夜里你那里出了什么事？啊？又是丢人的丑事，吵吵闹闹，都闹到大街上去了。又是打架，酗酒。想进感化院吗！我不是已经跟你说过，我不是已经警告过你十次了，第十一次我可决不宽恕！可你又，又，
Part 2 Chapter 2
"And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my room?"
But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have left all those things in the hole?
He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles in all: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardly looked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too, merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked like a decoration. . . . He put them all in the different pockets of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal them as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room, leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would be issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all traces before then. He must clear everything up while he still had some strength, some reasoning power left him. . . . Where was he to go?
That had long been settled: "Fling them into the canal, and all traces hidden in the water, the thing would be at an end." So he had decided in the night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more and looked several times at the steps running down to the water, but he could not think of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps' edge, and women were washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious for a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was, everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to do but to watch him. "Why is it, or can it be my fancy?" he thought.
At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva. There were not so many people there, he would be less observed, and it would be more convenient in every way, above all it was further off. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half- hour, worried and anxious in this dangerous past without thinking of it before. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply because he had thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent and forgetful and he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste.
He walked towards the Neva along V---- Prospect, but on the way another idea struck him. "Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the things in some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot perhaps?" And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. For coming out of V---- Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twenty paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of different sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the corner of a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage builder's or carpenter's shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone in the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as is often put in yards where there are many workmen or cab-drivers; and on the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk the time-honoured witticism, "Standing here strictly forbidden." This was all the better, for there would be nothing suspicious about his going in. "Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!"
Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big unhewn stone, weighing perhaps sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street. He could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but he could not be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there was need of haste.
He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands, and using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was a small hollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was in the same position again, though it stood a very little higher. But he scraped the earth about it and pressed it at the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed.
Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the police-office. "I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of looking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!" And he laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he reached the K---- Boulevard where two days before he had come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seat on which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it would be hateful, too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given the twenty copecks: "Damn him!"
He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that point--and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.
"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury. "If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is! . . . And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It is not that at all!"
Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.
"If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance into the purse and don't know what I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either . . . how's that?"
Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though it could not possibly be otherwise. . . . Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of it. . . . Yes, so it was.
"It is because I am very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I am doing. . . . Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself. . . . I shall get well and I shall not worry. . . . But what if I don't get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!"
He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him. . . .
He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. "Why, he lives here, in that house," he thought, "why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it's the same thing over again. . . . Very interesting to know, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day /after/; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now."
He went up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor.
The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.
"Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit down, you are tired, I'll be bound."
And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill.
"Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.
"Never mind," he said, "I have come for this: I have no lessons. . . . I wanted, . . . but I don't really want lessons. . . ."
"But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed, watching him carefully.
"No, I am not."
Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin's, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin's threshold.
"Good-bye," he said abruptly, and walked to the door.
"Stop, stop! You queer fish."
"I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
"Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is . . . almost insulting! I won't let you go like that."
"Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help . . . to begin . . . because you are kinder than anyone-- cleverer, I mean, and can judge . . . and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all . . . no one's services . . . no one's sympathy. I am by myself . . . alone. Come, that's enough. Leave me alone."
"Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don't care about that, but there's a bookseller, Heruvimov--and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He's doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text--in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, 'Is woman a human being?' And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I've had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of /Les Confessions/ we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don't contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of '/Is woman a human being?/' If you would, take the German and pens and paper--all those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don't think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it's bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it's sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?"
Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin's again and laying on the table the German article and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.
"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too . . . what did you come to see me for, damn you?"
"I don't want . . . translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.
"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.
"Hey, there! Where are you living?"
No answer.
"Well, confound you then!"
But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses' hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course.
"Serves him right!"
"A pickpocket I dare say."
"Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him."
"It's a regular profession, that's what it is."
But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
"Take it, my good man, in Christ's name."
He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.
He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him . . . so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all. . . . He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion. . . .
It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice--it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps--that's clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. "But why, why, and how could it be?" he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, "for no doubt . . . it's all about that . . . about yesterday. . . . Good God!" He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand . . . besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him. . . . But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses. . . . But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. "Can he have gone away? Good Lord!" Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning . . . and then her door slammed. . . . Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of them--almost all the inmates of the block. "But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!"
Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought--bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.
"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You've been trudging about all day, and you're shaking with fever."
"Nastasya . . . what were they beating the landlady for?"
She looked intently at him.
"Who beat the landlady?"
"Just now . . . half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs. . . . Why was he ill-treating her like that, and . . . why was he here?"
Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.
"Nastasya, why don't you speak?" he said timidly at last in a weak voice.
"It's the blood," she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself.
"Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall.
Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.
"Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice.
He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
"I heard it myself. . . . I was not asleep . . . I was sitting up," he said still more timidly. "I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent came. . . . Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats."
"No one has been here. That's the blood crying in your ears. When there's no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things. . . . Will you eat something?"
He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.
"Give me something to drink . . . Nastasya."
She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.
 
“要是已经搜查过了，那该如何是好？要是刚好在家里碰到他们去搜查，又该怎么办呢？”
不过，这就是他的房间。没发生任何事情，一个人也没有；谁也没来察看过。连娜斯塔西娅也没碰过他的东西。可是，上帝啊！不久前他怎么能把这些东西藏在这个窟窿里？
他赶紧跑到墙角落里，伸手到墙纸后面，把东西全掏出来，装到衣袋里。原来一共有八件：两个小盒子，装的是耳环或这一类的东西，——他没细看；还有四个精制山羊皮的小匣子。一条链子，就这么用报纸包着。还有个用报纸包着的东西，好像是勋章……
他把这些东西分别装在大衣口袋和裤子上仍然保留着的右边那个口袋里，尽可能装得不惹人注意。和那些东西一起，他也拿了那个钱袋。然后从屋里出去了，这一次甚至让房门完全敞着。
他走得很快，脚步坚定，虽然感觉到全身疲乏无力，但神智是清醒的。他担心有人追赶，担心再过半个钟头或一刻钟，大概就会发出监视他的指示；所以无论如何得在此以前消灭一切痕迹。趁多少还有点儿力气，还能思考的时候，得赶快把事情办完……去哪里呢？
这已经早就决定了：“把所有东西都扔到运河里，不留下任何痕迹，那么事情就全完了。”昨天夜里，还在梦呓中的时候，他就这样决定了，他记得，当时有好几次他竭力想要起来，跑出去：“快，赶快，把所有东西统统扔掉”。但要扔掉，原来是很困难的。
他在叶卡捷琳娜运河堤岸上徘徊了已经约摸半个钟头了，也许还不止半个钟头，有好几次他仔细看看所碰到的岸边斜坡。但是要实现自己的意图，却是连想也不要去想：要么是有木筏停靠在岸边，还有些女人在木筏上洗衣服，要么是停靠着一些小船，到处熙熙攘攘，人头攒动，而且从堤岸上，从四面八方，到处都可以看到，注意到：有一个人故意下去，站下来，把什么东西扔到水里，这是很可疑的。万一小匣子不沉下去，而在水面上漂流呢？当然是这样。人人都会看到。就是不扔东西，大家都已经这样瞅着他了，碰到的人都要仔细打量他，好像他们就只注意他一个人似的。“为什么会这样呢，还是，也许是我自己觉得如此吧，”他想。
最后，他忽然想到，去涅瓦河边是不是会好些呢？那里人少些，也不大惹人注意，无论如何比较合适，而主要是离这儿远一些。他突然觉得奇怪：他怎么能满腹忧虑，提心吊胆，在这危险的地方徘徊了整整半个钟头，而不能早点儿想出这个主意！为干一件冒冒失失的事浪费了整整半个钟头，这都是因为，这一轻率的决定是在梦中，在谵妄状态中作出的！他变得太心不在焉和健忘了，他知道这一点。毫无疑问，得赶快去！
他沿着B大街往涅瓦河走去；但是在路上突然又有一个想法进入他的脑海：“干吗要去涅瓦河？干吗要扔到水里？到一个很远很远的地方去，就是去群岛也可以，在那儿随便什么地方，找个偏僻的去处，在森林里，把这些东西都埋在一棵树底下，或者灌木丛下，而且记住这棵树，这样是不是更好呢？”虽然他感觉到，这时候他不能明确、合理地把一切都考虑得十分周到，但是他觉得这个想法准错不了。
但是命中注定他不会到达群岛，发生的却是另一回事：他从B大街走到广场，突然看到左首有一个院子的入口，院子四周的围墙上完全没有门窗。一进大门，毗邻一幢四层楼房的一道没有粉刷过、也没有门窗的墙壁，从右面一直延伸到院子里很远的地方。左面，也是一进大门，与那道没有门窗的围墙平行，还有一道板墙，深入院子约二十来步，然后又折往左边。这是一个荒凉、僻静、与外部隔绝的地方，里面堆着些不知是什么材料。再往里去，院子深处，板墙后露出一座熏黑了的、低矮难看的建筑物的一角，显然是个什么作坊的一部分。这儿大概是个什么作坊，制造马车的，或者是五金制品装配场，或者是什么其他这一类的作坊；到处，几乎从一进大门，到处都是大量黑煤灰。“哈，这真是个扔东西的好地方，扔下就走！”他不由得想。他发现院子里一个人也没有，于是走进大门，刚好看到，紧靠大门口，板墙边有一条斜沟（在有许多工厂工人、劳动组合的工匠、马车夫等的这种房子里，常常有这样的斜沟），斜沟上方，就在板墙上，用粉笔写着一句在这种场合常见的俏皮话：“次（此）处金（禁）止站立”①。所以，这真是妙极了，来这儿站一会儿，是不会引起任何怀疑的。“在这儿把所有东西随便扔到垃圾堆里，然后就走！”
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①这样的斜沟本是让人小便的，“此处禁止站立”的意思是“禁止小便”，所以说是一句“俏皮话”。
他又朝四下里看了看，已经把手伸进口袋里，突然在外面那道围墙旁边，大门和斜沟之间一俄尺宽的那块空地里，发现了一块没加工过的大石头，大约有一普特①半重，紧靠着临街的石墙。墙外就是大街，人行道，可以听到行人匆匆行走的脚步声，这里总是有不少行人；可是大门外谁也看不到他，除非有人从街上进来，不过这是很可能的，因此得赶快行动。
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①一普特等于一六•三八千克。
他弯下腰，双手紧紧抱住石头上端，使出全身力气把石头翻转过来。石头底下形成了一个不大的坑：他立刻掏出口袋里的东西，全都扔进这个坑里。钱袋丢在了最上边，而坑里还有空余的地方。然后他又抱住石头，只一滚，就把它滚回原来那个方向，刚好落到原处，只不过稍稍高出了一点儿。不过他扒了些泥土堆到石头边上，又用脚把边上踩实。什么也看不出来了。
于是他走出来，往广场上走去。有一瞬间他心中又充满了几乎无法抑制的强烈喜悦，就跟不久前在警察局里的情况一样。“罪证消失了！有谁，有谁会想到来搜查这块石头底下呢？也许从盖房子的时候起，这块石头就放在这儿了，而且还要在这儿放上许多年。即使被人找到：谁能想到我呢？一切都结束了！罪证没有了！”于是他笑了起来。是的，后来他记起，他笑了，这笑是神经质的，不是拖长声音的哈哈大笑，而是无声的笑，不过笑的时间很久，穿过广场的这段时间里他一直在笑。但是当他来到K林荫大道，就是前天遇到那个姑娘的地方，他的笑突然停止了。另外一些想法钻进了他的脑子。他突然觉得，现在他怕打那条长椅子旁边走过，那里让他十分反感，而那天，那个姑娘走了以后，他曾坐在那条长椅子上东想西想，想了好久，他也害怕再碰到那个小胡子，那会使他心情沉重，当时他曾把二十戈比交给了小胡子：“叫他见鬼去吧！”
他一边走，一边心不在焉地、气愤地望着四周。现在他的全部思想都围绕着一个主要问题旋转，——他自己也感觉到，这当真是个主要问题，而现在，正是现在，他正独自面对这一主要问题，——而且这甚至是这两个月来的第一次。
“让这一切都见鬼去吧！”愤恨如潮水般涌上心头，盛怒之下，他想。“好，开始了，那就开始吧，让它见鬼去，让新的生活见鬼去吧！上帝啊，这是多么愚蠢！……今天我说了多少谎，干了多少卑鄙的事情！不久前我曾多么卑鄙地讨好这个最可恶的伊利亚•彼特罗维奇，跟他一道演戏啊！不过，这也是胡说八道！我才瞧不起他们，瞧不起他们大家，也为我讨好他们和演戏感到可耻！完全不是这么回事！完全不是这么回事！……”
他突然站住了；一个完全出乎意外又异常简单的新问题一下子把他弄糊涂了，而且在痛苦地折磨他：
“如果做这一切当真是有意识的，而不是一时糊涂，如果你当真有明确和坚定不移的目的，那么为什么直到现在你连看都没看过那个钱袋，也不知道你弄到了多少钱，不知道你为了什么忍受这些痛苦，为了什么有意识地去干这样卑鄙、丑恶和下流的事情？不是吗，你想立刻把它，把钱袋，连同那些东西一起丢到水里，而你看也没看那是些什么……这是怎么回事呢？”
是的，是这样的；一切的确如此。不过，这些以前他也知道，对他来说，这完全不是什么新问题；昨天夜里决定把一切都扔到水里去的时候，他是毫不犹豫、毫不怀疑地作出决定的，仿佛这是理所当然，仿佛不可能不是这样……不错，这一切他都知道，这一切他都记得；而且几乎是昨天，他蹲在那个箱子旁边，从里面拖出一个个小匣子的时候，就在那个时候，这就已经决定了……
不是这样吗！……
“这是因为我病得很重，”最后他忧郁地断定，“我自寻苦恼，自己折磨自己，连自己也不知道在做什么……昨天，前天，所有这些时间里我一直在折磨自己……等我恢复健康……就不会再折磨自己了……可是我是完全不能恢复健康的了，怎么办？上帝啊！这一切让我多么厌烦了啊！……”他毫不停顿地走着。他很想设法分散一下注意力，但是他不知道该怎么办，该采取什么办法。一种无法克服的前所未有的感觉控制了他，而且这感觉几乎一分钟比一分钟强烈：这是对所遇到的一切、对周围一切事物极端厌恶的一种感觉，几乎是肉体上感觉得到的一种厌恶，而且这感觉是顽强的，充满了愤恨和憎恶。所有遇到的人，他都觉得是丑恶的，他们的脸，他们走路的姿势，一举一动，他都觉得可恶。他简直想往什么人的脸上啐口唾沫，似乎，如果有人跟他说话，不管是谁，他都会咬他一口……
当他走到小涅瓦河堤岸上的时候，他突然在瓦西利耶夫斯基岛一座桥旁站住了。“瞧，他就住在这儿，住在这所房子里，”他想。“这是怎么回事，我好像自己走到拉祖米欣这儿来了！又像那时候，那一次一样……不过这倒很有意思，是我主动来的呢，还是无意中走到了这里？反正一样；前天……我说过……等干完那件事以后，第二天再来，有什么呢，这不是来了！似乎我现在也不能去……”
他上五楼去找拉祖米欣。
拉祖米欣在家，在他那间小屋里，这时他正在工作，在写什么，亲自来给他开了门。他们有三个多月没见面了。拉祖米欣穿一件已经破烂不堪的睡衣，赤脚穿着便鞋，头发乱蓬蓬的，脸没刮过，也没洗过。他脸上流露出惊讶的神情。
“你怎么了？”他从头到脚细细打量进来的同学，叫喊起来；接着沉默了一会儿，吹了吹口哨。
“莫非情况这么糟吗？可你，老兄，论穿戴，往常你可是比我们大家都强啊，”他瞅着拉斯科利尼科夫那身褴褛的衣服，又加上一句。“你坐啊，大概累了吧！”当拉斯科利尼科夫躺倒在比他自己的沙发更差的漆布面土耳其式沙发上的时候，拉祖米欣突然看出，他的客人有病。
“您病得很严重，你知道吗？”他要摸他的脉搏；拉斯科利尼科夫把手挣开了。
“用不着……”他说，“我来……是这么回事：教书的工作，我已经没有了……我想要……不过，我根本不需要教课……”
“你知道吗？你在说胡话！”凝神细心观察他的拉祖米欣说。
“不，我不是说胡话……”拉斯科利尼科夫从沙发上站了起来。他上楼来找拉祖米欣的时候，并没想到必然要面对面地会见拉祖米欣。现在，已经是根据自己的经验，他刹时间想到，目前他最不愿面对面地会见世界上的任何人。他满腔怒火突然爆发。一跨进拉祖米欣家的门坎，由于痛恨自己，他气得几乎喘不过气来。
“再见！”他突然说，于是往门口走去。
“喂，你等一等，等一等，怪人！”
“用不着！……”拉斯科利尼科夫重复说，又把手挣开了。
“那么干吗要来！你发傻了，还是怎么的？……几乎让人感到难堪。这样我不放你走！”
“好，那么你听着：我来找你，是因为，除了你，我不认识旁的能帮助我的人……帮助我开始……因为你比他们大家的心肠都好，也就是说比他们聪明，能够全面地考虑……可现在我看到，我什么也不需要，你听到吗，完全不需要……任何人的帮助和同情……我自己……独自个儿……好，够了！别管我！”
“不过请稍等一等，扫烟囱的工人①！你完全是个疯子！我的意见是，你爱怎么着就怎么着。你要知道，我也不教书了，而且教书我也看不上。不过旧货市场上有个书商，姓赫鲁维莫夫，就某一方面来说，给他干，也等于教课。现在我可不愿放弃这个工作，去换取给五个富商当家庭教师的工作。他经营出版业，出版自然科学书籍，——很有销路！单是书名就很值钱！你总是说我傻，真的，老兄，还有比我更傻的呢！现在他也在赶浪头，迎合社会思潮；他自己是一点儿也不懂，我呢，当然鼓励他。这儿有两印张多德文原作，依我看，这是极其愚蠢的招摇撞骗的玩意儿：总而言之，讨论是不是该把女人看作人？当然啦，郑重其事地证明了，女人是人。赫鲁维莫夫打算出版这本关于妇女问题的著作；我正在翻译：他要把这两印张半排成六印张，加上半页印得十分豪华漂亮的书名，每本卖半个卢布。准能卖得出去！给我的稿酬是一印张六个卢布，所以一共可以拿到十五卢布，我已经预支了六个卢布。搞完这一本，我们还要着手译一部关于鲸的书，然后又要从《Confessions》②的第二部里摘译一些最无聊的废话；有人告诉赫鲁维莫夫，似乎就某方面来说，卢梭也就是拉季舍夫③一类的人物。我当然不反对了，管它呢！喂，你愿意译《女人是不是人》的第二印张吗？愿意的话，现在就把原文拿去，笔和纸也都拿去，——这都是免费供给的——再拿三个卢布去；因为我预支的是全部译稿，第一印张和第二印张的稿费，所以三个卢布是应该归你。你译完以后，还可以拿三个卢布。还有，请你别把这看作是我对你的帮助。恰恰相反，你一进来，我就在盘算，你能在哪方面给我帮个忙了。第一，我对正字法不太了解，第二，有时我的德文简直不行，因此，我哪里是翻译啊，多半是自己写作，可以聊以自慰的是，这样会更好些。唉，谁知道呢，说不定这样不是更好，而是更糟……你干不干？”
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①因为他穿得又破又脏，像个归烟囱的工人。
②《Confessions》（《忏悔录》）是法国作家卢梭（一七一二——一七七八）的自传性作品，于一八六五年译成俄文。
③阿•尼•拉季舍夫（一七四九——一八○二），俄罗斯作家，革命家，唯物主义哲学家。
拉斯科利尼科夫默默地拿了几页德文论文，拿了三个卢布，一句话也没说就走了出去。拉祖米欣惊讶地目送着他。拉斯科利尼科夫已经来到了第一条街道上了，却突然转身回去，又上楼去找拉祖米欣，把那儿页德文原著和三个卢布都放到桌子上，又是一言不发，转身就走。
“你是发酒疯，还是怎么了！”终于大发脾气的拉祖米欣高声叫喊起来。“你干吗要演滑稽戏！连我都让你给搞糊涂了……见鬼，你干吗回来？”
“翻译……我不需要……”拉斯科利尼科夫已经在下楼梯的时候，含糊不清地说。
“那么你需要什么呢？”拉祖米欣从楼上大声嚷。拉斯科利尼科夫继续默默地往下走。
“喂，你！你住在哪里？”
没有回答。
“哼，那么你见—鬼去吧！……”
可是拉斯科利尼科夫已经到了街上。在尼古拉耶夫斯基桥上，由于遇到一件对他来说极不愉快的事，他又一次完全清醒过来。一辆四轮马车上的车夫在他背上狠狠地抽了一鞭子，因为他险些儿没让马给踩死，虽然车夫对他叫喊了三、四次，可他根本就没听见。这一鞭子打得他冒起火来，赶快跳到了栏杆边（不知为什么他在桥当中走，而那里是车行道，人不能在那里走），气得把牙齿咬得喀喀地响。当然啦，周围爆发了一阵哄笑声。
“该打！”
“是个骗子。”
“当然是假装喝醉了，故意要往车轮底下钻；你却要对他负责。”
“他们就是干这一行的，老兄，你们就是干这一行的……”
但是就在这时，就在他站在栏杆边，一直还在茫然而又愤怒地目送着渐渐远去的四轮马车，揉着背部的时候，他突然感觉到，有人往他手里塞钱。他一看，原来是一个上了年纪的商人太太，包着头巾，穿一双山羊皮皮鞋，还有一个戴着帽子、打着绿伞的姑娘和她在一起，大概是她女儿。“看在耶稣份上，收下吧，先生。”他接过了钱，她们从一旁过去了。这是一枚二十戈比的钱币。看他的衣服和他的样子，她们很可能把他当成了乞丐，当成了经常在街上讨钱的叫化子，而他得到这二十戈比，大概是多亏了挨的那一鞭子，正是这一鞭子使她们产生了恻隐之心。
他把这二十戈比攥在手里，走了十来步，转过脸去对着涅瓦河，面对皇宫①那个方向。天空中没有一丝云影，河水几乎是蔚蓝的，在涅瓦河里，这是很少见的。大教堂的圆顶光彩四射，无论站在哪里看它，都不像从桥上离钟楼二十来步远的这儿看得这样清楚，透过纯净的空气，甚至可以清晰地看出圆顶上的种种装饰。鞭打的疼痛消失了，拉斯科利尼科夫忘记了挨打的事；一个令人不安、还不十分明确的想法吸引了他的全部注意力。他站在那儿，好长时间凝神远眺；这地方他特别熟悉。以前他去大学上课的时候，常常——多半是在回家的时候，——也许有百来次，他停下来，正是站在这个地方，凝神注视着这的确是辉煌壮丽的景色，而且几乎每次都为一种模模糊糊的、他无法解释的印象感到惊讶。这壮丽的景色仿佛寒气逼人，总是会使他有一种无法解释的凄凉感觉；对他来说，这华丽的画面寂静、荒凉，令人心情颓丧……每次他都对自己这种忧郁和难以解释的印象觉得奇怪，由于不相信自己能作出满意的解释，于是就把解开这不解之谜的任务推迟到未来。现在他突然清清楚楚想起了自己从前的这些问题和困惑，而且觉得，现在他想起这些来并不是偶然的。现在他恰好站在从前站着的那个地方，仿佛当真认为现在可以像从前一样思考那些同样的问题，对以前，……还完全是不久前感兴趣的那些论题和画面同样很感兴趣，单是这一点就让他感到奇怪和不可思议了。他甚至几乎觉得有点儿好笑，而同时又感到压抑，压得胸部都觉得疼痛。他好像觉得，这全部过去，这些以前的想法，以前的任务，以前的印象，还有这全部景色，以及他自己，一切、一切……全都在下面，在他脚下隐约可见的，一个很深很深的地方。似乎他已离地飞升，不知往什么地方飞去，一切都从他眼中消失了……他用手做了个不由自主的动作，突然感觉到了拳头里攥着的那枚二十戈比的硬币。他松开手，凝神看了看那枚钱币，一挥手把它扔进水里；然后转身回家。他觉得，这时他好像是用剪刀把他与一切人和一切事物都剪断了。
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①指冬宫。
他回到家里，已经是傍晚时分，这么说，他一共走了六个钟头。他是从哪里回来，又是怎样回来的，这些他什么也不记得。他脱掉衣服，像一匹给赶得筋疲力尽的马，浑身发抖，躺到沙发上，拉过大衣盖在身上，立刻昏昏沉沉进入梦乡……
天色已经完全昏暗的时候，他被一阵可怕的叫喊声惊醒了。天哪，这喊声多么吓人！这样的号哭和哀号，这样的咬牙切齿、眼泪、毒打和咒骂，这样一些极不正常的声音，他还从未听过，从未见过。他不能想象会有这样残暴的行为和这样的狂怒。他惊恐地欠起身来，坐到自己床上，一直呆呆地一动不动，痛苦万分。但打架、号哭和咒骂却越来越凶了。使他极为惊讶的是，他突然听出了女房东的声音。她哀号、尖叫，数数落落地边哭边嚷，匆忙而又急促地述说着，以致无法听清，女房东在哀求什么，——当然是哀求人家别再打她，因为有人正在楼梯上毫不留情地毒打她。由于愤恨和气得发狂，打人的人的声音听起来是那么可怕，已经只听到嘶哑的叫喊，不过打人的人还是在说什么，说得也很快，听不清楚，急急匆匆，上气不接下气。突然拉斯科利尼科夫像片树叶样簌簌发抖了：他听出了这个声音；这是伊利亚•彼特罗维奇的声音。伊利亚•彼特罗维奇在这里，而且在打女房东！他用脚踢她，把她的头用力往楼梯上撞，——这是很显然的，从响声，从哭声，从殴打的声音上都可以听得出来！这是怎么回事，天翻地覆了吗？可以听到，每层楼、每道楼梯上都挤满了人，听到人们的说话声，惊呼声，许多人上楼来，敲门，砰砰啪啪的开门关门声，大家都跑到一起来了。“可这是为什么，为什么……这怎么可能呢！”他反复说，并且认真地想，他准是完全疯了。可是，不，他听得太清楚了！……这么说，既然如此，他们马上就要到他这儿来了，“因为……没错儿，全是为了那桩事……由于昨天的……上帝啊！”他想扣上门钩，可是手抬不起来……再说，也没有用！恐惧像冰一样包围了他的心，使他痛苦异常，仿佛把他给冻僵了……不过，这阵持续了足有十来分钟的吵闹声终于渐渐平静下来了。女房东还在呻吟，还在哼，伊利亚•彼特罗维奇一直还在吓唬她，骂她……不过，好像他也终于安静下来了；喏，已经听不到声音了；“莫非他走了吗！上帝啊！”对，女房东也走了，她一直还在呻吟，还在哭……听，她的房门也砰地一声关上了……人群也散了，下楼回各人的房间里去了，——他们叹息着，争论着，互相呼唤着，有时提高声音，像是在叫喊，有时压低声音，好似窃窃私语。想必有很多人；几乎整幢房子里的人都跑来了。“不过，天哪，难道这是可能的吗！而且为什么，他为什么到这儿来呢！”
拉斯科利尼科夫浑身瘫软无力地倒到沙发上，可是已经不能合眼了；他十分痛苦地躺了约摸半个钟头，感到极端恐惧，简直无法忍受，这样的痛苦和恐惧，以前他还从未经受过。突然一道亮光照亮了他的小屋：娜斯塔西娅拿着蜡烛、端着一盘汤走了进来。她仔细看了看他，看清他没有睡觉，于是把蜡烛放到桌子上，把拿来的东西一一摆了出来：面包、盐、盘子、调羹。
“你大概从昨儿个就没吃东西了。在外面转悠了整整一天，人却在发烧。”
“娜斯塔西娅……为什么要打女房东啊？”
她留心瞅了瞅他。
“谁打女房东了？”
“刚才…………半个钟头以前，伊利亚•彼特罗维奇，警察分局的副局长，在楼梯上……他为什么这样毒打她？还有……他来干什么？……”
娜斯塔西娅一声不响，皱起眉头，细细打量着他，这样看了好久。这样细细打量他，使他感到很不愉快，甚至感到害怕。
“娜斯塔西娅，你为什么不说话？”最后，他声音微弱地、怯生生地说。
“这是血，”她终于轻轻地回答，仿佛自言自语。
“血！……什么血？……”他含糊不清地说，脸色煞白，并且往墙那边躲开一些。娜斯塔西娅继续默默地瞅着他。
“谁也没打女房东，”她又用严厉和坚定的声音说。他看着她，几乎喘不过气来。
“我亲耳听到的……我没睡，……我在坐着，”他更加忐忑不安地说。“我听了很久……副局长来了……大家都跑到楼梯上来了，从所有住房里……”
“谁也没来过。这是你身上的血在叫喊。血没处流的时候，就会凝成血块，于是就会好像看见什么，听见什么……你要吃点儿东西吗？”
他没回答。娜斯塔西娅一直站在他身边，凝神注视着他，没有走。
“给我点儿水喝……娜斯塔西尤什卡。”
她下去了，两分钟后，用一个带把的白瓷杯端了一杯水回来；他已经记不得以后的事了。他只记得，他喝了一口冷水，把杯里的水都洒到了胸膛上。以后就失去了知觉。
Part 2 Chapter 3
He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of /that/--of /that/ he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.
It happened at ten o'clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short- waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.
"Who is this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing to the young man.
"I say, he's himself again!" she said.
"He is himself," echoed the man.
Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
"Who . . . are you?" he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in.
"What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always knocking my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I've just heard the news from Pashenka."
"He has just come to," said Nastasya.
"Just come to," echoed the man again, with a smile.
"And who are you?" Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. "My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?"
"I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I've come on business."
"Please sit down." Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the table. "It's a good thing you've come to, brother," he went on to Raskolnikov. "For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious--something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it's nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I won't keep you," he said, addressing the man again. "Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it came before?"
"That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too."
"He was more intelligent than you, don't you think so?"
"Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am."
"Quite so; go on."
"At your mamma's request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you from our office," the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. "If you are in an intelligible condition, I've thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma's request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?"
"Yes, I remember . . . Vahrushin," Raskolnikov said dreamily.
"You hear, he knows Vahrushin," cried Razumihin. "He is in 'an intelligible condition'! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it's always pleasant to hear words of wisdom."
"That's the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come."
"That 'hoping for better to come' is the best thing you've said, though 'your mamma' is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?"
"That's all right. If only he can sign this little paper."
"He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?"
"Yes, here's the book."
"Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold you. Take the pen and scribble 'Raskolnikov' for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle."
"I don't want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
"Not want it?"
"I won't sign it."
"How the devil can you do without signing it?"
"I don't want . . . the money."
"Don't want the money! Come, brother, that's nonsense, I bear witness. Don't trouble, please, it's only that he is on his travels again. But that's pretty common with him at all times though. . . . You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here."
"But I can come another time."
"No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment. . . . Now, Rodya, don't keep your visitor, you see he is waiting," and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov's hand in earnest.
"Stop, I'll do it alone," said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.
The messenger took out the money and went away.
"Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?"
"Yes," answered Raskolnikov.
"Is there any soup?"
"Some of yesterday's," answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.
"With potatoes and rice in it?"
"Yes."
"I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea."
"Very well."
Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. "I believe I am not wandering. I believe it's reality," he thought.
In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
"It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them."
"Well, you are a cool hand," muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry out his orders.
Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov's head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.
Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
"And will you have tea?"
"Yes."
"Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!" He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days.
"I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now," he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, "and it's all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don't ask for it, but, of course, I don't object. And here's Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won't you have some beer?"
"Get along with your nonsense!"
"A cup of tea, then?"
"A cup of tea, maybe."
"Pour it out. Stay, I'll pour it out myself. Sit down."
He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man's head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend's recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it.
"Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some raspberry tea," said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.
"And where is she to get raspberries for you?" asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.
"She'll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov's house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov's house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov's, but Buch's. How one muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there."
"My name!"
"I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I was there. Well, it's a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs--all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house- porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows. . . ."
"He's got round her," Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
"Why don't you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?"
"You are a one!" Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. "I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna," she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth.
"I'll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so . . . prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?"
Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm.
"And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect," Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
"Ah, the sly dog!" Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her unspeakable delight.
"It's a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later. . . . How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive? . . . I know all about it! But I see that's a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first sight?"
"No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation.
"She isn't, is she?" cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of him. "But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you. . . . She must be forty; she says she is thirty- six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don't understand it! Well, that's all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young lady's death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she's been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay."
"It was base of me to say that. . . . My mother herself is almost a beggar . . . and I told a lie to keep my lodging . . . and be fed," Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
"Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, 'Is there any hope of realising the I O U?' Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage for his sake. That's what he was building upon. . . . Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy--it's not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend. . . . But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man 'listens and goes on eating' you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it."
Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross."
"Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?" Raskolnikov asked, after a moment's pause without turning his head.
"Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day."
"Zametov? The head clerk? What for?" Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
"What's the matter with you? . . . What are you upset about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you. . . . How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow, brother, first-rate . . . in his own way, of course. Now we are friends--see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I've been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice. . . . Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
"Did I say anything in delirium?"
"I should think so! You were beside yourself."
"What did I rave about?"
"What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about. . . . Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work." He got up from the table and took up his cap.
"What did I rave about?"
"How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don't worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, 'Give me my sock.' Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!"
"He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he's a deep one!" said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.
"Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and then they will come in and tell me that it's been discovered long ago and that they have only . . . What am I to do now? That's what I've forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered a minute ago."
He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled--but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it.
"Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police office? Where's the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now . . . now I have been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?" he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. "What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real. . . . Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes . . . but where? And where are my clothes? I've no boots. They've taken them away! They've hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat--they passed that over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here's the I O U . . . I'll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won't find me! . . . Yes, but the address bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape altogether . . . far away . . . to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I O U . . . it would be of use there. . . . What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don't know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there--policemen! What's this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!"
He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep.
He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something.
"Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!" Razumihin shouted down the stairs. "You shall have the account directly."
"What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
"Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it's almost evening, it will be six o'clock directly. You have slept more than six hours."
"Good heavens! Have I?"
"And why not? It will do you good. What's the hurry? A tryst, is it? We've all time before us. I've been waiting for the last three hours for you; I've been up twice and found you asleep. I've called on Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I've been out on my own business, too. You know I've been moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that's no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?"
"I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?"
"I tell you I've been waiting for the last three hours."
"No, before."
"How do you mean?"
"How long have you been coming here?"
"Why I told you all about it this morning. Don't you remember?"
Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
"Hm!" said the latter, "he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep. . . . You really look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy."
He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.
"Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we must make a man of you. Let's begin from the top. Do you see this cap?" he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap. "Let me try it on."
"Presently, afterwards," said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.
"Come, Rodya, my boy, don't oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan't sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just right!" he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, "just your size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but it's simply because he is ashamed of his bird's nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston"--he took from the corner Raskolnikov's old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston--"or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!" he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
"Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say," answered Nastasya.
"Twenty copecks, silly!" he cried, offended. "Why, nowadays you would cost more than that--eighty copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it's bought on condition that when's it's worn out, they will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches," and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. "No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it's softer, smoother. . . . You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don't insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it's the same with this purchase. It's summer now, so I've been buying summer things-- warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case . . . especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fedyaev's; if you've bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they'll last a couple of months, for it's foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week--he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price--a rouble and a half. A bargain?"
"But perhaps they won't fit," observed Nastasya.
"Not fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov's old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. "I did not go empty- handed--they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front. . . . Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit--together three roubles five copecks--a rouble and a half for the boots--for, you see, they are very good--and that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes--they were bought in the lo-- which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one's clothes from Sharmer's! As for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we've twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don't you worry. I tell you she'll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt."
"Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin's efforts to be playful about his purchases.
"Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging around for nothing," Razumihin insisted. "Nastasya, don't be bashful, but help me--that's it," and in spite of Raskolnikov's resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
"It will be long before I get rid of them," he thought. "What money was all that bought with?" he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
"Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?"
"I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.
The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in.
 
不过，并不是他生病的这段时间里，一直完全不省人事：他在发烧，说胡话，处于一种半昏迷的状态。以后他记起了许多事情。一会儿他好像觉得，有许多人聚集在他身边，他们想要逮住他，把他送到什么地方去，为他争论得很激烈，还争吵起来。一会儿突然只有他一个人在屋里，大家都走了，都怕他，只是偶尔稍稍打开房门看看他，威胁他，相互间不知在商量什么，他们还在笑，在逗他。他记得娜斯塔西娅经常在他身边；他还认出了一个人，好像是他很熟的一个熟人，可到底是谁，他却怎么也想不起来，为此他很苦恼，甚至哭了。有时他好像觉得，他已经躺了一个月的样子；有时又觉得，还是在那同一天里。但是那件事——那件事他却忘得干干净净；然而又时刻记得，他忘记了一件不能忘记的事，——他苦苦回忆，极其苦恼，痛苦不堪，呻吟，发狂，或者陷于无法忍受的极端恐惧之中。于是他竭力挣扎着起来，想要逃走，可总是有人制止他，强迫他躺下，他又陷入虚弱无力、昏迷不醒的状态。终于他完全清醒过来了。
这是在上午十点钟的时候。天气晴朗的日子里，上午这个时候总是有一道长长的阳光照射到他右边的墙上，照亮门边上的那个角落。娜斯塔西娅站在他床边，床边还有一个人，正在十分好奇地细细打量他，他根本不认识这个人。这是个年轻小伙子，穿一件束着腰带的长上衣，下巴底下留着小胡子，看样子像个送信的。女房东正从半开着的房门外往里张望。拉斯科利尼科夫欠起身来。
“这是什么人，娜斯塔西娅？”他指着那个小伙子问。
“瞧，他醒过来了！”她说。
“醒过来了，”送信的回答。从门外偷看的女房东猜到他清醒过来了，立刻掩上房门，躲了起来。她一向很腼腆，怕跟人说话和作解释；她有四十来岁，很胖，满身肥肉，黑眉毛，黑眼睛，由于肥胖和懒洋洋的，看上去似乎很善良；甚至长得还挺不错。却腼腆得有点儿过分。
“您……是什么人？”他对着那个送信的继续询问。但就在这时房门又大大敞开了，拉祖米欣因为个子高，稍稍低下头，走了进来。
“真像个船舱，”他进来时高声说，“总是碰到额头；这也叫住房呢！老兄，你醒过来了？刚听帕申卡说的。”
“刚醒过来，”娜斯塔西娅说。
“刚醒过来，”那个送信的面带微笑，附和说。
“请问您是谁？”拉祖米欣突然问他。“我姓弗拉祖米欣；不是像大家叫我的那样，不是拉祖米欣，而是弗拉祖米欣，大学生，贵族子弟，他是我的朋友。那么，您是哪一位？”
“我是我们办事处的信差，商人舍洛帕耶夫的办事处，来这儿有件事。”
“请坐在这把椅子上，”拉祖米欣自己坐到桌子另一边的另一把椅子上。“老兄，你醒过来了，这太好了，”接着他又对拉斯科利尼科夫说。“已经是第四天了，你几乎不吃也不喝。不错，拿小勺喂过你茶喝。我带佐西莫夫来看过你两次。你记得佐西莫夫吗？他给你仔细作了检查，立刻就说，不要紧，——可能是受了点儿刺激。有点儿神经错乱，伙食太差，他说，啤酒喝得太少，洋姜也吃得太少，于是就病了，不过没关系，会过去的，会好起来的。佐西莫夫真是好样的！开始给你治病了，而且医术高超。啊，那么我就不耽误您了，”他又对那个信差说，“能不能说说，您有什么事？你听我说，罗佳，他们办事处已经是第二次来人了；不过上次来的不是这一位，而是另一个人，我跟那人谈过。在您以前来的是谁啊？”
“大概这是前天吧。不错。这是阿列克谢•谢苗诺维奇；也是我们办事处的。”
“可他比您精明，您认为呢？”
“是的，他的确比我更懂业务。”
“很好；那么请您接着说下去。”
“阿凡纳西•伊万诺维奇•瓦赫鲁申，我想，这个人您听到过不止一次了，应令堂请求，通过我们办事处给您汇来了一笔钱，”那个信差直接对拉斯科利尼科夫说。“如果您已经清醒过来了——就要交给您三十五卢布，因为谢苗•谢苗诺维奇又接到了阿凡纳西•伊万诺维奇应令堂请求、按上次方式寄来的汇款通知。您知道这件事吗？”
“是的……我记得……瓦赫鲁申……”拉斯科利尼科夫若有所思地说。
“您听到了：他知道这个商人瓦赫鲁申！”拉祖米欣大声喊了起来。“怎么会不醒呢？不过，现在我发觉，您也是个精明能干的人。哈！聪明话听起来就是让人觉得愉快。”
“就是他，瓦赫鲁申，阿凡纳西•伊万诺维奇，有一次令堂也是通过他，已经用这种方式给您汇过一笔钱来，这次他也没有拒绝令堂的请求，日前他通知谢苗•谢苗诺维奇，给您汇来三十五卢布，希望会有助于您改善生活。”
“‘希望会有助于您改善生活’，您说得太好了；‘令堂’这个词用得也不错。好，那么怎么样呢，您看他是不是完全清醒了，啊？”
“我认为那倒没什么。不过得签个字。”
“他能签字！您带回单簿来了？”
“是回单簿，这就是。”
“拿过来吧。喂，罗佳，起来。我扶着你；给他签上个拉斯科利尼科夫，拿起笔来吧，因为，老兄，现在对我们来说，钱比糖浆还甜呢。”
“不用，”拉斯科利尼科夫把笔推开，说。
“不用什么？”
“我不签字。”
“唉，见鬼，怎么能不签字呢？”
“我用不着……钱……”
“钱会用不着！唉，老兄，你这是说谎，我就是见证人！请别担心，他这只不过是……又在说胡话。不过，他清醒的时候也常常这样……您是个通情达理的人，我们来教导他，也就是说，干脆抓住他的手，他就会签字了。来吧……”
“不过，我可以下次再来。”
“不，不；干吗麻烦您呢。您是个通情达理的人……喂，罗佳，别耽误客人的时间了……你看，人家在等着呢，”说者他当真要抓住拉斯科利尼科夫的手。
“放开，我自己签……”拉斯科利尼科夫说，拿起笔来，在回单簿上签了字。信差拿出钱来，就走了。
“好哇！老兄，现在想吃东西了吗？”
“想，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。
“你们这儿有汤？”
“昨儿个的，”这段时间里一直站在这儿的娜斯塔西娅回答。
“土豆加大米的？”
“是土豆大米汤。”
“我就知道是这种汤。端汤来，把茶也拿来。”
“我就拿来。”
拉斯科利尼科夫隐隐怀着一种说不出道理来的恐惧心理，非常惊奇地看着这一切。他决定默不作声，等着以后还会发生什么事。“好像我不是处于昏迷状态，”他想，“好像这都是真的……”
两分钟后，娜斯塔西娅端着汤回来了，还说，这就送茶来。和汤一起拿来了两把调羹，两个小碟子，还有整套调味瓶：盐瓶、胡椒瓶，还有吃牛肉时要加的芥末，等等，已经好久没有像这样把这些东西统统摆出来了。桌布是干净的。
“娜斯塔西尤什卡，要是让普拉斯科维娅•帕夫洛芙娜给送两瓶啤酒来，倒也不错。咱们喝它个痛快。”
“哼，你可真机灵！”娜斯塔西娅嘟嘟囔囔地说，于是照他吩咐的去办了。
拉斯科利尼科夫继续奇怪而紧张地注视着这一切。这时拉祖米欣坐到沙发上来，坐到他身边，像头熊样笨拙地用左手抱住他的头，——虽说他自己也可以欠起身来了——然后用右手把一调羹汤送到他嘴边，还先吹了好几次，以免烫着他。其实汤是温的。拉斯科利尼科夫贪婪地喝了一调羹，又一调羹，第三调羹。但是喂了几调羹以后，拉祖米欣突然停下来了，说是，能不能再吃，得跟佐西莫夫商量一下。
娜斯塔西娅拿着两瓶啤酒进来了。
“想喝茶吗？”
“想。”
“快把茶也拿来，娜斯塔西娅，因为，茶嘛，不用问医生，好像也可以喝。哈，啤酒也有了！”他又回到自己那把椅子上，把汤、牛肉都拉到自己面前，狼吞虎咽地吃了起来，看那样子真像三天没吃饭似的。
“罗佳老兄，现在我每天都在你们这儿像这样吃饭，”他嘴里塞满了牛肉，想尽可能说清楚些，可还是说得含糊不清，“而这全都是帕申卡，你的女房东请客，真心诚意地热情招待我。我当然没坚持让她这样做，不过也不提出异议。瞧，娜斯塔西娅送茶来了。真够麻利的！娜斯金卡，想喝啤酒吗？”
“真是个调皮鬼！”
“那么茶呢？”
“茶嘛，好吧。”
“你斟上。等等，我亲自给你斟；坐到桌边来吧。”
他立刻张罗起来，斟了一杯茶，然后又斟了一杯，放下早餐不吃了，又坐到沙发上。他仍然用左手抱着病人的头，扶起他来，用茶匙喂他喝茶，又不断地特别热心地吹茶，仿佛恢复健康的最主要、最有效的关键，就全在于吹茶这道程序了。拉斯科利尼科夫默不作声，也不反对人家这样做，尽管他感觉到自己有足够的力气欠起身来，不需要别人的任何帮助就可以坐在沙发上了，而且不仅能用手拿住茶匙或茶杯，也许连走路都不成问题。但是由于某种奇怪的、几乎是野兽所特有的那种狡猾心理，他忽然想要暂时隐瞒自己的力气，不让人看出来，如有必要，甚至想假装尚未完全清醒，留心听听，弄清这儿到底发生了什么事情？不过他无法控制自己的厌恶心情：喝了十来茶匙茶以后，他突然把头挣脱出来，任性地推开茶匙，又倒在枕头上。现在他头底下当真垫着几个真正的枕头套着干净枕套的绒毛枕头；这一点他也发觉了，注意到了。
“得让帕申卡今天给我们送点儿马林果酱来，给他做饮料，”拉祖米欣说着坐回自己的座位上，又喝起汤和啤酒来。
“她上哪儿给你弄马林果去？”娜斯塔西娅问，她正叉开五个手指托着茶碟，嘴里含着糖块喝茶。
“我的朋友，马林果，她可以到小铺里去买。你知道吗，罗佳，在你睡着的时候，这儿发生了多少事情。你以那样不讲信义的方式从我那儿溜之乎也，又不告诉我你的地址，我突然觉得那么恨你，决定要找到你，惩罚你。当天我就行动起来。我东奔西走，到处打听！现在你住的这个地方我忘了；其实我从来也没记住过，因为我根本不知道。至于你以前住的那个地方 ——我只记得是在五角场①附近，——哈尔拉莫夫②的房子。我找啊，找啊，寻找这幢哈尔拉莫夫的房子。后来才弄清，这幢房子根本不是哈尔拉莫夫的，而是布赫的，——有时就是会把读音搞错，而且错得这么厉害！我气坏了！一气之下，第二天我就到居民地址查询处去查问，反正豁出去了，你瞧，那里只花了两分钟就给我查到了你的住址。你的名字登记在那儿了。”
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①五角场是彼得堡的地名，有好几条街道在那里会合。
②哈尔拉莫夫是当时一个房主的真姓，他的房子在干草广场附近的马巷里。
“登记了！”
“那当然；可是我亲眼看到，有人在那里怎么也查不到科别列夫将军的住址。嗯，说起来话长着呢。我一来到这儿，立刻了解了你的一切情况；一切，老兄，一切，什么我都知道；喏，她也看到的：我认识了尼科季姆•福米奇，让我见到了伊利亚•彼特罗维奇，还认识了管院子的，扎苗托夫先生，亚历山大•格里戈里耶维奇，这儿警察分局的办事员，最后又认识了帕申卡，这已经是顶峰了；喏，这些她都知道……”
“你是在拍马屁呀，”娜斯塔西娅狡黠地笑着，含糊不清地说。
“您最好还是把糖放在茶里，娜斯塔西娅•尼基福罗娃。”
“哼，你呀，你这条狗！”娜斯塔西娅突然喊了一声，忍不住噗嗤一声笑了。“可我姓彼特罗娃，不姓尼基福罗娃，”等她笑完了，突然补上这么一句。
“以后咱准牢牢记住。嗯，那么，老兄，废话少说，起初我本想在这儿到处都通上电流，好一下子就根除这儿的一切偏见；可是帕申卡获得了胜利。老兄，我怎么也没想到，她是这么……阿文南特①……对吗？你认为呢？”
拉斯科利尼科夫一声不响，虽说连一分钟也没把自己惊恐的目光从他身上移开，现在也仍然在执拗地盯着他。
“甚至是非常迷人，”拉祖米欣接着说，一点儿也不因为朋友沉默不语而感到发窘，而且仿佛是在附和已经得到的回答，“甚至是完美无缺，在各方面都是如此。”
“哎哟，你这个坏蛋！”娜斯塔西娅又高声说，看来这场谈话使她得到了一种难以理解的快乐。
“糟糕的是，老兄，一开始你没能把事情处理好。对待她不应该这样。因为，这个人的性格可以说最让人摸不透！啊，不过性格嘛，可以留待以后再说……只不过，譬如说，你怎么会弄得她连饭都不供给你了呢？再譬如说，这张借据是怎么回事？你疯了，还是怎么的，怎么能在借据上签字呢！再譬如说这门拟议中的婚事，在她女儿，娜塔利娅•叶戈罗芙娜还活着的时候……我全都知道！不过我明白，这是一根十分微妙的弦②，我也知道自己是头笨驴；请你原谅我。不过也顺便谈谈愚蠢这个问题：你是怎么认为呢，老兄，普拉斯科维娅•帕夫洛芙娜可完全不像第一眼看上去所想象的那么愚蠢，不是吗？”
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①法文avenante的音译，“迷人”，“讨人喜欢”之意。
②意思是：这是个很微妙的问题。
“是的……”拉斯科利尼科夫望着一旁，从牙齿缝里含含糊糊挤出一句话来，不过他明白，让谈话继续下去更为有利。
“对吧？”拉祖米欣高声叫喊，看得出来，他得到了回答，这使他非常高兴，“不过也不聪明，不是吗？她的性格完全，完全让人摸不透！老兄，请你相信，我也有点儿摸不准……她无疑有四十岁了。她说——三十六岁，她完全有权这样说。不过，我向你起誓，我多半是从理性上，只是以形而上学的观点来对她作判断的；老兄，我们之间发生了这么一种象征性的关系，这就像代数一样。我什么也弄不明白！唉，这全都是胡扯，不过她看到你已经不是大学生了，教课的工作丢了，像样的衣服也没有了，她那位小姐一死，已经没有理由把你看作亲戚了，于是突然害怕起来；而从你自己这方面说呢，因为你躲到屋里，断绝了从前的一切联系，所以她就想把你撵出去。她心里早就有这个想法，可是又舍不得那张借据。何况你自己还肯定地说，妈妈会还给她……”
“我说这话是因为我太卑鄙无耻了……我母亲自己几乎要求人施舍……我却撒了谎，这是为了使她让我住在这里……供给我饭吃，”拉斯科利尼科夫高声说，而且说得清清楚楚。
“对，这你做得很有道理。不过全部问题在于，这时突然杀出个七等文官切巴罗夫先生来，这是个精明能干的人。没有他，帕申卡什么诡计也想不出来，她太腼腆了；而精明能干的人却厚颜无耻，首先他自然会提出这样一个问题：凭这张借据，有没有希望拿到钱？回答是：有，因为他有这样一个妈妈，即使她自己饿着，也会从她那一百二十五卢布①养老金里拿出钱来接济罗坚卡，而且他还有这样一个妹妹，为了哥哥，肯去作奴隶。他的阴谋诡计就建立在这一点上……你吃惊了？老兄，现在你的全部底细我都摸清了，帕申卡还把你看作亲戚的时候，你对她开诚布公，把什么都告诉了她，那些话可没白说，现在我跟你说这些，是因为我把你当作朋友……问题就在这里了：正直而爱动感情的人开诚布公，精明能干的人却边听边吃，然后统统吃掉②。这不是，现在她把这张借据让给了这个切巴罗夫，似乎是用来抵帐，而他却恬不知耻地正式向你讨债。我一了解到这些情况，为了免受良心责备，本想也出出气，可是这时候我和帕申卡之间达成了协议，我担保你一定还钱，要求从根本上了结这个案子。我为你担保，老兄，你听到吗？我们把切巴罗夫叫了来，塞给他十个卢布，收回了借据，喏，我很荣幸能把它交给你，——现在她相信你了——请拿去吧，我已经把它撕得粉碎了。”
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①前面说，是一百二十卢布。不过此处是拉祖米欣说的，可能他不知道确切的数目。因此不能断定是作者疏忽，前后不一致。
②这句话引自俄罗斯寓言作家克雷洛夫（一七六九——一八四四）的寓言《猫和厨子》。原文是：“瓦斯卡（猫）却边听，边吃”这里的意思是：说者无心，听者有心。
拉祖米欣把借据放到桌子上；拉斯科利尼科夫朝它看了一眼，一句话也没说，就转过脸去，面对着墙壁。就连拉祖米欣也对他感到厌恶了。
“老兄，”稍过了一会儿，他说，“看得出来，我又干了蠢事。我本想给你解解闷儿，闲扯几句，让你开开心，可好像只是惹得你生气。”
“我在昏迷不醒的时候没认出来的就是你吗？”也是在沉默了一会儿以后，拉斯科利尼科夫问，还是没有转过脸来。
“是我，你甚至为此气得发狂，特别是有一次我把扎苗托夫带了来的时候。”
“扎苗托夫？……那个办事员吗？……他来干什么？”拉斯科利尼科夫很快转过脸来，眼睛盯着拉祖米欣。
“你干吗这样……为什么惊慌不安？他想和您认识一下；因为我跟他谈了不少关于你的事，他才想认识你……不然我能从谁那儿了解到你这么多情况？老兄，他是个很不错的人，好极了……当然，只是就某一方面来说。现在我们是朋友了；几乎天天见面。因为我搬到这个地区来了。你还不知道吗？刚刚搬来。和他一起到拉维扎家去过两次。拉维扎你记得吗，“拉维扎•伊万诺芙娜？”
“我胡说过什么吗？”
“那还用说！神智不清嘛。”
“我都胡说了些什么？”
“吓！胡说了些什么？大家都知道会胡说些什么……喂，老兄，为了不浪费时间，还是行动起来吧。”
他从椅子上站起来，拿起制帽。
“我胡说了些什么？”
“唉，又问这个！是不是怕泄露什么秘密呢？别担心：关于公爵夫人，什么也没说过。可是说过什么叭儿狗，耳环，链子，克列斯托夫斯基岛，还有什么管院子的，还提到尼科季姆•福米奇，伊利亚•彼特罗维奇，那个副局长，说了很多这一类的话。对了，除了这些，对您自己的一只袜子，您甚至非常关心，关心得出奇！您抱怨说：给我呀，翻来覆去总是这句话。扎苗托夫亲自在各个角落里找你这双袜子，用他那在香水里洗过、戴着戒指的手把这脏东西交给您。这时您才放了心，整天整夜把这玩意儿攥在手里，夺也夺不过来。大概现在还放在你被子底下的什么地方呢。要不，就是要什么裤腿上的毛边，而且是苦苦哀求！我们问：要什么毛边？可是什么也弄不清……好啦，现在谈正经事！喏，这儿是三十五卢布；我从这里拿走十个卢布，两个钟头以后给你报帐。同时通知佐西莫夫，虽说不用通知他，他也早该到这儿来了，因为已经十一点多了。而您，娜斯金卡，我不在的时候，您要常来看看，看他是不是要吃点儿什么，或者想要什么旁的东西……帕申卡那里，我马上亲自去告诉她，需要她做什么。再见！”
“管她叫帕申卡呢！哼，你这个滑头！”他出去后，娜斯塔西娅对着他的背影说；然后打开房门，偷偷地听着，可是忍不住了，于是自己跑了下去。她很想知道，他在那里跟女房东说些什么；而且看得出来，她完全让拉祖米欣给迷住了。
房门刚在她身后关上，病人立刻掀掉身上的被子，像个疯子样从床上跳了起来。他心急如焚、焦躁不安、很不耐烦地等着他们快点儿出去，好在他们不在的时候立刻行动起来。不过做什么，做什么事情呢？——好像故意和他为难似的，现在他偏偏把这一点给忘了。“上帝啊！你只要告诉我一句话：一切他们都知道了，还是不知道？万一他们已经知道了，不过在我躺着的时候假装不知道，耍弄我，以后突然进来，说，一切大家早就知道了，他们只不过是……现在该怎么办？瞧，就像故意为难似的，忘了；突然忘了，刚刚我还记得的！
……”
他站在房屋中间，痛苦、困惑不解地环顾四周；走到门边，把门打开，侧耳倾听；但这不是他要做的事。突然，他仿佛想起了什么，冲到墙纸后有个窟窿的那个角落，仔细查看起来，把一只手伸进窟窿里摸索了一阵，可是这也不是他要做的事。他走到炉边，打开炉门，又在炉灰里摸了起来：裤腿上的几条毛边和几块撕碎了的口袋布，仍然像他把它们丢进去的时候一样丢在那里，这么说，没有人来检查过！这时他想起拉祖米欣刚刚讲的那只袜子来了。不错，它就放在沙发上，被子底下，不过从那以后已经穿得那么破，弄得那么脏，扎苗托夫当然什么也看不出来。
“噢，扎苗托夫……办公室！……为什么叫我到办公室去？通知书呢！啊！……我混淆起来了：是那时候叫我去！那时候我也仔细检查过这只袜子，而现在……现在我病了。不过扎苗托夫来干什么？拉祖米欣为什么要领他到这里来？……”他虚弱无力地嘟嘟囔囔地说，又坐到沙发上。“这是怎么回事？是我仍然昏迷不醒，还在呓语，还是这都是真的？好像是真的……啊，想起来了：逃跑！赶快逃跑，一定，一定得逃跑！对……不过逃到哪里去呢？我的衣服在哪里？靴子没有了！给拿走了！藏起来了！我明白！啊，这件大衣他们没注意，漏掉了！钱也放在桌子上，谢天谢地！啊，借据也在这儿……我拿了钱就走，另租一间房子，他们找不到的！——对了，不是有居民地址查询处吗？找得到的！拉祖米欣会找到的。最好一走了之……跑得远远的……到美国去，去他们的吧！把借据也拿着……以后会有用处。还要拿些什么呢？他们认为我在生病！他们不知道我能走路，嘿，嘿，嘿！……看他们的眼神我就猜到了，他们什么都知道！只要能跑下楼梯！要是他们那儿有警卫，有警察把守着呢！这是什么，是茶吧？瞧，还有剩下的啤酒，半瓶，冷的！”
他拿起酒瓶，里面还剩了整整一杯啤酒，于是十分高兴地一口气把它喝干，仿佛是用它来浇灭胸中的火焰。但是还不到一分钟，酒劲就冲到头上来了，背上感觉到一阵轻微的寒颤，这甚至使他觉得愉快。他躺下，拉过被子来，盖到身上。他那本来就已经是病态的和毫不连贯的思想，越来越混乱了，不久，轻松而又愉快的睡意袭来，完全控制了他。他舒适地把头枕到枕头上，把棉被裹得更紧一些——现在他盖的已经不是从前那件破制服大衣了，——然后轻轻叹了口气，就睡着了，睡得很熟，酣睡不醒，而这对他的健康是有益的。
他听到有人进来，于是醒了，睁开眼睛，看到了拉祖米欣，拉祖米欣把门大大敞开，站在门口，犹豫不决：不知是不是该进来？拉斯科利尼科夫很快在沙发上欠起身来，瞅着他，好像要努力想起什么来似的。
“啊，你没睡啊，瞧，我又来了！娜斯塔西娅，把包袱拿来！”拉祖米欣朝楼下喊了一声。“你这就会拿到帐单……”
“几点了？”拉斯科利尼科夫惊慌不安地朝四下里看看，问。
“太好了，老兄，睡了一觉：已经是晚上了，快六点了。
你睡了六个多钟头……”
“上帝啊！我这是怎么了！……”
“这有什么不好？对健康有好处！你急着要上哪儿去？去赴约会，是吗？现在时间都是我们的。我已经等了你三个钟头了；来过两次，你都在睡着。佐西莫夫那里，我去看过两趟：总是不在家！不过没关系，他会来的！……为我自己的事我也出去了一趟。今天我搬了家，完全搬走了，和舅舅一起。现在舅舅住在我那里……嘿，去它的吧，谈正经的！……娜斯金卡，把包袱拿到这儿来。我们这就……老兄，现在你觉得怎么样？”
“我身体健康；我没病……拉祖米欣，你来了很久了吗？”
“我说过，等了三个钟头了。”
“不，以前呢？”
“什么以前？”
“你是从什么时候起经常来这儿的？”
“我不是早就跟你讲过：你记不得了？”
拉斯科利尼科夫沉思起来。他如同在梦中一般，仿佛隐约看到了不久前发生的事情。他独自一人回忆不起来，于是疑问地望着拉祖米欣。
“嗯哼，”拉祖米欣说，“忘了！还在不久前我就觉得，你神智一直还不清醒……现在睡了一觉，清醒过来了……不错，看起来好得多了。好样的！好，谈正经的吧！你马上就会想起来的。你看这里，亲爱的朋友！”
他动手解开包袱，看来，他对这包袱异乎寻常地感兴趣。
“老兄，你相信不，这是我特别关心的。往后得把你弄得像个人样儿。这就动手吧：先从头上开始。你看到这顶便帽了吗？”说着，他从包袱里拿出一顶相当好、但同时又是极普通和很便宜的制帽。“请你试试看。”
“以后，等以后再试，”拉斯科利尼科夫不满地摆摆手，说。
“不，罗佳老兄，别拒绝了，以后可就迟了；再说，他不试，我会一宿都睡不着，因为没有尺寸，我是估量着买的。刚好！”试戴过以后，他洋洋得意地高声说，“大小正好合适！帽子，老兄，这是服装中一样最重要的东西，就好比是一封介绍信。托尔斯佳科夫，我的一个朋友，每次进入任何公共场所，都不得不摘下自己的帽子，而别人都戴着呢帽或制帽。大家都认为，这是由于他的奴性在作怪，可他却只不过是为他那顶鸟窝感到不好意思：他就是这么一个腼腆的人！喂，娜斯塔西娅，现在给您两顶帽子：您要这顶帕麦斯顿（他从墙角落里拿出拉斯科利尼科夫那顶已经很不像样的破圆帽，不知为什么把它叫作‘帕麦斯顿’）①，还是要这顶精致的帽子？罗佳，你给估估价，猜猜我花了多少钱？娜斯塔西尤什卡，你认为呢？”看到拉斯科利尼科夫不作声，他又对她说。
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①享利•帕麦斯顿（一七八四——一八六五），英国政治家，国务活动家，一八五五——一八六五任英国首相。
“恐怕花了二十戈比，”娜斯塔西娅回答。
“二十戈比，傻瓜！”他生气了，高声叫喊，“现在二十戈比就连买你都买不到，——八十戈比！而且这还是因为，是顶旧的。不错，还有个讲好的条件：这顶戴坏了，明年免费赠送一顶，真的！好，现在来看看美利坚合众国吧，我们中学里都管裤子叫合众国①。预先声明，这条裤子我可很得意呢！”说着，他在拉斯科利尼科夫面前抖开一条夏天穿的灰色薄呢料裤子，“没有破洞，没有污迹，虽然是旧的，可是挺不错，还有同样一件坎肩，同样的颜色，时兴这样。至于是旧的嘛，说实在的，这倒更好：比较软和，穿着更舒服些。你要知道，罗佳，在社会上要想出人头地，照我看，随时注意季节就足够了；如果一月份里你不吃芦笋，就能在钱袋里保存下几个卢布；这次买东西也是如此。现在是夏天，所以我就买夏装，因为到秋天反正需要暖和些的料子，那么就不得不把它扔掉了……何况到那时这些东西就都穿不得了，即使不是由于过分考究，也会因为它们本身不够结实而穿破了。喂，估估看！你看值多少？两卢布二十五戈比！而且你要记住，又是同样的条件：这条穿坏了，明年免费另拿一条！费佳耶夫的铺子里作生意就是如此：一次花钱，终生满意，所以你也就不会再去了。好，现在来看看靴子，——什么样的？看得出来，旧的，不过两个月也穿不破，因为是外国制造的，外国货：英国大使馆的一个秘书上星期在旧货市场上卖掉的；总共只穿了六天，他急需钱用。价钱是一卢布五十戈比。合算吧？”
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①英文States（合众国）与俄文URKVW（裤子）发音相近。
“可也许穿着不合适！”娜斯塔西娅说。
“不合适！可这是什么？”他从口袋里拖出拉斯科利尼科夫的一只旧靴子，靴子上粘满干泥，已经穿洞，而且都变硬了。“我是带着样子去的，就是照着这个怪物给我量出了精确的尺寸。办这件事可真是煞费苦心。至于内衣吗，我已经跟女房东谈妥了。第一，要三件粗麻布衬衫，领子要时髦的……嗯，那么：帽子八十戈比，其他衣服两卢布二十五戈比，一共是三卢布零五戈比；靴子是一卢布五十戈比，——因为是双很好的靴子，——一共是四卢布五十五戈比，还有五卢布是买内衣的， ——讲好了的，按批发价钱，——总共正好是九卢布五十五戈比。四十五戈比找头，都是五戈比的铜币，请收下吧，这样一来，罗佳，现在你全套衣服都置备齐了，因为，照我看，你这件夏季大衣不仅还可以穿，甚至式样还特别优雅：到底是在沙尔美①订做的！至于袜子和其余的东西，你自己去买好了；我们还剩下二十五卢布，而帕申卡和房
Part 2 Chapter 4
Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
"I've been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he's come to himself," cried Razumihin.
"I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?" said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.
"He is still depressed," Razumihin went on. "We've just changed his linen and he almost cried."
"That's very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it. . . . His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?"
"I am well, I am perfectly well!" Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.
"Very good. . . . Going on all right," he said lazily. "Has he eaten anything?"
They told him, and asked what he might have.
"He may have anything . . . soup, tea . . . mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he'd better not have meat either, and . . . but no need to tell you that!" Razumihin and he looked at each other. "No more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day even . . . but never mind . . ."
"To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk," said Razumihin. "We are going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal."
"I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don't know . . . a little, maybe . . . but we'll see."
"Ach, what a nuisance! I've got a house-warming party to-night; it's only a step from here. Couldn't he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are coming?" Razumihin said to Zossimov. "Don't forget, you promised."
"All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?"
"Oh, nothing--tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie . . . just our friends."
"And who?"
"All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too--he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five years."
"What is he?"
"He's been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-five--not worth talking about. . . . But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here . . . But you know him."
"Is he a relation of yours, too?"
"A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, won't you come then?"
"I don't care a damn for him."
"So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov."
"Do tell me, please, what you or he"--Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov-- "can have in common with this Zametov?"
"Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you won't venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that's the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person."
"Though he does take bribes."
"Well, he does! and what of it? I don't care if he does take bribes," Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. "I don't praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways--are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn't be worth a baked onion myself . . . perhaps with you thrown in."
"That's too little; I'd give two for you."
"And I wouldn't give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel him. You'll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You don't understand. You harm yourselves running another man down. . . . But if you want to know, we really have something in common."
"I should like to know what."
"Why, it's all about a house-painter. . . . We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there's nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam."
"A painter?"
"Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it . . ."
"Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it . . . partly . . . for one reason. . . . I read about it in the papers, too. . . ."
"Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening.
"Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
"Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too."
Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.
"But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nastasya's chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.
"Why, he was accused of the murder," Razumihin went on hotly.
"Was there evidence against him then?"
"Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that's what we have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it's all done, it makes one sick, though it's not one's business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night. . . . By the way, Rodya, you've heard about the business already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it."
Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.
"But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!" Zossimov observed.
"Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway," shouted Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table. "What's the most offensive is not their lying--one can always forgive lying--lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth--what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying. . . . I respect Porfiry, but . . . What threw them out at first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov were the murderers--that was their logic!"
"But don't excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help that. . . . And, by the way, I've met that man Koch. He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?"
"Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It's their sickening rotten, petrified routine. . . . And this case might be the means of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how to get on the track of the real man. 'We have facts,' they say. But facts are not everything--at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!"
"Can you interpret them, then?"
"Anyway, one can't hold one's tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if only. . . . Eh! Do you know the details of the case?"
"I am waiting to hear about the painter."
"Oh, yes! Well, here's the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov--though they accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff- an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller's case containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. 'The day before yesterday, just after eight o'clock'--mark the day and the hour!--'a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more.' I am telling you Dushkin's story. 'I gave him a note'--a rouble that is--'for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with another. It would all come to the same thing--he'd spend it on drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours, I'll take it to the police.' Of course, that's all taradiddle; he lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin's story. 'I've known this peasant, Nikolay Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same province and district of Zaraisk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, "Is Nikolay here?" Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn't see him again and is finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to anyone'--that's Dushkin's tale--'but I found out what I could about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o'clock this morning'-- that was the third day, you understand--'I saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk--he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. "Have you seen Dmitri?" said I. "No, I haven't," said he. "And you've not been here either?" "Not since the day before yesterday," said he. "And where did you sleep last night?" "In Peski, with the Kolomensky men." "And where did you get those ear-rings?" I asked. "I found them in the street," and the way he said it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. "Did you hear what happened that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?" said I. "No," said he, "I had not heard," and all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. "Wait a bit, Nikolay," said I, "won't you have a drink?" And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end--it was his doing, as clear as could be. . . .'"
"I should think so," said Zossimov.
"Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. 'So that's what you are up to!' 'Take me,' he says, 'to such-and-such a police officer; I'll confess everything.' Well, they took him to that police station-- that is here--with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, 'twenty-two,' and so on. At the question, 'When you were working with Dmitri, didn't you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?'--answer: 'To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.' 'And didn't you hear anything, any noise, and so on?' 'We heard nothing special.' 'And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?' 'I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.' 'And where did you find the ear-rings?' 'I found them on the pavement. "Why didn't you go to work with Dmitri the other day?' 'Because I was drinking.' 'And where were you drinking?' 'Oh, in such-and-such a place.' 'Why did you run away from Dushkin's?' 'Because I was awfully frightened.' 'What were you frightened of?' 'That I should be accused.' 'How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?' Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?"
"Well, anyway, there's the evidence."
"I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: 'I did not find it in the street, but in the flat where I was painting with Dmitri.' 'And how was that?' 'Why, Dmitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the porter and some gentlemen--and how many gentlemen were there I don't remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter's wife came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri's hair and knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the ear-rings. . . .'"
"Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?" Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.
"Yes . . . why? What's the matter? What's wrong?" Razumihin, too, got up from his seat.
"Nothing," Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were silent for a while.
"He must have waked from a dream," Razumihin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head.
"Well, go on," said Zossimov. "What next?"
"What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: 'I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.' 'And why didn't you come to the police till now?' 'I was frightened.' 'And why did you try to hang yourself?' 'From anxiety.' 'What anxiety?' 'That I should be accused of it.' Well, that's the whole story. And now what do you suppose they deduced from that?"
"Why, there's no supposing. There's a clue, such as it is, a fact. You wouldn't have your painter set free?"
"Now they've simply taken him for the murderer. They haven't a shadow of doubt."
"That's nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old woman's box have come into Nikolay's hands, they must have come there somehow. That's a good deal in such a case."
"How did they get there? How did they get there?" cried Razumihin. "How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature--how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don't you see at once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us--he stepped on the box and picked it up."
"The holy truth! But didn't he own himself that he told a lie at first?"
"Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter's lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they 'like children' (the very words of the witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They'd just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolled about like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that!"
"Of course it is strange! It's impossible, indeed, but . . ."
"No, brother, no /buts/. And if the ear-rings being found in Nikolay's hands at the very day and hour of the murder constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against him--although the explanation given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously against him--one must take into consideration the facts which prove him innocent, especially as they are facts that /cannot be denied/. And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact-- resting simply on a psychological impossibility--as irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won't accept it, they certainly won't, because they found the jewel-case and the man tried to hang himself, 'which he could not have done if he hadn't felt guilty.' That's the point, that's what excites me, you must understand!"
"Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is there that the box came from the old woman?"
"That's been proved," said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning. "Koch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that it was his."
"That's bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about that?"
"Nobody did see him," Razumihin answered with vexation. "That's the worst of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on their way upstairs, though, indeed, their evidence could not have been worth much. They said they saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going on in it, but they took no special notice and could not remember whether there actually were men at work in it."
"Hm! . . . So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating one another and laughing. That constitutes a strong presumption, but . . . How do you explain the facts yourself?"
"How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It's clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and the jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those ear- rings. The murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the murderer popped out and ran down, too; for he had no other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestryakov and the porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had just run out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others were going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing, and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was no one in the entry; possibly he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have dropped the ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and did not notice he dropped them, because he had other things to think of. The jewel-case is a conclusive proof that he did stand there. . . . That's how I explain it."
"Too clever! No, my boy, you're too clever. That beats everything."
"But, why, why?"
"Why, because everything fits too well . . . it's too melodramatic."
"A-ach!" Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and a personage came in who was a stranger to all present.
 
佐西莫夫是个高大、肥胖的人，脸有点儿浮肿，面色苍白，脸上刮得干干净净，淡黄色的头发是直的，戴着眼镜，一只胖得有点儿发肿的手指上戴着一枚老大的镶宝石戒指。他大约有二十六、七岁。穿一件十分考究、料子轻而薄的、宽松的大衣，一条夏季穿的浅色长裤，总而言之，他身上的衣服全都是宽大的，很考究，而且是崭新的；内衣也无可挑剔，表链又粗又重。他一举一动都是慢腾腾的，好像有点儿萎靡不振，同时又故意作出一副随随便便的样子；随时都流露出自命不凡的神情，不过他竭力想把自己的自负隐藏起来。所有认识他的人都认为他是个难以相处的人，可是都说，他业务不错。
“老兄，我到你那儿去过两趟……你瞧，他醒过来了！”拉祖米欣大声说。
“我看到了，看到了；喂，现在自我感觉怎么样，啊？”佐西莫夫对拉斯科利尼科夫说，同时凝神细细打量着他，坐到沙发上他的脚边，立刻就尽可能懒洋洋地靠在沙发上了。
“心情一直忧郁，”拉祖米欣接着说，“我们刚刚给他换了内衣，他差点儿没哭起来。”
“这是可以理解的；内衣可以以后再换嘛，既然他自己不愿意……脉搏很正常。头还有点儿痛，是吧？”
“我没有病，我身体完全健康！”拉斯科利尼科夫执拗而又气愤地说，突然在沙发上欠起身来，两眼炯炯发光，可是立刻又倒到枕头上，转过脸去对着墙壁。佐西莫夫凝神注视着他。
“很好……一切都很好，”他懒洋洋地说。“吃过点儿什么吗？”
告诉了他，又问，可以给他吃什么。
“什么都能给他吃……汤，茶……蘑菇和黄瓜当然不能让他吃，牛肉也不行……还有，……啊，干吗尽说些没意思的话呢！……”他和拉祖米欣互相使了个眼色。“药水不要喝了，什么都不要了；明天我再来看看……本来今天也行，……嗯，是的……”
“明天晚上我领他去散散步！”拉祖米欣决定，“去尤苏波夫花园，然后去‘水晶宫’①。”
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①一八六二年彼得堡开了一家叫“水晶宫”的大饭店。“水晶宫”这个名称在当时颇为时髦，这是因为伦敦有一座“水晶宫”——为第一次世界工业博览会（一八五一）而建造的一座玻璃大楼。
“明天我连动都不让他动，不过……稍微动动也可以……
嗯，到时候再说吧。”
“唉，真遗憾，今天我刚好要为迁入新居请客，只两步远；要是他也能去就好了。哪怕在我们中间在沙发上躺一会儿也好！你去吗？”拉祖米欣突然对佐西莫夫说，“当心，可别忘了，你答应了的。”
“也许要稍迟一些去。他那里准备了些什么？”
“唉，没弄什么，茶，伏特加，鲱鱼。还有馅饼：来的都是自己人。”
“都是哪些人？”
“都是这儿的人，而且都是新人，真的，——也许只除了老舅舅，不过连他也是新人：昨天刚到彼得堡，不知来办什么事；我和他五年见一次面。”
“他是做什么的？”
“在县里当个邮政局长，就这样混了一辈子……领退休金了，六十五岁，没什么好说的……不过，我爱他。波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇要来：这个区里侦查科的科长……法学院的毕业生。对了，你认识他……”
“他也是你的什么亲戚？”
“最远的远亲；你干吗皱眉？怎么，你们吵过一次架，所以，大概你就不来了，是吗？”
“我才瞧不起他呢……”
“这样最好。嗯，那儿还有几个大学生，一个教师，一个小官，一个乐师，一个军官，扎苗托夫……”
“请你告诉我，你，或者他，”佐西莫夫朝拉斯科利尼科夫那边点了点头，“跟扎苗托夫能有什么共同之处呢？”
“唉，这些唠唠叨叨的人啊！原则……你太讲原则了，立足于原则，就会失去行动自由，这也就像站在弹簧上一样，都不敢随心所欲地动一动；可照我看，人好，——这就是原则，我什么也不想知道。扎苗托夫是个十分出色的人。”
“发不义之财。”
“哼，发不义之财，我才不在乎呢！发不义之财又怎样！”拉祖米欣突然大声叫喊，有点儿不自然地发起脾气来，“难道我向你称赞他发不义之财了吗？我说，只是从某一点来看，他是个好人！要是从各方面去看，还会剩下多少好人？我深信，那样的话，我这个人怕只值一个烤洋葱头，而且还要把你也搭上……”
“这太少了；我会给两个的……”
“可你嘛，我只给一个！再说点儿俏皮话吧！扎苗托夫还是个小孩子，我还会像对待小孩子那样揪他的头发呢，应当把他拉过来，而不是推开他。把一个人推开，这样你就不能改造他了，对一个小孩子来说，更是如此。对待小孩子需要加倍小心。唉，你们这些进步的笨蛋哪，什么都不懂！不尊重别人，也就是侮辱自己……如果你想知道的话，那么我们之间大概也有件共同的事情。”
“很想知道。”
“都是为了漆匠，也就是油漆工的那件案子……我们一定会把他救出来！其实现在也没什么大不了的了。现在案情已经毫无疑问，十分明显了！我们只不过是再加把劲而已。”
“什么油漆工啊！”
“怎么，难道我没讲过吗？没讲过？哦，想起来了，我只跟你说过一开始的情况……喏，就是杀死放高利贷的老太婆，杀死那个官太太的凶杀案……现在有个油漆工也牵连进去了……”
“关于这件凶杀案，你告诉我以前，我就听说了，而且对这件案子甚至还很感兴趣……这多多少少是因为……有一次碰巧……在报纸上也看到过！这……”
“莉扎薇塔也给杀死了！”娜斯塔西娅冷不丁突然对拉斯科利尼科夫说。他一直待在屋里，紧靠在门边，听着。
“莉扎薇塔？”拉斯科利尼科夫用勉强可以听到的声音喃喃地说。
“莉扎薇塔，那个女小贩，你不认识吗？她常到这儿楼下来。还给你补过衬衣呢。”
拉斯科利尼科夫转过脸去，面对着墙壁，在已经很脏、印着小白花的黄色墙纸上挑了一朵上面有褐色条纹、而且很难看的小白花，仔细观察起来：这朵花上有几片花瓣，花瓣上的锯齿是什么样的，上面有几条条纹？他感觉到，他的手脚都麻木了，好像已经瘫痪了，可是他并不试着动一动，仍然执拗地盯着那朵小花。
“那个油漆工怎么样了？”佐西莫夫极为不满地打断了娜斯塔西娅的话。她叹了口气，不作声了。
“也被当作凶手了！”拉祖米欣激动地接着说。
“有什么罪证吗？”
“有什么罪证啊？不过，正是因为有罪证，可这罪证不能算是证据，需要证明的就正是这一点！这完全跟一开始他们逮捕和怀疑这两个，啊！想起来了……科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫一模一样。呸，这一切做得多么愚蠢，就连从旁观者的观点来看，也觉得太恶劣了！佩斯特里亚科夫也许今天会来我家……顺带说一声，罗佳，这件案子你是知道的，还在你病倒以前就发生了，正好是你在警察局里昏倒的头一天，当时那里正在谈论这个案子……”
佐西莫夫好奇地瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫；后者一动不动。
“你知道吗，拉祖米欣？我倒要瞧瞧，你这个爱打抱不平的人到底有多大神通，”佐西莫夫说。
“就算是吧，不过我们还是一定要把他救出来！”拉祖米欣用拳头捶了一下桌子，大声叫嚷。“你知道这儿最气人的是什么吗？气人的倒不是他们撒谎；撒谎总是可以宽恕的；撒谎不是坏事，因为谎言会导致真理。不，气人的是他们说谎，还对自己的谎言顶礼膜拜。我尊敬波尔菲里，不过……譬如说吧，一开始是什么把他们搞糊涂了呢？房门本来是扣着的，可是和管院子的一道回来——却是开着的：可见杀人的就是科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫！瞧，这就是他们的逻辑。”
“你别急呀；只不过是拘留了他们；可不能……顺便说一声：我遇到过这个科赫；原来他向老太婆收购过逾期的抵押品？是吗？”
“对，是个骗子！他也收购票据。是个投机商人。叫他见鬼去吧！可我为什么生气呢，你明白吗？惹我生气的是他们陈腐，庸俗，一成不变，因循守旧……而这里，单从这一个案件里就可以发现一条全新的途径。单是根据心理上的材料就可以看出，应该怎样做才能发现真正的蛛丝马迹。‘我们，’他们说，‘有事实！’可事实并不是一切；至少有一半要看你是不是会分析这些事实！”
“你会分析这些事实吗？”
“不是吗，当你感觉到，凭直觉感觉到，你能为这个案子提供一些帮助的时候，是不能保持沉默的，假如……唉！你了解这个案子的详情细节吗？”
“我正等着听听这个油漆工的情况呢。”
“啊，对了！好，你听着，是这么回事：正好是在凶杀案发生以后第三天，一大清早，他们还在那儿跟科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫纠缠不休的时候，——尽管他们两个每人都已证明了自己的每一步行动：提出的证据是无可怀疑的！——就在这时候，突然出现了最出人意料的事实。有个姓杜什金的人，就是那幢房子对面一家小酒铺的老板，来到警察局，拿来一个装着一副金耳环的小首饰匣，讲了这么一篇故事：‘前天晚上他跑到我这里来，大约是八点刚过，’ 这是日期和时间！你注意到吗？‘在这以前白天就来过我这儿的那个油漆匠，米科拉，拿来了这个装着金耳环和宝石的小匣子，要用这作抵押，跟我借两个卢布，我问：哪儿弄来的？他说，是在人行道上捡来的。我没再多问，’这是杜什金说的，‘给了他一张票子——也就是一个卢布，——因为我想，他不向我抵押，也会向别人抵押，反正一样，他准是买酒，把它喝光，最好还是让东西放在我这儿：最好把它保存起来，说不定以后会有用处，万一出什么事，或者有什么谣言，我立刻就把它交出去。’哼，当然啦，他说的全是谎话，全是胡扯，因为我认识这个杜什金，他自己就是个放高利贷、窝藏脏物的家伙，他从米科拉手里把这件值三十卢布的东西骗过来，根本不是为了‘交出去’。他只不过是害怕了。哼，去他的，你听着；杜什金接着又说：‘这个乡下人，米科拉•杰缅季耶夫，我从小就认识，我们是同省同县，扎拉斯基县的人，所以我们都是梁赞人。米科拉虽然不是酒鬼，可是爱喝两杯，我们大家都知道，他就在这幢房子里干活，跟米特列一道油漆，他跟米特列也是小同乡。他拿到一卢布的票子，马上就把它换开，立刻喝了两杯酒，拿了找头就走了，那时候我没看到米特列跟他在一起。第二天我们听说，阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜和她妹妹莉扎薇塔•伊万诺芙娜叫人拿斧头杀死了，我们都认得她们，这时耳环让我起了疑心，——因为我们知道，死者经常放债，收下人家的东西，作为抵押。我到那幢房子里去找他们，小心谨慎地悄悄打听，首先问：米科拉在这儿吗？米特列说，米科拉出去玩儿去了，到天亮才回来，喝得醉醺醺的，在家里待了约摸十分钟，又出去了，后来米特列就没再见到过他，活儿是他独自个儿干完的。他们干活的那儿跟被人杀死的那两个人走的是同一道楼梯，在二楼。我们听了这些话以后，当时对谁也没说过什么，’这是杜什金说的，‘杀人的事，我们尽可能都打听清楚了，回到家里，心里还是觉得怀疑。今天一清早，八点钟，’就是说，这已经是第三天了，你明白吗？‘我看到，米科拉进来找我了，他不大清醒，可也不是醉得很厉害，跟他说话，他还能听得懂。他坐到长凳上，一声不响。除了他，那时候酒店里只有一个外人，还有一个人在长凳上睡觉，跟我们认识，还有两个孩子，是我们那儿跑堂的。我问：“你看见米特列了吗？”他说：“没有，没看见。”“你也没来过这儿？”“没来过，”他说，“有两天多没来过了。”“昨天夜里你在哪里过的夜？”他说：“在沙区①，住在科洛姆纳②的人那里。”我说：“耳环是打哪儿弄来的？”“在人行道上捡的，”他说这话的时候神气不大对头，而且不看着我。我说：“你听说过就在那天晚上，那个时刻，那道楼梯上，发生了这么一桩事吗？” “没有，”他说，“没听说过，”可是他瞪着眼听着，脸刷地一下子变得煞白，简直像刷墙的白灰。我一边讲给他听，一边瞅着他，可他拿起帽子，站了起来。这时我想留住他，我说：“等等，米科拉，不喝一杯吗？”说着我向一个跑堂的小鬼使了个眼色，叫他在门口拦着，我从柜台后走了出来：他立刻从我身边跑开，逃到街上，拔脚就跑，钻进了一条小胡同里，——一转眼就不见了。这时我不再怀疑了，因为他犯了罪，这是明摆着的……’”
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①沙区是彼得堡的一个远郊区，因那里的土壤是沙土而得名。
②科洛姆纳是彼得堡的另一个区。
③量酒的容量，约合○•○六公升。
“那还用说！”佐西莫夫说。
“别忙！你先听完！他们当然立刻去搜捕米科拉：把杜什金也拘留了，进行了搜查，米特列也给拘留了起来；也审问了科洛姆纳的居民，——不过前天突然把米科拉带来了：在×城门附近一家客店里拘留了他。他来到那里，从脖子上摘下一个银十字架，要用十字架换一什卡利克③酒喝。换给了他。过了一会儿，一个乡下女人到牛棚里去，从板壁缝里看到：他在隔壁板棚里把一根宽腰带拴到房梁上，结了个活扣；站到一块木头上，想把活扣套到自己脖子上；那女人拼命叫喊起来，大家都跑来了，问他：‘你是什么人！’他说：‘你们带我到××分局去好了，我全都招认’。把他客客气气地送到了这个警察分局，也就是送到了这里。于是审问他，问这，问那，叫什么，干什么的，多大年纪，——‘二十二岁’——以及其他等等。问：‘你跟米特列一道干活的时候，在某时某刻，看到楼梯上有什么人吗？’回答：‘大家都知道，总有人上来下去，不过我们没注意。’‘没听到什么响声，什么喧闹声吗？’‘没听到什么特别的响声。’‘当天你知道不知道，米科拉，就在那天那个时候，有这么一个寡妇和她妹妹被人杀害，遭到了抢劫？’‘我什么也不知道。第三天才在小酒店里头一次听阿凡纳西•帕夫雷奇说起这件事。’‘耳环是从哪儿弄来的？’‘在人行道上捡的。’‘为什么第二天你没和米特列一道去干活？’‘因为我喝酒去了。’‘在哪儿喝酒？’‘在某处某处。’‘为什么从杜什金那儿逃跑？’‘因为当时我很害怕。’‘怕什么？’‘怕给我判罪。’‘既然你觉得自己没犯罪，那你怎么会害怕呢？……’嗯，信不信由你，佐西莫夫，这个问题提出来了，而且一字不差，就是这么问的，这我肯定知道，人家准确无误地把原话告诉了我！怎么样？怎么样？”
“啊，不，但罪证是有的。”
“可现在我说的不是罪证，而是问题，说的是他们怎样理解实质！唉，见鬼！……他们一再施加压力，逼供，于是他就招认了：‘不是在人行道上捡的，’他说，‘是在我跟米特列一道油漆的那套房子里捡到的。’‘怎么捡到的？’‘是这么捡到的：我和米特列油漆了一整天，一直到八点钟，已经打算走了，可是米特列拿起刷子，往我脸上抹油漆，他抹了我一脸漆，转身就跑，我在他后面追。我在后面追他，边追边喊；刚一下楼梯，正往大门口跑，我一下子撞到管院子的和几位先生身上，有几位先生跟他在一起，我记不得了，为了这，管院子的把我大骂了一顿，另一个管院子的也骂了我，管院子的人的老婆也跑出来骂我们，有一位先生和一位太太走进大门，他也骂我们，因为我和米特列横躺在那里，拦住了路：我揪住米特列的头发，把他按倒在地上，拿拳头捶他，米特列也从我身子底下揪住我的头发，拿拳头捶我，我们这样打架不是因为谁恨谁，而是因为我们要好，闹着玩儿。后来米特列挣脱出来，往街上跑去，我跟在他后面追，没追上，就一个人回到那套房子里，——因为，得收拾收拾。我动手收拾东西，等着米特列，他也许会回来。在穿堂门后的墙角落里忽然踩到一个小盒子。我一看，有个小盒子，包在纸里。我把纸拆开，看到有几个那么小的小钩，我把小钩扳开——原来小盒子里装着耳环……’”
“在门后边？放在门后边？在门后边？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然高声叫喊，用浑浊、惊恐的目光瞅着拉祖米欣，用一只手撑着，在沙发上慢慢欠起身来。
“是啊……怎么呢？你怎么了？你怎么这样？”拉祖米欣也从座位上欠起身来。
“没什么！……”拉斯科利尼科夫用勉强可以听到的声音回答，又倒在枕头上，转过脸去，对着墙壁。有一会工夫，大家都默不作声。
“大概，他打了个盹儿，还没完全睡醒，”最后，拉祖米欣疑问地望着佐西莫夫说；佐西莫夫轻轻地摇摇头，表示不同意他的说法。
“好，接着说吧，”佐西莫夫说，“以后怎么样了？”
“以后怎么样了？他一看到耳环，立刻把那套房子和米特列全都忘了，拿起帽子，跑到了杜什金那里，大家都已经知道，他从杜什金那里拿到了一个卢布，却对杜什金撒了个谎，说是在人行道上捡的，而且马上就把钱换开，买酒喝了。对于杀人的事，他还是说：‘什么都不知道，只是到第三天才听说的。’‘为什么到现在你一直不露面呢？’‘因为害怕。’‘为什么要上吊？’‘因为担心。’‘担心什么？’‘给我判罪。’瞧，这就是事情的全部经过。现在你是怎么想呢，他们从中得出了什么结论？”
“有什么好想的呢，线索是有的，不管是什么线索吧，可总是线索。事实。你不会认为该把你的油漆工释放了吧？”
“可是现在他们已经认定他就是凶手了！他们已经毫不怀疑……”
“你胡扯；你太性急了。那么耳环呢？你得同意，如果耳环就是在那一天那个时候从老太婆的箱子里落到尼古拉①手里的，——你得同意，它们总得通过某种方式才能落到他的手里，对不对呢？在这类案件的侦查过程中，这具有相当重要的意义。”
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①尼古拉即米科拉。
“怎么落到他手里的！怎么落到他手里的？”拉祖米欣高声叫喊，“难道你，医生，作为一个首先必须研究人、比任何人都更有机会研究人的本性的医生，难道你还没看出，根据所有这些材料来看，这个尼古拉的本性是什么样的吗？难道你还没一眼看出，在审问中他供述的一切都是绝对不容怀疑的实情吗？耳环正是像他供述的那样落到他手里的。他踩到了小盒子，于是把它捡了起来！”
“绝对不容怀疑的实情！可是他自己也供认，从一开始他就撒了谎。”
“你听我说。你留心听着：管院子的、科赫、佩斯特里亚科夫、另一个管院子的、第一个管院子的人的妻子、当时正坐在她屋里的一个女人、七等文官克留科夫，就在这时候他正从马车上下来，搀着一位太太的手走进大门，——所有的人，也就是有八个或九个证人，都异口同声地证明，尼古拉把德米特里①按倒在地上，压在他身上用拳头揍他，德米特里也揪住尼古拉的头发，用拳头揍他。他们横躺在路上，拦住了道路；四面八方都在骂他们，可他们却‘像小孩子一样’（证人们的原话），一个压在一个身上，尖声大叫，打架，哈哈大笑，两人争先恐后地哈哈大笑，两人的脸都滑稽得要命，像孩子样互相追赶着，跑到街上去了。你听到了吗？现在请你注意，可别忽略过去：楼上尸体还有热气，听到了吗，发现尸体的时候，尸体还有热气！如果是他们杀的，或者是尼古拉独自一个人杀的，还撬开箱子，抢走了财物，或者仅仅是以某种方式参加了抢劫，那么请允许我向你提个问题，只提一个问题：这样的精神状态，也就是尖声叫喊，哈哈大笑，像小孩子样在大门口打架，——这样的精神状态与斧头、鲜血、恶毒的诡计、小心谨慎、抢劫，能够协调得起来吗？刚刚杀了人，总共才不过过了五分钟或十分钟，——所以得出这一结论，是因为尸体还有热气，——他们知道马上就会有人来，却突然丢下尸体，让房门散着离开了那套房间，而且丢下了到手的财物，像小孩子样在路上滚作一团，哈哈大笑，把大家的注意力都吸引到自己身上来，而异口同声证明这一情况的足有十个证人！”
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①德米特里即米特列。
“当然，奇怪！当然，这不可能，不过……”
“不，老兄，不是不过，而是，如果就在那同一天同一时刻落到尼古拉手里的耳环的确是对他不利的物证——然而这物证已直接由他的供词作了说明，所以这还是一个有争议的物证，——那就也应该考虑到那些证明他无罪的事实，何况这些事实都是无法反驳的呢。你是怎么认为呢，根据我们法学的特性来看，他们会不会，或者能不能把仅仅基于心理上不可能、仅仅基于精神状态的事实看作无法反驳的事实，因而可以推翻所有认为有罪的物证，而不管这些物证是什么东西？不，他们决不会接受这样的事实，无论如何也不会接受的，因为他们发现了那个小盒子，而这个人又想上吊，‘如果他不是觉得自己有罪，就不可能这么做！’这是个主要问题，这就是我为什么着急的原因！你要明白！”
“我看出来了，你在着急。等等，我忘了问一声：有什么能够证明，装着耳环的小盒子确实是老太婆箱子里的东西？”
“这已经证明了，”拉祖米欣皱起眉头，好像不乐意似地回答，“科赫认出了这东西，并且指出了谁是抵押人，后者肯定地证明，东西确实是他的。”
“糟糕。现在还有一个问题：科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫上楼去的时候，有没有人看到过尼古拉，能不能以什么方式证明这一点？”
“问题就在这里了，谁也没看到过他，”拉祖米欣感到遗憾地说，“糟就糟在这里，就连科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫上楼去的时候也没看到他们，虽说他们的证明现在也没有多大的意义。他们说：‘我们看到，房门开着，想必有人在里面干活，不过打开前门经过的时候没有注意，也记不清当时里面有没有工人了。’”
“嗯哼。所以仅有的能为他们辩护的理由，就是他们互相用拳头捶打和哈哈大笑了。即使这是有力的证据吧，不过……现在请问：你自己对全部事实作何解释呢？如果耳环的确是像他供述的那样拾到的，那你对这一事实又怎样解释呢？”
“我怎样解释吗？可这有什么好解释的：事情是明摆着的！至少侦查这件案子的途径已经清清楚楚，得到证实了，而且正是这个小盒子证实的。真正的凶手无意中失落了这副耳环。科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫在楼上敲门的时候，凶手扣上门躲在里面。科赫干了件蠢事，下楼去了；这时凶手跳出来，也往楼下跑，因为他再没有别的出路。在楼梯上，为了躲开科赫、佩斯特里亚科夫和管院子的，他藏进那套空房子里，而这恰好是在德米特里和尼古拉从屋里跑出去的那个时候，管院子的和那两个人从门前经过的时候，他站在门后，等到脚步声消失了，他才沉着地走下楼去，而这又正好是在德米特里和尼古拉跑到街上去的那个时候，大家都已经散了，大门口已经一个人也没有了。也许有人看到了他，可是没注意；进进出出的人多着呢！当他躲在门后的时候，小盒子从口袋里掉了出来，可他没发觉掉了，因为他顾不上这个。小盒子明确无误地证明，真正的凶手正是站在那里的。全部情况就是如此！”
“不简单！不，老兄，这真够巧妙的。这太巧妙了！”
“可是为什么，为什么呢？”
“因为这一切凑得太巧了……而且错综复杂……简直像演戏一样。”
“唉！”拉祖米欣大声叫道，但就在这时，房门开了，进来一个从未见过的人，在座的人谁也不认识他。
Part 2 Chapter 5
This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov's low and narrow "cabin." With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this "cabin" by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:
"Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?"
Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him.
"Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?"
This familiar "what do you want" seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again.
"This is Raskolnikov," mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunter's case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back.
Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said "This is Raskolnikov" he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated:
"Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?"
The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:
"Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?"
But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.
"Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no information?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.
In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin's face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.
"I had presumed and calculated," he faltered, "that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago . . ."
"I say, why are you standing in the doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly. "If you've something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here's a chair, thread your way in!"
He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to "thread his way in." The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin.
"No need to be nervous," the latter blurted out. "Rodya has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of Rodya's, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nursing him; so don't you take any notice of us, but go on with your business."
"Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov.
"N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse him." He yawned again.
"He has been conscious a long time, since the morning," went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good- nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student.
"Your mamma," began Luzhin.
"Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly.
"That's all right, go on."
Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.
"Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment . . ."
"I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. "So you are the /fiance/? I know, and that's enough!"
There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment's silence.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of "fiance" so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed--a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the role of fiance. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor's and were all right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr Petrovitch's attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly upon his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser's, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before.
But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities.
"I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. "If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute."
Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on:
". . . Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival."
"Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly.
"Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house."
"That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin. "There are two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I've been there."
"Yes, rooms . . ."
"A disgusting place--filthy, stinking and, what's more, of doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It's cheap, though . . ."
"I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself," Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. "However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time . . . I have already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev's house, too . . ."
"Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something.
"Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?"
"Yes . . . no," Raskolnikov answered.
"Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian. . . . A very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns new things from them." Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all.
"How do you mean?" asked Razumihin.
"In the most serious and essential matters," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted at the question. "You see, it's ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it's my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted . . ."
"At what?"
"Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality . . ."
"That's true," Zossimov let drop.
"Nonsense! There's no practicality." Razumihin flew at him. "Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting," he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, "and desire for good exists, though it's in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there's no practicality. Practicality goes well shod."
"I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment. "Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It's my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious prejudice have been rooted up and turned into ridicule. . . . In a word, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing . . ."
"He's learnt it by heart to show off!" Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly.
"What?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no reply.
"That's all true," Zossimov hastened to interpose.
"Isn't it so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. "You must admit," he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness--he almost added "young man"--"that there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth . . ."
"A commonplace."
"No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, 'love thy neighbour,' what came of it?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with excessive haste. "It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it, 'Catch several hares and you won't catch one.' Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised in society--the more whole coats, so to say--the firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to pass my neighbour's getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it . . ."
"Excuse me, I've very little wit myself," Razumihin cut in sharply, "and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I've grown so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don't blame you, that's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That's enough!"
"Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive dignity. "Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too . . ."
"Oh, my dear sir . . . how could I? . . . Come, that's enough," Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation.
Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two.
"I trust our acquaintance," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "may, upon your recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware, become closer . . . Above all, I hope for your return to health . . ."
Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from his chair.
"One of her customers must have killed her," Zossimov declared positively.
"Not a doubt of it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there."
"Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud.
"Yes. What then?"
"Nothing."
"How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossimov.
"Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves."
"It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!"
"That's just what it wasn't!" interposed Razumihin. "That's what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn't work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it's clear that it was only a chance that saved him--and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman's trunks, her rags--and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel!"
"You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?" Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression and his vanity overcame his prudence.
"Yes. You've heard of it?"
"Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood."
"Do you know the details?"
"I can't say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case-- the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student's robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain. . . . And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society--for peasants don't pawn gold trinkets-- how are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?"
"There are many economic changes," put in Zossimov.
"How are we to explain it?" Razumihin caught him up. "It might be explained by our inveterate impracticality."
"How do you mean?"
"What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? 'Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.' I don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck,(*) and every man showed himself in his true colours."
(*) The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.
"But morality? And so to speak, principles . . ."
"But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. "It's in accordance with your theory!"
"In accordance with my theory?"
"Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed . . ."
"Upon my word!" cried Luzhin.
"No, that's not so," put in Zossimov.
Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully.
"There's a measure in all things," Luzhin went on superciliously. "Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose . . ."
"And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, "is it true that you told your /fiancee/ . . . within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most . . . was that she was a beggar . . . because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?"
"Upon my word," Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, "to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I . . . suspect who . . . in a word . . . this arrow . . . in a word, your mamma . . . She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking. . . . But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way. . . . And indeed . . . indeed . . ."
"I tell you what," cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, "I tell you what."
"What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds.
"Why, if ever again . . . you dare to mention a single word . . . about my mother . . . I shall send you flying downstairs!"
"What's the matter with you?" cried Razumihin.
"So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let me tell you, sir," he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, "at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you . . . never after this . . ."
"I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov.
"So much the worse . . ."
"Go to hell!"
But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received.
"How could you--how could you!" Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity.
"Let me alone--let me alone all of you!" Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. "Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!"
"Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.
"But we can't leave him like this!"
"Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him.
"It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated."
"What's the matter with him?"
"If only he could get some favourable shock, that's what would do it! At first he was better. . . . You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him. . . . I am very much afraid so; he must have!"
"Perhaps it's that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness. . . ."
"Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excited--that's the murder?"
"Yes, yes," Razumihin agreed, "I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted."
"Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I'll go and see him again. . . . There'll be no inflammation though."
"Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya. . . ."
Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered.
"Won't you have some tea now?" she asked.
"Later! I am sleepy! Leave me."
He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.
 

这是一位年纪已经不轻的先生，拘谨古板，神态庄严，脸上的表情给人以谨小慎微、牢骚满腹的印象，他一进门，先站在门口，带着令人难受的、毫不掩饰的惊讶神色往四下里打量了一番，仿佛用目光在问：“我这是到了哪里了？”他怀疑地、甚至故意装作有点儿惊恐、甚至是受了侮辱的样子，环顾拉斯科利尼科夫这间狭小、低矮的“船舱”。他又带着同样惊讶的神情把目光转移到拉斯科利尼科夫身上，然后凝神注视着他，拉斯科利尼科夫没穿外衣，头发散乱，没洗过脸，躺在一张小得可怜的脏沙发上，也在拿眼睛盯着来人，细细打量他。随后他又同样慢条斯理地打量衣衫不整、没刮过脸、也没梳过头的拉祖米欣，拉祖米欣没有离开自己的座位，也大胆地用疑问的目光直瞅着他的眼睛。紧张的沉默持续了大约一分钟光景，最后，气氛发生了小小的变化，而这也是应该预料到的。根据某种、不过是相当明显的反应，进来的这位先生大概意识到，在这里，在这间“船舱”里，过分的威严姿态根本不起任何作用，于是他的态度变得稍微温和些了，尽管仍然有点儿严厉，却是彬彬有礼地、每一个音节都说得清清楚楚地问佐西莫夫：
“这位就是罗季昂•罗曼内奇•拉斯科利尼科夫，大学生先生，或者以前是大学生？”
佐西莫夫慢慢地动了动，也许是会回答他的，如果不是他根本就没去问的拉祖米欣立刻抢先回答了他的话：
“喏，他就躺在沙发上！您有什么事？”
这句不拘礼节的“您有什么事”可惹恼了这位古板的先生；他甚至差点儿没有转过脸去，面对着拉祖米欣，不过还是及时克制住了，随即赶快又向佐西莫夫回过头来。
“这就是拉斯科利尼科夫！”佐西莫夫朝病人点了点头，懒洋洋地说，然后打了个呵欠，不知怎的嘴张得特别大，而且这个张着嘴的姿势持续的时间也特别长。随后他从自己坎肩口袋里慢慢掏出一块很大的、凸起来的、带盖的金表，打开表看了看，又同样慢腾腾、懒洋洋地把表装回到口袋里。
拉斯科利尼科夫本人一直默默地仰面躺着，凝神注视着来客，虽说他这样看着他，并没有任何用意。现在他已经转过脸来，不再看墙纸上那朵奇异的小花了，他的脸看上去异常苍白，露出异乎寻常的痛苦神情，仿佛他刚刚经受了一次痛苦的手术，或者刚刚经受过一次严刑拷打。但是进来的这位先生渐渐地越来越引起他的注意，后来使他感到困惑，后来又引起他的怀疑，甚至似乎使他觉得害怕起来。当佐西莫夫指了指他，说：“这就是拉斯科利尼科夫”的时候，他突然十分迅速地、仿佛猛一下子欠起身来，坐到床上，几乎用挑衅的、然而是断断续续的微弱声音说：
“对！我就是拉斯科利尼科夫！您要干什么？”
客人注意地看了看他，庄严地说：
“彼得•彼特罗维奇•卢任。我深信，我的名字对您已经不是完全一无所闻了。”
但是拉斯科利尼科夫等待的完全是另一回事，脸上毫无表情、若有所思地瞅了瞅他，什么也没回答，好像彼得•彼特罗维奇这个名字他完全是头一次听到似的。
“怎么？难道您至今还未得到任何消息吗？”彼得•彼特罗维奇有点儿不快地问。
拉斯科利尼科夫对他的回答是慢慢倒到枕头上，双手垫在头底下，开始望着天花板。卢任的脸上露出烦恼的神情。佐西莫夫和拉祖米欣怀着更强烈的好奇心细细打量起他来，最后他显然发窘了。
“我推测，我估计，”他慢吞吞地说，“十多天前，甚至几乎是两星期前发出的信……”
“喂，您为什么一直站在门口呢？”拉祖米欣突然打断了他的话，“既然您有话要说，那就请坐吧，不过你们两位，您和娜斯塔西娅都站在那儿未免太挤了。娜斯塔西尤什卡，让开点儿，让他进来！请进，这是椅子，请到这边来！挤进来吧！”
他把自己那把椅子从桌边挪开一些，在桌子和自己的膝盖之间腾出一块不大的空间，以稍有点儿局促的姿势坐在那儿，等着客人“挤进”这条夹缝里来。时机挑得刚好合适，使客人无论如何也不能拒绝，于是他急急忙忙、磕磕绊绊，挤进这块狭窄的空间。客人来到椅子边，坐下，怀疑地瞅了瞅拉祖米欣。
“不过，请您不要觉得难堪，拉祖米欣贸然地说，“罗佳生病已经四天多了，说了三天胡话，现在清醒了过来，甚至吃东西也有胃口了。那边坐着的是他的医生，刚给他作了检查，我是罗佳的同学，从前也是大学生，现在在照看他；所以请不要理会我们，也不要感到拘束，您要说什么，就接着往下说吧。”
“谢谢你们。不过我的来访和谈话会不会惊动病人呢！”彼得•彼特罗维奇对佐西莫夫说。
“不一会，”佐西莫夫懒洋洋地说，“您甚至能为他排忧解闷，”说罢又打了个呵欠。
“噢，他早就清醒过来了，从早上就清醒了！”拉祖米欣接着说，他那不拘礼节的态度让人感到完全是一种真诚朴实的表现，所以彼得•彼特罗维奇思索了一下以后，鼓起勇气来了，也许这或多或少是因为这个衣衫褴褛、像个无赖的人自称是大学生的缘故。
“令堂……”卢任开口说。
“嗯哼！”拉祖米欣很响地哼了一声，卢任疑问地瞅了瞅他。
“没什么，我并没有什么意思；请说吧……”
卢任耸了耸肩。
“……我还在她们那里的时候，令堂就给您写信来了。来到这里，我故意等了几天，没来找您，想等到深信您一切都已知悉以后再来；但是现在使我惊奇的是……”
“我知道，知道！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然用最不耐烦的懊恼语气说。“这就是您吗？未婚夫？哼，我知道！……够了！”
彼得•彼特罗维奇气坏了，不过什么也没说。他努力匆匆思索，想弄清这一切意味着什么。沉默持续了大约一分钟光景。
拉斯科利尼科夫回答他的时候，本已稍微转过脸来，面对着他了，这时突然又重新凝神注视，怀着某种特殊的好奇心细细打量起他来，仿佛刚才还没看清他这个人，或者似乎是卢任身上有什么新的东西使他吃了一惊：为了看清卢任，他甚至故意从枕头上稍稍欠起身来。真的，彼得•彼特罗维奇的全部外表的确好像有某种不同寻常的东西，让人感到惊奇，似乎足以证明，刚才那样无礼地管他叫“未婚夫”，并非毫无道理。第一，可以看得出来。而且甚至是太明显了：他急于加紧利用待在首都的这几天时间，把自己打扮打扮，美化一番，等待着未婚妻到来，不过这是完全无可非议，也是完全可以允许的。在这种情况下，甚至自以为，也许甚至是过分得意地自以为打扮得更加讨人喜欢了，这也是可以原谅的，因为彼得•彼特罗维奇是未婚夫嘛。他的全身衣服都新做的，而且都很好，也许只有一样不好：所有衣服都太新了，也过于明显地暴露了众所周知的目的。就连那顶漂亮、崭新的圆呢帽也说明了这个目的：彼得•彼特罗维奇对这顶呢帽尊敬得有点儿过分，把它拿在手里的那副小心谨慎的样子也太过火了。就连那副非常好看的、真正茹文①生产的雪青色手套也说明了同样的目的，单从这一点来看也足以说明问题了：他不是把手套戴在手上，而是只拿在手里，摆摆派头。彼得•彼特罗维奇衣服的颜色是明快的浅色，这种颜色多半适合年轻人穿着。他穿一件漂亮的浅咖啡色夏季西装上衣，一条轻而薄的浅色长裤，一件同样料子的坎肩和一件刚买来的、做工精细的衬衣，配一条带玫瑰色条纹的、轻柔的上等细麻纱领带，而最妙的是：这一切对彼得•彼特罗维奇甚至还挺合适。他容光焕发，甚至还有点儿好看，本来看上去就不像满四十五岁的样子。乌黑的络腮胡子像两个肉饼，遮住他的双颊，很讨人喜欢，密密地汇集在刮得发亮的下巴两边，显得十分漂亮。他的头发虽已稍有几茎银丝，却梳得光光滑滑，还请理发师给卷过，可是在这种情况下，就连他的头发也并不显得好笑，虽说卷过的头发通常总是会让人觉得可笑，因为这必然会使人的脸上出现去举行婚礼的德国人的神情。如果说这张相当漂亮而庄严的脸上当真有某种让人感到不快或使人反感的地方，那么这完全是由于别的原因。拉斯科利尼科夫毫不客气、仔仔细细地把卢任先生打量了一番，恶毒地笑了笑，又倒到枕头上，仍然去望天花板。
--------
①茹文系比利时的一个城市。
但是卢任先生竭力克制着，好像决定暂时不理会这些古怪行为。
“发现您处于这样的状况，我感到非常、非常难过，”他想努力打破沉默，又开口说。“如果我知道您身体欠佳，我早就来了。不过，您要知道，事情太多！……加上还要在参政院里办理一件我的律师业务方面的事情。至于您可以猜得到的那些急于要办的事，我就不提了。我随时都在等待着您的，也就是说，等待令堂和令妹到来……”
拉斯科利尼科夫稍动了动，想说什么；他的脸上露出激动不安的神情。彼得•彼特罗维奇停顿下来，等着，但是因为什么也没听到，于是又接着说下去：
“……随时等待着。给她们找了一处房子，先让她们暂时住着……”
“在哪儿？”拉斯科利尼科夫虚弱无力地问。
“离这儿不太远，巴卡列耶夫的房子……”
“这是在沃兹涅先斯基街，”拉祖米欣插嘴说，“那房子有两层，是家小旅馆；商人尤申开的；我去过。”
“是的，是家小旅馆……”
“那地方极其可怕、非常讨厌：又脏又臭，而且可疑；经常出事；鬼知道那儿住着些什么人！……为了一件丢脸的事，我去过那儿。不过，房租便宜。”
“我当然没能了解这么多情况，因为我也是刚来到这里，”彼得•彼特罗维奇很爱面子地反驳说，“不过，是两间非常、非常干净的房间，因为这只是住很短的一段时间……我已经找到了一套正式的，也就是我们未来的住房，”他转过脸来，对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“目前正在装修；暂时我自己也是在这样的房间里挤一挤，离这儿只有几步路，是利佩韦赫泽尔太太的房子，住在我的一位年轻朋友安德烈•谢苗内奇•列别贾特尼科夫的房间里；就是他指点我，叫我去找巴卡列耶夫的房子……”
“列别贾特尼科夫的？”拉斯科利尼科夫仿佛想起什么，慢慢地说。
“是的，安德烈•谢苗内奇•列别贾特尼科夫，在部里任职。您认识他？”
“是的……不……”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。
“请原谅，因为您这样问，我才觉得您认识他。我曾经是他的监护人……是个很可爱的年轻人……对新思想很感兴趣……我很喜欢会见青年人：从他们那里可以知道，什么是新事物。”彼得•彼特罗维奇满怀希望地扫视了一下在座的人。
“这是指哪一方面呢？”拉祖米欣问。
“指最重要的，也可以说是最本质的东西，”彼得•彼特罗维奇赶快接着说，似乎这个问题使他感到高兴。“要知道，我已经十年没来彼得堡了。所有我们这些新事物、改革和新思想——所有这一切，我们在外省也接触到了；不过要想看得更清楚，什么都能看到，就必须到彼得堡来。嗯，我的想法就正是如此：观察我们年轻一代，最能有所发现，可以了解很多情况。说实在的：我很高兴……”
“是什么让您高兴呢？”
“您的问题提得很广泛。我可能弄错，不过，我似乎找到了一种更明确的观点，甚至可以说是一种批评的精神；一种更加务实的精神……”
“这是对的，”佐西莫夫透过齿缝慢吞吞地说。
“你胡说，根本没有什么务实精神，”拉祖米欣抓住这句话不放。“要有务实精神，那可难得很，它不会从天上飞下来。几乎已经有两百年了，我们什么事情也不敢做……思想吗，大概是正在徘徊，”他对彼得•彼特罗维奇说，“善良的愿望也是有的，虽说是幼稚的；甚至也能发现正直的行为，尽管这儿出现了数不清的骗子，可务实精神嘛，还是没有！务实精神是罕见的。”
“我不同意您的看法，”彼得•彼特罗维奇带着明显的十分高兴的神情反驳说，“当然啦，对某件事情入迷，出差错，这是有的，然而对这些应当采取宽容态度：对某件事情入迷，说明对这件事情怀有热情，也说明这件事情所处的外部环境是不正常的。如果说做得太少，那么是因为时间不够。至于方法，我就不谈了。照我个人看，也可以说，甚至是已经做了一些事情：一些有益的新思想得到传播，某些有益的新作品得以流传，取代了从前那些空想和浪漫主义的作品；文学作品有了更加成熟的特色；许多有害的偏见得以根除，受到了嘲笑……总之，我们已经一去不返地与过去一刀两断了，而这，照我看，已经是成就了……”
“背得真熟！自我介绍，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说。
“什么？”彼得•彼特罗维奇没听清，于是问，可是没得到回答。
“这都是对的，”佐西莫夫赶快插了一句。
“不对吗？”彼得•彼特罗维奇愉快地看了看佐西莫夫，接着说。“您得承认，”他对拉祖米欣接着说，不过已经带点儿洋洋得意和占了上风的神气，差点儿没有加上一句：“年轻人，”“至少为了科学，为了追求经济学的真理……在这方面已经有了巨大成就，或者像现在人们所说的，有了进步。”
“老生常谈！”
“不，不是老主常谈！譬如说吧，在此以前，人们常对我说：‘你该去爱’，于是我就去爱了，结果怎样呢？”彼得•彼特罗维奇接着说，也许说得太匆忙了，“结果是我把一件长上衣撕作两半，和别人分着穿，于是我们两个都衣不蔽体，这就像俄罗斯谚语所说的：‘同时追几只兔子，一只也追不上’。科学告诉我们：要爱别人，首先要爱自己，因为世界上的一切都是以个人利益为基础的。你只爱自己，那么就会把自己的事情办好，你的长上衣也就能保持完整了。经济学的真理补充说，社会上私人的事办得越多，也可以这么说吧，完整的长上衣就越多，那么社会的基础也就越牢固，社会上也就能办好更多的公共事业。可见我仅仅为个人打算，只给自己买长上衣，恰恰是为大家着想，结果会使别人得到比撕破的长上衣更多的东西，而这已经不仅仅是来自个人的恩赐，而是得益于社会的普遍繁荣了①。见解很平常，但不幸的是，很久没能传到我们这里来，让狂热的激情和幻想给遮蔽起来了，不过要领会其中的道理，似乎并不需要有多少机智……”
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①英国经济学家、哲学家边塔姆（一七四八——一八三二）和他的信徒米利（一八○六——一八七三）的著作译成俄文后，当时俄国的报刊上正在广泛讨论他们的这种实用主义观点。
“对不起，我也并不机智，”拉祖米欣不客气地打断了他的话，“所以我们别再谈了。我这样说是有目的的，不然，所有这些废话和自我安慰，所有这些絮絮叨叨、没完没了的老生常谈，说来说去总是那么几句，三年来已经让我听腻烦了，真的，不但我自己，就是别人当着我的面说这些话，我都会脸红。您当然是急于炫耀自己学识渊博，这完全可以原谅，我并不责备您。现在我只想知道，你是什么人，因为，您要知道，近来有那么多各式各样的企业家要参加公共事业，而不管他接触到什么，都要曲解它，使之为自己的利益服务，结果把一切事业都搞得一塌糊涂。唉！够了！”
“先生，”卢任先生怀着极其强烈的自尊感厌恶地说，“您是不是想要这样无礼地暗示，我也是……”
“噢，请别这么想，请别这么想……我哪会呢！……唉，够了！”拉祖米欣毫不客气地打断了他，急遽地转过脸去，面对佐西莫夫，继续不久前的谈话。
彼得•彼特罗维奇显得相当聪明，立刻表示相信所作的解释。不过他决定，再过两分钟就走。
“现在我们已经开始认识了，我希望，”他对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“等您恢复健康以后，而且由于您已经知道的那些情况，我们的关系会更加密切……尤其希望您能早日康复……”
拉斯科利尼科夫连头都没转过来。彼得•彼特罗维奇从椅子上站起身来。
“一定是个抵押过东西的人杀死的！”佐西莫夫肯定地说。
“一定是个抵押东西的人！”拉祖米欣附和说。“波尔菲里没把自己的想法说出来，不过还是在审问那些抵押过东西的人……”
“审问抵押过东西的人？”拉斯科利尼科夫高声问。
“是的，怎么呢？”
“没什么。”
“他是怎么找到他们的？”佐西莫夫问。
“有些是科赫说出来的；另一些人的名字写在包东西的纸上，还有一些，是听说这件事后，自己跑了去的……”
“嘿，大概是个狡猾、老练的坏蛋！好大的胆子！多么坚决果断！”
“问题就在这里了，根本不是！”拉祖米欣打断了他的话。
“正是这一点让你们大家全都迷惑不解，无法了解真实情况。我却认为，他既不狡猾，也不老练，大概这是头一次作案！如果认为这是经过精心策划的，凶手是个狡猾的老手，那将是不可思议的。如果认为凶手毫无经验，那就只有偶然的机会才使他得以侥幸逃脱，而偶然的机会不是会创造奇迹吗？也许，就连会碰到障碍，他都没预料到！他是怎么干的呢？——拿了几件值十卢布或二十卢布的东西，把它们塞满自己的口袋，在老太婆的箱子里那堆旧衣服里面乱翻了一通，——而在抽屉柜里，在上面一格抽屉的一个小匣子里，除了债券，人们还发现了一千五百卢布现金！他连抢劫都不会，只会杀人1第一次作案，我说，这是他第一次作案；发慌了！不是他老谋深算，而是靠偶然的机会侥幸脱身！”
“这好像是说的不久前杀死一位老年官太太的那件凶杀案吧，”彼得•彼特罗维奇对着佐西莫夫插了一句嘴，他已经拿着帽子和手套站在那里了，但临走想再说几句卖弄聪明的话。看来他是想给人留下个好印象，虚荣心战胜了理智。
“是的。您听说了？”
“那还用说，跟她是邻居嘛……”
“详情细节您都了解吗？”
“那倒不能说；不过使我感兴趣的却是另一个情况，可以说，是整个问题。最近四、五年来下层阶级中的犯罪日益增多，这我就不谈了；我也不谈到处不断发生的抢劫和纵火；对我来说，最奇怪的是，上层阶级中的犯罪也同样愈来愈多，可以说，与下层阶级中的犯罪是并行的。听说某处有一个从前上过大学的人在大道上抢劫邮车；另一个地方，一些属于上层社会的人制造假钞票；在莫斯科捕获了一伙伪造最近发行的有奖债券的罪犯，——主犯之一是个教世界通史的讲师；还有，国外有一位驻外使馆的秘书被人谋杀，是由于金钱和某种难以猜测的原因……如果现在这个放高利贷的老太婆是被一个社会地位较高的人杀害的，因为乡下人不会去抵押金器，那么，第一，该怎样来解释我们社会上那一部分文明人士的堕落呢？”
“经济上的许多变化……”佐西莫夫回答。
“怎样解释吗？”拉祖米欣吹毛求疵地说。“正是因为我们根深蒂固地过于缺少务实精神，这就是解释。”
“这是什么意思？”
“在莫斯科，问您的那个讲师，为什么伪造有奖债券，他是这样回答的：‘大家用各种办法发财，所以我也急于发财。’原话我记不得了，不过意思就是：尽快发财，不劳而获！大家都习惯坐享其成，靠别人的思想生活，吃别人嚼过的东西。哼，最后审判的时刻一到，每个人都要前去受审：看你还靠什么发财……”
“然而道德呢？也可以说，作人的原则……”
“您在为什么操心啊？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然插嘴说。“这正是根据您的理论产生的结果！”
“怎么是根据我的理论呢？”
“把您刚才鼓吹的那一套引伸开去，结论就是：杀人是可以的……”
“怎么会呢！”卢任高声喊道。
“不，不是这样！”佐西莫夫回答。
拉斯科利尼科夫躺在那儿，面色苍白，上嘴唇颤抖着，呼吸困难。
“一切都有个限度，”卢任高傲地接着说，“经济观念还不等于请你去杀人，假如认为……”
“这是真的吗，您，”拉斯科利尼科夫又突然用气得发抖的声音打断了他的话，从他的声音里可以听出，侮辱卢任，他感到十分高兴，“这是真的吗，您曾经对您的未婚妻说……就在您向她求婚刚刚得到她同意的时候……您就对她说，您最高兴的是……她是个穷人……因为娶一个穷人家的女儿对您更为有利，以后您好控制她……可以责备她，说她受了您的恩惠，是吗……”
“先生！”卢任面红耳赤，窘态毕露，恼恨而气忿地高声叫喊，“先生……竟这样歪曲我的意思！请您原谅，我必须说，传到您耳中的，或者不如说是故意让您知道的流言，毫无根据，我……我怀疑，有人……一句话……这枝冷箭……一句话，是令堂……我本来就觉得，尽管她有不少优点，可是她的想法里有某些狂热和浪漫主义的色彩……不过我还是万万没想到，她竟会以幻想来歪曲事实，这样来理解我，把事情想象成……而到底……到底……”
“您知道吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫高声大喊，从枕头上欠起身来，目光炯炯，锐利逼人，直盯着他，“您知道吗？”
“知道什么？”卢任住了口，脸上带着受到侮辱和挑衅的神情，等待着。沉默持续了几秒钟。
“就是，如果您再一次……您胆敢再提到……我母亲一个字……我就叫您滚出去！”
“您怎么了！”拉祖米欣喊了一声。
“啊，原来是这样！”卢任脸色发白，咬住嘴唇。“先生，您听我说，”他一字一顿地说，竭力克制着，可还是气得喘不过气来，“还在不久前我刚一进来的时候，我就看出，您对我的态度是不友好的，可是我故意留下来，好对您能有更多的了解。对于一个有病的人和亲戚，很多事情我都可以原谅，但是现在……对您……我永远也不会原谅……”
“我没有病！”拉斯科利尼科夫大声叫喊。
“那就更不会……”
“滚，您给我见鬼去！”
但是卢任已经自己走了，没有把话说完，就又从桌子和椅子之间挤了出去；这一次拉祖米欣站了起来。让他过去。卢任谁也不看，甚至也没向佐西莫夫点个头，虽然后者早已向他点头示意，叫他别再打扰病人了；卢任走了出去，当他微微弯腰走出房门的时候，小心翼翼地把帽子举得齐肩膀那么高。就连他弯腰的姿势也仿佛表现出，他随身带走了多么严重的侮辱。
“能这样吗，能这样吗？”大惑不解的拉祖米欣摇着头说。
“别管我，你们都别管我！”拉斯科利尼科夫发狂似地叫喊。“你们到底肯让我安静一下不，你们这些折磨人的家伙！我不怕你们！现在我谁也不怕，谁也不怕！给我滚开！我想独自个儿待在这儿，独自个儿，独自个儿，独自个儿！”
“咱们走吧，”佐西莫夫对拉祖米欣点点头，说。
“那怎么行，难道能这样丢下他不管吗？”
“走吧！”佐西莫夫坚持地又说了一遍，说罢就走了出去。
拉祖米欣想了想，就跑出去追他了。
“如果我们不听他的话，那可能更糟，”佐西莫夫已经到了楼梯上，说。“不能激怒他……”
“他怎么了？”
“如果有什么有利的因素推动他一下就好了！刚才他精神还好……你听我说，他有什么心事！一件总也放不下、让他十分苦恼的心事……这一点我非常担心；准是这么回事！”
“也许就是这位叫彼得•彼特罗维奇的先生吧！从谈话中可以听出，他要和他妹妹结婚，罗佳生病以前接到过一封信，信里提到了这件事……”
“是啊；见鬼，他偏偏现在来了；也许会把事情完全弄糟了。你发觉没有，他对一切都漠不关心，对什么都避而不答，只除了一件事，这件事总是会使他失去自制：就是这件凶杀案……”
“对，对！”拉祖米欣附和说，“我不但发觉，而且非常注意！他很关心，也很害怕。这是因为，就在他生病的那天有人吓唬过他，在警察局长的办公室里；他昏过去了。”
“今天晚上你把这件事跟我详细谈谈，以后我再告诉你一件事。他让我很感兴趣，很感兴趣！半小时后我再去看他……
不过发炎是不会的……”
“谢谢你！这段时间里，我在帕申卡那儿等着，通过娜斯塔西娅照料他……”
只剩下拉斯科利尼科夫一个人了，他急不可耐、满腹忧虑地看看娜斯塔西娅；但她还拖延着不走。
“现在要喝茶吗？”她问。
“以后再喝！我想睡觉！别管我……”
他痉挛地转身面对墙壁；娜斯塔西娅走了出去。
Part 2 Chapter 6
But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again and began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in them. "To-day, to-day," he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment's thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, blowing up the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street.
It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: "that all /this/ must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he /would not go on living like that/." How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination.
From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on," and both moved on to the next shop.
"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what I mean?--and the street lamps shine through it . . ."
"I don't know. . . . Excuse me . . ." muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street.
Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler's shop.
"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"
"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.
"What's his name?"
"What he was christened."
"Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"
The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"
"Is that a tavern at the top there?"
"Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-room and you'll find princesses there too. . . . La-la!"
Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V.
He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so.
Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating- houses; women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.
He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below. . . . someone could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement.
"Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing,"
trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.
"Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?"
"Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive--the only one of the group.
"Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.
She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
"You're very nice looking yourself," she said.
"Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have you just come out of a hospital?"
"They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are."
"Go along with you!"
"I'll go, sweetie!"
And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.
"I say, sir," the girl shouted after him.
"What is it?"
She hesitated.
"I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice young man!"
Raskolnikov gave her what came first--fifteen copecks.
"Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!"
"What's your name?"
"Ask for Duclida."
"Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame. . . ."
Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature! . . . And vile is he who calls him vile for that," he added a moment later.
He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. "What if it is?" he thought.
"Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter.
"Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days, and I'll give you something."
"Yes, sir, here's to-day's. No vodka?"
The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them.
"Oh, damn . . . these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . another fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. . . . Ah, here it is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk.
"What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. "Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?"
Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile.
"I know you have," he answered. "I've heard it. You looked for my sock. . . . And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanovna's--you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand--it was quite clear, wasn't it?"
"What a hot head he is!"
"The explosive one?"
"No, your friend Razumihin."
"You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?"
"We've just been . . . having a drink together. . . . You talk about pouring it into me!"
"By way of a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I am not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman. . . ."
"How do you know about it?"
"Perhaps I know more about it than you do."
"How strange you are. . . . I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out."
"Oh, do I seem strange to you?"
"Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?"
"Yes."
"There's a lot about the fires."
"No, I am not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am not reading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. "But confess now, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?"
"I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question? Why do you keep on . . . ?"
"Listen, you are a man of culture and education?"
"I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with some dignity.
"Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings-- you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended.
"Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are still delirious."
"I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?"
"Yes, curious."
"Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"
"Well, what is it?"
"You prick up your ears?"
"How do you mean--'prick up my ears'?"
"I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you . . . no, better 'I confess' . . . No, that's not right either; 'I make a deposition and you take it.' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching. . . ." he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I was searching--and came here on purpose to do it--for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman," he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.
"What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. "That's no business of mine! What of it?"
"The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not heeding Zametov's explanation, "about whom you were talking in the police-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?"
"What do you mean? Understand . . . what?" Zametov brought out, almost alarmed.
Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
"You are either mad, or . . ." began Zametov, and he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.
"Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!"
"Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it's all nonsense!"
Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for some time.
"Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold," said Zametov.
"What! Tea? Oh, yes. . . ." Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.
"There have been a great many of these crimes lately," said Zametov. "Only the other day I read in the /Moscow News/ that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets!"
"Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you consider them criminals?" he added, smiling.
"Of course they are criminals."
"They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object--what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes-- what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change the notes either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth thousand--he was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?"
"That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that's quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can't stand things."
"Can't stand that?"
"Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it's their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to do it. Would you?"
Raskolnikov had an intense desire again "to put his tongue out." Shivers kept running down his spine.
"I should do it quite differently," Raskolnikov began. "This is how I would change the notes: I'd count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I'd set to the second thousand; I'd count that half-way through and then hold some fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again--to see whether it was a good one. 'I am afraid,' I would say, 'a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a false note,' and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, 'No, excuse me,' I would say, 'I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.' And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, 'Change them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back, 'No, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation. That's how I'd do it."
"Foo! what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home--that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle--but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn't stand it. That was clear from the . . ."
Raskolnikov seemed offended.
"Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov.
"Well, they will catch him."
"Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You've a tough job! A great point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child can mislead you."
"The fact is they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?"
Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.
"You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave in that case, too?" he asked with displeasure.
"I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.
"Very much?"
"Very much!"
"All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov's, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. "This is what I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone--there would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There'd be no trace."
"You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.
"And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly and--realised what he had done.
Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile.
"But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him.
"Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?"
"Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried hastily.
"I've caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe less than ever?"
"Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?"
"You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there," he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?"
"Thirty copecks," the latter replied, running up.
"And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You've cross-examined my landlady, I'll be bound. . . . Well, that's enough! /Assez cause!/ Till we meet again!"
He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed.
Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.
"Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead," he decided.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.
"So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice--"you ran away from your bed! And here I've been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?"
"It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly.
"Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot! . . . What have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!"
"Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
"Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do with you directly? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!"
"Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm-- "can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who . . . curses them, who feels them a burden in fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough to-day that you were torturing me, that I was . . . sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because it's continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God's sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!"
He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had been with Luzhin.
Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.
"Well, go to hell then," he said gently and thoughtfully. "Stay," he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you've any little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in that! There isn't a sign of independent life in you! You are made of spermaceti ointment and you've lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don't believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!" he cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement--"hear me out! You know I'm having a house-warming this evening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle there--I just ran in--to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation . . . you see, Rodya, I recognise you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool!--and if you weren't a fool you'd come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there's no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one . . . a cup of tea, company. . . . Or you could lie on the sofa--any way you would be with us. . . . Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?"
"No."
"R-rubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patience. "How do you know? You can't answer for yourself! You don't know anything about it. . . . Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards. . . . One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember, Potchinkov's house on the third storey. . . ."
"Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence."
"Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. . . ."
"I shall not come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov turned and walked away.
"I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you if you don't! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes."
"Talked to him?"
"Yes."
"What about? Confound you, don't tell me then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!"
Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs.
"Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He talked sensibly but yet . . . I am a fool! As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid of." He struck his finger on his forehead. "What if . . . how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself. . . . Ach, what a blunder! I can't." And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.
Raskolnikov walked straight to X---- Bridge, stood in the middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.
"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!"
"A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her: she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the same woman's voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her--and here she's in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see yonder. . . ."
The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone mentioned the police station. . . . Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. "No, that's loathsome . . . water . . . it's not good enough," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will come of it," he added, "no use to wait. What about the police office . . . ? And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o'clock. . . ." He turned his back to the railing and looked about him.
"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out "to make an end of it all." Complete apathy had succeeded to it.
"Well, it's a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. "Anyway I'll make an end, for I want to. . . . But is it a way out? What does it matter! There'll be the square yard of space--ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah . . . damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don't care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one's head."
To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute's thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of /the/ house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since /that/ evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. "That wasn't so then," he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. "It's shut up and the door newly painted. So it's to let." Then the third storey and the fourth. "Here!" He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov's coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened.
"She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very early, all dressed up. 'Why are you preening and prinking?' says I. 'I am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way of going on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!"
"And what is a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority.
"A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the female. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies' fluffles, they're beyond anything you can fancy."
"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger cried enthusiastically, "except father and mother, there's everything!"
"Except them, there's everything to be found, my boy," the elder declared sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance.
"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.
Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction.
"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."
"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the porter."
"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no blood?"
"What blood?"
"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there."
"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.
"Who am I?"
"Yes."
"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you."
The workmen looked at him in amazement.
"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up," said the elder workman.
"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway.
At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers- by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them.
"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.
"Have you been to the police office?"
"I've just been there. What do you want?"
"Is it open?"
"Of course."
"Is the assistant there?"
"He was there for a time. What do you want?"
Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward.
"Which flat?"
"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he. 'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.' And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us."
The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street.
"Why have you been to the flat?"
"To look at it."
"What is there to look at?"
"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked in abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones:
"Come along."
"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going into /that/, what's in his mind, eh?"
"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered the workman.
"But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest--"Why are you hanging about?"
"You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"
"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.
"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. "Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!"
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked away.
"Strange man!" observed the workman.
"There are strange folks about nowadays," said the woman.
"You should have taken him to the police station all the same," said the man in the long coat.
"Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you won't get rid of him. . . . We know the sort!"
"Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him alone. . . . All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage. . . . A light gleamed in the middle of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and knew that it would all soon be over.
 
但是她刚一出去，他立刻就起来了，用门钩扣上房门，解开拉祖米欣不久前拿来、又重新包起来的那包衣服，动手穿了起来。怪事：似乎他突然变得十分镇静了；既不像不久前那样精神错乱，胡言乱语，也不像最近这段时间那样失魂落魄，惊恐万分。这是一种奇怪的、突然到来的镇静的最初瞬间。他的动作毫无差错，目的明确，表现出他有某种坚定的意图。“今天，就在今天！……”他喃喃地自言自语。不过他明白，他还很虚弱，但极度的精神紧张，使他变得镇静和下定决心的精神紧张，给了他力量和自信；不过他希望不至于跌倒在街上。他全身都换上了新衣服，看了看放在桌子上的钱，想了想，把钱都装进了衣袋。一共是二十五卢布。他又拿了那几个五戈比的铜币，那是拉祖米欣拿去买衣服的十个卢布找回的零钱。然后他轻轻取下门钩，从屋里出来，走下楼梯，朝大敞着的厨房门里面张了一眼：娜斯塔西娅背对着他站着，弯下腰，正在吹女房东的茶炊。她什么也没听到。而且谁能想到他会出去呢？不一会儿，他已经到了街上。
已经八点钟了，红日西沉。仍然那么闷热；然而他还是贪婪地吸了一口这恶臭难闻、尘土飞扬、被城市污染了的空气。他的头微微眩晕起来；他那双发红的眼睛里和白中透黄，十分消瘦的脸上，却显示出某种奇怪的旺盛精力。他不知道，也没想过要到哪里去；他只知道一点：“这一切必须在今天结束，一下子结束它，立刻；否则他决不回家，因为他不愿这样活下去。”怎么结束？用什么办法结束？他一点儿也不知道，也不愿去想它。他驱除了这个想法，这个想法在折磨他。他只是感觉到，而且知道，必须让一切都发生变化，不是这样变，就是那样变，“不管怎么变都行”，他怀着绝望的、执拗的自信和决心反复说。
由于以前养成的习惯，他顺着从前散步时通常走的那条路径直往干草广场走去。还不到干草广场，在一家小铺门前，马路上站着一个身背手摇风琴的黑发年轻流浪乐师，正在摇着一首十分动人的抒情歌曲。他是为站在他前面人行道上的一个姑娘伴奏，她约摸有十四、五岁，打扮得像一位小姐，穿一条钟式裙，肩上披着披肩，戴着手套，头上戴一顶插着火红色羽毛的草帽；这些东西都破旧了。她用街头卖唱的声音演唱那首抒情歌曲，声音发抖，然而相当悦耳和富有感染力，期待着小铺子里会有人丢给她两个戈比。拉斯科利尼科夫停下来，站在两三个听众身边，听了一会儿，掏出一枚五戈比的铜币，放到姑娘的手里。她正唱到最动人的高音上，突然停住不唱了，歌声猝然中断，她用尖锐的声音向摇琴的乐师喊了一声“够了！”于是两人慢慢往前、往另一家小铺子走去。
“您爱听街头卖唱吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然问一个和他一起站在摇手摇风琴的乐师身旁的过路行人，那人已不算年轻了，看样子像是个游手好闲的人。那人奇怪地看了他一眼，吃了一惊。“我爱听，”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说，不过看他的神情，却仿佛根本不是在谈街头卖唱，“在寒冷、阴暗、潮湿的秋天晚上，一定要在潮湿的晚上，行人的脸色都白得发青，面带病容，这时候我爱听在手摇风琴伴奏下唱歌；或者是在没有风，潮湿的雪直接从天上飘落的时候，那就更好了，您明白吗？透过雪花，煤气路灯①闪闪烁烁……”
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①十九世纪六十年代彼得堡市中心区装上了煤气路灯，其余地区是煤油路灯。
“我不明白……对不起……”那位先生含糊不清地说，拉斯科利尼科夫的问题和奇怪的神情吓坏了他，他走到马路对面去了。
拉斯科利尼科夫一直朝前走，来到干草广场的一个拐角上，那天跟莉扎薇塔谈话的那个小市民和他老婆就是在这儿摆摊做生意的；但是这会儿他们不在这儿。认出这个地方以后，他站住了，往四下里看了看，问一个正在面粉店门口打呵欠、身穿红衬衣的年轻小伙子：
“不是有个市民在这个拐角上做生意吗，跟一个女人，跟他老婆一起，不是吗？”
“各式各样的人都在做生意，”小伙子傲慢地打量着拉斯科利尼科夫，回答说。
“他叫什么名字？”
“受洗礼的时候给他取了个什么名字，就叫什么名字。”
“你是不是扎拉斯基人？哪个省的？”
小伙子又瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫。
“大人，我们那儿不是省，是县，我兄弟出门去了，我待在家里，所以我不知道……清您原谅，大人，多多包涵。”
“上面是个小饭馆吗？”
“是个小饭馆，有弹子台；还有漂亮女人……好极了！”
拉斯科利尼科夫穿过广场。那边拐角上密密麻麻站着一群人，全都是乡下人。他挤进人最多的地方，看看那些人的脸。不知为什么，他很想跟所有人说话儿。但是乡下人都不答理他，大家都东一伙西一簇地挤在一起，互相小声交谈着，乱哄哄的，不知在谈什么。他站了一会儿，想了想，就往右转弯，在人行道上朝B大街那个方向走去。过了广场，他走进了一条小胡同……
以前他也常经过这条很短的小胡同，胡同拐一个弯，从广场通往花园街。最近一段时间，每当他心里烦闷的时候，总是很想到这一带来溜达溜达，“好让心里更加烦闷”。现在他进了这条胡同，什么也不去想。这儿有一幢大房子，整幢房子里都是小酒馆和其他饮食店；从这些酒馆、饭店里不断跑出一些穿得像去“邻居家串门儿”的女人——不包头巾，只穿一件连衫裙。她们在人行道上两三个地方，主要是在底层入口处旁，成群地挤在一起，从入口走下两级台阶，就可以进入各种娱乐场所。这时从其中一个娱乐场所里正传出一阵阵喧闹声，在街上都听得清清楚楚：吉他声丁丁东东，有人在唱歌，笑语喧哗，十分快活。一大群女人挤在门口；有的坐在台阶上，另一些坐在人行道上，还有一些站在那里闲扯。旁边有个喝醉了的士兵，嘴里叼着支香烟，高声骂着街，在马路上闲荡，看来是想去什么地方，可是到底要去哪里，却想不起来了。一个衣衫褴褛的人正和另一个衣衫褴褛的人对骂，一个烂醉如泥的醉汉横躺在街道上。拉斯科利尼科夫在那一大群女人身旁站了下来。她们用嘶哑的声音交谈着；她们都穿着印花布连衫裙和山羊皮的皮鞋，都没包头巾。有一些已经四十多岁了，不过也有十六、七岁的，几乎个个的眼睛都被打伤了。
不知为什么，下边的歌声和喧闹声引起了他的注意……可以听到，那里，在一阵阵哈哈大笑和尖叫声中，在尖细的假噪唱出的雄壮歌曲和吉他的伴奏下，有人正用鞋后跟打着拍子，拼命跳舞。他全神贯注、阴郁而若有所思地听着，在门口弯下腰来，从人行道上好奇地往穿堂里面张望。
你呀，我漂亮的岗警呀，
你别无缘无故地打我呀！——
歌手尖细的歌声婉转动人。拉斯科利尼科夫很想听清唱的是什么歌，似乎全部问题都在于此了。
“是不是要进去呢？”他想。“他们在哈哈大笑。因为喝醉了。怎么，我要不要也喝它个一醉方休呢？”
“不进去吗，亲爱的老爷？”女人中有一个用相当响亮、还没有完全嘶哑的声音问。她还年轻，甚至不难看，——是这群女人中唯一的一个。
“瞧，你真漂亮啊！”他稍稍直起腰来，看了看她，回答说。
她嫣然一笑；她很爱听恭维话。
“您也挺漂亮啊，”她说。
“您多瘦啊！”另一个女人声音低沉地说，“刚从医院出来吗？”
“好像都是将军的女儿，不过都是翘鼻子！”突然一个微带醉意的乡下人走过来，插嘴说，他穿一件厚呢上衣，敞着怀，丑脸上带着狡猾的笑容。“瞧，好快活啊！”
“既然来了，就进去吧！”
“是要进去！很高兴进去！”
他跌跌撞撞地下去了。
拉斯科利尼科夫又往前走去。
“喂，老爷！”那女人在后面喊了一声。
“什么事？”
她感到不好意思了。
“亲爱的老爷，我永远高兴陪您玩几个钟头，可这会儿不知怎的在您面前却鼓不起勇气来。可爱的先生，请给我六个戈比，买杯酒喝！”
拉斯科利尼科夫随手掏出几个铜币：三枚五戈比的铜币。
“啊，您这位老爷心肠多好啊！”
“您叫什么？”
“您就问杜克莉达吧。”
“不，怎么能这样呢，”突然那群女人里有一个对着杜克莉达摇摇头，说。“我真不知道，怎么能这样跟人家要钱！要是我的话，我会臊得找个地缝钻进去……”
拉斯科利尼科夫好奇地望望那个说话的女人。这是个有麻子的女人，三十来岁，脸上给打得青一块紫一块的，上嘴唇也有点肿了。她安详而又严肃地说，责备杜克莉达。
“我是在哪儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫边往前走，边想，“我是在哪儿看到过，一个被判处死刑的人，在临刑前一小时说过，或者是想过，如果他必须在高高的悬崖绝壁上活着，而且是在仅能立足的那么狭窄的一小块地方站着，——四周却是万丈深渊，一片汪洋，永久的黑暗，永久的孤独，永不停息的狂风暴雨，——而且要终生站在这块只有一俄尺见方的地方，站一千年，永远站在那里，——他也宁愿这样活着，而不愿马上去死！①只要能活着，活着，活着！不管怎样活着，——只要活着就好！……多么正确的真理！人是卑鄙的！谁要是为此把人叫作卑鄙的东西，那么他也是卑鄙的，”过了一会儿，他又补上一句。
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①见雨果的《巴黎圣母院》。这里不是引用原文。
他走到了另一条街上。“噢，‘水晶宫’！不久前拉祖米欣谈到过‘水晶宫’。不过我到底想干什么？对了，看报！……
佐西莫夫说，在报上看到过……”
“有报纸吗？”他走进一家宽敞的、甚至颇为整洁的饭店，问道，这家饭店有好几间房间，不过相当空。有两三个顾客在喝茶，稍远一点儿的一间屋里坐着一伙人，一共有四个，在喝香槟，拉斯科利尼科夫觉得，好像扎苗托夫也在他们中间。
不过，从远处看，看不清楚。
“管他去！”他想。
“要伏特加吗？”跑堂的问。
“给来杯茶。你再给我拿几份报纸来，旧的，从五天前一直到今天的，都要，我给你几个酒钱。”
“知道了。这是今天的报纸。要伏特加吗？”
旧报纸和茶都拿来了。拉斯科利尼科夫坐下，翻着找起来：“伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——阿茨蒂克人——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔——巴尔托拉——马西莫——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔①……呸，见鬼！啊，这儿是新闻：一个女人摔下楼梯——一市民因酗酒丧生——沙区发生火灾——彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾②——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——马西莫……哦，在这里了……”
--------
①拉斯科利尼科夫看的是报纸上的广告。伊兹列尔是彼得堡郊外“矿泉”花园的主人，当时城里人都喜欢去“矿家”花园散步。一八六五年有两个侏儒到达彼得堡，一个叫马西莫，一个叫巴尔托拉，据说他们是墨西哥一个已经绝灭的土著民族阿茨蒂克人的后裔。当时报纸上广泛报道了这两个侏儒到达彼得堡的消息。
②彼得堡区与市中心区之间隔着涅瓦河。十九世纪六十年代那里都是木头房子，一八六五年夏季炎热，那里经常发生火灾。
他终于找到了他要找的，于是看起来了；一行行的字在他眼中跳动，然而他还是看完了所有“消息”，并贪婪地在以后几期报纸上寻找最新的补充报道。他翻报纸的时候，由于焦急慌乱，手在发抖。突然有人坐到他这张桌子这儿来，坐到了他的身边。他一看，是扎苗托夫，就是那个扎苗托夫，还是那个样子，戴着好几个镶宝石的戒指，挂看表链，搽过油的乌黑的鬈发梳成分头，穿一件很考究的坎肩，常礼服却穿旧了，衬衫也不是新的。他心情愉快，甚至是十分愉快而又温和地微笑着。因为喝了香槟，他那黝黑的脸稍有点儿红晕。
“怎么！您在这儿？”他困惑不解地说，那说话的语气，就好像他们是老相识似的，“昨天拉祖米欣还对我说，您一直昏迷不醒。这真奇怪！要知道，我去过您那儿……”
拉斯科利尼科夫知道他准会过来。他把报纸放到一边，转过脸来，面对着扎苗托夫。他嘴唇上挂着冷笑，在这冷笑中流露出一种前所未有的、恼怒的不耐烦神情。
“这我知道，知道您去过，”他回答，“听说过。您找过一只袜子……您知道吗，拉祖米欣非常喜欢您，他说，您和他一道到拉维扎•伊万诺芙娜那儿去过，谈起她的时候，您竭力向火药桶中尉使眼色，可他就是不明白您的意思，您记得吗？怎么会不明白呢——事情是明摆着的……不是吗？”
“他可真是个爱惹事生非的人！”
“火药桶吗？”
“不，您的朋友，拉祖米欣……”
“您过得挺不错啊，扎苗托夫先生；到最快活的地方来，不用花钱！刚才是谁给您斟的香槟？”
“我们……喝了两杯……又给斟上了吗？！”
“这是酬劳嘛！您拥有一切呀！”拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。
“没关系，心地善良的孩子，没关系！”他拍了拍扎苗托夫的肩膀，又补上一句，“我可不是故意惹您生气，‘而是因为我们要好，闹着玩儿’，老太婆的那个案子里，您那个工人用拳头捶米季卡的时候，也是这么说的。”
“可您是怎么知道的？”
“我嘛，也许比您知道得还多。”
“您这人真有点儿怪……大概，还病得很厉害。您不该出来……”
“您觉得我怪吗？”
“是的。怎么，您在看报？”
“是在看报。”
“有许多关于火灾的消息。”
“不，我不是在看火灾的消息，”这时他神秘地看了看扎苗托夫；嘲讽的微笑使他的嘴唇变了形。“不，我不是看火灾的消息，”他对扎苗托夫眨眨眼，接着说。“您承认吧，可爱的青年人，您很想知道我在看什么消息，是吧？”
“根本不想知道；我只不过这么问问。难道不能问吗？您怎么总是……”
“喂，您是个受过教育、有文化的人，是吧？”
“我读过中学六年级，”扎苗托夫神情有点儿庄重地说。
“六年级！唉，你呀，我的小宝贝儿！梳着分头，戴着镶宝石的戒指——是个有钱的人！嘿，一个多可爱的小孩子呀！”这时拉斯科利尼科夫对着扎苗托夫的脸神经质地狂笑起来。扎苗托夫急忙躲开了，倒不是因为觉得受了侮辱，而是大吃一惊。
“嘿，您多怪啊！”扎苗托夫神情十分严肃地又说了一遍。
“我觉得，您一直还在说胡话。”
“我说胡话？你胡扯，小宝贝儿！……那么，我很怪吗？
您觉得我很有意思，是吗？有点儿异常？”
“有点儿异常。”
“是不是谈谈，我在看什么，找什么？瞧，我叫他们拿来了这么多报纸！可疑，是吗？”
“好，您请说吧。”
“耳朵竖起来了吗？”
“竖起来，这是什么意思？”
“等以后再告诉您，竖起来是什么意思，而现在，我最亲爱的朋友，我向您声明……不，最好是：‘供认’……不，这也不对：‘我招供，您审问’——这就对了！那么我招供，我看的是，我关心的是……我找的是……我寻找的是……”拉斯科利尼科夫眯缝起眼来，等待着，“我寻找的是——而且就是为此才到这儿来的——谋杀那个老太婆、那个官太太的消息，”最后，他几乎把自己的脸紧凑到扎苗托夫的脸上，低声耳语似地说。扎苗托夫凝神注视着他，一动不动，也没把自己的脸躲开。后来扎苗托夫觉得，最奇怪的是，他们之间的沉默足足持续了一分钟，足足有一分钟，他们俩就这样互相对视着。
“您看这些消息，那又怎样呢？”扎苗托夫困惑不解而且不耐烦地高声说。“这关我什么事！这是什么意思？”
“就是那个老太婆，”拉斯科利尼科夫还是那样悄悄地接下去说，对扎苗托夫的高声叫喊丝毫不动声色，“就是那个老太婆，您记得吗，你们在办公室里谈论起她来的时候，我昏倒了。怎么，现在您明白了吗？”
“这是什么意思？什么……‘您明白了吗’？”扎苗托夫几乎是惊慌地问。
拉斯科利
Part 2 Chapter 7
An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle. . . . A mass of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and kept repeating:
"What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!"
Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured.
"Merciful heaven!" wailed the coachman, "what more could I do? If I'd been driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Everyone could see I was going along just like everybody else. A drunken man can't walk straight, we all know. . . . I saw him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy. . . . The horses are young and ready to take fright . . . they started, he screamed . . . that made them worse. That's how it happened!"
"That's just how it was," a voice in the crowd confirmed.
"He shouted, that's true, he shouted three times," another voice declared.
"Three times it was, we all heard it," shouted a third.
But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man's face. He recognised him.
"I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing to the front. "It's a government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel's house. . . . Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?" He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in violent agitation.
The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at once.
"Just here, three houses away," he said eagerly, "the house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter. . . . It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay! At least he will be looked after at home . . . they will help him at once. But he'll die before you get him to the hospital." He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman's hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people volunteered to help.
Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov's head and showing the way.
"This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round! I'll pay, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered.
Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him --heels together and toes turned out.
He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever.
"You wouldn't believe, you can't imagine, Polenka," she said, walking about the room, "what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa's house and how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that everyone who came to see him said, 'We look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch, as our governor!' When I . . . when . . ." she coughed violently, "oh, cursed life," she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast, "when I . . . when at the last ball . . . at the marshal's . . . Princess Bezzemelny saw me--who gave me the blessing when your father and I were married, Polenka--she asked at once 'Isn't that the pretty girl who danced the shawl dance at the breaking-up?' (You must mend that tear, you must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or to-morrow--cough, cough, cough--he will make the hole bigger," she articulated with effort.) "Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from Petersburg then . . . he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him that my heart had long been another's. That other was your father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry. . . . Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the stockings! Lida," said she to the youngest one, "you must manage without your chemise to-night . . . and lay your stockings out with it . . . I'll wash them together. . . . How is it that drunken vagabond doesn't come in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish- clout, he has torn it to rags! I'd do it all together, so as not to have to work two nights running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What's this?" she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men, who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. "What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!"
"Where are we to put him?" asked the policeman, looking round when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in.
"On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way," Raskolnikov showed him.
"Run over in the road! Drunk!" someone shouted in the passage.
Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and clutched at her, trembling all over.
Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna.
"For God's sake be calm, don't be frightened!" he said, speaking quickly, "he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don't be frightened, he will come to, I told them bring him here . . . I've been here already, you remember? He will come to; I'll pay!"
"He's done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she rushed to her husband.
Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man's head a pillow, which no one had thought of and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her.
Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one.
"I've sent for a doctor," he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, "don't be uneasy, I'll pay. Haven't you water? . . . and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as you can. . . . He is injured, but not killed, believe me. . . . We shall see what the doctor says!"
Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, in readiness for washing her children's and husband's linen that night. This washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov's request, but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood off Marmeladov's face.
Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began to realise that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation.
"Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run to Sonia, make haste. If you don't find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and that she is to come here at once . . . when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on the shawl."
"Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread out.
Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn't have dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lippevechsel's lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a fury.
"You might let him die in peace, at least," she shouted at the crowd, "is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well keep your hats on. . . . And there is one in his hat! . . . Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!"
Her cough choked her--but her reproaches were not without result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and compassion.
Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying that they'd no business to make a disturbance here.
"No business to die!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German.
"Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands, "your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!"
"Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying," Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might "remember her place" and even now could not deny herself this satisfaction). "Amalia Ludwigovna . . ."
"I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna."
"You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's laughing behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of 'they are at it again' was in fact audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall be informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew me as a girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often been a benefactor to him. Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and protectors, whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pride, knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna . . ."
All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes.
"My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding," she said in despair. "We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can," she cried to him.
Marmeladov recognised her.
"A priest," he articulated huskily.
Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame and exclaimed in despair:
"Oh, cursed life!"
"A priest," the dying man said again after a moment's silence.
"They've gone for him," Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, he obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier but not for long.
Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes.
"A-ah," he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something.
"What now?" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
"Barefoot, barefoot!" he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet.
"Be silent," Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, "you know why she is barefooted."
"Thank God, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.
The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man's chest. It was gashed, crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking yellowish-black bruise--a cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road.
"It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness," the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov.
"What do you think of him?" he asked.
"He will die immediately."
"Is there really no hope?"
"Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp. . . . His head is badly injured, too . . . Hm . . . I could bleed him if you like, but . . . it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes."
"Better bleed him then."
"If you like. . . . But I warn you it will be perfectly useless."
At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained.
All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy's shirt, and managed to cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene.
At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said, "She's coming, I met her in the street." Her mother made her kneel beside her.
Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death and despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door.
The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving.
"What am I to do with these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones.
"God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour," the priest began.
"Ach! He is merciful, but not to us."
"That's a sin, a sin, madam," observed the priest, shaking his head.
"And isn't that a sin?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man.
"Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings."
"You don't understand!" cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand. "And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he's dying! One less to keep!"
"You must forgive in the hour of death, that's a sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin."
Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him almost in a frenzy.
"Ah, father! That's words and only words! Forgive! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he'd have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children's and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I should have been darning them. That's how I spend my nights! . . . What's the use of talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!"
A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing.
Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him:
"Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!" And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia.
Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a corner.
"Who's that? Who's that?" he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing, and trying to sit up.
"Lie down! Lie do-own!" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering.
"Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without moving. He died in her arms.
"He's got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband's dead body. "Well, what's to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can I give them to-morrow to eat?"
Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.
"Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your husband told me all his life and circumstances. . . . Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends. . . . Allow me now . . . to do something . . . to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I think--and if that can be of any assistance to you, then . . . I . . . in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again . . . I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow. . . . Good-bye!"
And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.
"Ah, is that you?" he asked him.
"He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have been, all as it should have been. Don't worry the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible . . . you are a kind-hearted man, I know . . ." he added with a smile, looking straight in his face.
"But you are spattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.
"Yes . . . I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.
He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling "Wait! wait!"
He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child's thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give.
"Tell me, what is your name? . . . and where do you live?" she said hurriedly in a breathless voice.
He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not have said why.
"Who sent you?"
"Sister Sonia sent me," answered the girl, smiling still more brightly.
"I knew it was sister Sonia sent you."
"Mamma sent me, too . . . when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up, too, and said 'Run fast, Polenka.'"
"Do you love sister Sonia?"
"I love her more than anyone," Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver.
"And will you love me?"
By way of answer he saw the little girl's face approaching him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him.
"I am sorry for father," she said a moment later, raising her tear- stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. "It's nothing but misfortunes now," she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people.
"Did your father love you?"
"He loved Lida most," she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like grown-up people, "he loved her because she is little and because she is ill, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture, too," she added with dignity. "And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French, for it's time my education began."
"And do you know your prayers?"
"Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the 'Ave Maria' and then another prayer: 'Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonia,' and then another, 'Lord, forgive and bless our second father.' For our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do pray for the other as well."
"Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. 'And Thy servant Rodion,' nothing more."
"I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more.
Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in.
"Enough," he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. "I've done with fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven't I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her--and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for the reign of reason and light . . . and of will, and of strength . . . and now we will see! We will try our strength!" he added defiantly, as though challenging some power of darkness. "And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space!
"I am very weak at this moment, but . . . I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov's house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were not close by . . . let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction, too--no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength--that's what they don't know," he added proudly and self-confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every moment. What was it had happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, 'could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old woman.' Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of that.
"But I did ask her to remember 'Thy servant Rodion' in her prayers," the idea struck him. "Well, that was . . . in case of emergency," he added and laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits.
He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at Potchinkov's and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin's room was fairly large; the company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the landlady's servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up from the landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it.
"Listen," Raskolnikov hastened to say, "I've only just come to tell you you've won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to him. I can't come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so good evening and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow."
"Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak yourself, you must . . ."
"And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out?"
"He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle's, I expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited . . . I'll leave uncle with them, he is an invaluable person, pity I can't introduce you to him now. But confound them all now! They won't notice me, and I need a little fresh air, for you've come just in the nick of time--another two minutes and I should have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff . . . you simply can't imagine what men will say! Though why shouldn't you imagine? Don't we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them . . . that's the way to learn not to! . . . Wait a minute, I'll fetch Zossimov."
Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special interest in him; soon his face brightened.
"You must go to bed at once," he pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could, "and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago . . . a powder."
"Two, if you like," answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once.
"It's a good thing you are taking him home," observed Zossimov to Razumihin--"we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he's not at all amiss--a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn . . ."
"Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?" Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. "I won't tell you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he's got a notion in his head that you are . . . mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the first place, you've three times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad, you needn't care a hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what's brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation to-day with Zametov."
"Zametov told you all about it?"
"Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov. . . . Well, the fact is, Rodya . . . the point is . . . I am a little drunk now. . . . But that's . . . no matter . . . the point is that this idea . . . you understand? was just being hatched in their brains . . . you understand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble's burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the time-- that's between ourselves, brother; please don't let out a hint that you know of it; I've noticed he is a ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna's. But to-day, to-day it's all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that . . ."
Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too freely.
"I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint," said Raskolnikov.
"No need to explain that! And it wasn't the paint only: the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't believe! 'I am not worth his little finger,' he says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de Cristal, that was too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly--put out your tongue at him: 'There now, what do you make of it?' It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it's what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn't there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your acquaintance . . ."
"Ah! . . . he too . . . but why did they put me down as mad?"
"Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother. . . . What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it's clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances . . . and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness . . . I am a little drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own . . . I tell you, he's mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him . . ."
For half a minute both were silent.
"Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly: I've just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died . . . I gave them all my money . . . and besides I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same . . . in fact I saw someone else there . . . with a flame-coloured feather . . . but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me . . . we shall be at the stairs directly . . ."
"What's the matter? What's the matter with you?" Razumihin asked anxiously.
"I am a little giddy, but that's not the point, I am so sad, so sad . . . like a woman. Look, what's that? Look, look!"
"What is it?"
"Don't you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack . . ."
They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the landlady's door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov's garret.
"Queer! Nastasya, perhaps," observed Razumihin.
"She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago, but . . . I don't care! Good-bye!"
"What do you mean? I am coming with you, we'll come in together!"
"I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!"
"What's the matter with you, Rodya?"
"Nothing . . . come along . . . you shall be witness."
They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "Ah, I've upset him with my chatter!" he muttered to himself.
When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.
"What is it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.
His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his "running away" to-day, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! "Good Heavens, what had become of him?" Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a half.
A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov's entrance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting.
Anxiety, cries of horror, moans . . . Razumihin who was standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the sofa.
"It's nothing, nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister--"it's only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is all right again!"
And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that "he is all right again." The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during his illness, by this "very competent young man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia.
 
街道当中停着一辆十分考究、显然是老爷们坐的四轮马车，车上套着两匹灰色的烈马；车上没有乘客，车夫也已经从自己座位上下来，站在一旁；有人拉住马的笼头。四周挤了一大群人，站在最前面的是几个警察。其中一个警察提着盏点亮的提灯，弯着腰，用提灯照着马路上车轮旁边的什么东西。大家都在谈论，叫喊，叹息；车夫似乎感到困惑不解，不时重复说：
“真倒楣！上帝啊，真倒楣啊！”
拉斯科利尼科夫尽可能挤进人群，终于看到了那个引起骚乱和好奇的对象。地上躺着一个刚刚被马踩伤的人，看来已经失去知觉，那人穿得很差，但衣服却是“高贵的”，浑身是血。脸上、头上鲜血直淌；脸给踩坏了，皮肤撕破了，已经完全变了样，看得出来，踩得不轻。
“天哪！”车夫数数落落地哭着说， “这可叫人怎么提防啊！要是我把车赶得飞快，要么是没喊他，那还可以怪我，可是我赶得不慌不忙，不快不慢。大家都看到的：别人怎样赶，我也怎样赶。喝醉的人不能点蜡烛——这大家都知道！……我看到他穿马路的时候摇摇晃晃，差点儿没有跌倒，——我对他喊了一声，又喊了一声，再喊一声，还勒住了马；他却径直倒到了马蹄底下！是他故意的吗，要么是他已经喝得烂醉了……马还小，容易受惊，——它们猛一拉，他大喊一声——
它们更害怕了……这样一来，就闯了祸。”
“事情就是这样！”人群中有人高声作证。
“他是喊过，这是实话，向他喊了三次，”另一个声音响应。
“的确是喊了三次，大家都听到的，”第三个大声嚷。
不过车夫并不十分沮丧和惊恐。看得出来，马车属于一个有钱有势的主人，而他正在什么地方等着马车；警察当然要考虑到这个情况，设法顺利解决这次车祸。目前要做的是，把受伤的人送到警察分局，然后再送进医院去。谁也不知道他的名字。
这时拉斯科利尼科夫挤了进来，变下腰，凑得更近一些。
突然灯光照亮了这个不幸的人的脸；他认出了他。
“我认识他，我认识！”他完全挤上前去，高声大喊，“这是位官员，退职的，九等文官，马尔梅拉多夫！他就住在这儿附近，住在科泽尔的房子里……赶快去请医生！我付钱，这就是！”他从口袋里掏出钱来，给一个警察看。他异常激动不安。
有人认出了被踩伤的人，警察对此十分满意。拉斯科利尼科夫说出了自己的名字，把自己的地址告诉了他们，并且竭力劝说警察赶快把失去知觉的马尔梅拉多夫抬回家去，他那样尽心竭力，就像给踩伤的是他的亲爹一样。
“就在这儿，过去三幢房子，”他急急忙忙地说， “科泽尔的房子，一个很有钱的德国人的房子……刚刚他大概是喝醉了，要回家去。我认识他……他是个酒鬼……他的家就在那里，有妻子，几个孩子，还有个女儿。一时半会儿还送不进医院，可这儿，这幢房子里大概有个医生！我付钱，我付钱！……到底有自己人照料，马上就会进行急救，不然，不等送到医院，他就会死了……”
他甚至已经不让人看到，悄悄地把钱塞到警察手里；其实事情很明显，这样做是合情合理的，无论如何可以就近采取措施，进行急救。把受伤的人抬起来，抬走了；有人自愿帮忙。科泽尔的房子离这儿只有三十来步远。拉斯科利尼科夫跟在后面，小心翼翼地扶着他的头，给人们指路。
“这边。往这边走！上楼梯的时候得头朝上抬着；转弯……
对了！我付钱，我谢谢大家，”他含糊不清地说。
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜跟往常一样，一空下来，立刻双臂交叉紧紧抱在胸前，在自己那间小屋里踱来踱去，从窗前走到炉子前，然后再走回去，自言自语，不断地咳嗽。最近她越来越经常和自己的大女儿、十岁的波莲卡谈话，说得越来越多，尽管有很多事情波莲卡还听不懂，可是她倒很懂得母亲需要什么，因此总是用自己那双聪明的大眼睛注视着母亲，竭力装作什么都懂的样子。这一次波莲卡正在给一整天都觉得不舒服的小弟弟脱衣服，让他躺下睡觉。小男孩等着给他换衬衣，换下来的衬衣要在夜里洗掉，他默默地坐在椅子上，神情严肃，一动不动地伸直两条小腿，脚后跟紧紧并拢，脚尖往两边分开。他在听妈妈和姐姐说话儿，撅着小嘴，瞪着眼睛，一动不动，完全像一个乖孩子临睡前坐着让人给脱衣服时通常应有的样子。一个比他还小的小姑娘，穿得完全破破烂烂，正站在屏风旁，等着给她脱衣服。通楼梯的房门开着，这样可以多少吹散从别的房间里像波浪般涌来的烟草的烟雾，烟味呛得那个可怜的、害肺病的女人不停地咳嗽，咳得很久很久，痛苦不堪。这一个星期以来，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜似乎变得更瘦，双颊上的红晕也比以前更鲜艳了。
“你不会相信，你也无法想象，波莲卡，”她一边在屋里走，一边说，“在我爸爸家里的时候，我们过的是多么快乐、多么阔绰的生活，这个酒鬼害得我好苦，也害了你们大家！我爸爸是位五等文官 ①，已经差不多是省长了；他只差一步就可以当省长了，所以大家都来拜访他，说：‘伊万•米哈依洛维奇，我们已经把您看作是我们的省长了。’当我……咳，咳！当我……咳——咳——咳……噢，该死的生活！”她大声叫喊，双手抓住胸口，想把痰吐出来，“当我，……唉，在最后一次舞会上……在首席贵族的官邸里……别兹泽梅利娜娅公爵夫人看到了我，——后来，我嫁给你爸爸的时候，波莉娅，公爵夫人曾为我祝福，——立刻就问：‘这是不是在毕业典礼上跳披巾舞的那个可爱的姑娘？’……（破了的地方得缝起来；你去拿针来，照我教你的那样，这就把它补好，要不，明天……咳！明天……咳——咳——咳！……会破得更大！” 她拼命用力喊出来）……“那时候宫廷侍从谢戈利斯基公爵刚从彼得堡来，……跟我跳了马祖卡舞，第二天就想来向我求婚：可是我婉言谢绝了，说，我的心早已属于别人。这个别人就是你的父亲，波莉娅；我爸爸非常生气，……水准备好了吗？好，把衬衫拿来；袜子呢？……莉达，”她对小女儿说，“这一夜你就不穿衬衣睡吧；随便睡一夜……把袜子也放到旁边……一道洗……这个流浪汉怎么还不回来，醉鬼！他把衬衫都穿得像块抹布了，全撕破了……最好一道洗掉，省得一连两夜都得受罪！上帝呀！咳——咳——咳——咳！又咳了！这是怎么回事！”她大声叫喊，朝站在穿堂里的人群望了望，望了望不知抬着什么挤进她屋里来的那些人。“这是什么？抬的是什么？上帝呀！”
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①五等文官可以作副省长。
“放到哪儿？”把浑身血污、失去知觉的马尔梅拉多夫抬进屋里以后，一个警察问，说着朝四下里看了看。
“放到沙发上！就放到沙发上，头放在这儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫指指沙发。
“在街上给轧伤了！醉鬼！”穿堂里有人叫喊。
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜站在那里，脸色煞白，呼吸困难。孩子们都吓坏了。小莉多奇卡大喊一声，扑到波莲卡身上，抱住她，浑身索索发抖。
把马尔梅拉多夫放到沙发上以后，拉斯科利尼科夫跑到卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜跟前：
“看在上帝份上，请您放心，不要惊慌！”他说得又急又快，“他穿马路，让马车轧伤了，您别着急，他会醒过来的，我叫他们抬到这儿来……我来过你们家，您记得吗……他会醒过来的，我付钱！”
“他达到目的了！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜绝望地大喊一声，扑到丈夫身边。
拉斯科利尼科夫很快就发觉，这个女人不是那种会立刻昏倒的女人。一转眼的工夫，这个惨遭不幸的人头底下就出现了一个枕头——这是无论谁还都没想到的；卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜动手给他脱掉外衣，察看伤口，忙碌着，并没有惊慌失措，她忘记了自己，咬紧发抖的嘴唇，压制着就要从胸中冲出来的叫喊。
这时拉斯科利尼科夫劝说一个人赶快去请医生。原来医生就住在附近，只隔着一幢房子。
“我叫人请医生去了，”他对卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜反复说，“请别着急，我来付钱。有水吗？……给我条餐巾，毛巾也行，随便什么都行，快点儿；还不知道他伤势怎么样……他只是受了伤，没有被轧死，请您相信……看医主会怎么说吧！”
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜跑到窗前；那里，墙角落里一把压坏的椅子上有一大瓦盆水，是准备夜里给孩子们和丈夫洗衣服的。夜里洗衣服，都是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜亲自动手，至少一星期洗两次，有时洗得更勤，因为已经弄到这种地步，换洗的内衣已经几乎根本没有了，全家每人只有一件内衣，而对于不干净，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜却是无法容忍的。她宁愿等大家都睡了以后，自己来干这件力不胜任的活儿，累得要死，为的是到早晨能在拉在屋里的绳上把湿内衣晾干，让大家都穿上干净内衣，而不愿看到家里脏得要命。她应拉斯科利尼科夫的要求，端起那盆水，想要端过来递给他，可是差点儿没有连盆一起摔倒。不过拉斯科利尼科夫已经找到一条毛巾，用水把它浸湿，动手给马尔梅拉多夫擦净血迹斑斑的脸。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜站在那儿，痛苦地喘着气，双手紧紧捂着胸口。她自己也需要救护了。拉斯科利尼科夫开始明白，他劝人们把受伤的人抬到这儿来，也许做得并不好。
那个警察也困惑地站着。
“波莉娅！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜喊了一声，“快跑去找索尼娅。要是她不在家，反正一样，你就对邻居说，父亲叫马给踩伤了，叫她立刻到这儿来……一回家就来。快点儿，波莉娅！给，包上头巾！”
“拼命跑！”小男孩突然从椅子上喊了一声，说罢又恢复了原来的姿势，笔直地坐在椅子上，一声不响，瞪着眼睛，脚后跟并拢①，脚尖朝两边分开。
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①原文是“脚后跟朝前”。但前面曾说，他是并拢脚后跟。并拢脚后跟似乎比较合理。
这时屋里挤满了人，真的是连针都插不进去。警察都走了，只有一个暂时还留在那儿，竭力把从楼梯上挤进来的人又赶回到楼梯上去。可是利佩韦赫泽尔太太的所有房客几乎都从里屋里跑了出来，起初还只是挤在门口，后来却成群地涌进屋里来。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜气坏了。
“至少得让人安安静静地死吧！”她对着那群人叫喊，“你们倒有戏看了！还叼着香烟呢！咳——咳——咳！请再戴着帽子进来吧！……还真有个人戴着帽子呢……出去！至少也该尊敬死人的遗体啊！”
咳嗽憋得她喘不过气来，不过她的叫喊倒发生了作用。显然，他们对卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜甚至有点儿害怕了；那些房客都怀着一种打心眼儿里感到满意的奇怪心情，一个跟一个地挤回门口去了；有人突然遇到不幸的时候，就是在他最亲近的亲人中，也毫无例外地会发觉这种奇怪的心情，尽管他们对亲人的不幸真心实意地感到惋惜，并深表同情。
不过从门外传来的谈话声中提到了医院，还说，不该把这儿搅得不得安宁，完全无此必要。
“不该让人死！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜高声叫嚷，已经跑过去，打开房门，想要把他们痛骂一顿，却在门口撞到了利佩韦赫泽尔太太，她刚刚听说这件不幸的事，立刻跑来整顿秩序。这是一个非常喜欢吵架、最会胡搅蛮缠的德国女人。
“哎呀，我的天哪！”她双手一拍，“您的酒鬼丈夫叫马给踩死了。应该把他送到医院去。我是房东！”
“阿玛莉娅•柳德维戈芙娜！请您回想一下您说的活，”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜高傲地说（她和女房东说话，总是用高傲的语气，好让她“记住自己的地位”，就连现在也不能放弃让自己得到这种快乐的机会），“阿玛莉娅•柳德维戈芙娜……”
“我一劳容易（永逸）地告诉您，您永远别敢再叫我阿玛莉•柳德维戈芙娜了，我是阿玛莉—伊万！”
“您不是阿玛莉—伊万，而是阿玛莉娅•柳德维戈芙娜，因为我不是您那些下流无耻、惯于拍马逢迎的人，我可不是像列别贾特尼科夫先生那样的人，瞧，现在他正在门外笑呢（门外真的传来了笑声和叫喊声：‘吵起来了！’），所以我要永远管您叫阿玛莉娅•柳德维戈芙娜，虽说我根本弄不懂，您为什么不喜欢这个名字。您自己看到了，谢苗•扎哈罗维奇出了什么事；他快死了。请您立刻把这道门关上，别让任何人到这里来。至少也要让人安安静静地死！不然的话，请您相信，明天总督大人就会知道您的行为。还在我作姑娘的时候，公爵大人就认识我，而且对谢苗•扎哈罗维奇印象很深，还帮过他好多次忙呢。大家都知道，谢苗•扎哈罗维奇有很多朋友和靠山，不过因为他觉得自己有这个倒楣的弱点，出于高尚的自尊心，自己不再去找他们了，可是现在（她指指拉斯科利尼科夫）有一位慷慨的年轻人在帮助我们，他有钱，而且交际很广，谢苗•扎哈罗维奇从小就认识他，请您相信，阿玛莉娅•柳德维戈芙娜……”
这些话都说得非常快，而且越说越快，但是一阵咳嗽一下子打断了卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜动人的雄辩。这时那个快要咽气的人醒过来了，呻吟起来，她赶紧跑到了他的身边。受伤的人睁开眼睛，还没认出、也不明白，弯着腰站在他面前的是什么人，于是仔细瞅着拉斯科利尼科夫。他呼吸困难，深深地吸气，间隔很长时间；嘴角上流出鲜血；前额上冒出冷汗。他没认出拉斯科利尼科夫，眼珠不安地转动起来。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜看着他，目光悲哀而严厉，泪珠止不住从眼里流淌出来。
“我的天哪！他的整个胸膛全都给轧伤了！血，血！”她绝望地说。“得把他上身的内衣全脱下来！你稍微侧转身去，谢苗•扎哈罗维奇，如果你还能动的话，”她对他大声喊。
马尔梅拉多夫认出了她。
“叫神甫来！”他声音嘶哑地说。
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜走到窗前，前额靠在窗框上，绝望地高声大喊：
“噢，该死的生活！”
“叫神甫来！”沉默了一会儿以后，快咽气的人又说。
“去——了！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜对着他大声喊；他听了她的叫喊，不作声了。他用怯生生而又忧郁的目光寻找她；她又回到他跟前来，站在床头旁，他稍微安静了些，可是时间不长。不久他的眼睛停留在小莉多奇卡（他最宠爱的小女儿）身上，她躲在墙角落里，像发病一样，浑身簌簌发抖，用她那孩子式的惊讶的目光凝神注视着他。
“啊……啊……”他焦急地指指她。他想要说什么。
“还想说什么？”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜高声叫喊。
“她光着脚！脚光着呢！”他含糊不清地说，同时用好似疯人的目光望着小姑娘光着的小脚。
“别—说—了！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜气愤地叫喊，“你自己知道，她的脚为什么光着！”
“谢天谢地，医生来了！”高兴起来的拉斯科利尼科夫高声说。
医生进来了，是个衣着整洁的小老头儿，德国人，他带着怀疑的神情朝四下里望了望，走到受伤的人跟前，按了按脉，又仔细摸摸他的头，在卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的帮助下，解开浸透鲜血的衬衣，让受伤的人胸部裸露出来。整个胸部全都血肉模糊，没有一点完好的地方；右侧的几根肋骨断了。左侧，正好在心脏的部位，有老大一块最让人担心的、黑中透黄的伤痕，这是马蹄猛踩下去造成的重伤。医生皱起眉头。那个警察对他说，被轧伤的人给卷到了车轮底下，在马路上滚动着，给拖了三十来步远。
“奇怪，他怎么还会醒过来呢，”医生悄悄地对拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“您说什么？”后者问。
“这就要死了。”
“难道没有任何希望了？”
“一点儿也没有！只剩最后一口气了……况且头部伤势那么重……嗯哼。也许可以放血……不过……这也没有用。五分钟或者十分钟以后，必死无疑。”
“那么您最好还是给放血吧！”
“好吧……不过我预先告诉您，这完全无济于事。”
这时又听到一阵脚步声，穿堂里的人群让开了，一个头发斑白的小老头儿——拿着圣餐①的神甫出现在门口。还在街上的时候，警察就去请他了。医生立刻把座位让给他，并且意味深长地和他交换了一下眼色。拉斯科利尼科夫请求医生至少再稍等一会儿。医生耸耸肩，留了下来。
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①面包和葡萄酒，象征耶稣的肉体和血液。
大家都往后退开了。忏悔持续的时间很短。就要咽气的人未必十分清楚这是在做什么；他只能发出一些断断续续、含糊不清的声音。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜抱起莉多奇卡，把小男孩从椅子上拉下来，走到墙角落里，炉子跟前，跪下来，让两个孩子跪在她前面。小姑娘只是簌簌地发抖，小男孩却用裸露着的膝盖跪在地下，不慌不忙地抬起一只小手，从肩到腰画着十字，磕头时前额都碰到地上，看来，这使他得到某种特殊的乐趣。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜咬住嘴唇，强忍着眼泪；她也在祈祷，偶尔拉拉孩子身上的衬衫，把它拉正，一边仍然跪着祈祷，一边从抽屉柜上拿过一块三角头巾，披到小姑娘裸露得太多的肩膀上。这时里屋的房门又被那些好奇的人打开了。穿堂里看热闹的人越来越拥挤，这幢楼上的房客全都挤在那里，不过他们都没有跨进这间房子的门坎。只有一段蜡烛头照耀着这个场面。
这时跑去叫姐姐的波莲卡穿过人群，从穿堂里迅速挤了进来。她进来了，由于急急奔跑，还在气喘吁吁，她摘下头巾，用眼睛寻找母亲，走到她跟前说：“姐姐来了！在街上遇到了她！”母亲让她也跪在自己身边。一个姑娘悄无声息、怯生生地从人群中挤了过来，她突然出现在这间屋里，出现在贫困、破衣烂衫、死亡和绝望之中，让人感到奇怪。她穿的也是褴褛的衣服；她的衣服都很便宜，不过像街头妓女那样打扮得颇为入时，合乎在她们那个特殊社会里形成的趣味和规矩，而且带有明显、可耻的露骨的目的。索尼娅在穿堂门口站住了，没有跨进门坎，好像不好意思地看着屋里，似乎什么也没看明白，而且忘记了她穿的那件几经转手倒卖、她才买到手、可是在这里却有伤大雅的彩色绸衣，绸衣后面的下摆长得出奇，让人觉得好笑，忘记了那条十分宽大、堵住了房门的钟式裙，忘记了脚上的那双浅色皮鞋，忘记了夜里并不需要、可她还是带着的那把奥姆布列尔①，也忘记了那顶插着根鲜艳的火红色羽毛、滑稽可笑的圆草帽。从这顶轻浮地歪戴着的帽子底下露出一张瘦削、苍白、惊恐的小脸，嘴张着，两只眼睛吓得呆呆地一动不动。索尼娅个子不高，有十七、八岁了，人很瘦，不过是个相当好看的淡黄色头发的姑娘，有一双十分漂亮的淡蓝色眼睛。她凝神注视着床，注视着神甫；由于赶了一阵路，她也气喘吁吁的。最后，人群中一阵窃窃私语以及有人说的几句话，大概都飞进了她的耳朵里。她低下头，一步跨过门坎，到了屋里，不过仍然站在门口。
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①法文ombrelle，“小伞”之意。
忏悔和授圣餐的仪式都结束了。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜又走到丈夫床前。神甫后退几步，走的时候对卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜说了几句临别赠言和安慰她的话。
“叫我怎么安置这些孩子呢？”她指着孩子们，很不客气而又气愤地打断了他。
“上帝是仁慈的；信赖至高无上的上帝的帮助吧，”神甫说。
“哼！仁慈的，可是不管我们！”
“这是罪过，罪过，夫人，”神甫摇着头说。
“可这不是罪过吗？”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜指着奄奄一息的丈夫，高声叫喊。
“也许，那些无意中给你们造成不幸的人同意给予补偿，至少会赔偿你们失去的收入……”
Part 3 Chapter 1
Raskolnikov got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to Razumihin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's.
"Go home . . . with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin, "good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything . . . Is it long since you arrived?"
"This evening, Rodya," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the train was awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here, near you . . ."
"Don't torture me!" he said with a gesture of irritation.
"I will stay with him," cried Razumihin, "I won't leave him for a moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts' content! My uncle is presiding there."
"How, how can I thank you!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once more pressing Razumihin's hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again.
"I can't have it! I can't have it!" he repeated irritably, "don't worry me! Enough, go away . . . I can't stand it!"
"Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute," Dounia whispered in dismay; "we are distressing him, that's evident."
"Mayn't I look at him after three years?" wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Stay," he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get muddled. . . . Have you seen Luzhin?"
"No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly.
"Yes . . . he was so kind . . . Dounia, I promised Luzhin I'd throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell. . . ."
"Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don't mean to tell us . . ." Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dounia.
Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense.
"Dounia," Raskolnikov continued with an effort, "I don't want that marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name again."
"Good Heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Brother, think what you are saying!" Avdotya Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. "You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired," she added gently.
"You think I am delirious? No . . . You are marrying Luzhin for /my/ sake. But I won't accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before to-morrow, to refuse him . . . Let me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!"
"That I can't do!" the girl cried, offended, "what right have you . . ."
"Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow . . . Don't you see . . ." the mother interposed in dismay. "Better come away!"
"He is raving," Razumihin cried tipsily, "or how would he dare! To-morrow all this nonsense will be over . . . to-day he certainly did drive him away. That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too. . . . He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest- fallen. . . ."
"Then it's true?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Good-bye till to-morrow, brother," said Dounia compassionately--"let us go, mother . . . Good-bye, Rodya."
"Do you hear, sister," he repeated after them, making a last effort, "I am not delirious; this marriage is--an infamy. Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn't . . . one is enough . . . and though I am a scoundrel, I wouldn't own such a sister. It's me or Luzhin! Go now. . . ."
"But you're out of your mind! Despot!" roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her glance.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.
"Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered in despair to Razumihin. "I will stay somewhere here . . . escort Dounia home."
"You'll spoil everything," Razumihin answered in the same whisper, losing patience--"come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you," he went on in a half whisper on the stairs- "that he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do himself some mischief. . . ."
"What are you saying?"
"And Avdotya Romanovna can't possibly be left in those lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch couldn't find you better lodgings . . . But you know I've had a little to drink, and that's what makes me . . . swear; don't mind it. . . ."
"But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, "Ill beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I can't leave him like that, I cannot!"
This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady's door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving them reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all the closer to him. If they'd told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodya she looked on his presence as providential, and was unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasya's account of her brother's queer friend, which prevented her from trying to run away from him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She realised, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of Razumihin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with.
"You can't go to the landlady, that's perfect nonsense!" he cried. "If you stay, though you are his mother, you'll drive him to a frenzy, and then goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do: Nastasya will stay with him now, and I'll conduct you both home, you can't be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that way. . . . But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honour, I'll bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I'll run home in a twinkling--I've a lot of friends there, all drunk--I'll fetch Zossimov--that's the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is not drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I'll drag him to Rodya, and then to you, so that you'll get two reports in the hour--from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that's a very different thing from my account of him! If there's anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you here myself, but, if it's all right, you go to bed. And I'll spend the night here, in the passage, he won't hear me, and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady's, to be at hand. Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the question; it's all right for me, but it's out of the question for you: she wouldn't take you, for she's . . . for she's a fool . . . She'd be jealous on my account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know . . . of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too! . . . No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?"
"Let us go, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna, "he will certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodya already, and if the doctor really will consent to spend the night here, what could be better?"
"You see, you . . . you . . . understand me, because you are an angel!" Razumihin cried in ecstasy, "let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I'll come in a quarter of an hour."
Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent and good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in such a condition. . . .
"Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!" Razumihin broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge steps, so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, however. "Nonsense! That is . . . I am drunk like a fool, but that's not it; I am not drunk from wine. It's seeing you has turned my head . . . But don't mind me! Don't take any notice: I am talking nonsense, I am not worthy of you. . . . I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I've taken you home, I'll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right. . . . If only you knew how I love you both! Don't laugh, and don't be angry! You may be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend, too, I want to be . . . I had a presentiment . . . Last year there was a moment . . . though it wasn't a presentiment really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan't sleep all night . . . Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad . . . that's why he mustn't be irritated."
"What do you say?" cried the mother.
"Did the doctor really say that?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed.
"Yes, but it's not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here. . . . Ah! It would have been better if you had come to-morrow. It's a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not drunk! And I shan't be drunk. . . . And what made me get so tight? Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I've sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I've left my uncle to preside. Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and that's just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike themselves as they can. That's what they regard as the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is . . ."
"Listen!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames.
"What do you think?" shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, "you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That's man's one privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can't even make mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I'll kiss you for it. To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's. In the first case you are a man, in the second you're no better than a bird. Truth won't escape you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other people's ideas, it's what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?" cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking the two ladies' hands.
"Oh, mercy, I do not know," cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Yes, yes . . . though I don't agree with you in everything," added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so painfully.
"Yes, you say yes . . . well after that you . . . you . . ." he cried in a transport, "you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense . . . and perfection. Give me your hand . . . you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on my knees . . ." and he fell on his knees on the pavement, fortunately at that time deserted.
"Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed.
"Get up, get up!" said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset.
"Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That's it! Enough! I get up and we'll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and drunk . . . and I am ashamed. . . . I am not worthy to love you, but to do homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I've done homage. . . . Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away. . . . How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodgings! It's a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes? Well, then, I'll tell you, your /fiance/ is a scoundrel."
"Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting . . ." Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning.
"Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it," Razumihin made haste to apologise. "But . . . but you can't be angry with me for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because . . . hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I'm in . . . hm! Well, anyway, I won't say why, I daren't. . . . But we all saw to-day when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the barber's, not because he was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint and a buffoon. That's evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?" he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, "though all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch . . . is not on the right path. Though I've been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them all . . . though I don't respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and that bullock Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it's all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let's go on. I know this corridor, I've been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3. . . . Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don't let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I'll come back with news, and half an hour later I'll bring Zossimov, you'll see! Good- bye, I'll run."
"Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.
"Don't worry yourself, mother," said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape. "God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has done for Rodya. . . ."
"Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself to leave Rodya? . . . And how different, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us. . . ."
Tears came into her eyes.
"No, it's not that, mother. You didn't see, you were crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness--that's the reason."
"Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he talked to you, Dounia!" said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia's standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. "I am sure he will think better of it to-morrow," she added, probing her further.
"And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow . . . about that," Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin's return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna's and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter's mood at such moments.
Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant--the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother's; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother's insolent, cruel and ungrateful words--and his fate was sealed.
He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow's foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross.
Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin's departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back.
"I won't come in, I haven't time," he hastened to say when the door was opened. "He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya's with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you'd better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything. . . ."
And he ran off down the corridor.
"What a very competent and . . . devoted young man!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.
"He seems a splendid person!" Avdotya Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room.
It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin's promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov's, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the patient's illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, "was, so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas . . . and so on." Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna's anxiously and timidly inquiring as to "some suspicion of insanity," he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania--he, Zossimov, was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine--but that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been in delirium and . . . and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favourable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, "if only all fresh shocks can be avoided," he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself.
"We'll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!" Razumihin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. "I'll be with you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my report."
"That's a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna," remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street.
"Fetching? You said fetching?" roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. "If you ever dare. . . . Do you understand? Do you understand?" he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. "Do you hear?"
"Let me go, you drunken devil," said Zossimov, struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.
"Of course, I am an ass," he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, "but still . . . you are another."
"No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly."
They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov's lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable anxiety.
"Listen," he said, "you're a first-rate fellow, but among your other failings, you're a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you're getting fat and lazy and can't deny yourself anything--and I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt. You've let yourself get so slack that I don't know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You--a doctor--sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients! In another three or four years you won't get up for your patients . . . But hang it all, that's not the point! . . . You are going to spend to-night in the landlady's flat here. (Hard work I've had to persuade her!) And I'll be in the kitchen. So here's a chance for you to get to know her better. . . . It's not as you think! There's not a trace of anything of the sort, brother . . .!"
"But I don't think!"
"Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue . . . and yet she's sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that's unholy! She's most prepossessing . . . I'll repay you, I'll do anything. . . ."
Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.
"Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?"
"It won't be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You're a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won't regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: 'I shed hot tears.' She likes the genuine article--and well, it all began with that song; Now you're a regular performer, a /maitre/, a Rubinstein. . . . I assure you, you won't regret it!"
"But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?"
"Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not that sort at all. . . . Tchebarov tried that. . . ."
"Well then, drop her!"
"But I can't drop her like that!"
"Why can't you?"
"Well, I can't, that's all about it! There's an element of attraction here, brother."
"Then why have you fascinated her?"
"I haven't fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won't care a straw whether it's you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing. . . . I can't explain the position, brother . . . look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now . . . begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I'm not joking, I'm in earnest, it'll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)--she just sighed and perspired! And you mustn't talk of love--she's bashful to hysterics--but just let her see you can't tear yourself away--that's enough. It's fearfully comfortable; you're quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you're careful."
"But what do I want with her?"
"Ach, I can't make you understand! You see, you are made for each other! I have often been reminded of you! . . . You'll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it's sooner or later? There's the feather-bed element here, brother--ach! and not only that! There's an attraction here--here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish- pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on--as snug as though you were dead, and yet you're alive--the advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I'm talking, it's bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I'll go in and look at him. But there's no need, it's all right. Don't you worry yourself, yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice anything--delirium or fever--wake me at once. But there can't be. . . ."
 
拉斯科利尼科夫欠起身来，坐到沙发上。
拉祖米欣正滔滔不绝地劝慰母亲和妹妹，他的话前言不搭后语，然而热情洋溢；拉斯科利尼科夫虚弱无力地朝拉祖米欣摆摆手，叫他别再说下去了，然后拉住母亲和妹妹的手，一会儿看看这个，一会儿看看那个，有两分钟光景默默不语。他的目光让母亲感到害怕了。他的目光中透露出一种强烈到痛苦程度的感情，但同时神情又是呆滞的，甚至几乎是疯狂的。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜哭了。
阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜面色苍白；她的手在哥哥的手里簌簌发抖。
“你们回去吧，……跟他一道走，”他声音断断续续地说着指指拉祖米欣，“到明天，明天一切……你们早就来了吗？”
“晚上到的，罗佳，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜回答，“火车晚点，迟了很久。不过，罗佳，无论如何我现在也不离开你。我就在这儿住一夜，在旁边守着你……”
“别折磨我了！”他说，恼怒地挥了挥手。
“我留下来守着他！”拉祖米欣高声说，“一分钟也不离开他，我那儿那些人，叫他们都见鬼去，让他们去生气好了！那里有我舅舅全权处理。”
“叫我怎么，怎么感谢您呢！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说，又紧紧握住拉祖米欣的手，但是拉斯科利尼科夫又打断了她的话：
“我受不了，我受不了，”他恼怒地反复说，“请你们别折磨我！够了，你们走吧……我受不了！……”
“咱们走吧，妈妈，哪怕从屋里出去一会儿也好，”惊恐的杜尼娅悄悄地说，“我们让他觉得很痛苦，这可以看得出来。”
“难道三年没见，我都不能好好地看看他吗！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜哭了起来。
“等一等！”他又叫住了她们，“你们老是打断我，我的思想给搞乱了……你们见到卢任了吗？”
“没有，罗佳，不过他已经知道我们来了。我们听说，彼得•彼特罗维奇心那么好，今天来看过你，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜有点儿胆怯地补充说。
“是啊……他的心那么好……杜尼娅，不久前我对卢任说，我要把他赶下楼去，我把他赶走了……”
“罗佳，你怎么了！你，大概……你不是想要说，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜惊恐地说，但是看看杜尼娅，又把话咽回去了。
阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜凝神注视着哥哥，等着他往下说。她俩已经事先从娜斯塔西娅那里听说过发生争吵的事，后者就她所理解的，尽可能把事情的经过告诉了她们，她们都困惑不解，感到异常痛苦，等着他说下去。
“杜尼娅，”拉斯科利尼科夫勉强控制着自己，接着说，“我不赞成这门婚事，所以你应当明天一开口就拒绝卢任，叫他再也不要来了。”
“我的天哪！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜喊了一声。
“哥哥，你想想看，你说的是什么！”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜开始气愤地说，但是又立刻忍住了。“也许你现在身体不好，你累了，”她简短地说。
“我在说胡话吗？不……你是为了我才嫁给卢任的。可是我不接受你的牺牲。所以，明天以前，你就写信……拒绝他……明天早晨让我看看，这事就了结了！”
“这我不能做！”受了委屈的姑娘高声说。“你有什么权力……”
“杜涅奇卡，你也太急躁了，别说了，明天……难道你没看到……”母亲惊呆了，赶快对杜尼娅说。“唉，咱们最好还是走吧！”
“他在说胡话！”微带醉意的拉祖米欣高声叫嚷，“要不然，他怎么敢！明天就会聪明些了……不过今天他当真赶走了他。是有这么回事。嗯，那一个也光火了……他在这儿大发议论，炫耀自己的知识，可走的时候却是夹着尾巴……”
“那么这是真的了？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。
“明天见，哥哥，”杜尼娅满怀同情地说，“咱们走吧，妈妈……再见，罗佳！”
“你听到吗，妹妹，”他鼓足最后一点力气对着她们的背影重复说，“我不是说胡话；结这门亲事是可耻的。就算我是个卑鄙的人吧，但是我不会把这样的妹妹看作妹妹。要么是我，要么是卢任！你们走吧……”
“你疯了吗！独断专横的家伙！”拉祖米欣吼叫起来，但是拉斯科利尼科夫已经不再回答，不过也许是没有力气回答了。他躺到沙发上，疲惫不堪地转过脸去，面对着墙壁。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜好奇地看了看拉祖米欣，她那乌黑的眼睛炯炯发光：在这目光的注视下，拉祖米欣甚至颤栗了一下。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜仿佛吃了一惊，一动不动地站着。
“我无论如何也不能走！”她几乎是绝望地悄悄对拉祖米欣说，“我留在这儿，随便在什么地方……请您送送杜尼娅。”
“您会把事情全都弄糟了的！”拉祖米欣失去自制，也低声说，“咱们走吧，至少到楼梯上去。娜斯塔西娅，给照个亮！我向您发誓，”已经到了楼梯上，他又小声接着说，“不久前他差点儿没把我和医生都痛打一顿！您明白这意味着什么吗？要打医生！医生让步了，免得惹他生气，他走了，我留下，在楼下守着，可他立刻穿上衣服，溜出去了。要是惹火了他，现在他还会溜，夜里溜出去，不知会干出什么事来……”
“哎哟，您说些什么呀！”
“再说，您不回去，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜也不能独自一个人住在旅馆里！请您想想看，你们是住在一个什么样的地方！而彼得•彼特罗维奇，这个坏蛋，难道就不能给你们找个好一点儿的住处吗……不过，你们要知道，我有点儿醉了，所以……说了骂人的话；请别在意……”
“不过，我去找找女房东，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜坚持说，“我求求她，求她随便给找个地方，让我和杜尼娅住一夜。我不能这样丢下他不管，我不能！”
他们说这些话的时候是站在楼梯平台上，就站在女房东的房门前。娜斯塔西娅从楼梯的下面一级上给他们照着亮。拉祖米欣异常兴奋。半小时前他送拉斯科利尼科夫回家的时候，虽然废话说得太多，他自己也知道这一点，可是他的精神却十分饱满，头脑也几乎是清醒的，尽管这天晚上他喝的酒多得惊人。现在他的心情甚至好像异常高兴，同时他喝下去的那些酒仿佛又一下子以加倍的力量冲进他的头脑里。他和两位妇女站在一起，拉住她们两人的手，劝说她们，以惊人的坦率态度向她们列举一条条理由，大概是为了更有说服力，几乎每说一句话，他都把她俩的手攥得更紧，就像夹在老虎钳里一样，把她们的手都攥痛了，而且贪婪地拿眼睛直盯着阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，似乎一点儿也不觉得不好意思。有时她们痛得想从他那双瘦骨嶙嶙的大手里把自己的手抽出来，但是他不仅没发觉这是怎么回事，反而更用力把她们的手往自己这边拉。如果她们为了自己的利益，现在叫他头朝下冲下楼梯，他也会不假思索，毫不迟疑，立刻执行她们的命令。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜一心想着她的罗佳，焦急不安，尽管感觉到这个年轻人有点儿古怪，而且把她的手攥得太痛，但是因为她同时又把他看作神明，所以不想注意这些古怪的小节。然而，虽说阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜同样为哥哥担心，虽然就性格来说，她并不胆小，但是看到她哥哥的朋友那闪射着异样光芒的目光，却感到惊讶，甚至是感到恐惧了，只不过因为娜斯塔西娅说的关于这个怪人的那些话，使她对他产生了无限信任，这才没有试图从他身边逃跑，而且把母亲也拉着，和自己一同跑掉。她也明白，看来现在她们是不能逃避他的。不过，十分钟以后，她已经大为放心：拉祖米欣有个特点，不管他心情如何，都能很快把自己的真实感情完全流露出来，所以不一会儿人们就会了解，自己是在和一个什么样的人打交道了。
“可不能去找女房东，这想法最荒唐也不过了！”他高声叫嚷，竭力让普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜相信。“虽然您是母亲，可如果您留下来，就会使他发疯，那可就不知会闹出什么事来了！您听我说，我看这么办好了：这会儿先让娜斯塔西娅坐在他那里，我把你们送回去，因为没有人陪着，你们自己可不能在街上行走，在我们彼得堡，对这……唉，管它去呢！……然后我立刻从你们那儿跑回这里，一刻钟以后，我以人格担保，就会给你们送消息去：他情况怎么样？睡了，还是没睡？以及其他等等。然后，你们听我说！然后又从你们那里很快跑回家去——我那里有客人，都喝醉了，——去叫佐西莫夫——这是给他看病的医生，现在他在我家里，他没醉；这个人不喝酒，永远不会醉！我把他拖到罗季卡那里，然后立刻到你们这里来，这就是说，一个钟头之内你们可以得到两次关于他的消息，——而且是从医生那儿来的消息，你们明白吗，是从医生本人那里得到的消息；这可就不仅是听我说说了！如果情况不好，我发誓，我自己会领你们到这儿来，如果情况良好，那么你们就可以睡了。我整夜都睡在这儿，睡在穿堂里，他听不见的，我让佐西莫夫睡在房东那里，这样可以随时找到他。你们看，现在对他来说，谁守着他最好呢，是您，还是医生？医生更有用，更有用，不是吗。好，那么就请你们回去吧！去女房东那里却不行；我去可以，你们去不行：她不会让你们去……因为她傻。她会为了我嫉妒阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，您要知道，她也会嫉妒您……不过对阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，她是一定会嫉妒的。是个完全、完全让人摸不透的女人！不过，我也是个傻瓜……这算不了什么！咱们走吧！你们相信我吗？嗯，你们相信，还是不相信我？”
“咱们走吧，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜说，“他答应了，一定会这么做的。他已经救过哥哥的命，如果医生真的同意夜里住在这儿，那不是再好不过了吗？”
“瞧，您……您……理解我，因为您是天使！”拉祖米欣欣喜若狂地高声叫喊。“走吧！娜斯塔西娅！马上上楼去，坐在他身边，带着灯；一刻钟后我就来……”
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜虽然还不完全相信，可也没再反对。拉祖米欣挽住她俩的手，把她们拉下楼去。不过他还是叫她不放心：“虽然他人很机灵，心肠也好，可是他答应的事能办得到吗？他有点儿醉了，不是吗……”
“我明白，您心里在想，我喝醉了！”拉祖米欣猜到了她的想法，打断了她的思路，同时迈开大步在人行道上走着，以致两位妇女勉强才能跟上他，不过他却没有发觉。“没有的事！也就是说……我醉得像个傻瓜一样了，可是问题不在这里，我醉了，可不是因为喝了酒。而是，我一看到你们，就像喝醉了一样……别睬我！请别介意：我在胡说八道，我配不上你们……我一点儿也配不上你们！……我把你们一送回去，立刻就在这儿，在河里，往自己头上浇两桶冷水，就会清醒过来了……但愿你们知道，我是多么爱你们两位！……请别笑我，也别生气！……你们对谁都可以生气，可别生我的气！我是他的朋友，所以也是你们的朋友。我希望如此……这我已经预感到了……去年，有这样的一瞬间……不过，根本不是预感到，因为你们好似从天而降。而我，大概会一夜都睡不着……这个佐西莫夫不久前担心他会发疯……所以不应该惹他生气……”
“您说什么！”母亲高声叫喊。
“难道医生这么说过吗？”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜吃了一惊，问。
“说过，不过不是这么回事，完全不是这么回事。他还给他吃过这么一种药，一种药粉，我看到的，可这时你们来了……唉！……你们明天再来就好了！我们走了，这很好。再过一个钟头，佐西莫夫会亲自向你们报告一切。他这个人可不会喝醉！我也不再喝醉了……我为什么喝得这么醉呢？因为他们把我拖入了一场争论，这些该死的家伙！我已经发过誓不参加争论了！……他们都在胡说八道！差点儿没打起来！我让舅舅待在那儿，招待他们……嗯，你们相信吗：他们要求人完全没有个性，还觉得其中有极大的乐趣！要是自己不是自己，要是自己尽可能不像自己，那该多好！他们认为，这就是最大的进步。要是他们是按照自己的想法胡说八道，倒也罢了，可是……”
“请您听我说，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜怯生生地打断了他，但这只不过更加激起了他的热情。
“您认为怎样？”拉祖米欣把嗓门提得更高，大声叫喊，“您认为我是为了他们胡说八道生他们的气吗？没有的事！我喜欢人们胡扯！胡扯是一切生物中只有人类才享有的唯一特权。通过胡扯，可以得到真理！我也胡扯，所以我也是人。如果不先胡扯十四次，就不会获得一个真理，也许，得先胡扯一百十四次，从某一方面来看，这也是值得尊敬的；唉，可是我们连独出心裁地胡扯都不会！你跟我胡扯好了，不过要独出心裁，是自己想出来的，那么我就会吻你。独出心裁地胡扯，要知道，这几乎胜过只重复别人的真理；在第一种情况下，你是人，而在第二种情况下，你只不过是一只鹦鹉！真理是跑不了的，却可以使生活停滞不前；有过这样的例子。嗯，现在我们怎么样呢？在科学、文化修养、思维、发明、思想观念、愿望、自由主义、理性、经验，以及一切，一切，一切，一切，一切领域，我们大家无一例外，还都是中学预备班一年级的学生！喜欢靠人家的智慧混日子，——已经习以为常了！是不是这样呢？我说得对吗？”拉祖米欣高声叫喊，说着握紧并摇晃着两位女士的手，“是不是这样呢？”
“噢，我的天哪，我不知道，”可怜的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“是这样的，是这样的……虽说我并不完全同意您的意见，”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜郑重其事地补上一句，并且立刻大叫了一声，因为这一次他把她的手攥得实在太痛了。
“是这样的？您说，是这样的？那么在这以后，您……您……”他欣喜若狂地高声呼喊，“您是善良、纯洁、理智和……完美的源泉！请把您的手伸给我，请您……也把您的手伸给我，我想吻吻你们的手，就在这儿，现在，跪下来吻你们的手！”
于是他在人行道当中跪了下来，幸而这时人行道上阒无一人。
“别这样，我求您，您这是做什么？”完全惊慌失措的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声叫喊。
“请您起来，请起来吧！”杜尼娅笑着说，她也感到惊慌不安了。
“你们不把手伸给我，我无论如何也不起来！对，就这样，够了，我起来了，咱们走吧！我是个不幸的傻瓜，我配不上你们，而且喝醉了，我感到羞愧……我不配爱你们，可是，跪在你们面前——这是每个人的义务，只要他不是十足的畜生！所以我跪下来了……瞧，这就是你们的旅馆，不久前罗季昂赶走了你们的彼得•彼特罗维奇，单就这一点来说，他做得对！这个人怎么敢让你们住在这样的旅馆里？这是丢脸的事！你们可知道，到这儿来的都是些什么人？可您是他的未婚妻，不是吗！您是他的未婚妻，对吗？哼，所以我要对您说，您的未婚夫会做出这样的事来，可见他是个卑鄙的家伙！”
“您听我说，拉祖米欣先生，您忘了……”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜开口说。
“对，对，您说得对，我太放肆了，我惭愧！”拉祖米欣猛然醒悟，“不过……不过……你们不会因为我这样说而生我的气吧！因为我这样说是出于至诚，而不是由于……嗯哼！这是卑鄙的；总而言之，不是由于我对您……嗯哼！……好，就这样吧，用不着，我不说由于什么，我不敢说！……不久前我们就全明白了，他一进来，我们就知道这个人跟我们不是一道的。不是因为他在理发师那儿卷过头发，也不是因为他急于炫耀自己的才智，而是因为，他是个密探和投机分子；因为他是个吝啬鬼和小丑，这是看得出来的。您认为他聪明吗？不，他是个傻瓜，傻瓜！哼，他配得上您吗？噢，我的天哪！你们要知道，女士们，”他已经走在旅馆的楼梯上，却突然站住了，“虽然我那儿那些人都喝醉了，然而他们都是正直的人，虽然我们也胡说八道，所以我也胡说八道，可是最后我们还是会明白，什么是真理，因为我们是走在光明正大的道路上，而彼得•彼特罗维奇走的却不是光明正大的道路。我虽然现在痛骂他们，可是我尊敬他们大家；就连扎苗托夫，虽说我并不尊敬他，可是喜欢他，因为他是条小狗崽！就连这个畜生佐西莫夫也是一样，因为他正直，而且精通业务……不过够了，什么都说完了，也得到了宽恕。得到宽恕了吗？是这样吗？好，咱们走吧。我熟悉这条走廊，来过不止一次了；瞧，就在这儿，三号房间里，发生过一件丢脸的事……喂，你们住在这里哪个房间？几号？八号吗？好，那么夜里可要锁上门，谁也别让他进来。一刻钟后我带着消息回来，然后，再过半个钟头，还要和佐西莫夫一道来，你们会知道的！再见，我走了！”
“我的天哪，杜涅奇卡，会出什么事吗？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜惊慌而又胆怯地对女儿说。
“您放心好了，妈妈，”杜尼娅回答，说着摘下帽子，取下披肩，“是上帝亲自给我们派来了这位先生，尽管他是直接从酒宴上来的。对他是可以信赖的，请您相信。而且他为哥哥已经做过的一切……”
“唉，杜涅奇卡。天知道他还会不会来！我怎么能决定丢下罗佳不管呢！……我完全，完全想象不到，会这样见到他！
他的神情多么冷酷，就像他不高兴看到我们似的……”
她眼里出现了泪珠。
“不，不是这样的，妈妈。您没细看，您一直在哭。由于生了一场大病，他心情很不好，——一切都是因为这个缘故。”
“唉，这场病啊！会出什么事，会出什么事吗！而且他是怎么跟你说话啊，杜尼娅！”母亲说，一边怯生生地看看女儿的眼睛，想从眼睛里看出她心里的全部想法，因为女儿护着罗佳，这使她获得了一半安慰：如此看来，女儿原谅了他。
“我深信，明天他准会改变主意，”她加上一句，想彻底摸透女儿的想法。
“可我深信，关于这件事……明天他还是会这么说……”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜斩钉截铁地回答，当然，这是个难题，因为这一点是普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜现在很怕谈起的。杜尼娅走近前去，吻了吻母亲。母亲默默地紧紧拥抱了她。然后坐下，焦急不安地等着拉祖米欣回来，同时怯生生地注视着女儿，女儿也在等待着，双手交叉，抱在胸前，在屋里踱来踱去，一面在暗自思索着什么。这样沉思着从一个角落走到另一个角落，是阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜通常的习惯，不知为什么母亲总是怕在这样的时候打断她的沉思。
拉祖米欣酒醉后突然对阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜产生了火热的爱情，这当然好笑；但是看一看阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，特别是现在，当她双臂交叉，抱在胸前，忧郁而若有所思地在屋里踱来踱去的时候，也许很多人都会原谅他，更何况他是处于一种反常的心理状态呢。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜十分漂亮，——高高的个儿，身材异常苗条匀称，强壮有力，而且很自信，——在她的每个姿态中都流露出这种自信，不过这丝毫也不损害她举止的柔美和优雅。她的脸像她的哥哥，不过甚至可以把她叫作美人儿。她的头发是褐色的，比她哥哥的头发稍淡一些；眼睛几乎是黑的，炯炯发光，神情傲慢，但有时，虽然并不是经常的，看上去却又异常善良。她肤色白皙，但不是病态的苍白；她的脸光艳照人，娇艳而健康。她的嘴略小了点儿，红艳艳的下嘴唇和下巴一起稍稍向前突出，——这是这张美丽的脸上唯一的缺陷，但是也赋予她的脸一种特殊的性格，仿佛使她脸上有了一种傲慢的神态。她脸上的表情总是严肃多于快乐，总是好像在沉思默想；然而这张脸是多么适于微笑，愉快而无忧无虑的、青春的笑容对她来说是多么合适啊！热情、坦诚、单纯而轻信、正直、像勇士一般强壮有力、又有点儿醉意的拉祖米欣，从未见过类似的女性，对她一见倾心，这是可以理解的。更何况好像老天故意安排下这样一个机会，让他第一次看到杜尼娅的时候，恰好是她与哥哥晤面、心中充满兄妹情谊和欢乐的美好时刻呢。后来他又看到，在她愤怒地回答哥哥无礼的、忘恩负义、冷酷无情的命令时，她的下嘴唇突然颤抖了一下，——
这时他就再也不能自持了。
不过，因为他已微带醉意，不久前在楼梯上脱口而出，说拉斯科利尼科夫那个性情古怪的女房东普拉斯科维娅•帕夫洛芙娜不但会为了他嫉妒阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，而且看来也会嫉妒普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜，那倒是说的实话。尽管普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜已经四十三岁，她的容貌却依然保持着昔日的风采，而且看上去比她的实际年龄年轻得多，那些直到老年都能保持心情开朗，能给人留下鲜明印象，而且满怀正直、真诚而热情的妇女，几乎总是这样。咱们附带说一声，能够保持这一切，是即使到了老年也不致失去美色的唯一方法。她的头发已经开始斑白，渐渐疏稀，细碎的鱼尾纹早已爬满了她的眼角，由于忧虑和痛苦，双颊已经凹陷和干瘪，但这张脸还是美丽的。这是一幅杜涅奇卡的脸的肖像，不过是二十年以后的肖像，再就是她那并不向前突出的下嘴唇的表情，和女儿的不大一样。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜多情善感，不过不致使人感到肉麻，她胆小，忍让，可也有一定的限度：很多事情她都能忍让，对很多事情她都能同意，就连对那些与她的信念相反的事，也是如此，不过总是有这么一条由正直、原则和绝对不能放弃的信念划定的界线，无论什么情况也不能迫使她越过这条界线。
拉祖米欣走后，整整过了二十分钟，传来两声轻微然而急促的敲门声；他回来了。
“我不进去了，没有空！”房门打开以后，他匆匆地说，“他睡得很熟，睡得十分香甜，很安静，上帝保佑，让他睡上十个钟头吧。娜斯塔西娅在他那儿守着；我叫她在我回去以前别出去。现在我去把佐西莫夫拖来，他会向你们报告的，然后你们也睡一会儿；我看得出，你们都累坏了。”
于是他离开她们，顺着走廊走了。
“一个多麻利和……忠实的青年人啊！”非常高兴的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声说。
“看来，是个很好的人！”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜怀着几分热情回答，又开始在屋里踱来踱去。
几乎过了一个钟头，走廊里传来了脚步声，又听到一下敲门的声音。两位妇女都在等着，因为这一次她们都完全相信拉祖米欣的诺言了；真的，他果然把佐西莫夫拖来了。佐西莫夫立刻同意离开酒宴，去看拉斯科利尼科夫，不过他不相信喝醉了的拉祖米欣，到两位女士这里来，却很不乐意，疑虑重重。但是他的自尊心立刻得到了满足，甚至感到快慰：他明白，人家当真是在等着他，就像是在等候一位先知。他整整坐了十分钟，而且完全说服了普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜，让她放了心。他说话时怀着异乎寻常的同情心，然而态度拘谨，不知怎的显得特别严肃，完全像一个二十七岁的医生在重要的咨询会议上发表意见，没有一句话离题，没有流露出一丝一毫要与这两位女士建立更密切的私人关系的愿望。他一进来就发觉阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜光艳照人，立刻竭力根本不去注意她，在会见她们的全部时间里，只对普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜一个人说话。这一切使他内心里获得极大的满足。谈到病人，他是这样说的，说是目前病人处于完全令人满意的状态。据他观察，病人的病，除了最近几个月生活上恶劣的物质条件，还有某些精神因素，“可以说是许多复杂的精神和物质影响的结果，如惊慌、担心、忧虑、某些想法……以及诸如此类的影响”。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜开始特别留心听着，佐西莫夫对此稍有察觉，于是对这一话题较多地发挥了几句。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜担心而又怯生生地问：“似乎有点儿怀疑他患了精神病？”对这个问题，他安详而且面带坦诚的微笑回答说，他的话被过分夸大了；当然，可以注意到，病人头脑里有某种执拗的想法，显示出偏执狂的症候，——因为他，佐西莫夫，目前正特别注意医学上这一非常有意思的专科，——不过得记住，几乎直到今天，病人神智都不大清楚，那么……当然，他亲人们的到来会促使他恢复健康，消除疑虑，使病情根本好转，“只要能避免再受到新的特殊震动”，他意味深长地补充说。然后他站起来，庄重而亲切地告辞，为他送别的是祝福，热情的感谢，央求，甚至还有阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜向他伸过来的小手，虽然他并没请求，她却主动要和他握手，他出去时对这次访问异常满意，对自己就更加满意了。
“咱们明天再谈；请安歇吧，立刻，一定！”拉祖米欣像作总结似地说，和佐西莫夫一同走了出去。“明天尽可能早一些，我再来向你们报告。”
“不过，这位阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜是个多么迷人的小姑娘啊！”当他们俩走到街上的时候，佐西莫夫几乎馋涎欲滴地说。
“迷人吗？你说她迷人！”拉祖米欣吼叫起来，突然扑向佐西莫夫，一把卡住他的咽喉。“要是什么时候你胆敢……你明白吗？明白吗？”他大声叫喊，抓着衣领摇晃着他，把他推到墙跟前，“听到了吗？”
“唉，放手，醉鬼！”佐西莫夫竭力想要挣脱出来，拉祖米欣已经放开他以后，他凝神看了看拉祖米欣，突然哈哈大笑起来。拉祖米欣站在他面前，垂下双手，忧郁而严肃地陷入沉思。
“当然，我是头笨驴，”他神情阴郁，好似乌云，“不过……
你也是的。”
“嗳，老兄，不，我可根本不是。我不会痴心梦想。”
他们默默地走着，不过走近拉斯科利尼科夫的住所时，拉祖米欣感到十分担心，这才打破了沉默。
“你听我说，”他对佐西莫夫说，“你是个很不错的人，不过你呀，除了你所有那些恶劣的品质以外，你也是个色鬼，这我知道，而且还是个卑鄙无耻的色鬼。你是个神经质的、软弱无力的败类，你任性胡来，养得太肥，什么事情都做得出来，——我把这叫作卑鄙无耻，因为这会使人直接掉进卑鄙无耻的泥潭里去。你们自己娇惯成了这个样子，老实说，我不能理解的是，与此同时，你怎么能作一个具有忘我精神的医生。睡在羽毛褥子上（医生嘛！），可是夜里要起来去给人看病！三年以后，你就不会再为了病人在夜里起来了……啊，对了，见鬼，问题不在这里，而在于：今天你得在女房东家里住一夜（好不容易才说服了她！）可我睡在厨房里；这可是让你们更亲密地熟识的好机会！不过不是你想的那回事！老兄，那种事啊，连影儿都没有……”
“我根本就没想。”
“老兄，这是腼腆、沉默，羞涩以及冷酷无情的贞节，可与此同时，又唉声叹气，像蜡一样在融化，一个劲儿地融化！看在世界上一切妖魔鬼怪的份上，请你帮我摆脱她吧！她是个非常漂亮的女人！……我会报答你的，哪怕牺牲自己的脑袋，也要报答你！”
佐西莫夫哈哈大笑，笑得比以前更厉害了。
“你爱得发疯了！我要她干吗？”
“请你相信，麻烦不会太多，不过得说些蠢话，你爱说什么，就说什么，只要坐到她身边说就行了。何况你还是个医生，可以治治她的病嘛。我发誓，你不会后悔的。她屋里有架古钢琴；你要知道，我会弹两下，不过弹不好；我那里有一首歌曲，一首真正的俄罗斯歌曲：‘我洒下热泪……’她喜欢真正的俄罗斯歌曲，——于是就从歌曲开始；可你是个弹钢琴的能手，是教师，鲁宾斯坦①……我担保，你不会后悔的！”
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①鲁宾斯坦（一八二九——一八九四），俄罗斯著名钢琴家和作曲家。
“你是不是向她许下了什么诺言？按照程式订了合同，签过了字？也许答应过和她结婚……”
“没有，没有，根本没有这种事！而且她也完全不是这样的人；切巴罗夫追求过她……”
“好，那你就甩掉她好了！”
“可是不能就这样甩掉她！”
“为什么不能？”
“嗯，不知为什么不能这样，就是这么一回事！老兄，这儿有诱惑力这个因素。”
“那你为什么引诱她呢？”
“可我根本就没引诱她，也许，甚至是我受了她的引诱，这是因为我傻，可对她来说，不论是你，还是我，都完全一样，只要有人坐在她身边叹
Part 3 Chapter 2
Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o'clock, troubled and serious. He found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable--so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that "thrice accursed yesterday."
The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown himself "base and mean," not only because he had been drunk, but because he had taken advantage of the young girl's position to abuse her /fiance/ in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right had he to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all how could he know the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat . . . Foo! how despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, "that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart"! And would such a dream ever be permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl--he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna . . . that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying.
"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self-abasement, "of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or smoothed over . . . and so it's useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my duty . . . in silence, too . . . and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing . . . for all is lost now!"
And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He hadn't another suit--if he had had, perhaps he wouldn't have put it on. "I would have made a point of not putting it on." But in any case he could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his assistance and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean.
He washed that morning scrupulously--he got some soap from Nastasya-- he washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was angrily answered in the negative. "Let it stay as it is! What if they think that I shaved on purpose to . . .? They certainly would think so! Not on any account!"
"And . . . the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners of a pothouse; and . . . and even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman . . . what was there in that to be proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that . . . and all the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things . . . not exactly dishonest, and yet. . . . And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm . . . and to set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he'd make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he wouldn't care! He'd be worse!"
He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, came in.
He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't wake him and promised to see him again about eleven.
"If he is still at home," he added. "Damn it all! If one can't control one's patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether /he/ will go to them, or whether /they/ are coming here?"
"They are coming, I think," said Razumihin, understanding the object of the question, "and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I."
"But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty to do besides looking after them."
"One thing worries me," interposed Razumihin, frowning. "On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him . . . all sorts of things . . . and amongst them that you were afraid that he . . . might become insane."
"You told the ladies so, too."
"I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so seriously?"
"That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him . . . and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known what happened then at the police station and that some wretch . . . had insulted him with this suspicion! Hm . . . I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill . . . and see their fancies as solid realities. . . . As far as I remember, it was Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all! . . . And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm . . . he shouldn't have told all that last night. He is an awful chatterbox!"
"But whom did he tell it to? You and me?"
"And Porfiry."
"What does that matter?"
"And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him to-day. . . ."
"They'll get on all right!" Razumihin answered reluctantly.
"Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn't seem to dislike him . . . and they haven't a farthing, I suppose? eh?"
"But what business is it of yours?" Razumihin cried with annoyance. "How can I tell whether they've a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps you'll find out. . . ."
"Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night's wine has not gone off yet. . . . Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night's lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my /bonjour/ through the door; she was up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken into her from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview. . . ."
At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev's house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and ill-disguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.
Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because "she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand." Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him.
He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov's life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted, however, many things, which were better omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun.
"Tell me, tell me! What do you think . . . ? Excuse me, I still don't know your name!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.
"Dmitri Prokofitch."
"I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch . . . how he looks . . . on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is he now? In a word, I should like . . ."
"Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?" observed Dounia.
"Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofitch!"
"Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years' separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and of late--and perhaps for a long time before--he has been suspicious and fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly callous; it's as though he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn't jeer at things, not because he hasn't the wit, but as though he hadn't time to waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him."
"God grant it may," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by Razumihin's account of her Rodya.
And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident.
"You've told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother's character . . . and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him," observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. "I think you are right that he needs a woman's care," she added thoughtfully.
"I didn't say so; but I daresay you are right, only . . ."
"What?"
"He loves no one and perhaps he never will," Razumihin declared decisively.
"You mean he is not capable of love?"
"Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in everything, indeed!" he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had just before said of her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at him.
"You may both be mistaken about Rodya," Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. "I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can't imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of doing . . . Well, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl--what was her name--his landlady's daughter?"
"Did you hear about that affair?" asked Avdotya Romanovna.
"Do you suppose----" Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. "Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn't that he doesn't love us!"
"He has never spoken a word of that affair to me," Razumihin answered cautiously. "But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange."
"And what did you hear?" both the ladies asked at once.
"Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl's death, was not at all to Praskovya Pavlovna's liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively ugly . . . and such an invalid . . . and queer. But she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good qualities or it's quite inexplicable. . . . She had no money either and he wouldn't have considered her money. . . . But it's always difficult to judge in such matters."
"I am sure she was a good girl," Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly.
"God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don't know which of them would have caused most misery to the other--he to her or she to him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the latter's annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on the score of his illness.
"He had planned it before his illness," he added.
"I think so, too," Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself so carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna, too, was struck by it.
"So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not resist asking.
"I can have no other opinion of your daughter's future husband," Razumihin answered firmly and with warmth, "and I don't say it simply from vulgar politeness, but because . . . simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and . . . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely . . . and this morning I am ashamed of it."
He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they began to speak of Luzhin.
Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance.
"You see, Dmitri Prokofitch," she began. "I'll be perfectly open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?"
"Of course, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.
"This is what it is," she began in haste, as though the permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. "Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you know; instead of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You'd better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very much . . . you will soon see what that is, and . . . tell me your candid opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya's character better than anyone and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don't feel sure how to act and I . . . I've been waiting for your opinion."
Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as follows:
"Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an interview with you to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than to-morrow evening at eight o'clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovitch may not be present at our interview--as he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have the honour to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing my special respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful homage of
"Your humble servant,
"P. LUZHIN."
"What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?" began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. "How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, and . . . what will happen then?"
"Act on Avdotya Romanovna's decision," Razumihin answered calmly at once.
"Oh, dear me! She says . . . goodness knows what she says, she doesn't explain her object! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it's absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of being here at eight o'clock and that they must meet. . . . I didn't want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from coming by some stratagem with your help . . . because he is so irritable. . . . Besides I don't understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have given the daughter all the money . . . which . . ."
"Which cost you such sacrifice, mother," put in Avdotya Romanovna.
"He was not himself yesterday," Razumihin said thoughtfully, "if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too. . . . Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn't understand a word. . . . But last night, I myself . . ."
"The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and there I assure you we shall see at once what's to be done. Besides, it's getting late--good heavens, it's past ten," she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. "A present from her /fiance/," thought Razumihin.
"We must start, Dounia, we must start," her mother cried in a flutter. "He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful heavens!"
While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle; Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were not merely shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. "The queen who mended her stockings in prison," he thought, "must have looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levees."
"My God!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch," she added, glancing at him timidly.
"Don't be afraid, mother," said Dounia, kissing her, "better have faith in him."
"Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven't slept all night," exclaimed the poor woman.
They came out into the street.
"Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna . . . she was all in white . . . she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming me. . . . Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don't know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's dead!"
"No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"
"She died suddenly; and only fancy . . ."
"Afterwards, mamma," put in Dounia. "He doesn't know who Marfa Petrovna is."
"Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don't know what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation. . . . Don't be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what's the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?"
"Yes, I bruised it," muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
"I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault with me. . . . But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my . . . weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know."
"Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don't ask him too much about his health; he doesn't like that."
"Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the stairs. . . . What an awful staircase!"
"Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling," said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: "He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so."
"Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he has waked up."
The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they reached the landlady's door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out.
 
第二天早上八点钟，拉祖米欣醒了，满腹忧虑，神情严肃。这天早晨他心里突然出现了许多未曾预见到的、使他困惑不解的新问题。以前他从未想到，有什么时候会像这样醒来。他想起昨天的事，直到每个细节都记得清清楚楚，还记得发生了一件对他来说很不平常的事，使他产生了在这以前从未有过的印象，与以前的所有印象都不一样。同时他又清清楚楚地意识到，犹如烈火般在他头脑中燃烧起来的幻想是绝对无法实现的，——显而易见，它绝不可能实现，因此，他为这幻想感到羞愧，于是他赶快去想别的，去想其他更迫切的要操心的事和使他感到困惑不解的问题，这些都是“该死的昨天”给他遗留下来的。
他的最可怕的回忆就是，昨天他是多么“卑鄙，丑恶”，这倒不仅仅是因为他喝醉了，而是因为，由于愚蠢和仓促间产生妒嫉，竟利用一位姑娘的处境，当着她的面大骂她的未婚夫，可是他不但不知道他们之间的相互关系和义务，而且连他这个人也没好好地了解过。而且他有什么权利这样匆忙和轻率地对这个人作出判断？有谁请他作评判人呢！难道像阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜这样的人，会为了钱而嫁给一个卑鄙的人吗？可见这个人是有优点的。那么旅馆呢？可说实在的，他怎么能够知道，这是家什么旅馆？要知道，他正在准备一套住宅……呸，这一切是多么卑鄙！他喝醉了，这算什么辩解的理由？这不过是愚蠢的借口，会使他显得更加卑鄙！酒后吐真言，真话都说出来了，“也就是说，他那颗满怀妒意、粗野无礼的心中所有卑鄙污浊的东西全都吐露出来了！”难道他，拉祖米欣，可以哪怕存一点儿这样的幻想吗？与这样的姑娘相比，他算什么人呢——他不过是个喝醉了的不安分的家伙，昨天吹过牛的人。 “难道可以作这样无耻和可笑的对比吗？”想到这里，拉祖米欣不禁满脸通红了，而突然，好像故意为难似的，就在这一瞬间，他清清楚楚记起，昨天他站在楼梯上对她们说，女房东会为了他嫉妒阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜……这可真让人太难堪了。他抡起拳头，对着厨房里的炉灶猛打了一拳，打伤了自己的手，还打掉了一块砖头。
“当然，”过了一会儿，他带着某种自卑感喃喃地自言自语，“当然，现在这些卑鄙的行径将永远无法掩饰，也无法改正了……所以，关于这件事，已经没什么好想的了，所以我再去她们那里的时候，一句话也别说……只是履行自己的义务……也是一句话不说，而且……也不请求原谅，什么也不说，而且……当然，现在一切都完了！”
然而穿衣服的时候，他比往常更加细心地察看了自己的衣服。他没有别的衣服，即使有，也许他也不会穿，“就这样，故意不穿”。但无论如何再不能不修边幅、邋里邋遢了：他无权不尊重别人的感情，让人家感到受了侮辱，更何况这是一些正需要他的帮助、自己叫他去的人呢。他用刷子仔仔细细刷干净自己的衣服。他身上的内衣一向还都过得去；在这方面他是特别爱干净的。
这天早晨他洗脸也洗得很细心，——在娜斯塔西娅那里找到了一块肥皂，——洗了头发、脖子，特别用心洗了手。要不要刮刮下巴上的短胡子呢？当需要回答这个问题的时候（普拉斯科维娅•帕夫洛芙娜那儿有很好的刀片，还是从扎尔尼岑先生过世后保存下来的），他甚至倔强地作出了否定的回答：“就让它这样留着好了！哼，她们会想，我刮胡子是为了……而且准会这么想！无论如何不刮！”
“而……而主要的是，他这么粗鲁，又这么脏，对人的态度是粗野的；而且……而且，即使他知道，他是，虽然不能说完全是，可他到底是个正派人……嗯，不过，是个正派人，又有什么可以骄傲的？人人都该作正派人，而且还不仅仅是正派，而……而他毕竟（他记得）干过这样的勾当……倒不是说，是不光彩的，可那还不是一样！……而他曾经有过些什么样的想法啊！嗯哼……把这一切跟阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜放到一起！是呀，见鬼！好吧！哼，我就故意要弄得这么脏，浑身油污，粗里粗气，我才不在乎呢！以后我还是要这样！……”
昨夜住在普拉斯科维娅•帕夫洛芙娜客厅里的佐西莫夫进来的时候，正看到他在这样自言自语。
佐西莫夫要回家去，临走匆匆去看了一眼病人。拉祖米欣向他报告说，病人睡得很熟。佐西莫夫吩咐，在他自己醒来以前，不要叫醒他。他答应十点多再来。
“只要他能待在家里，”他补充说。“哼，见鬼！医生说的话病人根本就不听，你倒试试看，去给他治病吧！你可知道，是他去找她们，还是她们上这儿来？”
“我想，是她们来，”拉祖米欣明白他这样问的目的，回答说，“而且当然啦，他们要谈他们家里的事。我要走开；作为医生，你自然比我有更多的权利。”
“可我也不是神甫；我来看看就走；没有他们，我的事情也够多的了。”
“有件事让我不放心，”拉祖米欣皱起眉头，打断了他的话，“昨天我喝醉了，在路上走着的时候，说漏了嘴，跟他说了些各式各样的蠢话……各式各样的……顺带也说了，你担心，似乎他……有可能害精神病……”
“昨天你跟两位女士也说过这种蠢话了吧。”
“我知道，我很蠢！你要揍我，就揍我一顿吧！怎么，你当真有什么坚定不移的想法吗？”
“唉，我在胡扯；哪里有什么坚定不移的想法！你带我到他那里去的时候，自己把他描绘成一个偏执狂患者……嗯，昨天我们还火上加油，也就是说，是你说了些火上加油的话……谈起油漆匠的事；说不定他就是为了这件事才发疯的，你这场谈话可真是太好了！我要是确切地知道当时在警察局里发生的那回事，知道那里有那么个坏蛋怀疑他……侮辱了他的话！嗯哼……昨天我就不让你说这些话了。要知道，这些偏执狂患者都会小题大作，以假当真……从昨天扎苗托夫说的那些话里，仅就我所记得的，事情已经有一半弄清楚了。啊，对了！我知道这么一回事，有个四十岁的多疑病患者，因为受不了一个八岁的小男孩每天吃饭的时候嘲笑他，就把那个小男孩给杀死了！他的情况却是：衣衫褴褛，警察分局局长蛮横无礼，又碰上发病，再加上这样的怀疑！这一切都落到了一个发狂的多疑病患者的身上！而且他还有极其强烈、十分独特的虚荣心！而这也许就正是致病的原因！嗯，不错，见鬼！……顺便说说，这个扎苗托夫当真是个可爱的小孩子，不过，嗯哼，……昨天他不该把这些全都说出来。他这个人说话太不谨慎了！”
“可他是对谁说的呢？对我和对你，不是吗？”
“还有波尔菲里。”
“那又怎样呢，对波尔菲里说了，又怎样呢？”
“顺便说一声，对那两位，对母亲和妹妹，你能起点儿什么作用，能影响她们吗？今天对她们得更加小心……”
“跟她们会说得通的！”拉祖米欣不乐意地回答。
“你为什么要这样对待这个卢任呢？他是个有钱的人，看来，她并不讨厌他……可她们不是什么也没有吗？啊？”
“可你干吗要打听这些？”拉祖米欣恼怒地大声嚷，“我怎么知道她有什么，还是什么也没有？你自己去问好了，也许会打听出来……”
“呸，有时候你是多么愚蠢！昨天的醉意还在起作用吗……再见；代我谢谢普拉斯科维娅•帕夫洛芙娜，谢谢她给我提供了个过夜的地方。她把门锁上了，我隔着房门对她说了声崩儒尔①，她没回答，她自己七点钟就起来了，从厨房里穿过走廊给她送去了茶炊……我没有荣幸会见她……”
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①法文bonjour的音译，“日安”之意。
九点整，拉祖米欣来到了巴卡列耶夫的旅馆。两位女士早就怀着歇斯底里的急不可耐的心情等着他了。她们七点钟、也许更早些就已经起来了。他进去的时候脸色像黑夜一样阴郁，笨拙地点头行礼，并立刻为此生气了——当然，是生自己的气。他的猜测完全错了：普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜突然向他跑过来，拉住他的双手，几乎要吻他的手。他不好意思地朝阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜看了一眼；但是就连这张高傲的脸上，这时露出的也是感谢和友好的表情，出乎他意料的对他极其尊敬，（而不是嘲讽的目光和不由自主、掩饰不住的蔑视！）如果迎接他的是辱骂，说真的，他反而会觉得轻松些，现在竟是这样，倒使他感到太难为情了。幸好有现成的话题，于是他赶紧谈正经事。
听说“他还没醒”，不过“一切都很好”，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说，这是好现象，“因为她非常，非常，非常需要事先商量一下”。接着问他喝过茶没有，并邀请他一道喝茶；因为在等着拉祖米欣，她们自己还没喝过茶。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜按了按铃，应声前来的是一个很脏、衣服也破破烂烂的人，吩咐他送茶来，茶终于摆好了，但是一切都那么脏，那么不像样，因此两位女士都面有愧色。拉祖米欣起劲地大骂这家旅馆，但是一想起卢任，立刻就住了声，感到很窘，因此，当普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜终于接连不断提出一连串问题的时候，他真高兴极了。
他回答这些问题，讲了足有三刻钟，他的话不断地被打断，一个问题要问上几遍；罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇最近一年来的生活情况，只要是他知道的，他都把最重要和不能不讲的一切事情告诉了她们，最详尽地叙述了他的病情。不过有很多事情他都略而不提，那都是应当省略的，其中也有警察局里发生的事及其一切后果。她们全神贯注地听着他讲；但是每当他认为已经讲完了，已经能够满足这两位听众的要求的时候，却总是发现，对于她们来说，似乎这还只不过是刚刚开始。
“请您，请您告诉我，您是怎么想的……哎哟，请原谅，到现在我还不知道您的大名呢？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜急忙说。
“德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇。”
“那么，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，我很想，很想知道……一般说来……他对各种事物有什么看法，也就是说，请理解我的意思，这该怎么跟您说呢，最好还是这么说吧：他喜欢什么，不喜欢什么？他是不是总是这样爱发脾气？他有些什么愿望，也可以说，有些什么理想，如果可以这样说的话？现在是什么对他有特殊影响？总之，我希望……”
“哎哟，妈妈，怎么能一下子回答这一切问题啊！”杜尼娅说。
“啊，我的天哪，我可完全，完全没想到会看到他像这个样子，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇。”
“这是很自然的，”德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇回答。“我母亲不在了，嗯，可我舅舅每年都来一趟，几乎每次都认不出我，就连外貌也认不出来，可他是个聪明人；嗯，你们离别三年了，岁月流逝，人怎么能不发生变化呢。而且我能跟你们说什么呢？我认识罗季昂只有一年半：他忧郁，总是闷闷不乐，高傲而且倔强；最近一个时期（也许，还要早得多）他神经过敏，患了多疑症。他为人慷慨，心地善良。他不喜欢流露自己的感情，宁愿做出一些被人看作冷酷无情的事情，也不肯用言词说明自己的心意。不过，有时他根本不像多疑病患者，而只不过是冷淡无情，麻木不仁达到了缺乏人性的程度，真的，就好像他有两种截然相反的性格，这两种性格在他身上轮流出现。有时他极端沉默！他总是没有空，什么都妨碍他，可他却一直躺着，什么事也不做。他不嘲笑人，倒不是因为他缺少说俏皮话的机智，而似乎是他没有时间花在这种小事上。他总是不听完别人说的话。对当前大家感兴趣的事，他从来不感兴趣。他对自己估计很高，似乎这也并非毫无根据。嗯，还有什么呢？……我觉得，你们的到来会对他产生最有益的、可以使他得救的影响。”
“啊，上帝保佑！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼，拉祖米欣对她的罗佳的评语使她痛苦到极点。
最后，拉祖米欣较为大胆地看了看阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。谈话的时候他时常看她，不过只是匆匆地看一眼，只看一眼，就立刻把目光移开了。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜一会儿坐到桌边，留心听着，一会儿又站起来，按照她往常的习惯，两手交叉，抱在胸前，闭紧嘴唇，从一个角落走到另一个角落，有时提个问题，但并不停下来，一面走，一面在沉思。她也有不听完别人说话的习惯。她穿一件料子轻而薄的深色连衫裙，脖子上系一条透明的白色围巾。根据许多迹象来看，拉祖米欣立刻发觉，两位妇女的境况贫困到了极点。如果阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜穿得像一位女王，似乎他就根本不会怕她了；现在，也许正因为她穿得这样寒酸，正因为他发觉了她们贫穷的境况，他心里才感到恐惧，并为自己的每一句话、每一个姿势都感到害怕，对于一个本来就缺乏自信的人来说，这当然会使他感到格外拘束了。
“您讲了我哥哥性格中许多很有意思的情况，而且……说得很公正。这很好；我认为，您很敬重他，”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜微笑着说。“您说，得有个女人待在他身边，看来，这话说得也不错，”她沉思着补上一句。
“这话我没说过，不过，也许，这一点您说得对，只是……”
“什么？”
“要知道，他什么人也不爱；也许永远也不会爱上谁，”拉祖米欣毫无顾忌地说。
“也就是说，他不能爱？”
“您要知道，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，您太像您哥哥了，甚至各方面都像！”出乎自己意料地，他突然很不谨慎地说，但立刻想起，现在是在对她谈她哥哥哪方面的情况，满脸涨得通红，感到很窘。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜看着他，不能不大笑起来。
“关于罗佳，你们俩可能都看错了，”有点儿见怪的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜接着话茬说。“我说的不是现在，杜涅奇卡。彼得•彼特罗维奇在这封信里写的那些话……还有我和你所作的推测，也许都不对，不过，您无法想象，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，他是多么爱幻想，还有，这该怎么说呢，他总是变化无常。他的性格我从来就摸不透，还在他十五岁的时候就是这样。我相信，现在他也会突然对自己做出什么别人永远也不想做的事情来……对了，眼前就有个例子：您知道吗，一年半以前，他让我多么吃惊和震动，差点儿没把我折磨死，因为他突然想跟这个，她叫什么来着，——跟这个扎尔尼岑娜的女儿，也就是他女房东的女儿结婚？”
“关于这件事，您知道些什么详细情况吗？”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜问。
“您以为，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜激动地接着说，“当时我的眼泪，我的央求，我的病，我的死，也许我会愁死，还有我们的贫穷，会阻止他吗？他会满不在乎地跨过一切障碍。可是难道他，难道他不爱我们吗？”
“这件事，他自己从来没跟我说起过，什么也没说过”，拉祖米欣小心谨慎地回答，“不过我从扎尔尼岑娜太太那儿多少听到过一些，她也不是个爱说话的人，我听到的话，甚至有点儿使人奇怪……”
“您到底听到了些什么呢？”两位妇女一起问。
“其实也没有任何太特殊的情况。我只是知道，这门亲事已经完全办妥了，只是因为新娘死了，才没有成亲，对这门亲事，扎尔尼岑娜太太很不称心……除此而外，据说新娘甚至长得并不好看，也就是说，甚至长得很丑……而且有病，而且……而且她有点儿怪……不过，好像也有某些优点。大概一定有一些优点；不然就完全不可理解了……什么嫁妆也没有，而且他也不会指望靠嫁妆生活……总之，对这种事情很难作出判断。”
“我相信，他是一个值得尊敬的姑娘，”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜简短地说。
“求上帝饶恕我，可当时我对她的死是那么高兴，虽说我不知道，他们两个是谁害了谁，是他害了她呢，还是她害了他？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜结束了这个话题；然后小心谨慎地，欲言又止，又问起昨天罗佳和卢任发生争吵的事来，而且不断地看看杜尼娅，弄得她显然感到不高兴了。看得出来，罗佳和卢任之间的争吵最使她心烦意乱，简直让她感到可怕，颤栗。拉祖米欣又把当时的情况详详细细地说了一遍，但这一次加上了自己的结论：他直截了当地责备拉斯科利尼科夫故意侮辱彼得•彼特罗维奇，这一次几乎没有因为他有病而原谅他。
“还在生病以前，他就想好了的，”他补充说。
“我也这么想，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜很伤心地说。但是使她十分惊讶的是，这一次拉祖米欣谈到彼得•彼特罗维奇时是那么小心，甚至好像有些尊敬的样子。这也使阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜感到惊讶。
“那么您对彼得•彼特罗维奇的看法就是这样的了？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜忍不住问。
“对令爱的未婚夫我不能有别的看法，”拉祖米欣坚决而又热情地回答，“而且我不仅是出于庸俗的礼貌才这么说，而是因为……因为……嗯，至少是因为阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜自己选中了这个人，单凭这一点，就不能有别的看法。如果说，昨天我把他那样痛骂了一顿，那么这是因为昨天我喝得烂醉，而且精神失常；对，是精神失常，愚蠢，发疯，完全发疯了……今天为这感到羞愧！……”他脸红了，不作声了。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜一下子涨红了脸，但是没有打破沉默。从他们开始谈论卢任的那一分钟起，都没说过一句话。
然而，没有女儿的支持，看来普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜自己拿不定主意。最后，她不断地看看女儿，讷讷地说，现在有个情况让她非常担心。
“您要知道，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇……”他开始说。
“我想完全开诚布公地和德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇谈谈，杜尼娅，你看怎么样？”
“那是当然了，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜庄严地说。
“是这么回事，”她赶紧说，允许她诉说自己的苦衷，仿佛是卸下了她肩上的千斤重担。“今天很早我们收到了彼得•彼特罗维奇的一封短简，是对我们昨天通知他我们已经到达的答复。您要知道，昨天他本该像他答应过的，在车站接我们。可他没去，却派了一个仆人到车站去接我们，带去了这家旅馆的地址，让他告诉我们该怎么走，彼得•彼特罗维奇还让这个仆人转告，他本人今天清早来我们这里。可是今天早晨他又没来，却送来了这封短简……您最好还是自己看看吧；信里有一点让我非常担心……您马上就会看到谈的是什么了，而且……请直言不讳地把您的意见告诉我，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇！您最了解罗佳的性格，也最能给我们出个主意。我先告诉您，杜涅奇卡已经作出决定，一看过信就决定了，可我还不知道该怎么办，所以……所以一直在等着您。”
拉祖米欣打开写着昨天日期的短简，看到上面写的是：
“普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜夫人：敬启者，因意外延误，未能亲至车站迎候尊驾，特派干员前往代候。又因参政院紧急事务亟待处理，且不愿妨碍夫人与令郎、阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜与兄长骨肉重新团聚，明晨亦不能与夫人晤面，为此深感遗憾。定于明晚八时整赴尊寓拜谒夫人，并冒昧附带提出一恳切而又坚决之请求，仆与夫人会晤时，希望罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇已不在座，因昨日仆于其病中前住探望时，彼曾对仆横加指责，无礼辱骂，此种侮辱，实属空前；此外，另有一事必须亲自向夫人作详细说明，亦望听取夫人对此作出解释。如不顾仆之请求，届时与罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇相遇，仆将被迫立即告退，则夫人咎由自取，勿谓言之不预也。仆修此书，盖恐有如下情况：仆探望罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇时，彼病情尚如此严重，而两小时后竟霍然痊愈，足见其已能离家前往尊寓。仆曾亲眼目睹，在一于马蹄下丧生之醉汉家中，借口安葬死者，彼竟将为数达二十五卢布之巨款赠予该醉汉之女，而伊乃一行为不端之女人，为此仆深感震惊，因仆得悉，此款夫人得来非易。谨此，请代向令爱阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜致意。请接受诚挚敬意。
您的忠实仆人
彼•卢任”
“我现在该怎么办呢，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说，几乎要哭出来了。“您说，我怎么能叫罗佳别来呢？昨天他那么坚决要求他妹妹拒绝与彼得•彼特罗维奇结婚，现在又叫我们别让他来！只要他知道了，他准会故意来的，那……到那时会怎样呢？”
“阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜怎么决定的，就怎么办好了，”
拉祖米欣立刻不慌不忙地回答。
“啊，我的天哪！她说……天知道她在说些什么，也不对我说明她有什么目的！她说，最好是，倒不是最好，而是，不知是为了什么，一定得让罗佳故意在今晚八点钟来这里，一定要让他们见面……我却连这封信也不想给他看到，想要通过您想个巧妙的办法，让他别来……因为他是那么容易发脾气，……而且我什么也不明白，又是死了个什么醉汉，又是什么女儿，他又怎么会把仅有的一点钱全都送给了这个女儿……这些钱……”
“这些钱是您很不容易弄来的，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜补充说。
“昨天他不大正常，”拉祖米欣若有所思地说。“要是你们知道昨天他在一家小饭馆里干了些什么的话，虽说他做得很聪明……嗯哼！我们昨天一道回家的时候，他的确跟我提到过一个死了的人和一个什么姑娘，不过我一句也没听懂……
其实我自己也……”
“妈妈，最好我们一起到他那儿去，请您相信，一到了那儿，我们立刻就会看出该怎么办了。再说，我们也该走了——上帝啊！十点多了！”她看了看用一条纤细的威尼斯表链挂在脖子上的、很好看的珐郎面金表，突然喊了一声，——这块金表和她的其他服饰极不协调。“未婚夫送的礼物”，拉祖米欣想。
“啊，该走了！……该走了，杜涅奇卡，该走了！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜焦急地忙乱起来，“他又会认为，我们这么久不去，准是还在为昨天的事生气呢。唉，我的天哪。”
这么说着，她慌忙披上披肩，戴上帽子；杜尼娅也穿戴起来。拉祖米欣发觉，她的手套不但是旧的，甚至也破了，然而服装的这种明显的寒酸样子甚至使两位女士显得特别尊严，那些衣着寒酸，可是善于打扮的人，总是具有这种特殊的尊严。拉祖米欣怀着崇敬的心情看着杜涅奇卡，并为自己能伴送她而感到自豪。“那位皇后，”他暗自想，“那位在监狱里补自己长袜的皇后①，看上去才像一位真正的皇后，甚至比她参加最豪华的庆典或接受朝见的时候更像一位真正的皇后。”
--------
①指法国路易十六的妻子，玛丽亚—安图安涅塔（一七五五——一七九三）。法国大革命时，她被关进监狱。
“我的天哪！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜突然高声说，“我哪会想到，我竟会像现在这样怕跟儿子、怕跟我亲爱的、亲爱的罗佳见面呢！……我害怕，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇！”
她怯生生地瞅了他一眼，补充说。
“您别怕，妈妈，”杜尼娅说着吻了吻她。“您最好是相信他。我相信。”
“唉，我的天哪！我也相信，可是整整一夜我都没睡！”这个可怜的女人高声说。
他们来到了街上。
“你要知道，杜涅奇卡，快到早晨的时候，我刚刚稍微打了个盹儿，忽然梦见了玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜……她穿着一身白衣服……来到我跟前，拉着我的手，对着我直摇头，而且是那么严厉，那么严厉，好像是责备我……这是好兆头吗？唉，我的天哪，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，您还不知道呢：玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜死了！”
“不，我不知道；哪一个玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜？”
“她是突然死的！您要知道……”
“以后再说吧，妈妈，”杜尼娅插嘴说，“因为他还不知道玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜是谁呢。”
“啊，您不知道吗？可我还以为您已经什么都知道了呢。请您原谅我，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，这几天我简直糊涂了。真的，我把您当成了我们的神明，所以才深信不疑，以为您已经全都知道了。我把您当成了亲人……我这么说，您可别生气。哎哟，我的天哪，您右手怎么了？受伤了？”
“是啊，受伤了，”感到非常幸福的拉祖米欣含糊不清地说。
“我有时候说话太直，所以杜尼娅常常纠正我……不过，我的天哪，他住在一间什么样的房子里啊！可是，他醒了没有？这个女人，他的女房东，认为这也叫房子吗？您听我说，您说过，他不喜欢流露自己的感情，那么我也许，由于我的……那些弱点，让他感到讨厌了吧？……您能教教我吗，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇？我对他该怎样呢？我，您要知道，我真完全不知所措了。”
“如果看到他皱眉，就不要钉着追问他；尤其是不要钉着追问他的健康状况：他不喜欢人家问他身体怎样。”
“唉，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，作母亲可真痛苦啊！不过，就是这道楼梯了……这楼梯多么可怕！”
“妈妈，您连脸色都发白了，镇静下来吧，我亲爱的，”杜尼娅亲热地对母亲说，“他看到您，应该感到幸福才对，您却这么折磨自己，”她两眼闪闪发亮，又补上一句。
“请你们稍等一等，我先去看看他醒了没有？”
两位女士悄悄地跟在走到前边先上楼去的拉祖米欣后面，已经走到四楼女房东的房门前时，发觉女房东的房门开着一条小缝，两只的溜溜转动的黑眼睛正从暗处注视着她们。当她们的目光碰到门后的目光时，房门突然砰地一声关上了，吓得普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜差点儿没有大叫起来。
Part 3 Chapter 3
"He is well, quite well!" Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered.
He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.
Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there was a restlessness in his movements.
He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word.
"Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well," said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. "And I don't say this /as I did yesterday/," he said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand.
"Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day," began Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies' entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. "In another three or four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two . . . or perhaps even three. This has been coming on for a long while. . . . eh? Confess, now, that it has been perhaps your own fault?" he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him.
"It is very possible," answered Raskolnikov coldly.
"I should say, too," continued Zossimov with zest, "that your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don't know, but they must be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial."
"Yes, yes; you are perfectly right. . . . I will make haste and return to the university: and then everything will go smoothly. . . ."
Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night.
"What! he saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. "Then you have not slept either after your journey."
"Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o'clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before two at home."
"I don't know how to thank him either," Raskolnikov went on, suddenly frowning and looking down. "Setting aside the question of payment-- forgive me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)--I really don't know what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don't understand it . . . and . . . and . . . it weighs upon me, indeed, because I don't understand it. I tell you so candidly."
"Don't be irritated." Zossimov forced himself to laugh. "Assume that you are my first patient--well--we fellows just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients."
"I say nothing about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, "though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble."
"What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day, are you?" shouted Razumihin.
If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother.
"As for you, mother, I don't dare to speak," he went on, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. "It is only to-day that I have been able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back."
When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute the previous day. The mother's face lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. "Yes, that is what I love him for," Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. "He has these movements."
"And how well he does it all," the mother was thinking to herself. "What generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister--simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that. . . . And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is! . . . He is even better looking than Dounia. . . . But, good heavens, what a suit --how terribly he's dressed! . . . Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch's shop, is better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him . . . weep over him--but I am afraid. . . . Oh, dear, he's so strange! He's talking kindly, but I'm afraid! Why, what am I afraid of? . . ."
"Oh, Rodya, you wouldn't believe," she began suddenly, in haste to answer his words to her, "how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it's all over and done with and we are quite happy again--I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that woman--ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya! . . . She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can't imagine how we felt! I couldn't help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father's-- you can't remember him, Rodya--who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the court-yard and they couldn't pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help. . . . Because we were alone, utterly alone," she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although "we are quite happy again."
"Yes, yes. . . . Of course it's very annoying. . . ." Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity.
"What else was it I wanted to say?" He went on trying to recollect. "Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don't think that I didn't mean to come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first."
"What are you saying, Rodya?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised.
"Is he answering us as a duty?" Dounia wondered. "Is he being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a lesson?"
"I've only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her . . . Nastasya . . . to wash out the blood . . . I've only just dressed."
"Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.
"Oh, nothing--don't be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over . . . a clerk . . ."
"Delirious? But you remember everything!" Razumihin interrupted.
"That's true," Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. "I remember everything even to the slightest detail, and yet--why I did that and went there and said that, I can't clearly explain now."
"A familiar phenomenon," interposed Zossimov, "actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions-- it's like a dream."
"Perhaps it's a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman," thought Raskolnikov.
"Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too," observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov.
"There is some truth in your observation," the latter replied. "In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens--perhaps hundreds of thousands--hardly one is to be met with."
At the word "madman," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned.
Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.
"Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!" Razumihin cried hastily.
"What?" Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. "Oh . . . I got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me . . . to his wife for the funeral. She's a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature . . . three little children, starving . . . nothing in the house . . . there's a daughter, too . . . perhaps you'd have given it yourself if you'd seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it, or else /Crevez, chiens, si vous n'etes pas contents/." He laughed, "That's right, isn't it, Dounia?"
"No, it's not," answered Dounia firmly.
"Bah! you, too, have ideals," he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. "I ought to have considered that. . . . Well, that's praiseworthy, and it's better for you . . . and if you reach a line you won't overstep, you will be unhappy . . . and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier. . . . But all that's nonsense," he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. "I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother," he concluded, shortly and abruptly.
"That's enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good," said his mother, delighted.
"Don't be too sure," he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.
A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it.
"It is as though they were afraid of me," Raskolnikov was thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent.
"Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much," flashed through his mind.
"Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.
"What Marfa Petrovna?"
"Oh, mercy on us--Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote you so much about her."
"A-a-h! Yes, I remember. . . . So she's dead! Oh, really?" he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. "What did she die of?"
"Only imagine, quite suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. "On the very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully."
"Why, were they on such bad terms?" he asked, addressing his sister.
"Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost patience."
"Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?"
"No, no, he's an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!" Dounia answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into thought.
"That had happened in the morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. "And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told. . . ."
"After the beating?"
"That was always her . . . habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the bath-house. . . . You see, she was undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!"
"I should think so," said Zossimov.
"And did he beat her badly?"
"What does that matter!" put in Dounia.
"H'm! But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother," said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.
"Ah, my dear, I don't know what to talk about," broke from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Why, are you all afraid of me?" he asked, with a constrained smile.
"That's certainly true," said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her brother. "Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the stairs."
His face worked, as though in convulsion.
"Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don't be angry, please, Rodya. . . . Why did you say that, Dounia?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed--"You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything together. . . . And I was so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now. . . . You should not, Dounia. . . . I am happy now--simply in seeing you, Rodya. . . ."
"Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of everything!"
As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a fearful lie--that he would never now be able to speak freely of everything--that he would never again be able to /speak/ of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone walked towards the door.
"What are you about?" cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.
He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity.
"But what are you all so dull for?" he shouted, suddenly and quite unexpectedly. "Do say something! What's the use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk. . . . We meet together and sit in silence. . . . Come, anything!"
"Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.
"What is the matter, Rodya?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.
"Oh, nothing! I remembered something," he answered, and suddenly laughed.
"Well, if you remembered something; that's all right! . . . I was beginning to think . . ." muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. "It is time for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps . . . if I can . . ." He made his bows, and went out.
"What an excellent man!" observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent," Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. "I can't remember where I met him before my illness. . . . I believe I have met him somewhere---- . . . And this is a good man, too," he nodded at Razumihin. "Do you like him, Dounia?" he asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.
"Very much," answered Dounia.
"Foo!--what a pig you are!" Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.
"Where are you off to?"
"I must go."
"You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don't go. What's the time? Is it twelve o'clock? What a pretty watch you have got, Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking."
"It was a present from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dounia.
"And a very expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady's."
"I like that sort," said Dounia.
"So it is not a present from her /fiance/," thought Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted.
"I thought it was Luzhin's present," observed Raskolnikov.
"No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet."
"A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get married?" he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.
"Oh, yes, my dear."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin.
"H'm, yes. What shall I tell you? I don't remember much indeed. She was such a sickly girl," he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. "Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don't know what drew me to her then--I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still," he smiled dreamily. "Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium."
"No, it was not only spring delirium," said Dounia, with warm feeling.
He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down.
"You love her even now?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.
"Her? Now? Oh, yes. . . . You ask about her? No . . . that's all now, as it were, in another world . . . and so long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems somehow far away." He looked attentively at them. "You, now . . . I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away . . . but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! And what's the use of asking about it?" he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into dreamy silence again.
"What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It's like a tomb," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. "I am sure it's quite half through your lodging you have become so melancholy."
"My lodging," he answered, listlessly. "Yes, the lodging had a great deal to do with it. . . . I thought that, too. . . . If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just now, mother," he said, laughing strangely.
A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with him after three years' absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which must be settled one way or the other that day--so he had decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of escape.
"Listen, Dounia," he began, gravely and drily, "of course I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at once to look on you as a sister."
"Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again," Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can't bear it. You said the same yesterday."
"Brother," Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "In all this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision. . . ."
"She is lying," he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. "Proud creature! She won't admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate. . . . Oh, how I . . . hate them all!"
"In fact," continued Dounia, "I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him. . . . Why did you smile just now?" She, too, flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.
"All?" he asked, with a malignant grin.
"Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch's courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too. . . . Why are you laughing again?"
"And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me. . . . You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it."
"It is not true. I am not lying," cried Dounia, losing her composure. "I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very day . . . and such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself. . . . I am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what's the matter?"
"Good heavens! You have made him faint," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"No, no, nonsense! It's nothing. A little giddiness--not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H'm, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him, and that he . . . esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?"
"Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch's letter," said Dounia.
With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at Dounia.
"It is strange," he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. "What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!"
He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something particular.
"What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, "is that he is a business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he writes such an uneducated letter."
They all started. They had expected something quite different.
"But they all write like that, you know," Razumihin observed, abruptly.
"Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"We showed him, Rodya. We . . . consulted him just now," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.
"That's just the jargon of the courts," Razumihin put in. "Legal documents are written like that to this day."
"Legal? Yes, it's just legal--business language--not so very uneducated, and not quite educated--business language!"
"Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way," Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother's tone.
"Well, if he's proud of it, he has reason, I don't deny it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is one expression, 'blame yourselves' put in very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or Zossimov, or one of us?"
"N-no," answered Dounia, with more animation. "I saw clearly that it was too naively expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill in writing . . . that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed . . ."
"It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble, and not 'on the pretext of the funeral,' but simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter--a young woman, as he writes, of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)--but to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naive eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows the man and . . . I don't think he has a great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish for your good . . ."
Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting the evening.
"Then what is your decision, Rodya?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.
"What decision?"
"You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you . . . come?"
"That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you think best," he added, drily.
"Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare.
"I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at this interview," said Dounia. "Will you come?"
"Yes."
"I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o'clock," she said, addressing Razumihin. "Mother, I am inviting him, too."
"Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth. . . . Pyotr Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!"
 
“他好了，他好了！”佐西莫夫高兴地对进来的人们喊了一声。佐西莫夫已经来了十来分钟了，坐在沙发上昨天他坐过的那个角落里。拉斯科利尼科夫坐在他对面那个角落上，已经完全穿好衣服，甚至细心梳洗过了，他好久没有这样做过了。屋里一下子坐满了人，但娜斯塔西娅还是跟着客人们进来，在那儿听着。
真的，拉斯科利尼科夫几乎已经好了，特别是与昨天的情况比较，更是如此，只不过他面色十分苍白，心不在焉，郁郁不乐。从外表看，他像一个受伤的人，或者是忍受着肉体上某种剧烈痛苦的人：他双眉紧锁，双唇紧闭，目光像在发烧。他说话很少，很不乐意，仿佛是勉为其难，或者是在尽义务，有时他的动作似乎有些慌乱。
只差胳膊上没有绷带，或者手指上没套着塔夫绸的套子，不然就完全像一个，譬如说吧，手指严重化脓，或是手臂受伤，或者受了这一类创伤的人了。
不过，当母亲和妹妹进来的时候，有一瞬间这张苍白和神情忧郁的脸仿佛被一道亮光照得发出了光彩，但这只是使他脸上以前那种布满愁云、心不在焉的表情变得更加痛苦，似乎把这痛苦凝缩集中起来了。光转瞬间就熄灭了，痛苦却留了下来，佐西莫夫怀着刚刚开始给人治病的医生那种年轻人的热情，从各方面观察和研究自己的病人，惊奇地发觉，亲人们的到来并没有使他变得高兴，他脸上流露出来的却似乎是暗暗隐藏着的、痛苦的决心——决心忍受一两个小时无法避免的折磨。后来他看到，随后的谈话，几乎每一句都像是接触到并刺痛了他病人的伤口；但同时他又有点儿惊讶：今天病人竟能控制住自己，把昨天那种偏执狂患者的感情隐藏起来，而昨天，为了一句无足轻重的话，他都几乎要发疯。
“是的，现在我自己也看出，我差不多好了，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，说着亲切地吻了吻母亲和妹妹，这样一来普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜立刻容光焕发，“而且我说这话已经不是用昨天的方式了，”他又对着拉祖米欣补上了一句，还和他友好地握了握手。
“今天我甚至对他感到惊讶，”佐西莫夫说，他们来了，他感到非常高兴，因为在这十分钟里他和自己的病人已经没有什么话可谈了。“如果一直这样下去，再过三、四天，他就会和以前完全一样了，也就是说和一个月以前，或者是两个月以前……或者，也许是三个月以前？因为冰冻三尺，非一日之寒，这病是从很久以前就开始的……不是吗？现在您得承认，也许，这得怪您自己，是吧？”他面带小心谨慎的微笑，补上一句，仿佛一直还在担心有什么话会惹他生气。
“很有可能，”拉斯科利尼科夫冷冰冰地回答。
“我说这话的意思是，”佐西莫夫得寸进尺，接下去说，“您要完全恢复健康，现在主要全在于您自己了。现在已经可以和您谈谈了，我想提醒您，必须消除最初的病因，也可以这样说，必须消除致病的根本原因，那么您就会完全痊愈了，不然，病情甚至会恶化。这最初的病因，我不知道，但您想必是知道的。您是聪明人，当然，也观察过自己。我觉得，您得病的时间与您离开大学的时间多少有些巧合。您不能无事可做，因此我觉得，工作和为自己提出一个坚定的目标，对您会非常有益。”
“对，对，您说得完全正确……我要赶快进大学，那么就一切都会……十分顺利了……”
佐西莫夫提出这些很有道理的劝告，一部分也是为了让这两位女士留下深刻的印象，可是他把话说完以后，看了看被劝告的对象，却发现后者的脸上露出明显的嘲笑神情，这时他当然有点儿发窘了。不过这只持续了很短暂的一会儿工夫。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜立刻向佐西莫夫致谢，特别是感谢他昨天夜里去旅馆看她们。
“怎么，他夜间也去过你们那里？”拉斯科利尼科夫好像有点儿担心地问。“这么说，你们长途旅行之后也没睡觉吗？”
“啊，罗佳，这只不过是在两点钟以前哪。我和杜尼娅在家里的时候，两点以前从来不睡。”
“我也不知道该怎样感谢他，”拉斯科利尼科夫接下去说，突然皱起眉头，眼睛看着地下。“钱的问题暂且不谈，——我提到这一点，请您原谅（他对佐西莫夫说），我不知道，我有哪一点值得您对我这样特别关心？简直无法理解……而且……而且这种关心甚至让我感到痛苦，因为无法理解：我坦率地对您说。”
“请您别生气，”佐西莫夫勉强笑着说，“假定说，您是我的第一个病人，而我们，刚刚开始行医的医生们，爱我们的第一个病人，就像爱自己的孩子一样，有些人几乎是深深地爱上了他们。而我的病人并不多。”
“至于他，我就不讲了，”拉斯科利尼科夫指着拉祖米欣补充说，“他也是，除了侮辱和一大堆麻烦事，从我这儿什么也没得到。”
“嘿，你胡说！今天你是不是有点儿多情善感？”拉祖米欣高声叫嚷。
如果他目光较为敏锐的话，那么他就会看出，这根本不是什么多情善感，而甚至是完全相反。但是阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜却发觉了。她担心地凝神注视着哥哥。
“而对您，妈妈，我连提都不敢提，”他接着说下去，仿佛是在背诵从早上就背熟了的功课，“今天我才能多少想象出，昨天您在这儿等我回来的时候，心里感到多么难过。”说完这句话，他突然默默地微笑着向妹妹伸过一只手去。但是这一次，微笑中流露出的却是绝非故意做作的真实感情。杜尼娅立刻抓住向她伸过来的手，热情地和他握手，她感到十分高兴，满怀着感激的心情。在昨天发生争执之后，这是他第一次向她流露自己的感情。看到兄妹默默无言的彻底和解，母亲欣喜若狂，感到十分幸福，脸上发出了光彩。
“瞧，我就是为了这一点爱他！”总是喜欢夸张的拉祖米欣喃喃地说，在椅子上坚决地扭转身去，“他是会这样的！
……”
“这一切他做得多么好啊，”母亲暗自想，“他心里充满多么高尚的激情，他是多么简单而又委婉地结束了昨天和妹妹的所有误解，——只不过是在这样的时刻伸出手来，亲切地看了一眼……他的眼睛多好看哪，他的脸多么美啊！…… 他甚至比杜涅奇卡还要好看……不过，我的天哪，他穿了一身什么样的衣服，他穿得多么不像样啊！……阿凡纳西•伊万诺维奇铺子里那个送信的瓦西亚也比他穿得好些！……我简直想，简直想立刻向他扑过去，拥抱他，……大哭一场，——可是我害怕，我怕……上帝啊！他是多么……瞧，他说话是那么亲切，可是我害怕！不过我怕什么呢？……”
“啊，罗佳，你不会相信的，”她突然接着话茬，赶快回答他的话，“昨天我和杜尼娅是多么……不幸啊！现在，一切都已经过去，已经结束，我们大家又都感到幸福了，——可以跟你说说了。你想想看，我们跑到这里，想要拥抱你，几乎是一下火车就跑来了，可是这个女人，——哦，对了，就是她！你好，娜斯塔西娅！…… 她突然对我们说，你害了热病，在发酒疯，刚才悄悄地从医生这儿逃跑了，神智不清地跑上街去，大家都跑去找你了。您想不出，我们急成了什么样子！我立刻想起波坦奇科夫中尉死得多么惨，他是我们的一个熟人，你父亲的朋友，——你不记得他，罗佳，——他也是发酒狂的时候这样跑出去，掉进院子当中的一口井里，只是到第二天才把他打捞上来。当然啦，我们是把事情看得过于严重了些。我们本想跑去找彼得•彼特罗维奇，希望至少有他的帮助……因为我们孤单无依，完全无依无靠，”她用诉苦的声音拖长语调说，可是突然住了声，因为她想起，这时提起彼得•彼特罗维奇还相当危险，尽管“我们大家又都感到幸福了”。
“是的，是的，……这一切当然让人感到遗憾……”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地回答，然而他的样子看上去是那么心不在焉，几乎是漫不经心，以致杜尼娅惊讶地看了他一眼。
“我还想说什么来着？”他接着说，努力回想着，“对了：妈妈，还有你，杜涅奇卡，请你们不要认为，今天我不愿先到你们那儿去，却等着你们先到我这儿来。”
“你这是说什么话呀，罗佳！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼，她也感到惊讶了。
“他回答我们，是不是在尽义务呢？”杜涅奇卡想，“又是和好，又是请求原谅，就像是履行公事，或者是像背书。”
“我一睡醒就想过去，可是衣服把我耽误住了；昨天忘了告诉她……告诉娜斯塔西娅……洗净这块血迹……只是到现在我才穿好衣服。”
“血！什么血？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜惊恐地说。
“这没什么……您别担心。这血迹是因为，昨天我神智不清？在街上荡来荡去，碰上一个给轧伤的人……一个官员……”
“神智不清？可你不是什么都记得吗，”拉祖米欣打断了他的话。
“这是真的，”不知为什么，对这个问题拉斯科利尼科夫特别关心地回答说，“我什么都记得，就连最小的细节也记得，可是真怪：我为什么要做那件事，为什么要到那里去，为什么要说那些话？却不能解释清楚。”
“这是一种极为常见的现象，”佐西莫夫插嘴说，“一件事情的完成有时十分巧妙，而且极其复杂，是什么在支配这些行动，这些行动的起因是什么，却很难弄清，取决于各种病态的印象。这就像做梦一样。”
“他几乎把我当成了疯子，这倒也好，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。
“就是健康的人，好像也有这样的情况，”杜涅奇卡担心地望着佐西莫夫，说。
“这话相当正确，”佐西莫夫回答，“就这方面来说，我们大家当真往往几乎都是疯子，只有一个小小的区别，‘病人’多多少少比我们疯得厉害些，所以必须分清这个界线。完全正常的人，几乎根本就没有，这是对的；几十个人里，也许是几十万人里才能碰到一个，而且就是这样的人，也并不是没有缺陷……”
谈起自己心爱的话题，佐西莫夫不慎说漏了嘴，“疯子”一词脱口而出，一听到这个词儿，大家都皱起眉头。拉斯科利尼科夫却好像毫不在意，坐在那儿，陷入深思，苍白的嘴唇上露出奇怪的微笑。他不知继续在想什么。
“喂，这个给轧伤的人怎么样了？我把你的话打断了！”拉祖米欣赶快高声说。
“什么？”拉斯科利尼科夫好像从梦中醒来，“是的，……所以，当我帮着把他抬回家去的时候，沾上了血迹……顺带说一声，妈妈，昨天我做了一件不可原谅的事；真的是精神不正常。昨天我把您寄给我的钱全都送给了……他的妻子……用来安葬他。现在这个寡妇，她有肺病，这个可怜的女人……三个小孩子都成了孤儿，没有饭吃……家里什么都没有……还有个女儿……要是您看到了，说不定您自己也会送给她……不过，我得承认，我没有任何权利，特别是因为我知道，这些钱您是怎么弄来的。要帮助别人，得先有这样做的权利，要不，就只能说：‘Crevez，chiens，sivousnXeYtespascontents！’①他放声大笑起来，“是不是这样呢，杜尼娅？”
--------
①法文，意为：“畜生，如果你们觉得不好，那就死了吧。”
“不，不是这样，”杜尼娅坚决地回答。
“哦！你也有……企图！……”他含糊不清地说，几乎是憎恨地看了她一眼，并且含讥带讽地微微一笑。“这我本该猜到的……有什么呢，这也值得称赞；对你来说，这会更好……一直走到这样一条界线，如果你不跨过去，就会遭到不幸，跨过去呢，也许会更加不幸……不过这都是胡说八道！”他气愤地加上一句，为自己这种不由自主的兴奋情绪感到恼怒。“我只不过想说，妈妈，我请求您原谅，”他突然生硬地、断断续续地结束了自己的话。
“够了，罗佳，我相信，你做的一切都很好！”十分高兴的母亲说。
“请您不要相信，”他回答，撇了撇嘴，微微一笑。接着是沉默。在这场谈话中有某种紧张气氛，在沉默中，在他们和好与请求的时候，大家也都有同样的感觉。
“好像她们都怕我呀，”拉斯科利尼科夫皱起眉头瞅着母亲和妹妹，心中暗想。真的，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜越是不说话，就越觉得害怕。
“不见面的时候，我倒好像很爱她们，”这想法突然在他脑子里一闪而过。
“你要知道，罗佳，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜死了！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜忽然一下子站了起来。
“这个玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜是什么人？”
“唉，我的天哪，就是玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜•斯维德里盖洛娃呀！我在信里还给你写了那么多有关她的事情呢。”
“啊——啊——啊，对了，我记得……那么，她死了？唉，真的吗？”他突然打了个哆嗦，仿佛从梦中醒来。“难道她死了吗？怎么死的？”
“你要知道，是猝死！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜受到他好奇心的鼓舞，连忙说，“就在我给你发信的时候，甚至就在那一天！你要明白，这个可怕的人看来就是她致死的原因。据说，他把她狠狠地痛打了一顿！”
“难道他们就是这样生活的吗？”他问妹妹。
“不，甚至相反。他对她总是很有耐心，甚至客客气气。在许多情况下，对她的性格他甚至采取过分宽容的态度，整整七年……不知为什么突然失去了耐心。”
“既然他忍耐了七年，可见他根本不是那么可怕，不是吗？
杜涅奇卡，你好像是在为他辩解？”
“不，不，这是个可怕的人！我不能想象会有比这更可怕的，”杜尼娅几乎颤抖着回答，皱起眉头，陷入沉思。
“他们这件事发生在早上，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜连忙接下去说。“在这以后，她立刻吩咐套马，吃过午饭马上就进城去，因为每逢这种情况，她总是要进城；据说吃午饭的时候她胃口很好……”
“挨了打以后？”
“……不过，她一向有这么个……习惯，一吃完午饭，为了不耽误起程，立刻就去水滨浴场……你要知道，她在那儿进行浴疗；他们那里有一处冷泉，她每天按时在冷泉里沐浴，可是她一下水，就突然中风了！”
“那还用说！”佐西莫夫说。
“把她打得很厉害吗？”
“这还不一样吗，”杜尼娅回答。
“嗯哼！不过，妈妈，您倒喜欢讲这种无聊的事，”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地、仿佛是无意中突然说。
“唉，我亲爱的，我真不知道该说什么呢，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜脱口而出。
“怎么，你们大家都怕我吗？”他撇着嘴，不自然地笑着说。
“的确是这样，”杜尼娅说，目光严厉地逼视着哥哥。“妈妈上楼的时候，甚至吓得在画十字。”
他的脸仿佛在抽搐，变得很难看。
“唉，看你说的，杜尼娅！请别生气，罗佳……你为什么要这样说呢，杜尼娅！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德芙娜着急地说，“我，真的，到这儿来的时候，坐在车厢里一路上都在梦想着：我们将怎样见面，怎样互相谈谈各自的情况……我感到那么幸福，都不觉得是在路上了！唉，我在说什么啊！现在我也感到很幸福……你不该那么说，杜尼娅！单是看到你，我就已经觉得幸福了，罗佳……”
“够了，妈妈，”他不好意思地含糊不清地说，紧紧握住她的手，可是不看着她，“我们会有时间痛痛快快说个够的。”
说完这句话，他突然感到很窘，脸色变得煞白：不久前体验过的一种可怕的感觉，一种像死人般冷冰冰的感觉，又突然穿透他的心灵；他又突然十分清楚，完全明白，刚才他撒了个弥天大谎：现在他不仅永远不能痛痛快快地说个够，而且永远再也不能跟任何人说什么了。这个折磨人的想法对他的影响是如此强烈，有那么一会儿工夫，他几乎想得出神，从座位上站起来，谁也不看，就从屋里往外走去。
“你怎么了？”拉祖米欣喊了一声，一把抓住了他的胳膊。
他又坐下，默默地朝四下里看看；大家都困惑不解地看着他。
“你们怎么都这样闷闷不乐！”他突然完全出乎意外地高声大喊，“随便说点儿什么嘛！真的，干吗这么干坐着！喂，说呀！大家都说话呀……我们聚会在一起，可是都不作声……
喂，随便说点儿什么呀！”
“谢天谢地！我还以为他又要像昨天那样呢，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜画了个十字，说。
“你怎么了，罗佳？”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜怀疑地问。
“没什么，我想起一件事来，”他回答，突然笑起来了。
“好，既然这样，那就好！不然我倒以为……”佐西莫夫含糊不清地说，说着从沙发上站起身来。“不过，我该走了；
也许，我还会再来一次……如果你们还在这儿……”
他告辞，走了。
“一个多好的人啊！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“不错，是个很好的、出色的、学识渊博的聪明人……”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，出乎意外地说得很快，而且异常兴奋，直到现在他还从未这么活跃过，“我已经记不得，生病以前我在什么地方见过他了……好像是在哪儿见过……瞧，这也是一位好人！”他朝拉祖米欣点点头，“你喜欢他吗，杜尼娅？”他问她，而且不知为什么突然大笑起来。
“很喜欢，”杜尼娅回答。
“呸，你是个多么……不讲交情的人！”给说得很不好意思、满脸通红的拉祖米欣说，说罢从椅子上站起来了。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜微微一笑，拉斯科利尼科夫却高声大笑起来。
“你去哪儿？”
“我也……我也该走了。”
“你根本不该走，请你留下来！佐西莫夫走了，所以你也该走吗？你别走……可是，几点了？十二点了吗？你这块表多可爱呀，杜尼娅！你们怎么又不说话了！就只有我一个人在说！……”
“这是玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜送给我的礼物，”杜尼娅回答。
“价钱很贵呢，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜补充说。
“啊——啊——啊！多么大啊，几乎不像女表。”
“我就喜欢这样的，”杜尼娅说。
“这么说，不是未婚夫的礼物，”拉祖米欣想，不知为什么觉得很高兴。
“我还以为是卢任送的礼物呢，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“不，他还什么也没送给过杜涅奇卡呢。”
“啊——啊——啊！您还记得吗，妈妈，我曾经恋爱过，还想结婚呢，”他看着母亲说，话题突然转变，还有他说这话的语调，都使她感到惊讶。
“唉，我亲爱的，是呀！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜和杜涅奇卡以及拉祖米欣互相使了个眼色。
“嗯哼！是的！我能跟你们说点儿什么呢？甚至记不得多少了。她是个有病的小姑娘，”他接下去说，仿佛又突然陷入沉思，低下了头，“完全是个病魔缠身的姑娘；喜欢向乞丐施舍，一直梦想进修道院，有一次她跟我谈起这件事来，泪流满面；是的，是的……我记得……记得很清楚。长得……不好看。真的，我不知道当时我为什么对她产生了那么深的感情，似乎是为了她总是生病……如果她再是个跛子或驼背，我大概会更爱她……（他若有所思地微微一笑。）这……就像是春天里的梦呓……”
“不，这不仅仅是春天里的梦呓，”杜涅奇卡兴奋地说。
他怀着紧张的心情留神看了看妹妹，但是没有听清或者甚至不理解她的话是什么意思。随后，他陷入沉思，站起来，走到母亲面前，吻了吻她，又回到原来的座位上，坐下了。
“你现在还在爱她！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“她？现在？啊，对了……您说的是她！不。现在这一切就好像是在那个世界上……而且那么久了。就连周围的一切也似乎不是在这个世界上发生的。……”
他留心看了看他们。
“喏，就连你们……我好像也是从千里以外在望着你们……唉，天知道，我们为什么要谈这些！问这问那的作什么呢？”他懊恼地加上一句，随后不说话了，咬着自己的指甲，又陷入沉思。
“你住的房子多么不好啊，罗佳，像个棺材，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜突然说，打破了令人难堪的沉默，“我相信，你变得这么忧郁，一半得归咎于这间房子。”
“房子？……”他心不在焉地回答。“是啊，有很多事情是由房子促成的……我也这么想过……不过，妈妈，要是您能知道就好了，您刚刚说出了一个多么奇怪的想法，”他突然补上一句，奇怪地冷笑了一声。
再稍过一会儿，这一伙人、这离别三年之后重新聚首的亲人，还有这谈话的亲切语气——尽管他们根本无话可谈，——最后就都将使他完全无法忍受了。然而，有一件刻不容缓的事情，不管怎样一定得在今天解决，——还在不久前，他一醒来的时候，他就这样决定了。现在他为这件事感到高兴，仿佛把它看作一条出路。
“是这么回事，杜尼娅，”他认真而又冷淡地说，“昨天的事，我当然请你原谅，但是我认为我有责任再次提醒你，我的主要意见，我决不放弃。要么是我，要么是卢任。让我作个卑鄙的人吧，你却不应该这样。总有一个是卑鄙的。如果你嫁给卢任，我就不再把你看作妹妹。”
“罗佳，罗佳！这还不和昨天一样吗，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜伤心地高声说，“你为什么总是把自己叫作卑鄙的人呢，这我可受不了！昨天也是这样……”
“哥哥，”杜尼娅坚决地回答，语气也很冷淡，“这都是因为你有个错误的想法。我反复考虑了一夜，找出了你的错误。这都是因为，似乎，据你推测，好像我要嫁给什么人，是为了什么人而牺牲自己。根本不是这样。我要出嫁，只不过是为了自己，因为我很痛苦；其次，如果我能为亲人做点儿有益的事，我当然感到高兴，但这不是我作出这一决定的最主要的动机……”
“她说谎！”他暗自想，同时在愤恨地咬着指甲。“骄傲的女人！她不愿承认，她想施恩于人！噢，庸俗的人们哪！他们爱，就像是恨……噢，我是多么……憎恨他们所有的人！”
“总而言之，我要嫁给彼得•彼特罗维奇，”杜涅奇卡接着说下去，“是因为两害相权取其轻。我愿诚实地履行他期待于我的一切义务，所以，我并没有欺骗他……你为什么这样笑？”
她也发火了，她的眼里闪射出愤怒的火花。
“履行一切义务？”他恶毒地冷笑着问。
“到一定的限度。彼得•彼特罗维奇求婚的态度和方式立刻就向我显示出，他需要的是什么。他当然自命不凡，也许把自己估计得太高了，不过我希望他也能尊重我，……你为什么又笑了？”
“你为什么脸又红了？你在说谎，妹妹，只是由于女性的固执，你才故意说谎，这只不过是为了在我面前坚持己见……你不可能尊重卢任，因为我见过他了，还和他谈过话。可见你是为了钱而出卖自己，可见，不管怎么说，你的行为是卑鄙的，我感到高兴的是，至少你还会脸红！”
“不对，我没说谎！……”杜涅奇卡高声叫嚷起来，失去了冷静的态度，“如果我不是深信他尊重我，珍视我，我是决不会嫁给他的；如果我不是坚决相信，我会尊重他，我也决不会嫁给他。幸而对于这一点我可以深信不疑，就连今天，我也毫不怀疑。这样的婚姻决不是像你所说的那种卑鄙的事！即使你是对的，即使我当真下决心要做卑鄙的事，那么你像这样和我说话，从你那方面来说，难道不是太残酷了吗？你为什么要求我表现出也许连你自己都没有的英雄气概？这是专横霸道，这是强制！即使我毁了什么人，那么也只是毁了我自己……我还没杀害过任何人！……你为什么这样看着我？你的脸色为什么变得这么白？罗佳，你怎么了？罗佳，亲爱的！”
“上帝啊！你说得他都快要昏厥了！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。
“不，不，……没有的事……没什么！……头稍有点儿晕。根本不是昏厥……您怎么老是忘不了这些昏厥啊！……嗯哼！对了……我要说什么来着？对了：你今天是怎么会相信你能尊敬他，他也……会尊重你的，用你的话来说，是这样吧？你好像说过，今天，是吗？还是我听错了呢？”
“妈妈，请把彼得•彼特罗维奇的信拿给哥哥看看，”杜涅奇卡说。
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜用颤抖的双手把信递给他。他怀着强烈的好奇心接过了信。但是在把信打开之前，他突然不知为什么惊奇地看了看杜涅奇卡。
“奇怪，”他慢慢地说，仿佛突然有个新的想法使他吃了一惊，“我操的是哪份心？我干吗大嚷大叫？你爱嫁给谁就嫁给谁好了！”
他似乎是在自言自语，可是说出了声，有那么一会儿工夫，他瞅着妹妹，好像大惑不解。
他终于把信打开了，脸上仍然保持着某种奇怪的惊讶神情；然后他慢慢地、很用心地看起信来，看了两遍。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜特别焦灼不安；大家也都预料会发生什么不平常的事情。
“这使我觉得奇怪，”他默默地想了一会儿，说，一边把信递给母亲，可是他这话并不是对着某一个人说的，“因为卢任是个办案的，是个律师，就连他说话也是这样……一副律师腔调，——可是信却写得文理不通。”
大家都骚动起来；完全没料到会有这样的反应。
“因为他们写信都是这个样子，”拉祖米欣断断续续地说。
“莫非你看过了？”
“是的。”
“我们让他看了，罗佳，我们……不久前我们商量过，”感到很窘的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“这其实是司法界的文体，”拉祖米欣打断了她的话，“司法界的公文至今都是这样写法。”
“司法界的？对，正是司法界的，公文式的……倒不是说十分不通，可也并不完全合乎语言规范；是公文式的！”
“彼得•彼特罗维奇并不隐瞒，他没念过多少书，甚至夸耀他是靠自我奋斗，取得了目前的社会地位，”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜说，对哥哥的新语调有点儿生气了。
“有什么呢，既然夸耀，就是说有值得夸耀的东西，——这我并不反对。妹妹，我看完了信，竟提了一个这么不够郑重的意见，你好像是生气了，心想，我是由于恼怒，故意挑出这样一些鸡毛蒜皮的小事来挖苦你。恰恰相反，由于文体，我才想到了一个在目前情况下绝非多余的意见。信上有这么一句话：‘咎由自取’，写上这句话，意义重大，用意是明显的，此外，还有一句威胁性的话，说是如果我去，他立刻就走。这要走的威胁，也就等于威胁说，如果你们不听话，他就会抛弃你们，而且是现在，已经把你们叫到彼得堡来以后，现在就抛弃你们。嗯，你是怎么想呢，如果卢任的那句话是他（他指指拉祖米欣），或者是佐西莫夫，或者是我们当中随便哪一个写出来的，会不会同样令人感到气愤呢？”
“不——会”，杜涅奇卡兴奋地回答，“我很明白，这话说得太天真了，可能他只不过是不善于写信……你考虑得很有道理，哥哥。我甚至没料到……”
“这是司法界的说法，而用司法界的语言，就不能写成另一个样子，结果写出来的也许就比他所想的更粗鲁些了。不过，我一定会让你有点儿失望：这封信里还有一句话，一句诽谤我的话，而且是相当卑鄙的诽谤。昨天我是把钱送给了那个害肺病的、悲痛欲绝的寡妇，不是‘借口安葬’，而是，就是用来安葬死者的，也不是交给了女儿——像他信上说的，一个‘行为不端’的姑娘（昨天是我有生以来第一次看见她），而是交给了寡妇本人。我认为，这分明是他迫不及待的愿望：诋毁我，挑拨我和你们争吵。这句话又是用刀笔吏的语言说出来的，也就是过于明显地暴露了目的，而且是十分天真地急欲达到这个目的。他是个聪明人，不过要想做得聪明，单靠聪明还不够。这一切活活画出了一个人的面
Part 3 Chapter 4
At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her with surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed, almost like a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby old- fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so much embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child. She was even about to retreat. "Oh . . . it's you!" said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once recollected that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin's letter of "some young woman of notorious behaviour." He had only just been protesting against Luzhin's calumny and declaring that he had seen the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not protested against the expression "of notorious behaviour." All this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a pang to his heart.
"I did not expect you," he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her stop. "Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me--not there. Sit here. . . ."
At Sonia's entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov's three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a bed, was too /familiar/ a place, he hurriedly motioned her to Razumihin's chair.
"You sit here," he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa.
Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov.
"I . . . I . . . have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you," she began falteringly. "I come from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you . . . to be at the service . . . in the morning . . . at Mitrofanievsky . . . and then . . . to us . . . to her . . . to do her the honour . . . she told me to beg you . . ." Sonia stammered and ceased speaking.
"I will try, certainly, most certainly," answered Raskolnikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his sentence. "Please sit down," he said, suddenly. "I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes," and he drew up a chair for her.
Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov's pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed.
"Mother," he said, firmly and insistently, "this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya's urgent and challenging look, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl's face, and scrutinised her with perplexity. Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever.
"I wanted to ask you," said Raskolnikov, hastily, "how things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?"
"No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause of death . . . they did not worry us . . . only the lodgers are angry."
"Why?"
"At the body's remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it's necessary . . ."
"To-day, then?"
"She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch."
"She is giving a funeral lunch?"
"Yes . . . just a little. . . . She told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral."
All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again.
During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little girl--almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this childishness seemed almost absurd.
"But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral lunch?" Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the conversation.
"The coffin will be plain, of course . . . and everything will be plain, so it won't cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough left . . . and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should be so. You know one can't . . . it's a comfort to her . . . she is like that, you know. . . ."
"I understand, I understand . . . of course . . . why do you look at my room like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb."
"You gave us everything yesterday," Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov's poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia's eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.
"Rodya," she said, getting up, "we shall have dinner together, of course. Come, Dounia. . . . And you, Rodya, had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us. . . . I am afraid we have exhausted you. . . ."
"Yes, yes, I'll come," he answered, getting up fussily. "But I have something to see to."
"But surely you will have dinner together?" cried Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?"
"Yes, yes, I am coming . . . of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?"
"Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining with us?"
"Please do," added Dounia.
Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all strangely embarrassed.
"Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good-bye again."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.
But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort in her face, as though Avdotya Romanovna's courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her.
"Dounia, good-bye," called Raskolnikov, in the passage. "Give me your hand."
"Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?" said Dounia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him.
"Never mind, give it to me again." And he squeezed her fingers warmly.
Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off quite happy.
"Come, that's capital," he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at her. "God give peace to the dead, the living have still to live. That is right, isn't it?"
Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father floated before his memory in those moments. . . .
*****
"Heavens, Dounia," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in the street, "I really feel relieved myself at coming away--more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that."
"I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be forgiven."
"Well, you were not very patient!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. "Do you know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are both melancholy, both morose and hot-tempered, both haughty and both generous. . . . Surely he can't be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!"
"Don't be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be."
"Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch breaks it off?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.
"He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dounia, sharply and contemptuously.
"We did well to come away," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. "He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air . . . it is fearfully close in his room. . . . But where is one to get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up rooms. Good heavens! what a town! . . . stay . . . this side . . . they will crush you--carrying something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I declare . . . how they push! . . . I am very much afraid of that young woman, too."
"What young woman, mother?
"Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now."
"Why?"
"I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause of the trouble. . . ."
"Nothing of the sort!" cried Dounia, in vexation. "What nonsense, with your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening before, and he did not know her when she came in."
"Well, you will see. . . . She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her, and he introduces her to us--to you! So he must think a great deal of her."
"People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it is all nonsense."
"God grant it may be!"
"And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer," Dounia snapped out, suddenly.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed.
*****
"I will tell you what I want with you," said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumihin to the window.
"Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming," Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart.
"One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!" he turned suddenly to Razumihin again. "You know that . . . what's his name . . . Porfiry Petrovitch?"
"I should think so! He is a relation. Why?" added the latter, with interest.
"Is not he managing that case . . . you know, about that murder? . . . You were speaking about it yesterday."
"Yes . . . well?" Razumihin's eyes opened wide.
"He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some pledges there, too--trifles--a ring my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father's silver watch--they are only worth five or six roubles altogether . . . but I value them. So what am I to do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of Dounia's watch. It is the only thing of father's left us. She would be ill if it were lost. You know what women are. So tell me what to do. I know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think? The matter might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before dinner."
"Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry," Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement. "Well, how glad I am. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him."
"Very well, let us go."
"And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that's it! It is all turning out splendidly. . . . Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna . . ."
"Sofya Semyonovna," corrected Raskolnikov. "Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a good man."
"If you have to go now," Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed.
"Let us go," decided Raskolnikov. "I will come to you to-day, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live."
He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went out together.
"Don't you lock up?" asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs.
"Never," answered Raskolnikov. "I have been meaning to buy a lock for these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks," he said, laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.
"Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the way?" he added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy.
"Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday."
"Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister? Did I give her the address?"
"Why, had you forgotten?"
"No, I remember."
"I had heard my father speak of you . . . only I did not know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came . . . and as I had learnt your name, I asked to-day, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?' I did not know you had only a room too. . . . Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna."
She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening before her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her that day, perhaps at once!
"Only not to-day, please, not to-day!" she kept muttering with a sinking heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. "Mercy! to me . . . to that room . . . he will see . . . oh, dear!"
She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman who was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing, started on hearing Sonia's words: "and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov lived?" He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though waiting for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and that Sonia was going home.
"Home? Where? I've seen that face somewhere," he thought. "I must find out."
At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept two or three yards behind her.
He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore good and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with grey, and his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkedly well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years.
When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner. "Bah!" muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the third storey, turned down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, "Kapernaumov, Tailor." "Bah!" the stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart.
"You lodge at Kapernaumov's," he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. "He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at Madame Resslich's. How odd!" Sonia looked at him attentively.
"We are neighbours," he went on gaily. "I only came to town the day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present."
Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy.
*****
On the way to Porfiry's, Razumihin was obviously excited.
"That's capital, brother," he repeated several times, "and I am glad! I am glad!"
"What are you glad about?" Raskolnikov thought to himself.
"I didn't know that you pledged things at the old woman's, too. And . . . was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?"
"What a simple-hearted fool he is!"
"When was it?" Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. "Two or three days before her death it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the things now," he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about the things. "I've not more than a silver rouble left . . . after last night's accursed delirium!"
He laid special emphasis on the delirium.
"Yes, yes," Razumihin hastened to agree--with what was not clear. "Then that's why you . . . were stuck . . . partly . . . you know in your delirium you were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes . . . that's clear, it's all clear now."
"Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it /cleared up/ why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have on all of them!"
"Shall we find him?" he asked suddenly.
"Oh, yes," Razumihin answered quickly. "He is a nice fellow, you will see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished manners, but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas. . . . He is incredulous, sceptical, cynical . . . he likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial method. . . . But he understands his work . . . thoroughly. . . . Last year he cleared up a case of murder in which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your acquaintance!"
"On what grounds is he so anxious?"
"Oh, it's not exactly . . . you see, since you've been ill I happen to have mentioned you several times. . . . So, when he heard about you . . . about your being a law student and not able to finish your studies, he said, 'What a pity!' And so I concluded . . . from everything together, not only that; yesterday Zametov . . . you know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk . . . I am afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, you see."
"What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right," he said with a constrained smile.
"Yes, yes. . . . That is, pooh, no! . . . But all that I said (and there was something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense."
"But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however.
"I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One's ashamed to speak of it."
"If you are ashamed, then don't speak of it."
Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had just said about Porfiry.
"I shall have to pull a long face with him too," he thought, with a beating heart, and he turned white, "and do it naturally, too. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No, /carefully/ would not be natural again. . . . Oh, well, we shall see how it turns out. . . . We shall see . . . directly. Is it a good thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating, that's what's bad!"
"In this grey house," said Razumihin.
"The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old hag's flat yesterday . . . and asked about the blood? I must find that out instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise . . . I'll find out, if it's my ruin."
"I say, brother," he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly smile, "I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously excited. Isn't it so?"
"Excited? Not a bit of it," said Razumihin, stung to the quick.
"Yes, brother, I assure you it's noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair in a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be writhing all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One moment you were angry, and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed awfully."
"Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?"
"But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there he's blushing again."
"What a pig you are!"
"But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I'll tell of you to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I'll make mother laugh, and someone else, too . . ."
"Listen, listen, listen, this is serious. . . . What next, you fiend!" Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. "What will you tell them? Come, brother . . . foo! what a pig you are!"
"You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how you've washed to-day--you cleaned your nails, I declare. Eh? That's something unheard of! Why, I do believe you've got pomatum on your hair! Bend down."
"Pig!"
Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch's flat. This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing in the passage.
"Not a word here or I'll . . . brain you!" Razumihin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.
 
这时房门轻轻地开了，有个姑娘怯生生地东张西望着，走进屋里。大家都惊讶而好奇地看着她。拉斯科利尼科夫没有立刻认出她来。这是索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜•马尔梅拉多娃。昨天他第一次看到她，然而是在那种时候，那样的环境里，她又穿了那么一身衣服，所以印在他记忆里的完全是另一个人的形象。现在这却是一个衣着朴素，甚至穿得和穷人一样的姑娘，还十分年轻，几乎像个小姑娘，谦逊端庄，彬彬有礼，脸上神情开朗，可又好像有点儿胆怯。她穿一件很朴素的、家常穿的连衫裙，戴一顶老式的旧帽子；不过还像昨天一样，手里拿着一把小伞。看到出乎意外的满满一屋子人，与其说她感到不好意思，倒不如说她完全惊慌失措了，她像小孩子样觉得害怕，甚至做了个想要退出去的动作。
“啊……是您吗？……”拉斯科利尼科夫异常惊讶地说，突然感到很窘。
他立刻想到，母亲和妹妹已经从卢任的信上略微知道，有这么一个行为“不端”的年轻姑娘。他刚刚还在抗议卢任的诽谤，说他是头一次看到这个姑娘，现在她却突然进到他屋里来了。他还记起，对“行为不端”一词，他丝毫没有提出抗议。这一切在他脑子里模模糊糊地一闪而过。但是他更加聚精会神地看了看她，突然发觉，这个被侮辱的人已经给作践成这个样子，顿时可怜起她来。当她吓得想要逃走的时候，他心里真难过极了。
“我完全没想到您会来，”他赶紧说，同时用目光留住她。
“请坐。您大概是从卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜那儿来。对不起，不是这里，请坐这儿……”
索尼娅进来的时候，坐在拉斯科利尼科夫三把椅子中紧靠门边那把椅子上的拉祖米欣欠起身来，让她进去。起初拉斯科利尼科夫想让她坐到沙发上佐西莫夫坐过的那个角落里，但是想到，叫她坐沙发未免过于亲昵了，因为沙发也就是他的床，于是又赶紧让她坐到拉祖米欣坐的那把椅子上。
“你呢，请坐这里，”他对拉祖米欣说，让他坐到佐西莫夫坐过的那个角落里。
索尼娅坐了下来，几乎吓得发抖，并怯生生地看了看那两位女士。看得出来，她自己也不明白，她怎么能和她们坐在一起。想到这一点，她吓得突然又站起来，完全惊慌失措地对拉斯科利尼科夫说：
“我……我……来只待一会儿，请原谅我打搅您，”她结结巴巴地说。“是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜叫我来的，她没有人可供差遣……卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜恳请您明天去参加安魂弥撒，早晨……作日祷的时候……在米特罗法尼耶夫斯基墓地①，然后上我们家去……去她那里……吃饭……请您赏光……她叫我来请您。”
--------
①米特罗法尼耶夫斯基墓地是埋葬小官吏、手艺人和士兵的公墓，建于一八三一年霍乱流行的时候。
索尼娅讷讷地说完，不作声了。
“我一定尽可能去……一定去，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答，也欠起身来，也说得结结巴巴地，而且没有把话说完……“您请坐，”他突然说，“我得跟您谈谈，请坐啊，——您也许很忙，但是请给我两分钟时间……”
他把椅子推给她。索尼娅又坐下来，又怯生生地、惊慌失措地赶快朝那两位女士看了一眼，突然低下了头。
拉斯科利尼科夫苍白的脸突然涨得血红；他仿佛浑身抽搐了一下，两眼闪闪发光。
“妈妈，”他坚决而执拗地说，“这是索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜•马尔梅拉多娃，就是那位不幸的马尔梅拉多夫先生的女儿，昨天我亲眼看到他被马踩伤了，他的事我已经跟你们说过……”
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜朝索尼娅看了一眼，微微眯缝起眼睛。尽管在罗佳坚定和挑衅的目光逼视下，她感到侷促不安，但是她无论如何也不能放弃这一让自己得到满足的机会。杜涅奇卡严肃地凝神注视着这个面色苍白的姑娘的脸，困惑不解地细细打量着她。索尼娅听到在介绍她，又抬起眼来，但是比以前更加慌乱了。
“我想请问您，”拉斯科利尼科夫赶紧对她说，“今天你们那儿事情办得怎么样？有没有人来找麻烦？……譬如说，警察局里。”
“没有，一切都过去了……因为，是怎么死的，这太明显了；没有人来找麻烦；只不过那些房客很生气。”
“为什么？”
“因为尸体停放了很久……现在天热，有臭味……所以今天晚祷前就抬到墓地去，抬到小教堂去停放到明天。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜起初不愿意，现在自己也看出，不能再……”
“那么今天？”
“她请您赏光，明天去参加教堂里的安魂弥撒，然后去她那里，参加酬客宴。”
“她要办酬客宴？”
“是的，随便弄几样菜；她一再嘱咐，叫我谢谢您，谢谢您昨天帮助我们……没有您帮助，就根本没钱安葬，”她的嘴唇，还有下巴，都突然抖动起来，但是她努力克制着，忍住了，赶快又垂下眼睛看着地下。
谈话的时候，拉斯科利尼科夫凝神细细地打量她。他看到的是一张瘦削的、十分瘦削的小脸，面色苍白，长得不够端正，有点儿尖，生着尖尖的小鼻子和尖尖的小下巴。甚至不能说她长得漂亮，但是她那双淡蓝色的眼睛却是那么明亮，而当它们光彩四射的时候，她脸上的神情就变得那么善良和天真，人们不由得会被她吸引住。此外，她的脸上，她的整个体态中都显示出一种不同寻常的性格特点：尽管她已经十八岁了，可看上去还几乎是一个小姑娘，好像比她的实际年龄小得多，几乎完全像个小孩子，有时这一点甚至会可笑地在她的某些动作中表现出来。
“可是难道这么一点儿钱，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜就够用了，甚至还想置办酒席？……”拉斯科利尼科夫问，执拗地要把谈话继续下去。
“棺材只买普通的……一切从简，所以花不了多少钱……刚才我跟卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜计算过了，还能剩下点儿钱，来办酬客宴……卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜想这么办。因为不能不……对她来说，这也是个安慰……她就是这样的人，您是知道的……”
“我懂，我懂……当然啦……您为什么仔细看我的房子？
妈妈也说，它像口棺材。”
“您昨天把钱都送给我们了！”索涅奇卡突然用很富有感染力而且说得很快的低声回答，突然又垂下眼睛，看着地下。嘴唇和下巴又抖动起来。她早已对拉斯科利尼科夫的贫困状况感到惊讶了，现在这些话突然不由自主地脱口而出。接着是一阵沉默。杜涅奇卡的眼睛不知为什么流露出和蔼可亲的神情，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜甚至亲切地看了看索尼娅。
“罗佳，”她说，一边站了起来，“我们当然是在一起吃午饭了。杜涅奇卡，咱们走吧……而你，罗佳，你先去散一会儿步，然后休息休息，躺一躺，早点儿去我们那里……要不，我们会让你太累了，我担心……”
“好，好，我来，”他回答，说着慌忙站起来……“不过我还有事……”
“难道你们不在一起吃午饭了？”拉祖米欣惊奇地看着拉斯科利尼科夫，高声叫喊，“你这是做什么？”
“是的，是的，我来，当然，当然……请你留下来，稍等一会儿。你们现在不需要他吧，妈妈？也许，我可以把他留下来？”
“啊，不，不！而您，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，请来吃午饭，您肯赏光吗？”
“请您一定来！”杜尼娅邀请说。
拉祖米欣鞠了个躬，容光焕发。有一瞬间不知为什么大家都突然奇怪地感到有些不好意思了。
“别了，罗佳，我是说，再见；我不喜欢说‘别了’，别了，娜斯塔西娅，……唉，又说‘别了’！……”
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜本想也与索尼娅告别，可是不知为什么没有这么做，就急忙从屋里出去了。
但是阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜仿佛在等着轮到她和大家告别，她跟着母亲从索尼娅身边走过的时候，殷勤而彬彬有礼地对她深深地一躬到地。索涅奇卡发窘了，躬身还礼时有点儿匆匆忙忙，神色惊慌，脸上甚至流露出某种痛苦的神情，似乎阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜的客气和殷勤只能使她感到难过和痛苦。
“杜尼娅，别了！”已经到了穿堂里，拉斯科利尼科夫喊了一声，“握握手吧！”
“我不是已经和你握过手了，忘了吗？”杜尼娅温柔地、又有点儿不好意思地转身面对着他，回答。
“那有什么关系，再握一次嘛！”
他紧紧地握了握她的手指。杜涅奇卡对他微微一笑，脸红了，赶快挣脱自己的手，跟着母亲走了，不知为什么她也感到十分幸福。
“啊，好极了！”他回到自己屋里，神情泰然地朝索尼娅看了一眼，对她说，“愿上帝让死者安息，但活着的人必须活下去！是这样吗？是这样吗？是这样，不是吗？”
索尼娅甚至惊奇地看着他突然变得神情开朗的脸；有一会儿工夫他默默地凝神注视着她，她去世的父亲所讲的关于她的那些故事这时突然掠过他的脑海……
“上帝啊，杜涅奇卡！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜和女儿一走到街上，立刻就说，“我们出来了，现在我倒好像很高兴；不知为什么觉得轻松些了。唉，昨天坐在车厢里的时候，我哪里想到，竟会为这感到高兴呢！”
“我又要对您说了，妈妈，他还病得很厉害呢。难道您没看出来？也许是因为他非常想念我们，心情不好，损害了自己的身体。应该对他采取宽容态度，很多事情，很多事情都是可以原谅的。”
“可你并不宽容！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜立刻急躁而又嫉妒地打断了她。“你要知道，杜尼娅，我看看你们兄妹俩，你简直就是他的活肖像，而且与其说是面貌像，不如说是性格像：你们俩都是性情忧郁的人，两人都郁闷不乐，脾气急躁，两人都高傲自大，两人都豁达大度……他不可能成为一个自私自利的人，杜涅奇卡，不是吗？……我一想到今天晚上我们那里会出什么事，心就停止跳动了！”
“您别担心，妈妈，该怎么着，就怎么着。”
“杜涅奇卡！你只要想想看，我们现在是什么样的处境！要是彼得•彼特罗维奇拒绝了，那会怎样呢？”可怜的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜一不小心，突然把心里的话说了出来。
“要是那样，他还有哪一点值得留恋呢！”杜涅奇卡尖锐而轻蔑地回答。
“现在我们走了，这样做很对，” 普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜连忙打断了她的话，“他有事，急着要去什么地方；让他出去走走，至少可以呼吸点儿新鲜空气……他那儿闷得要命……可是这儿哪有可以呼吸新鲜空气的地方？就连这里，大街上，也像在没有气窗的屋里一样。上帝呀，这是个什么样的城市啊！……快站住，让开，会踩死人的，不知是拉着什么飞跑！这拉的不是一架钢琴吗，真的……都是这样横冲直撞……对这个少女，我也非常害怕……”
“什么少女，妈妈？”
“就是这个，就是刚刚在他那儿的索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜……”
“怕什么呢？”
“我有这么一种预感，杜尼娅。嗯，信不信由你，她一进来，当时我就想，这就是主要的……”
“根本不是！”杜尼娅遗憾地高声说。“您和您的预感都不对，妈妈！他昨天刚认识她，刚才她一进来，他都没认出来。”
“嗯，你会看到的！……她让我心慌意乱，你会看到的，你会看到的！我觉得那么害怕：她瞅着我，瞅着我，一双眼睛是那样的，你记得吗，他开始介绍她的时候，我在椅子上都坐不住了？我觉得奇怪：彼得•彼特罗维奇在信上是那样写的，他却把她介绍给我们，甚至介绍给你！可见在他眼里，她是很珍贵的！”
“管他信上写什么呢！我们也让人议论过，人家也在信上谈论过我们，您忘记了吗？可我相信，她……是个好姑娘，这些话都是胡扯！”
“愿上帝保佑她！”
“彼得•彼特罗维奇却是个卑鄙的造谣中伤的家伙，”杜涅奇卡突然毫无顾忌地说。
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜立刻不再作声了。谈话中断了。
“是这样，我有这么一件事要跟你谈谈……”拉斯科利尼科夫把拉祖米欣拉到窗边，对他说……
“那么我就告诉卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，说您一定来……”索尼娅急忙说，于是告辞，就想走了。
“等一等，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，我们没有秘密，您不会妨碍我们……我还要跟您说两句话……是这么回事，”话还没说完，仿佛给打断了，他突然又对拉祖米欣说。“你认识这个……他叫什么来着？……波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇，是吗？”
“当然！是我的亲戚。有什么事吗？”他补充说，突然产生了好奇心。
“现在这个案子……就是这件凶杀案……就是你们昨天谈的……不是他在办吗？”
“是啊…怎么呢？”拉祖米欣突然瞪大了眼睛。
“他在询问抵押东西的人，可那里也有我抵押的两件东西，东西不值钱，不过有我妹妹的一只戒指，是我到这里来的时候她送给我作纪念的，还有我父亲的一块银表。总共只值五、六个卢布，可是对我来说，都很珍贵，因为是纪念品。现在我该怎么办呢？我不愿让这些东西遗失，特别是那块表。刚才我谈起杜涅奇卡的表的时候，我生怕母亲会问起，要看看我那块表，吓得我心在怦怦地跳。这是父亲死后完整无损保存下来的唯一一件东西。如果丢了，她准会病倒的！女人嘛！那么该怎么办呢，你给出个主意！我知道，得去分局登记。不过直接跟波尔菲里谈是不是更好呢，啊？你看该怎么办？这事得快点儿办妥。你等着瞧，午饭前妈妈准会问起！”
“绝对不要去分局，一定得找波尔菲里！”拉祖米欣异常激动地叫喊。“啊，我多么高兴！干吗在这儿谈，咱们马上就走，只几步路，准能找到他！”
“好吧……咱们走……”
“他会非常、非常、非常、非常高兴和你认识！我跟他讲过很多关于你的事，在不同的时候……昨天也谈过。咱们走！……那么你认识那个老太婆？这就是了！……这一切都弄清了！……啊，对了……索菲娅•伊万诺芙娜……”
“索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，”拉斯科利尼科夫纠正他。“索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，这是我的朋友，拉祖米欣，他是个好人……”
“如果你们现在要走……”索菲娅说，对拉祖米欣连一眼也没看，可是这样倒更加不好意思了。
“咱们走吧！”拉斯科利尼科夫决定了，“今天我就去您那儿一趟，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，不过请告诉我，您住在哪儿？”
他倒不是感到不知所措，而是好像急于出去，而且避开了她的目光。索尼娅给他留下了地址，这时她脸红了。大家一起出去了。
“难道不锁门吗？”拉祖米欣问，边说，边跟着他们下楼去。
“从来不锁！……不过两年来我一直想要买把锁，”他漫不经心地补上一句。“用不着锁门的人不是很幸福吗？”他笑着对索尼娅说。
在街上，他们在大门前站住了。
“索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，您往右去，是吗？顺带问一声：您是怎么找到我的？”他问，似乎他想对她说的完全是什么别的事情。他一直想看着她那双温和而明亮的眼睛，可不知为什么总是做不到……
“昨天您不是把地址告诉波列奇卡了吗。”
“波莉娅？啊，对了……波列奇卡！这是个……小姑娘……
是您妹妹？这么说，我给她留下了地址了？”
“难道您忘了吗？”
“不……我记得……”
“我也听先父谈起过您……不过那时候还不知道您的姓名，连他也不知道……现在我来……因为昨天知道了您姓什么，……所以今天就问：拉斯科利尼科夫先生住在这儿什么地方？……我不知道，你也是租二房东的房子……别了……
我就对卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜说……”
她终于走了，为此感到非常高兴；她低着头，急急忙忙地走着，好尽快走出他们的视野，尽快走完这二十步路，到达转弯的地方，往右一拐，到大街上，终于只剩下她一个人，于是匆匆忙忙地走着，既不看任何人，也不注意任何东西，只是在想，在回忆，思索着说过的每一句话，每一种情况。她从来，从来没有过类似的感觉。一个全新的世界神秘地、模模糊糊地进入她的心灵。她突然想起，他想今天到她那儿去，也许是早晨，也许现在就去！
“不过可不要今天去，请不要今天去！”她喃喃地自言自语，心都揪紧了，就像一个惊恐的小孩子在恳求什么人似的。
“上帝啊！上我那儿去……去那间屋里……他会看到……噢，上帝啊！”
这时她当然不会发觉，有一个她不认识的先生正留心注意着她，在后面紧紧地跟着她。一出大门，他就在跟踪她。当他们三个，拉祖米欣，拉斯科利尼科夫和她站在人行道上又说了几句话的时候，这个过路的人从他们身边绕过去，无意中听到索尼娅说的这句话：“我就问，拉斯科利尼科夫先生住在这儿什么地方？”好像突然颤抖了一下。他很快，然而很细心地把这三个人打量了一番，特别留心看了看索尼娅跟他说话的那个拉斯科利尼科夫；然后看了看那幢房子，并且记住了它。这一切都是他过路时一瞬间的事，这个过路的人甚至竭力不引人注意，继续往前走去，可是放慢了脚步，好像是在等着什么人。他在等着索尼娅；他看到他们分手了，现在索尼娅就要回家去了。
“她回哪儿去呢？我在什么地方见过这张面孔，”他想，一边在回忆索尼娅的面容……“得去弄清楚。”
到了转弯处，他穿过马路走到街道对面，回头一看，看到索尼娅已经跟着他走了过来，走的也是那同一条街道，可是她什么也没发觉。走到转弯处，她也恰好折到这条街上来了。他跟在她后面，从对面人行道上目不转睛地盯着她；走了五十来步以后，他又穿过马路，回到索尼娅走的那一边，追上了她，跟在她后面，保持着五步远的距离。
这是个五十岁左右的人，比中等身材略高一些，相当粗壮，肩膀很宽，而且向上拱起，所以看上去有点儿像是驼背。他衣着考究而且舒适，神气十足，完全是一副老爷派头。他手提一根很漂亮的手杖，每走一步，都用手杖在人行道上轻轻地拄一拄，手上还戴着一副崭新的手套。他那张颧骨突出的脸相当讨人喜欢，他的脸色红润，不像彼得堡人的脸。他的头发还很浓密，完全是淡黄色的，只是稍有几根银丝，他那部又宽又浓的大胡子像一把铲子，颜色比头发还淡一些。他的眼睛是淡蓝色的，看人的时候目光冷冰冰的，凝神逼视，若有所思；嘴唇颜色是鲜红的。总之，这是一个保养得很好的人，看上去比他的实际年龄年轻得多。
索尼娅走到运河边的时候，他们两人都到了人行道上。他在用心观察她，发觉她神情若有所思，心不在焉。索尼娅走到她住的那幢房子，转弯进了大门，他跟在她后面，好像有点儿惊讶的样子，进了院子，她往右边那个角落走去，通往她住房的楼梯就在那个角落上。“咦！”那个陌生的老爷喃喃地说，也跟在她后面上了楼梯。这时索尼娅才注意到他。她上到三楼，转进一条走廊，拉了拉九号的门铃，房门上用粉笔写着：“裁缝卡佩尔纳乌莫夫”。那个陌生人又说了一声“咦！”对这奇怪的巧合感到惊讶，他拉了拉旁边八号的门铃。
两道门只隔着五、六步远。
“您住在卡佩尔纳乌莫夫家啊！”他望着索尼娅，笑着说。
“昨天他给我改过一件坎肩。我住在这儿，紧挨着您的房子，住在列斯莉赫，盖尔特鲁达•卡尔洛芙娜太太的房子里。多巧啊！”
索尼娅留心看了看他。
“我们是邻居，”不知为什么他特别愉快地接着说。“要知道，我来到城里总共才两天多。好，再见。”
索尼娅没有回答；房门开了，她溜进了自己的房子里。她不知为什么害羞了，好像感到害怕……
在去波尔菲里家的路上，拉祖米欣异常兴奋。
“老兄，这真好极了，”这句话他重复了好几次，“我也觉得高兴！我很高兴！”
“你高兴什么呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫心中暗想。
“以前我不知道你也在老太婆那儿抵押过东西。这……这……很久了吗？也就是说，你去她那儿是很久以前的事吗？”
“好一个天真的傻瓜！”
“什么时候吗？……”拉斯科利尼科夫停顿了一下，他在回忆，“她死前三天我好像去过她那儿。不过，现在我并不是去赎回那些东西，”他赶快接着说，好像对这些东西特别关心，“因为我又只剩下一个银卢布了……由于昨天那该死的神智不清！……”
神智不清几个字他说得特别有力。
“嗯，对，对，对，”拉祖米欣连忙说，不知是附和他的哪一句话，“所以那时候……你有点儿吃惊了……你知道吗，你说胡话的时候老是提到什么戒指和表链！……嗯，对了，对了……清楚了，现在一切都清楚了。”
“原来如此！嘿，原来这个想法已经在他们当中传播开来了！这个人将要代我去受极刑；我很高兴，在我说胡话的时候为什么提到戒指，现在已经弄清楚了！他们大家对此已经深信不疑了！……”
“我们能见到他吗？”他大声问。
“能见到，能见到，”拉祖米欣连忙说，“老兄，他是个好小伙子，你见到他就知道了！有点儿笨，也就是说，他是个文质彬彬的人，我说他笨，是指另一方面。是个聪明人，聪明，甚至是聪明过人，不过思想方法跟别人不一样……疑心重，怀疑一切，厚颜无耻，……喜欢骗人，也就是说，不是骗人，而是愚弄别人……他的侦查方法还是老一套，只重证据……不过很懂行，精通业务……去年他也经办过这样一件凶杀案，几乎所有线索都断了，可是他却破了案！他非常，非常，非常想跟你认识认识。”
“他为什么非常想呢？”
“就是说，并不是……你要知道，最近一个时期，自从你病了以后，我经常跟他谈起你，谈了你的很多情况……嗯，他听着，……听说你在法律系学习，可是由于家境的关系，没能毕业，于是说：‘多么可惜！’所以我就断定……也就是说，这一切凑到一起，而不单是这一点；昨天扎苗托夫……你要知道，罗佳，昨天我喝醉了，送你回家的时候，跟你说了些没意思的话……所以我，老兄，我担心，你可别把我的话夸大了，你要知道……”
“你指的是什么？是说他们把我看作疯子吗？是的，也许这是对的。”
他勉强笑了笑。
“是的……是的……也就是说，别睬它，不！……嗯，而且我所说的一切（旁的话也一样），全都是醉话，胡说八道。”
“你干吗道歉呢！这一切都让我烦透了！”拉斯科利尼科夫用夸张的气愤语调高声喊道。其实他是有点儿装出来的。
“我知道，我知道，我理解。请相信，我是理解的。就连说出来，都觉得不好意思……”
“如果不好意思，那就别说！”
两人都不说话了。拉祖米欣十分高兴，拉斯科利尼科夫感觉到了这一点，对此感到厌恶。拉祖米欣刚才讲的关于波尔菲里的那番话又使他感到担心。
“对这个人也得唱拉撒路之歌①，”他想，面色苍白，心在怦怦地狂跳，“而且要唱得自然些。不唱，是最自然的了。要尽可能什么也别唱！不，尽可能又不自然了……嗯，看情况吧……咱们走着瞧……现在……我去，这好，还是不好呢？飞蛾扑火。心在跳，这可不好！……”
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①意思是：装作不幸的人，向人诉苦。圣经上有这么一个寓言：拉撒路是个穷人，躺在铁石心肠的富人门前求乞。
“就在这幢灰色的房子里，”拉祖米欣说。
“最重要的是，波尔菲里知道不知道昨天我去过这个巫婆的住宅……还问起过那摊血？这一点得马上弄清楚，一进去就弄清楚，从他的脸上看出来；不—然—的—话……哪怕我要完蛋，也一定要弄清楚！”
“你知道吗？”他突然对拉祖米欣说，脸上带着狡猾的微笑，“老兄，今天我发觉，从早上你就特别激动，对吗？”
“什么激动？我根本就不激动，”拉祖米欣不由得颤抖了一下。
“不，老兄，真的，这看得出来。刚才你坐在椅子上的姿势就跟往常不一样，不知为什么坐在椅子边上，而且一直很不自然地动来动去，好像在抽筋。还无缘无故地忽然跳起来。一会儿爱发脾气，一会儿不知为什么脸上的表情变得那么甜，甜得像冰糖。你甚至脸都红了；特别是请你去吃午饭的时候，你脸红得好厉害。”
“根本没有这么回事；你胡说！……我说这话是什么意思？”
“你怎么像小学生一样躲躲闪闪的！嘿，见鬼，你脸又红了！”
“不过，你真是头猪猡！”
“可你干吗不好意思了？罗密欧①啊！你先别忙，今天我可要在什么地方把这些都说出来，哈——哈——哈！让妈妈开心开心……还要让另一个人……”
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①莎士比亚名剧《罗密欧与朱丽叶》中的男主人公。
“你听我说，你听我说，你听我说，这可不是开玩笑的事，因为这……你要说，那会怎样呢，见鬼！”拉祖米欣已经彻底惊慌失措，吓得浑身发冷。“你要对她们说什么？我，老兄……
呸，你真是头猪猡！”
“你简直是一朵春天的玫瑰！你要知道，这个比方对你是多么合适；两俄尺十俄寸高的罗密欧！啊，今天你洗得多么干净，手指甲也洗干净了，是吗？什么时候有过这样的事？啊，真的，你的头发搽过油了？你低下头来！”
“猪猡！！！”
拉斯科利尼科夫笑得那么厉害，好像怎么也忍不住了，于是就这样大笑着走进了波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇的寓所。拉斯科利尼科夫正需要这样：从屋里可以听到，他们是笑着进来的，在前室里还一直在哈哈大笑。
“在这里一个字也别提，要不，我就……打碎你的脑袋！”
拉祖米欣抓着拉斯科利尼科夫的肩膀，狂怒地低声说。
Part 3 Chapter 5
Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself: his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received this "spontaneous" mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose.
"Fool! You fiend," he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent flying and crashing.
"But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the Crown," Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.
Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch's, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the visitors' entrance and was standing in expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov's unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.
"I've got to think of that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he began, affecting extreme embarrassment. "Raskolnikov."
"Not at all, very pleasant to see you . . . and how pleasantly you've come in. . . . Why, won't he even say good-morning?" Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at Razumihin.
"Upon my honour I don't know why he is in such a rage with me. I only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo . . . and proved it. And that was all, I think!"
"Pig!" ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.
"There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at the word," Porfiry laughed.
"Oh, you sharp lawyer! . . . Damn you all!" snapped Razumihin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though nothing had happened. "That'll do! We are all fools. To come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?"
"What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily.
Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.
"Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday," he said easily.
"Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out without me. Where is your tobacco?"
Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, mawkish light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight.
As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest.
"Fool," Raskolnikov swore to himself.
"You have to give information to the police," Porfiry replied, with a most businesslike air, "that having learnt of this incident, that is of the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them . . . or . . . but they will write to you."
"That's just the point, that at the present moment," Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, "I am not quite in funds . . . and even this trifling sum is beyond me . . . I only wanted, you see, for the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money. . . ."
"That's no matter," answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, "but you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and such as your property, you beg . . ."
"On an ordinary sheet of paper?" Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the question.
"Oh, the most ordinary," and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov's fancy, for it all lasted but a moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why.
"He knows," flashed through his mind like lightning.
"Forgive my troubling you about such trifles," he went on, a little disconcerted, "the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I was alarmed when I heard . . ."
"That's why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!" Razumihin put in with obvious intention.
This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately recollected himself.
"You seem to be jeering at me, brother?" he said to him, with a well- feigned irritability. "I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious about such trash; but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver watch, though it's not worth a cent, is the only thing left us of my father's. You may laugh at me, but my mother is here," he turned suddenly to Porfiry, "and if she knew," he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, "that the watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!"
"Not a bit of it! I didn't mean that at all! Quite the contrary!" shouted Razumihin distressed.
"Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?" Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that about women?"
"Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovitch inquired.
"Yes."
"When did she come?"
"Last night."
Porfiry paused as though reflecting.
"Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and coldly. "I have been expecting you here for some time."
And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin's cigarette.
"What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges /there/?" cried Razumihin.
Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.
"Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on which you left them with her . . ."
"How observant you are!" Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly added:
"I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges . . . that it must be difficult to remember them all. . . . But you remember them all so clearly, and . . . and . . ."
"Stupid! Feeble!" he thought. "Why did I add that?"
"But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn't come forward," Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony.
"I haven't been quite well."
"I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still."
"I am not pale at all. . . . No, I am quite well," Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting, he could not repress it. "And in my anger I shall betray myself," flashed through his mind again. "Why are they torturing me?"
"Not quite well!" Razumihin caught him up. "What next! He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!"
"Really delirious? You don't say so!" Porfiry shook his head in a womanish way.
"Nonsense! Don't you believe it! But you don't believe it anyway," Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem to catch those strange words.
"But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious?" Razumihin got hot suddenly. "What did you go out for? What was the object of it? And why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all danger is over I can speak plainly."
"I was awfully sick of them yesterday." Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, "I ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn't find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious yesterday; settle our dispute."
He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his expression and his silence to him.
"In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were extremely irritable," Zametov pronounced dryly.
"And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day," put in Porfiry Petrovitch, "that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been run over."
"And there," said Razumihin, "weren't you mad then? You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all the twenty-five at once!"
"Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that's why I was liberal yesterday. . . . Mr. Zametov knows I've found a treasure! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such trivialities," he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling lips. "We are boring you, aren't we?"
"Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you interest me! It's interesting to look on and listen . . . and I am really glad you have come forward at last."
"But you might give us some tea! My throat's dry," cried Razumihin.
"Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn't you like . . . something more essential before tea?"
"Get along with you!"
Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea.
Raskolnikov's thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation.
"The worst of it is they don't disguise it; they don't care to stand on ceremony! And how if you didn't know me at all, did you come to talk to Nikodim Fomitch about me? So they don't care to hide that they are tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face." He was shaking with rage. "Come, strike me openly, don't play with me like a cat with a mouse. It's hardly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I won't allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll see how I despise you." He could hardly breathe. "And what if it's only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry and don't keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it's all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there is something about them. . . . It all might be said, but there is something. Why did he say bluntly, 'With her'? Why did Zametov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the tone. . . . Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of course it's nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it's ill fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude. . . . Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it's my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits with his back to him. They're as thick as thieves, no doubt, over me! Not a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they'd make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a flat he let it pass. . . . I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may be of use afterwards. . . . Delirious, indeed . . . ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last night! He didn't know of my mother's arrival! The hag had written the date on in pencil! You are wrong, you won't catch me! There are no facts . . . it's all supposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn't a fact but delirium. I know what to say to them. . . . Do they know about the flat? I won't go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now, maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that's right; to play the invalid. . . . He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come?"
All this flashed like lightning through his mind.
Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial.
"Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather. . . . And I am out of sorts altogether," he began in quite a different tone, laughing to Razumihin.
"Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who got the best of it?"
"Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space."
"Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off."
"What is there strange? It's an everyday social question," Raskolnikov answered casually.
"The question wasn't put quite like that," observed Porfiry.
"Not quite, that's true," Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and hurried as usual. "Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told them you were coming. . . . It began with the socialist doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social organisation and nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes admitted! . . ."
"You are wrong there," cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever.
"Nothing is admitted," Razumihin interrupted with heat.
"I am not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is 'the influence of environment,' and nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it's not supposed to exist! They don't recognise that humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process! That's why they instinctively dislike history, 'nothing but ugliness and stupidity in it,' and they explain it all as stupidity! That's why they so dislike the /living/ process of life; they don't want a /living soul/! The living soul demands life, the soul won't obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is retrograde! But what they want though it smells of death and can be made of India-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won't revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery--it wants life, it hasn't completed its vital process, it's too soon for the graveyard! You can't skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort! That's the easiest solution of the problem! It's seductively clear and you musn't think about it. That's the great thing, you mustn't think! The whole secret of life in two pages of print!"
"Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!" laughed Porfiry. "Can you imagine," he turned to Raskolnikov, "six people holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No, brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in crime; I can assure you of that."
"Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a child of ten; was it environment drove him to it?"
"Well, strictly speaking, it did," Porfiry observed with noteworthy gravity; "a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of environment."
Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. "Oh, if you like," he roared. "I'll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the Church of Ivan the Great's being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?"
"Done! Let's hear, please, how he will prove it!"
"He is always humbugging, confound him," cried Razumihin, jumping up and gesticulating. "What's the use of talking to you? He does all that on purpose; you don't know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy!"
"Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you in."
"Are you such a good dissembler?" Raskolnikov asked carelessly.
"You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time. 'On Crime' . . . or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the /Periodical Review/."
"My article? In the /Periodical Review/?" Raskolnikov asked in astonishment. "I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the /Weekly Review/."
"But it came out in the /Periodical/."
"And the /Weekly Review/ ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't printed at the time."
"That's true; but when it ceased to exist, the /Weekly Review/ was amalgamated with the /Periodical/, and so your article appeared two months ago in the latter. Didn't you know?"
Raskolnikov had not known.
"Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strange person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern you directly. It's a fact, I assure you."
"Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!" cried Razumihin. "I'll run to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? It doesn't matter though, I will find it. Think of not telling us!"
"How did you find out that the article was mine? It's only signed with an initial."
"I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know him. . . . I was very much interested."
"I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after the crime."
"Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but . . . it was not that part of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the article which I regret to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain persons who can . . . that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them."
Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his idea.
"What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the influence of environment?" Razumihin inquired with some alarm even.
"No, not exactly because of it," answered Porfiry. "In his article all men are divided into 'ordinary' and 'extraordinary.' Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?"
"What do you mean? That can't be right?" Razumihin muttered in bewilderment.
Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge.
"That wasn't quite my contention," he began simply and modestly. "Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like, perfectly so." (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) "The only difference is that I don't contend that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an 'extraordinary' man has the right . . . that is not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep . . . certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You say that my article isn't definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound . . . to /eliminate/ the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all . . . well, legislators and leaders of men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed--often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law--were of use to their cause. It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals--more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are /in general/ divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter /a new word/. There are, of course, innumerable sub- divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood--that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There's no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me--and /vive la guerre eternelle/--till the New Jerusalem, of course!"
"Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?"
"I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet.
"And . . . and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity."
"I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.
"And . . . do you believe in Lazarus' rising from the dead?"
"I . . . I do. Why do you ask all this?"
"You believe it literally?"
"Literally."
"You don't say so. . . . I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the contrary . . ."
"Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and then . . ."
"They begin executing other people?"
"If it's necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty."
"Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn't they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to 'eliminate obstacles' as you so happily expressed it, then . . ."
"Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other."
"Thank you."
"No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, 'destroyers,' and to push themselves into the 'new movement,' and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really /new/ people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovelling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn't necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others chastise themselves with their own hands. . . . They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you've nothing to be uneasy about. . . . It's a law of nature."
"Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but there's another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it's alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?"
"Oh, you needn't worry about that either," Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. "People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something /new/, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps--I speak roughly, approximately--is born with some independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of chance."
"Why, are you both joking?" Razumihin cried at last. "There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?"
Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and /discourteous/ sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face.
"Well, brother, if you are really serious . . . You are right, of course, in saying that it's not new, that it's like what we've read and heard a thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed /in the name of conscience/, and, excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism. . . . That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that sanction of bloodshed /by conscience/ is to my mind . . . more terrible than the official, legal sanction of bloodshed. . . ."
"You are quite right, it is more terrible," Porfiry agreed.
"Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You can't think that! I shall read it."
"All that is not in the article, there's only a hint of it," said Raskolnikov.
"Yes, yes." Porfiry couldn't sit still. "Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . excuse me for my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you've removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but . . . there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet--a future one of course--and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles. . . . He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it . . . and tries to get it . . . do you see?"
Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.
"I must admit," he went on calmly, "that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially."
"Yes, you see. Well then?"
"What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that's not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief."
"And what if we do catch him?"
"Then he gets what he deserves."
"You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?"
"Why do you care about that?"
"Simply from humanity."
"If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment--as well as the prison."
"But the real geniuses," asked Razumihin frowning, "those who have the right to murder? Oughtn't they to suffer at all even for the blood they've shed?"
"Why the word /ought/? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation.
He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up.
"Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry Petrovitch began again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it."
"Very good, tell me your little notion," Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him.
"Well, you see . . . I really don't know how to express it properly. . . . It's a playful, psychological idea. . . . When you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have helped, he-he! fancying yourself . . . just a little, an 'extraordinary' man, uttering a /new word/ in your sense. . . . That's so, isn't it?"
"Quite possibly," Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.
Razumihin made a movement.
"And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship or for some service to humanity--to overstep obstacles? . . . For instance, to rob and murder?"
And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as before.
"If I did I certainly should not tell you," Raskolnikov answered with defiant and haughty contempt.
"No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point of view . . ."
"Foo! how obvious and insolent that is!" Raskolnikov thought with repulsion.
"Allow me to observe," he answered dryly, "that I don't consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell you how I should act."
"Oh, come, don't we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?" Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity.
Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice.
"Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last week?" Zametov blurted out from the corner.
Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go.
"Are you going already?" Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. "Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two . . . to-morrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be /there/, you might perhaps be able to tell us something," he added with a most good-natured expression.
"You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov asked sharply.
"Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and . . . I've talked with all who had pledges. . . . I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last. . . . Yes, by the way," he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, "I just remember, what was I thinking of?" he turned to Razumihin, "you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay . . . of course, I know, I know very well," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too. . . . This is the point, this is all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn't it?"
"Yes," answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke that he need not have said it.
"Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see in a flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember? two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn't you notice them? It's very, very important for them."
"Painters? No, I didn't see them," Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. "No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like that open. . . . But on the fourth storey" (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant) "I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna's. . . . I remember . . . I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters . . . no, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I don't think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn't."
"What do you mean?" Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realised. "Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you asking?"
"Foo! I have muddled it!" Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. "Deuce take it! This business is turning my brain!" he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. "It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something. . . . I quite muddled it."
"Then you should be more careful," Razumihin observed grimly.
The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them to the door with excessive politeness.
They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath.
 
拉斯科利尼科夫已经进到屋里了。他进来时，脸上的神情好像是在竭力忍着，免得噗嗤一下笑出声来。怪不好意思的拉祖米欣跟在他后面走了进来，显得很窘，怒气冲冲，脸红得像芍药一样，笨手笨脚，神情十分尴尬。这时他全身的姿势当真都很好笑，说明拉斯科利尼科夫的笑并不是没有道理。拉斯科利尼科夫还没被介绍给主人，就向站在房屋当中疑问地望着他们的主人点了点头，伸出手去，和他握手，看得出还在竭力抑制着自己的快乐情绪，好至少能用三言两语来作自我介绍。但是他刚竭力做出一本正经的样子，含糊不清地不知说了些什么，——突然，好像不由自主地又朝拉祖米欣看了一眼，立刻又忍不住了：强忍住的笑声突然爆发，在这以前越是忍得厉害，这时就越发抑制不住了。听到这“发自内心”的笑声，拉祖米欣气得发狂，他的愤怒为目前的情景增添了最真诚的愉快气氛，主要的是，使它显得更自然了。
拉祖米欣还好像故意帮忙，使这幕喜剧演得更加真实。
“呸，见鬼！”他高声怒吼，一挥手，刚好打在一张小圆桌上，桌上放着一只茶已经喝完了的玻璃杯。所有东西都飞了起来，发出叮叮噹噹的响声。
“为什么要摔坏椅子呢①，先生们，公家可要受损失了！”
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇愉快地叫嚷。
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①这是果戈理的《钦差大臣》里第一幕第一场中市长的一句话。
于是出现了这样一个场面：拉斯科利尼科夫还在笑着，忘了自己的手握在主人的手里，但也知道分寸，所以在等着这一瞬间快点儿而且较为自然地结束。小桌子倒了，玻璃杯打破了，这使得拉祖米欣更加不好意思，完全不知所措，他神情阴郁地看了看玻璃碎片，啐了一口，急遽地转过身去，走到窗前，背对着大家，可怕地皱起眉头，阴沉着脸望着窗外，可是什么也没看见。波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇在笑，也愿意笑，然而他显然需要对这作出解释。墙角落里一把椅子上坐着扎苗托夫，客人一进来，他就欠起身来，咧开嘴微笑着，站在那儿等着，然而困惑不解地、甚至是怀疑地看着这个场面，而看拉斯科利尼科夫的时候，甚至是感到局促不安。扎苗托夫也在场，这是拉斯科利尼科夫没有预料到的，这使他吃了一惊，感到不快。
“这还得考虑考虑！”他想。
“请原谅，”他很不好意思地说，“拉斯科利尼科夫……”
“哪儿的话，非常高兴，您这样进来，我也很高兴……怎么，他连打个招呼也不愿意吗？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇朝拉祖米欣那边点了点头。
“真的，我不知道他为什么对我大发脾气。我只不过在路上对他说，他像罗密欧，而且……而且证明的确如此，好像再没有别的原因了。”
“猪猡！”拉祖米欣头也不回地回答。
“为了一句话大发脾气，这么说，是有很重要的原因了，”
波尔菲里大笑起来。
“哼，你呀！侦查员！……哼，你们都见鬼去！”拉祖米欣很不客气地说，突然，他自己也大笑起来，脸上带着愉快的神情，好像什么事也没发生似地走到波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇跟前。
“够了！大家都是傻瓜；谈正经的：这是我的朋友，罗季昂•罗曼内奇•拉斯科利尼科夫，第一，久闻大名，想和你认识一下，第二，有件小事要找你谈谈。啊！扎苗托夫！你怎么会在这里？难道你们认识？早就是朋友了？”
“这又是怎么回事！”拉斯科利尼科夫不安地想。
扎苗托夫好像不好意思，不过不是很窘。
“昨天在你家里认识的，”他很随便地说。
“这么说，老天帮忙，省得我来操心：波尔菲里，上星期你一个劲儿地求我给你介绍，可是不用介绍，你们就搞到一起了……你的烟呢？”
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇一副家常打扮，穿着长袍，十分干净的内衣，脚上是一双已经穿坏的便鞋。这是个约摸三十五岁左右的人，中等以下身材，胖胖的，甚至腆着个大肚子，脸刮得光光滑滑，既没蓄唇髭，也没有络腮胡子，一头浓密的头发剪得短短的，滚圆的大脑袋，不知怎么后脑勺却特别突出。肥胖的圆脸上长着个稍有点儿向上翘着的鼻子，脸色暗黄，好像有病，但很有精神，甚至流露出嘲讽的神情。他的脸甚至是和善的，要不是眼神起了破坏性作用的话，那双眼睛闪射着暗淡无色的微弱的闪光，遮着眼睛的睫毛几乎是白的，不停地眨动着，仿佛是在向什么人使眼色。不知怎地，他的目光和他那甚至有点儿像女人的整个体形很不协调，因此使他这个人显得比乍看上去所能预料的要严肃得多。
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇一听到客人有件“小事”要找他谈谈，立刻请客人坐到长沙发上，他自己则坐到沙发的另一头，凝神注视着客人，迫切地等待着叙述事情的原委，而且那么聚精会神，严肃得似乎太过分了，第一次来找他的人，特别是素不相识的人，特别是如果您认为您所说的事情值不得如此特别重视，值不得给予如此认真对待的话，那么他这种认真的态度甚至会让您感到难堪，让您不知所措。但是拉斯科利尼科夫用几句简短而条理分明的话，清楚和准确地说明了自己的事情，因此他对自己十分满意，甚至相当仔细地把波尔菲里打量了一番。在谈话的全部时间里，波尔菲里也一直目不转睛地看着他。拉祖米欣坐在桌子对面，热心而又急不可耐地留心听着他说明事情的原委，不时把目光从这一个的身上转移到那一个的身上，又从那一个身上转移到这一个身上，做得已经有点儿失去分寸了。
“傻瓜！”拉斯科利尼科夫暗自骂了一声。
“您应该向警察局声明，”波尔菲里完全是一副公事公办的样子，认真地回答说，“就说，得悉发生了这么一件事情，也就是这件凶杀案，——您也要请求通知经办此案的侦查员，有这么几件东西是属于您的，您希望把它们赎回来……
或者那里……不过会书面通知您的。”
“问题就在这里了，目前我，”拉斯科利尼科夫尽可能装作很尴尬的样子，“手头不怎么宽裕……就连这么几件小东西也没法赎回来……我，您要知道，我想现在只声明一下，说这些东西是我的，一旦有了钱……”
“这反正一样，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇回答，冷冷地听着他对经济状况所作的解释，“不过，如果您愿意，直接给我写个报告也行，也是那个意思：就说，得知那件案子，声明有这么几件东西是我的，请……”
“就写在普通的纸上？”拉斯科利尼科夫连忙打断了他的话，又想谈经济方面的问题。
“噢，就写在最普通的纸上！”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇不知为什么突然眯缝起眼睛，带着明显的嘲讽神情看了看他，好像是对他眨了眨眼。不过，也许只是拉斯科利尼科夫的感觉，因为这只持续了一瞬间。至少是有过这么一种神情。拉斯科利尼科夫发誓，他对他眨过眼，天知道是为什么。
“他知道！”这想法像闪电般在他脑子里忽地一闪。
“请原谅我为这样一些小事来麻烦您，”他接着说下去，有点儿心慌意乱，“我那些东西总共只值五个卢布，不过对我却特别珍贵，因为对于我从他们那儿得到这些东西的人来说，这是纪念品，说实在的，一听说的时候，我甚至大吃一惊……”
“怪不得昨天我和佐西莫夫谈起，波尔菲里在询问那些抵押东西的人，你显得那么激动了！”拉祖米欣怀着明显的意图插嘴说。
这可已经让人太难堪了。拉斯科利尼科夫忍不住了，用那双燃起怒火的黑眼睛恶狠狠地瞪了他一眼。但立刻又冷静下来。
“老兄，你好像是在嘲笑我吧？”他狡猾地装出生气的样子对拉祖米欣说。“我同意，在你看来，对这些毫无用处的东西，也许我是太关心了；但是既不能为此把我看作自私自利的人，也不能把我看作吝啬鬼，在我看来，这两件微不足道的东西也许绝非毫无用处。刚才我已经跟你说过，这块不值钱的银表是先父留下的唯一一件东西。你嘲笑我吧，可是我母亲来看我了，”他突然转过脸去，对波尔菲里说，“如果她知道，”他又赶快回过头来对拉祖米欣说，特别竭力让声音发抖，“这块表丢了，那么，我发誓，她一定会悲痛欲绝的！女人嘛！”
“根本不是这么回事！我完全不是这个意思！我的意思恰好完全相反！”感到不快的拉祖米欣大声叫嚷。
“这样好不好呢？自然吗？没太夸张吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫心怦怦地跳着，暗自想。“我干吗要说‘女人嘛’？”
“令堂到您这儿来了？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇不知为了什么问。
“是的。”
“这是什么时候的事？”
“昨天晚上。”
波尔菲里不说话了，仿佛在思考。
“您的东西无论如何也丢不了，”他安详而冷静地接下去说。“要知道，我早就在这里等着您了。”
他若无其事地、很关心地把烟灰缸放到毫不爱惜地把香烟灰弹到地毯上的拉祖米欣面前。拉斯科利尼科夫颤抖了一下，但是波尔菲里似乎没看着他，一直还在为拉祖米欣的香烟灰感到担心。
“什—么？你在等着？难道你知道他也在那儿抵押过东西吗？”拉祖米欣叫嚷。
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇直接对拉斯科利尼科夫说：
“您那两件东西，戒指和表，都在她那儿，包在一张纸里，纸上用铅笔清清楚楚写着您的名字，还写着她从您那里收到这些东西的月份和日期……”
“您怎么这样细心？……”拉斯科利尼科夫不恰当地笑了笑，竭力想毫不回避地看着他的眼睛，但是忍不住了，突然补充说：“刚才我所以这么说，是因为，抵押东西的人大概很多……您难以记住所有人的名字……可您，恰恰相反，这么清楚地记得所有的人，而且……而且……”
“愚蠢，不高明！我干吗要加上这些话呢！”
“几乎所有抵押过东西的人，现在我们都已经清楚了，只有您一个人还没来过，”波尔菲里用稍有点儿勉强可以察觉的嘲讽口吻回答。
“前几天我身体不大好。”
“这我也听说了。甚至还听说，不知为了什么，您的心情很不好。就是现在，您的脸色好像也很苍白？”
“一点儿也不苍白……恰恰相反，现在我完全健康！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然改变了语气，粗鲁而又气愤地、毫不客气地说。他满腔怒火，再也无法压制。“可是在气头上我准会说漏了嘴！”这想法又在他脑子里一闪而过。“他们为什么要折磨我呢？……”
“他并不完全健康！”拉祖米欣赶紧接着说，“尽说傻话！到昨天他还几乎昏迷不醒，在说胡话……你相信吗，波尔菲里，他连站都站不稳，可是我们，我和佐西莫夫，昨天刚一转身，他就穿上衣服，悄悄地溜出去，不知在哪儿闲逛，几乎直到半夜，而且是在完全，我告诉您，是在完全神智不清的情况下，这您能想象得出吗！太不可思议了！”
“难道是在完全神智不清的情况下吗？您倒说说看！”波尔菲里像女人似地摇摇头。
“唉，胡说八道！请别相信他！其实您本来就不相信！”拉斯科利尼科夫太恼怒了，不觉脱口而出。可是波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇似乎没听清这些奇怪的话。
“如果不是神智不清，你怎么会出去呢？”拉祖米欣突然发火了。“你干吗出去？去干什么？……而且为什么偏偏是悄悄地溜走呢？当时你思想清楚吗？现在，所有危险都已经过去了，我可以直截了当地对你说了！”
“昨天他们让我腻烦透了，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然对波尔菲里说，脸上露出放肆无礼和挑衅的微笑，“我从他们那儿逃走，想去租间房子，叫他们再也找不到我，而且随身带了许多钱。喏，扎苗托夫先生看到过这些钱。扎苗托夫先生，昨天我神智清醒，还是不清醒呢？请您来评判一下吧。”
这时他似乎真想把扎苗托夫掐死。扎苗托夫的目光和沉默，他都很不喜欢。
“照我看，昨天您说话很有理智，甚至相当巧妙，只不过太爱生气了，”扎苗托夫冷冷地说。
“今天尼科季姆•福米奇对我说，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇插嘴说，“昨天很晚遇到了您，在一个被马踩死的官员家里……”
“好，就拿这个官员的事情来说吧！”拉祖米欣接过话茬说，“你说，你在那个官员家的行为像不像个疯子？把剩下的最后一点儿钱都送给那个寡妇做丧葬费了！好吧，你要帮助她也行——给她十五个卢布，二十个卢布，也就是了，哪怕给自己留下三个卢布也好，可是，不，把二十五卢布全都这么慷慨地送给她了！”
“也许我在什么地方找到了宝藏，你却不知道呢？于是我昨天就慷慨起来了……喏，扎苗托夫先生知道，我找到了宝藏！……请您原谅，”他嘴唇颤抖着对波尔菲里说，“我们用这种无关紧要的闲话打搅了您半个小时。您厌烦了，是吗？”
“没有的事，恰恰相反，恰——恰——相反！要是您能知道，您使我多么感兴趣就好了！看着和听着都很有意思……
而且，说实在的，您终于来了，我是那么高兴……”
“喂，至少给拿杯茶来嘛！嗓子都干了！”拉祖米欣突然高声叫嚷。
“好主意！也许大家会陪你一道喝。要不要……喝茶之前，先来点儿更重要的①？”
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①指酒。
“去你的！”
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇去吩咐送茶来。
各种想法在拉斯科利尼科夫的脑子里像旋风样飞速旋转。他气得要命。
“主要的，是他们毫不掩饰，也不想客气！如果你根本不知道我，为什么要和尼科季姆•福米奇谈起我呢？可见他们不想隐瞒，像群狗一样在跟踪我！这样毫无顾忌，这样瞧不起我！”他气得发抖。“好吧，要打，就对准了打，可别玩猫逗老鼠的游戏。这可是不礼貌的。波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇，要知道，也许我还不允许这样！……我会站起来，对着你们把实情全都说出来；您会看到，我是多么瞧不起你们！……”他困难地喘了口气。“如果只不过是我觉得好像是这样呢？如果这是幻象，如果我全弄错了，如果是由于我没有经验而发火，如果是我演不了这个卑鄙的角色呢？也许这一切都没有什么意图吧？他们的话都很普通，不过其中有某种含意……这些话随时都可以说，不过有某种含意。为什么他直截了当地说‘在她那儿’？为什么扎苗托夫补充说，我说得巧妙？为什么他们用这样的语气说话？对了……语气……拉祖米欣也坐在这儿，为什么他什么也没察觉呢？这个天真的傻瓜永远什么也不会察觉！又发热病了！……刚才波尔菲里对我眨眼了，还是没有呢？大概，没有这回事；他为什么要眨眼呢？是想刺激我的神经，还是在戏弄我？要么一切都是幻象，要么是他们知道！……就连扎苗托夫也很无礼……扎苗托夫是不是无礼呢？扎苗托夫一夜之间改变了看法。我就预感到他会改变看法！他在这儿像在家里一样，可还是第一次来这里。波尔菲里不把他当作客人，背对着他坐着。他们勾搭上了！一定是为了我勾搭上的！我们来以前，他们一定是在谈论我！……他们知道租房子的事吗？但愿快点儿！……当我说昨天我跑出去租房子的时候，他忽略过去了，没有就此发挥什么……而我插进这句关于租房子的话，巧妙得很：以后会有用处！……就说，是在神智不清的时候！……哈，哈，哈！那天晚上的事他全都知道！我母亲来了，他不知道！…… 那巫婆连日子都用铅笔记上了！……您胡说，我决不屈服！因为这还不是事实，这只不过是幻象！不，请你们拿出真凭实据来！租房子也不是证据，而是我的呓语；我知道该对他们说什么……他们知道租房子的事吗？不摸清楚，我就不走！我干吗要来？可是现在我在发火，这大概是个证据吧！唉，我多么容易光火啊！不过也许这是好事；我在扮演一个病人的角色嘛……
他在试探我。他会把我搞糊涂的。我来干什么？”
这一切犹如闪电一般掠过他的脑海。
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇一转眼的工夫就回来了。不知为什么他突然变得快活起来。
“老兄，昨天从你那儿回来以后，我的头……就连我整个儿这个人都好像管不住自己了，”他用完全不同的另一种语气笑着对拉祖米欣说。
“怎么，有意思吗？昨天我可是在谈到最有趣的问题的时候离开你们的，不是吗？谁赢了？”
“当然，谁也没赢。我们渐渐谈到了一些永恒的问题，谈论起学术性的问题来了。”
“罗佳，你想想看，我们昨天谈到了什么：到底有没有犯罪？我说过，我们都争论得快发疯了！”
“这有什么好奇怪的？一个普通的社会问题嘛，”拉斯科利尼科夫心不在焉地回答。
“问题不是这样简单地提出来的，”波尔菲里说。
“不完全是这样提出来的，的确如此，”和往常不一样，拉祖米欣匆忙而性急地立刻就同意了。“喂，罗佳，你听听，然后谈谈你的意见。我想听听你的看法。昨天我拼命跟他们争，并且在等着你；我还跟他们谈起你，说你今天会来……我们是从社会主义者的观点谈起的。这观点大家都知道：犯罪是对社会制度不正常的一种抗议——仅仅是抗议，再也不是什么旁的，再也不允许去找任何别的原因，——仅此而已！
……”
“这你可是胡说了！”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇高声叫喊。看来，他活跃起来了，一直瞅着拉祖米欣笑，这就使后者变得更激动了。
“再不允许去找任何别的原因！”拉祖米欣情绪激昂地打断了他的话，“我没胡说！……我可以把他们的书拿给你看：照他们的看法，一切都是‘环境所迫’——再没有别的原因！这是他们爱说的一句话！由此直接得出结论：如果社会组织得正常，那么所有犯罪就一下子都会消失，因为再没有什么可以抗议的了，转瞬间所有的人就都会变成正直的人。不考虑天性，天性给排除了，天性是不应该存在的！按照他们的理论，不是人类沿着历史发展的实际道路向前发展，到最后自然而然形成一个正常的社会，而是相反，社会制度从任何一个数学头脑里产生出来以后，立刻会把全人类组织起来，比任何实际发展过程都快，毋需经过历史发展的实际道路，转眼之间就会使全人类都变得正直和纯洁无瑕！正是因此
Part 3 Chapter 6
"I don't believe it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments.
They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about /it/.
"Don't believe it, then!" answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile. "You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word."
"You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words . . . h'm . . . certainly, I agree, Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov! . . . You are right, there was something about him--but why? Why?"
"He has changed his mind since last night."
"Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you afterwards. . . . But it was all impudent and careless."
"If they had had facts--I mean, real facts--or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage--all ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in his vexation--or perhaps he has some plan . . . he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all. Stop!"
"And it's insulting, insulting! I understand you. But . . . since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last--I am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of course the merest hint only--an insinuation--but why an insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach--he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. I'd hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I'd put an end to it. Damn them! Don't be downhearted. It's a shame!"
"He really has put it well, though," Raskolnikov thought.
"Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?" he said with bitterness. "Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the restaurant. . . ."
"Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as for Zametov . . ."
"At last he sees through him!" thought Raskolnikov.
"Stay!" cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. "Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done /that/, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat . . . and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own it against himself?"
"If I had done /that thing/, I should certainly have said that I had seen the workmen and the flat," Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and obvious disgust.
"But why speak against yourself?"
"Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can't be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation."
"But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o'clock. And so he would have caught you over a detail."
"Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before."
"But how could you forget it?"
"Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think. . . ."
"He is a knave then, if that is so!"
Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from necessity.
"I am getting a relish for certain aspects!" he thought to himself. But almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev's.
"Go in alone!" said Raskolnikov suddenly. "I will be back directly."
"Where are you going? Why, we are just here."
"I can't help it. . . . I will come in half an hour. Tell them."
"Say what you like, I will come with you."
"You, too, want to torture me!" he screamed, with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin's hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence.
When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev's, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman's handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.
He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway.
"Here he is himself," shouted a loud voice.
He raised his head.
The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.
"What is it?" Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word.
"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.
"Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he went away. It's funny."
The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word.
"You were inquiring for me . . . of the porter?" Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice.
The man made no answer; he didn't even look at him. Again they were both silent.
"Why do you . . . come and ask for me . . . and say nothing. . . . What's the meaning of it?"
Raskolnikov's voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly.
The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov.
"Murderer!" he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.
Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
The man did not look at him.
"What do you mean . . . what is. . . . Who is a murderer?" muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
"/You/ are a murderer," the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and stricken eyes.
They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.
With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind--faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere. . . . The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant. . . . The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation.
He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya's whisper:
"Don't disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later."
"Quite so," answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head.
"Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, that's clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm . . ." continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, "and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door--was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?" He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. "I ought to have known it," he thought with a bitter smile. "And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand. . . . Ah, but I did know!" he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.
"No, those men are not made so. The real /Master/ to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, /forgets/ an army in Egypt, /wastes/ half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so /all/ is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of bronze!"
One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed--it's a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it! It's too inartistic. "A Napoleon creep under an old woman's bed! Ugh, how loathsome!"
At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. "The old woman is of no consequence," he thought, hotly and incoherently. "The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! The old woman was only an illness. . . . I was in a hurry to overstep. . . . I didn't kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn't overstep, I stopped on this side. . . . I was only capable of killing. And it seems I wasn't even capable of that . . . Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; 'the happiness of all' is their case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don't want to wait for 'the happiness of all.' I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn't pass by my mother starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the 'happiness of all.' I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want. . . . Ech, I am an aesthetic louse and nothing more," he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. "Yes, I am certainly a louse," he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive pleasure. "In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object-- ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse," he added, grinding his teeth, "is that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and /I felt beforehand/ that I should tell myself so /after/ killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and 'trembling' creation must obey! The 'prophet' is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It's for you to obey, trembling creation, and not /to have desires/, for that's not for you! . . . I shall never, never forgive the old woman!"
His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
"Mother, sister--how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't bear them near me. . . . I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember. . . . To embrace her and think if she only knew . . . shall I tell her then? That's just what I might do. . . . /She/ must be the same as I am," he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. "Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in? . . . It's strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn't killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes. . . . Dear women! Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan? They give up everything . . . their eyes are soft and gentle. . . . Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!"
He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't remember how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. "Stay, did he really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. "Does he know I am following him?" thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were at work . . . but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. "So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere." He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful. . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. "It's the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is that cloak here?" he thought, "it wasn't there before. . . ." He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn't see her face; but it was she. He stood over her. "She is afraid," he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move. . . . He tried to scream and woke up.
He drew a deep breath--but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring.
"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him.
He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard.
Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.
"Come, tell me what you want."
"I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself. . . ."
 
“……我不相信！我不能相信！”感到困惑不解的拉祖米欣反复说，竭力想驳倒拉斯科利尼科夫说的理由。他们已经走到了巴卡列耶夫的旅馆，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜和杜尼娅早就在那儿等着他们了。他们热烈地谈论着，拉祖米欣不时在路上停下来，单单是因为他们还是头一次明确地谈起这一点，这就使他感到既惶惑，又十分激动了。
“你不相信好了！”拉斯科利尼科夫漫不经心地冷笑着，回答说，“你一向是什么也觉察不到，我可是把每句话都掂量过了。”
“你神经过敏，所以才去掂量……嗯哼……真的，我同意，波尔菲里说话的语气相当奇怪，尤其是那个坏蛋扎苗托夫！……你说得对，他心里是有什么想法，——不过为什么呢？为什么呢？”
“一夜之间他改变了看法。”
“不过恰恰相反，恰恰相反！如果他们有这个愚蠢想法的话，他们准会竭力隐瞒着它，把自己的牌藏起来，才好在以后逮住你……可现在——这是无耻和粗心大意！”
“如果他们有了事实，也就是确凿的证据，或者哪怕是只有多少有点儿根据的怀疑，那么他们当真会把他们玩弄的把戏掩盖起来，以期获得更大的胜利（那样的话，他们早就会去搜查了！）。可是他们没有证据，一点儿证据也没有，——一切都是虚幻的，一切都模棱两可，只不过是一个虚无缥缈的想法，——所以他们才竭力想用这种厚颜无耻的方式来把我搞糊涂。也许，因为没有证据，他自己也很生气，心中恼怒，于是就脱口而出了。不过也许是有什么意图……他好像是个聪明人……也许他是故意装作知道的样子，这样来吓唬我……老兄，这也有他自己的某种心理……不过，要解释这一切，让人感到厌恶。别谈了！”
“而且是侮辱性的，侮辱性的！我理解你！不过……因为现在我们已经明确地谈起这个问题（这很好，我们终于明确地谈起来了，我很高兴！）——那么现在我坦率地向你承认，我早就发觉他们有这个想法了，当然，在整个这段时间里，这只是一个勉强可以察觉的想法，还不敢公然说出来，不过即使不敢公然说出来吧，可这到底是为什么呢！他们怎么敢？他们这样想的根据在哪里，在哪里呢？要是你能知道我感到多么气愤就好了！怎么：就因为是个穷大学生，因为他被贫穷和忧郁折磨得精神极不正常，在他神智不清、害了重病的头一天，也许已经开始神智不清了（请记住这一点！），他多疑，自尊心很强，知道自己的长处，六个月来躲在自己屋里，没和任何人见过面，身上的衣服破破烂烂，靴子也掉了鞋掌，——站在那些卑鄙的警察局长面前，受尽他们的侮辱；而这时又突然面对一笔意想不到的债务，七等文官切巴罗夫交来的一张逾期不还的借据，再加上油漆的臭味，列氏①三十度的高温，空气沉闷，屋里一大堆人，又在谈论一件凶杀案，而头天晚上他刚到被杀害的老太婆那儿去过，这一切加在一起——可他还没吃饭，饥肠辘辘！这怎么会不昏倒呢！就是根据这个，他们的全部根据就是这些东西！见鬼！我明白，这让人感到愤慨，不过，要叫我处在你的地位上，罗季卡，我就会对着他们大家哈哈大笑，或者最好是啐一口浓痰，吐在他们脸上，越浓越好，还要左右开弓，扇他们二十记耳光，这样做很有道理，得经常这样教训教训他们，打过了，就算完了。别睬他们！精神振作起来！他们这样做太可耻了！”
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①法国物理学家列奥缪尔设计的温度计，冰点为零度，沸点为八十度。列氏三十度等于摄氏三十七•五度。
“不过，这一切他说得真好，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。
“别睬他们！可明天又要审问了！”他苦恼地说，“难道我得去向他们解释吗？就连昨天我在小饭馆里竟有失身分地和扎苗托夫说话……我都感到懊悔了。”
“见鬼！我去找波尔菲里！我要以亲戚的方式向他施加压力；叫他把心里的想法全都坦白地说出来。至于扎苗托夫……”
“他终于领悟了！”拉斯科利尼科夫想。
“等等！”拉祖米欣突然一把抓住他的肩膀，高声叫喊起来，“等等！你说得不对！我再三考虑，认为你说错了！唉，这算什么圈套？你说，问起那两个工人，就是圈套吗？你好好想想看：如果这是你干的，你会不会说漏了嘴，说你看到过在油漆房间……看到过那两个工人？恰恰相反：即使看到过，你也会说，什么都没看见！谁会承认对自己不利的事呢？”
“如果那事是我干的，那么我准会说，我看到过那两个工人和那套房子，”拉斯科利尼科夫不乐意地，而且显然是怀着厌恶的心情继续回答。
“为什么要说对自己不利的话呢？”
“因为只有乡下人或者是最没有经验的新手，才会在审讯时矢口抵赖。稍为成熟和多少有点儿经验的人，一定尽可能承认那些表面上的和无法隐瞒的事实；不过他会寻找别的理由来说明这些事实，硬给这些事实加上某种独特的、意想不到的特点，使它们具有不同的意义，给人造成不同的印象。波尔菲里可能正是这样估计的，认为我一定会这样回答，一定会说，看到过，而为了说得合情合理，同时又一定会作某种解释……”
“不过他会立刻对你说，两天以前那两个工人不可能在那里，可见你正是在发生凶杀案的那一天晚上七点多钟去过那儿。单是这样一件并不重要的小事，就会使你上当受骗！”
“而他就正是这么盘算的，认为我一定来不及好好考虑，准会急忙作出较为真实的回答，却忘了，两天前工人们是不可能在那里的。”
“这怎么会忘了呢？”
“最容易了！狡猾的人最容易在这种无关重要的小事上犯错误。一个人越是狡猾，就越是想不到别人会让他在一件普通的小事上上当受骗。正是得用最普通的小事才能让最狡猾的人上当受骗。波尔菲里完全不像你想得那么傻……”
“他这么做，就是个卑鄙的家伙！”
拉斯科利尼科夫不禁笑了起来。但同时他又觉得，作最后这番解释的时候，他那种兴奋和乐于解释的心情是很奇怪的，然而在此以前，他和人谈话的时候，却是怀着忧郁的厌恶心情，显然是为了达到什么目的，不得不说。
“我对某几点发生兴趣了！”他暗自想。
可是几乎就在那一瞬间，不知为什么他又突然感到不安起来，仿佛有一个出乎意外和令人忧虑的想法使他吃了一惊。他心中的不安增强了。他们已经来到了巴卡列耶夫旅馆的入口。
“你一个人进去吧，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，“我这就回来。”
“你去哪儿？我们已经到了！”
“我需要，一定得去；我有事……过半个钟头回来……你去跟她们说一声。”
“随你的便，我跟你一道去！”
“怎么，你也想折磨我吗！”他突然高声叫嚷，目光中流露出那样痛苦的愤怒和绝望的神情，使拉祖米欣感到毫无办法了。有一会儿工夫，拉祖米欣站在台阶上，阴郁地望着他朝他住的那条胡同的方向大步走去。最后，他咬紧了牙，攥紧拳头，发誓今天就去找波尔菲里，像挤柠檬样把他挤干，于是上楼去安慰因为他们久久不来、已经感到焦急不安的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜。
拉斯科利尼科夫来到他住的那幢房子的时候，他的两鬓已经汗湿，呼吸也感到困难了。他急忙上楼，走进自己那间没有上锁的房间，立刻扣上门钩。然后惊恐地、发疯似地冲到墙角落墙纸后面藏过东西的那个窟窿那里，把手伸进去，很仔细地在窟窿里摸了好几分钟，把墙纸上的每个皱褶，每个隐蔽的地方都一一检查了一遍。他什么也没找到，这才站起来，深深地舒了一口气。刚才已经走近巴卡列耶夫旅馆的台阶的时候，他突然想到，不知有件什么东西，一条表链、一个领扣，或者甚至是老太婆亲手做过记号的一张包东西的纸，当时可能不知怎么掉出来，掉进哪儿的一条裂缝里，以后却突然作为一件意想不到和无法反驳的物证，摆在他的面前。
他站在那儿，仿佛陷入沉思，一丝奇怪的、屈辱的、几乎毫无意义的微笑掠过他的嘴角。最后他拿起制帽，轻轻地走出房门。他心乱如麻。他若有所思地下楼，来到了大门口。
“那不就是他吗！”一个响亮的声音叫喊道；他抬起了头。
管院子的站在自己的小屋门口，正在向一个身材不高的人直指着他，看样子那人像是个小市民，身上穿的衣服仿佛是件长袍，还穿着背心，远远看上去，很像个女人。他戴一顶油污的制帽，低着头，好像是个驼背。看他那皮肤松弛、布满皱纹的脸，估计他有五十多岁；他那双浮肿的眼睛神情阴郁而又严厉，好像很不满意的样子。
“有什么事？”拉斯科利尼科夫走到管院子的人跟前，问。
那个小市民皱着眉头、斜着眼睛瞟了他一眼，不慌不忙凝神把他仔细打量了一番；随后转过身去，一言不发，就走出大门，到街上去了。
“这是怎么回事！”拉斯科利尼科夫大声喊。
“刚刚有个人问，这儿是不是住着个大学生，并且说出了您的名字，还说出您住在谁的房子里。这时候您下来了，我就指给他看，可他却走了。您瞧，就是这么回事。”
管院子的也觉得有点儿莫名其妙，不过并不是十分惊讶，又稍想了一下，就转身回到自己的小屋里去了。
拉斯科利尼科夫跟在小市民后面，出去追他，立刻看到他正在街道对面走着，仍然不慌不忙，步伐均匀，眼睛盯着地下，仿佛在思考什么。拉斯科利尼科夫不久就追上了他，不过有一会儿只是跟在他后面，最后走上前去，和他并排走着，从侧面看了看他的脸。小市民立刻看到了他，很快打量了他一下，可是又低下眼睛，他们就这样并排走着，一言不发。
“您跟管院子的……打听我了？”最后拉斯科利尼科夫说，可是不知为什么，声音很低。
小市民什么也不回答，连看也不看他一眼。两人又不说话了。
“您是怎么回事……来打听我……又不说话……这是什么意思？”拉斯科利尼科夫的声音中断了，不知为什么不愿把话说明白。
这一次小市民抬起眼来，用恶狠狠的、阴郁的目光瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫。
“杀人凶手！”他突然轻轻地说，然而说得十分明确、清楚……
拉斯科利尼科夫在他身旁走着。他的腿突然发软了，背上一阵发冷，有一瞬间心也仿佛停止了跳动；随后又突然怦怦地狂跳起来，好像完全失去了控制。他们就这样并肩走了百来步，又是完全默默不语。
小市民不看着他。
“您说什么……什么……谁是杀人凶手？”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地说，声音勉强才能听到。
“你是杀人凶手，”那人说，每个音节都说得更加清楚，也说得更加庄严有力了，而脸上仿佛露出充满敌意的、洋洋得意的微笑，又对着拉斯科利尼科夫苍白的脸和目光呆滞的眼睛直瞅了一眼。这时两人来到了十字路口。小市民往左转弯，头也不回地走到一条街道上去了。拉斯科利尼科夫却站在原地，好长时间望着他的背影。他看到那人已经走出五十来步以后，回过头来望了望他，他仍然一直站在原地，一动不动。从远处不可能看清楚，可是拉斯科利尼科夫好像觉得，这一次那人又冷冷地、十分憎恨地、洋洋得意地对他笑了笑。
拉斯科利尼科夫双膝簌簌发抖，仿佛冷得要命，有气无力地慢慢转身回去，上楼回到了自己那间小屋。他摘下帽子，把它放到桌子上，一动不动地在桌边站了约摸十分钟的样子。随后浑身无力地躺到沙发上，虚弱地轻轻哼着，伸直了身子；
他的眼睛闭着。就这样躺了大约半个小时。
他什么也不想。就这样，一些想法，或者是某些思想的片断，一些杂乱无章、互不相干的模糊印象飞速掠过他的脑海：一些还是他在童年时看见过的人的脸，或者是在什么地方只见过一次，从来也没再想起过的人的脸；B教堂的钟楼、一家小饭馆里的台球台，有个军官在打台球，地下室里一家烟草铺里的雪茄烟味，一家小酒馆，后门的一条楼梯，楼梯很暗，上面泼满污水，撒满蛋壳，不知从什么地方传来了星期天的钟声……这些东西不停地变换着，像旋风般旋转着。有些东西他甚至很喜欢，想要抓住它们，但是它们却渐渐消失了，他心里感到压抑，不过不是很厉害。有时甚至觉得这很好。轻微的寒颤尚未消失，这也几乎让他感到舒适。
他听到了拉祖米欣匆匆的脚步声以及他说话的声音，闭上眼，假装睡着了。拉祖米欣打开房门，有一会儿工夫站在门口，似乎犹豫不决。随后他轻轻走进屋里，小心翼翼地走到沙发前。听到娜斯塔西娅低声说：
“别碰他，让他睡够了；以后他才想吃东西。”
“真的，”拉祖米欣回答。
他们两人小心翼翼地走出去，掩上了房门。又过了半个钟头的样子。拉斯科利尼科夫睁开眼，把双手垫在头底下，仰面躺着……
“他是谁？这个从地底下钻出来的人是谁？那时候他在哪儿，看到过什么？他什么都看到了，这是毫无疑问的。当时他站在哪儿，是从哪里观看的？为什么只是到现在他才从地底下钻出来？他怎么能看得见呢，——难道这可能吗？……嗯哼……”拉斯科利尼科夫继续想，身上一阵阵发冷，一直在发抖，“还有尼古拉在门后拾到的那个小盒子：难道这也是可能的吗？物证吗？只要稍有疏忽，就会造成埃及金字塔那么大的罪证！有一只苍蝇飞过，它看到了！难道这可能吗？”
他突然怀着极端厌恶的心情感觉到，他是多么虚弱无力，的确虚弱得厉害。
“我应该知道这一点，”他苦笑着想，“我怎么敢，我了解自己，我有预感，可是我怎么竟敢拿起斧头，用血沾污我的双手呢。我应该事先就知道……唉！我不是事先就知道了吗！
……”他绝望地喃喃低语。
有时他脑子里只有一个想法，呆呆地只想着某一点：
“不，那些人不是这种材料做成的；可以为所欲为的真正统治者，在土伦击溃敌军，在巴黎进行大屠杀，忘记留在埃及的一支部队，在进军莫斯科的远征中白白牺牲五十万人的生命，在维尔纳说了一句语意双关的俏皮话，就这样敷衍了事；他死后，人们却把他奉为偶像①，——可见他能为所欲为。不，看来这些人不是血肉之躯，而是青铜铸就的！”
突然出现的另一个想法几乎使他大笑起来：
“一边是拿破仑，金字塔②，滑铁卢③，另一边是一个可恶的十四等文官太太，一个瘦弱干瘪的小老太婆，一个床底下放着个红箱子、放高利贷的老太婆，——这二者相提并论，即使是波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇吧，他怎么会容忍呢！……他岂能容忍！……美学不容许这样，他会说：‘拿破仑会钻到‘老太婆’的床底下去！唉！废话！……’”
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①指拿破仑。一七九三年十二月十七日拿破仑在法国南部的土伦击溃了敌军；一七九五年十月十三日拿破仑血腥镇压了巴黎的保皇党起义；一七九九年十月拿破仑为了夺取政权，把一支军队丢在埃及，偷偷地回到巴黎；一八一二年拿破仑在俄国被击败后，曾在波兰的维尔纳说过这么一句话：“从伟大到可笑只有一步之差，让后人去评判吧。”
②一七九八年法军与埃及统治者的军队在埃及亚历山大港附近距金字塔不远的地方作战。战争开始时，拿破仑对士兵们说：“四十个世纪正从这些金字塔上看着我们！”
③一八一五年六月十八日拿破仑在比利时的滑铁卢村附近与英普联军作战，大败；拿破仑被流放到非洲的英属圣赫勒拿岛。
有时他觉得自己好像在说胡话：他陷入了热病发作时的状态，心情兴奋极了。
“老太婆算什么！”他紧张地、感情冲动地想，“老太婆，看来这也是个错误，问题不在于她！老太婆只不过是一种病……我想尽快跨越过去……我杀死的不是人，而是原则！原则嘛，倒是让我给杀了，可是跨越嘛，却没跨越过去，我仍然留在了这边……我只会杀。结果发现，就连杀也不会……原则？不久前拉祖米欣这个傻瓜为什么在骂社会主义者？他们是勤劳的人和做买卖的人；他们在为‘公共的幸福’工作……不，生命只给了我一次，以后永远不会再给我了：我不愿等待‘普遍幸福’。我自己也想活着，不然，最好还是不要再活下去了。怎么？我只不过是不愿攥紧自己口袋里的一个卢布，坐等‘普遍幸福’的到来，而看不见自己的母亲在挨饿。说什么‘我正在为普遍的幸福添砖加瓦，因此我感到心安理得。’哈——哈！你们为什么让我溜掉呢？要知道，我总共只能活一次，我也想……唉，从美学的观点来看，我是一只虱子，仅此而已，”他补充说，突然像疯子样哈哈大笑起来。
“对，我当真是一只虱子，”他接着想，幸灾乐祸地与这个想法纠缠不休，细细地分析它，玩弄它，拿它来取乐，“单就这一点来说，我就是一只虱子，因为第一，现在我认为我是只虱子；第二，因为整整一个月来，我一直在打搅仁慈的上帝，请他作证，说是，我这么做不是为了自己肉体上的享受和满足自己的淫欲，而是有一个让人感到高兴的崇高目的，——哈——哈！第三，因为我决定在实行我的计划的时候，要遵循尽可能公平合理的原则，注意份量和分寸，还做了精确的计算：在所有虱子中挑了一只最没有用处的，杀死了它以后，决定只从她那儿拿走为实现第一步所必须的那么多钱，不多拿，也不少拿（那么剩的钱就可以按照她的遗嘱捐给修道院了，哈——哈！）……因此我彻头彻尾是一只虱子，”他咬牙切齿地补上一句，“因此，也许我本人比那只给杀死的虱子更卑鄙，更可恶，而且我事先就已经预感到，在我杀了她以后，我准会对自己这么说！难道还有什么能与这样的恐惧相比吗！噢，下流！噢，卑鄙！……噢，我对‘先知’是怎么理解的，他骑着马，手持马刀：安拉吩咐，服从吧，‘发抖的’畜生！‘先知’说得对，说得对，当他拦街筑起威—力—强—大的炮垒，炮轰那些无辜的和有罪的人们的时候，连解释都不解释一下！服从吧，发抖的畜生，而且，不要期望什么，因为这不是你的事！……噢，无论如何，无论如何我决不宽恕那个老太婆！”
他的头发都被汗湿透了，发抖的嘴唇干裂了，呆滞的目光死死地盯着天花板。
“母亲，妹妹，以前我多么爱她们啊！为什么现在我恨她们呢？是的，现在我恨她们，肉体上能感觉到憎恨她们，她们待在我身边，我就受不了……不久前我走近前去，吻了吻母亲，我记得……我拥抱她，心里却在想，如果她知道了，那么……难道那时我会告诉她吗？我倒是会这么做的……嗯哼！她也应该像我一样，”他补上一句，同时在努力思索着，似乎在和控制了他的昏迷状态搏斗。“噢，现在我多么憎恨那个老太婆！看来，如果她活过来的话，我准会再一次杀死她！可怜的莉扎薇塔！她为什么偏偏在这时候进来呢！……不过，奇怪，为什么我几乎没去想她，就像我没有杀死她似的？莉扎薇塔？索尼娅！两个可怜的、温顺的女人，都有一双温顺的眼睛……两个可爱的女人！……她们为什么不哭？她们为什么不呻吟呢？……她们献出一切……看人的时候神情是那么温顺，温和……索尼娅，索尼娅！温顺的索尼娅！……”
他迷迷糊糊地睡着了；他觉得奇怪，他竟记不起，怎么会来到了街上。已经是晚上，时间很晚了，暮色越来越浓，一轮满月越来越亮；但不知为什么，空气却特别闷热。人们成群结队地在街上走着；有一股石灰味、尘土味和死水的臭味。拉斯科利尼科夫在街上走着，神情阴郁，满腹忧虑：他清清楚楚记得，他从家里出来，是有个什么意图的，得去做一件什么事情，而且要赶快去做，可到底要做什么，他却忘了。突然他站住了，看到街道对面人行道上站着一个人，正在向他招手。他穿过街道，朝那人走去，但是这个人突然若无其事地转身就走，低下头去，既不回头，也不表示曾经招手叫过他。“唉，算了，他是不是招呼过我呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫想，可是却追了上去。还没走了十步，他突然认出了那个人，不由得大吃一惊：原来这就是刚刚遇到的那个小市民，还是穿着那样一件长袍，还是那样有点儿驼背。拉斯科利尼科夫远远地跟着他；心在怦怦地跳；他们折进一条胡同，那个人一直没有回过头来。“他知道我跟着他吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫想。那个小市民走进一幢大房子的大门里去了。拉斯科利尼科夫赶快走到大门前，张望起来：那人是不是会回过头来，会不会叫他呢？真的，那个人穿过门洞，已经进了院子，突然回过头来，又好像向他招了招手。拉斯科利尼科夫立刻穿过门洞，但是那个小市民已经不在院子里了。这么说，他准是立刻上第一道楼梯了。拉斯科利尼科夫跑过去追他。真的，楼上，隔着两层楼梯，还能听到均匀的、不慌不忙的脚步声。奇怪，这楼梯好像很熟！瞧，那就是一楼上的窗子：月光忧郁而神秘地透过玻璃照射进来；瞧，这就是二楼。啊！这就是那两个工人在里面油漆的那套房子……他怎么没有立刻就认出来呢？在前面走的那个人的脚步声消失了： “这么说，他站下来了，要么是在什么地方躲起来了。”这儿是三楼，要不要再往上走呢？那里多静啊，甚至让人害怕……不过他还是上去了。他自己的脚步声让他感到害怕，心慌。天哪，多么暗啊！那个小市民准是藏在这儿的哪个角落里。啊！房门朝楼梯大敞着；他想了想，走了进去。前室里很暗，空荡荡的，一个人也没有，好像东西都搬走了；他踮着脚尖轻轻地走进客厅：整个房间里明晃晃地洒满了月光；这里一切都和从前一样：几把椅子，一面镜子，一张黄色的长沙发，还有几幅镶着画框的画。一轮像铜盘样又大又圆的火红的月亮径直照到窗子上。“这是由于月亮的关系，才显得这么静，”拉斯科利尼科夫想，“大概现在它正在出一个谜语，让人去猜。”他站在那儿等着，等了好久，月亮越静，他的心就越是跳得厉害，甚至都跳得痛起来了。一直寂静无声。突然听到一声转瞬即逝的干裂的声音，仿佛折断了一根松明，一切又静下来了。一只醒来的苍蝇飞着猛一下子撞到玻璃上，好像抱怨似地嗡嗡地叫起来。就在这时，他看出，墙角落里，一个小橱和窗户之间，似乎一件肥大的女大衣挂在墙上。“这儿为什么挂着件大衣？”他想， “以前这儿没有大衣呀……”他悄悄走近前去，这才猜到，大衣后面仿佛躲着一个人。他小心翼翼地用一只手掀开大衣，看到那儿放着一把椅子，这把放在角落里的椅子上坐着一个老太婆，佝偻着身子，低着头，所以他怎么也看不清她的脸，不过，这是她。他在她面前站了一会儿：“她害怕了！”他心想，悄悄地从环扣上取下斧头，抡起斧头朝她的头顶猛砍下去，一下，又一下。可是奇怪：砍了两下，她连动都不动，好像是木头做的。他觉得害怕了，弯下腰去，凑近一些，仔细看看；可是她把头往下低得更厉害了。于是他俯下身子，完全俯到地板上，从底下看了看她的脸，他一看，立刻吓呆了：老太婆正坐在那儿笑呢，——她止不住地笑着，笑声很轻很轻，几乎听不见，而且她竭力忍着，不让他听到她在笑。突然，他好像觉得，卧室的门稍稍开了一条缝，那里似乎也有人在笑，在窃窃私语。他简直要发疯了：使出全身的力气，猛砍老太婆的脑袋，但是斧头每砍一下，卧室里的笑声和喃喃低语的声音也越来越响，听得越来越清楚了，老太婆更是哈哈大笑，笑得浑身抖个不停。他转身就跑，但穿堂里已经挤满了人，楼梯上一扇扇房门全都大敞四开，楼梯平台上，楼梯上，以及下面——到处站满了人，到处人头攒动，大家都在看，——可是都在躲躲藏藏，都在等着，一声不响！……他的心缩紧了，两只脚一动也不能动，好像在地上扎了根……他想高声大喊，于是醒了。
他很吃力地喘了口气，——可是奇怪，梦境仿佛仍然在继续：他的房门大开着，门口站着一个完全陌生的人，正在凝神细细地打量他。
拉斯科利尼科夫还没完全睁开眼，就又立刻把眼闭上了。他抑面躺着，一动不动。“这是不是还在作梦呢，”他想，又让人看不出来地微微抬起睫毛，看了一眼。那个陌生人还站在那儿，仍然在细细打量他。突然，他小心翼翼地跨过门坎，谨慎地随手掩上房门，走到桌前，等了约摸一分钟光景，——在这段时间里一直目不转睛地瞅着他，——于是轻轻地，一点儿响声也没有，坐到沙发旁边的一把椅子上；他把帽子就放在身旁的地板上，双手撑着手杖，下巴搁在手上。看得出来，他是装作要长久等下去的样子。透过不停眨动的睫毛尽可能细看，隐约看出，这个人已经不算年轻，身体健壮，留着一部浓密的大胡子，胡子颜色很淡，几乎是白的……
约摸过了十来分钟。天还亮着，但暮色已经降临。屋里一片寂静。就连楼梯上也听不到一点声音。只有一只大苍蝇嗡嗡叫着，飞着撞到窗户玻璃上。最后，这让人感到无法忍受了：拉斯科利尼科夫突然欠起身来，坐到沙发上。
“喂，您说吧，您有什么事？”
“我就知道您没睡，只不过装作睡着了的样子，”陌生人奇怪地回答，平静地大笑起来。“请允许我自我介绍：阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇•斯维德里盖洛夫……”
Part 4 Chapter 1
"Can this be still a dream?" Raskolnikov thought once more.
He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.
"Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in bewilderment.
His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.
"I've come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me, but with your assistance I reckon on . . ."
"You reckon wrongly," interrupted Raskolnikov.
"They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?"
Raskolnikov made no reply.
"It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don't consider it necessary to justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there particularly criminal on my part in all this business, speaking without prejudice, with common sense?"
Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.
"That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and 'insulted her with my infamous proposals'--is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But you've only to assume that I, too, am a man /et nihil humanum/ . . . in a word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim? And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone!"
"But that's not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. "It's simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don't want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!"
Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh.
"But you're . . . but there's no getting round you," he said, laughing in the frankest way. "I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right line at once!"
"But you are trying to get round me still!"
"What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigailov, laughing openly. "But this is what the French call /bonne guerre/, and the most innocent form of deception! . . . But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . ."
"You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?" Raskolnikov interrupted rudely.
"Oh, you've heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, though. . . . But as for your question, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don't suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing else. But I'll tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on my way here in the train, especially: didn't I contribute to all that . . . calamity, morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the question."
Raskolnikov laughed.
"I wonder you trouble yourself about it!"
"But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with a switch--there were no marks even . . . don't regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that; but I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her first act was to order the carriage to be got out. . . . Not to speak of the fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances of it with everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed that? But it's particularly so with women. One might even say it's their only amusement."
At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so finishing the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of prudence made him linger for a moment.
"You are fond of fighting?" he asked carelessly.
"No, not very," Svidrigailov answered, calmly. "And Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha, ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I've forgotten his name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in those days, that very year I believe, the 'disgraceful action of the /Age/' took place (you know, 'The Egyptian Nights,' that public reading, you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German, I feel no sympathy with him, because after all what need is there for sympathy? But I must say that there are sometimes such provoking 'Germans' that I don't believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that's the truly humane point of view, I assure you."
After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again. Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his mind and able to keep it to himself.
"I expect you've not talked to anyone for some days?" he asked.
"Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an adaptable man?"
"No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man."
"Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered," he replied, with a surprising expression of simplicity. "You know, there's hardly anything I take interest in," he went on, as it were dreamily, "especially now, I've nothing to do. . . . You are quite at liberty to imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I'll confess frankly, I am very much bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you. . . . Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there's something wrong with you, and now, too . . . not this very minute, I mean, but now, generally. . . . Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't scowl! I am not such a bear, you know, as you think."
Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.
"You are not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "I fancy indeed that you are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to behave like one."
"I am not particularly interested in anyone's opinion," Svidrigailov answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, "and therefore why not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate . . . and especially if one has a natural propensity that way," he added, laughing again.
"But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, 'not without connections.' What can you want with me, then, unless you've some special object?"
"That's true that I have friends here," Svidrigailov admitted, not replying to the chief point. "I've met some already. I've been lounging about for the last three days, and I've seen them, or they've seen me. That's a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned not a poor man; the emancipation of the serfs hasn't affected me; my property consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not fallen off; but . . . I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long ago. I've been here three days and have called on no one. . . . What a town it is! How has it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there's a great deal I didn't notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels. . . . My only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!"
"Anatomy?"
"But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, maybe --well, all that can go on without me," he went on, again without noticing the question. "Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?"
"Why, have you been a card-sharper then?"
"How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian society the best manners are found among those who've been thrashed, have you noticed that? I've deteriorated in the country. But I did get into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty thousand silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never left the country. And, take note, that all my life she held a document over me, the IOU for thirty thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible in that."
"If it hadn't been for that, would you have given her the slip?"
"I don't know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I didn't want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad, seeing I was bored, but I've been abroad before, and always felt sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea--you look at them and it makes you sad. What's most revolting is that one is really sad! No, it's better at home. Here at least one blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole, because /j'ai le vin mauvais/ and hate drinking, and there's nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I've been told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?"
"Why, would you go up?"
"I . . . No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigailov really seeming to be deep in thought.
"What does he mean? Is he in earnest?" Raskolnikov wondered.
"No, the document didn't restrain me," Svidrigailov went on, meditatively. "It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my name- day and made me a present of a considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you know. 'You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch'-- that was actually her expression. You don't believe she used it? But do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid of my over-studying."
"You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?"
"Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe in ghosts?"
"What ghosts?"
"Why, ordinary ghosts."
"Do you believe in them?"
"Perhaps not, /pour vous plaire/. . . . I wouldn't say no exactly."
"Do you see them, then?"
Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly.
"Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile.
"How do you mean 'she is pleased to visit you'?"
"She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone."
"Were you awake?"
"Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the door--always at the door. I can almost hear her."
"What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?" Raskolnikov said suddenly.
At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much excited.
"What! Did you think so?" Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. "Did you really? Didn't I say that there was something in common between us, eh?"
"You never said so!" Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.
"Didn't I?"
"No!"
"I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut, pretending, I said to myself at once, 'Here's the man.'"
"What do you mean by 'the man?' What are you talking about?" cried Raskolnikov.
"What do I mean? I really don't know. . . ." Svidrigailov muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.
For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other's faces.
"That's all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. "What does she say when she comes to you?"
"She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and--man is a strange creature--it makes me angry. The first time she came in (I was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and began to think), she came in at the door. 'You've been so busy to-day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining- room clock,' she said. All those seven years I've wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I'd been asleep, tired out, with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her hands. 'Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?' She was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, besides, the bell rang. I was sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. 'Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my dress? Aniska can't make like this.' (Aniska was a dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress, and then I looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. 'I wonder you trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.' 'Good gracious, you won't let one disturb you about anything!' To tease her I said, 'I want to get married, Marfa Petrovna.' 'That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a bride when you've hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good choice, at least, but I know it won't be for your happiness or hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.' Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn't it nonsense, eh?"
"But perhaps you are telling lies?" Raskolnikov put in.
"I rarely lie," answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, apparently not noticing the rudeness of the question.
"And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?"
"Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting 'Filka, my pipe!' He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought 'he is doing it out of revenge,' because we had a violent quarrel just before his death. 'How dare you come in with a hole in your elbow?' I said. 'Go away, you scamp!' He turned and went out, and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed."
"You should go to a doctor."
"I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know what's wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn't ask you whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that they exist."
"No, I won't believe it!" Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger.
"What do people generally say?" muttered Svidrigailov, as though speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. "They say, 'You are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.' But that's not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they don't exist."
"Nothing of the sort," Raskolnikov insisted irritably.
"No? You don't think so?" Svidrigailov went on, looking at him deliberately. "But what do you say to this argument (help me with it): ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the more seriously ill one is, the closer becomes one's contact with that other world, so that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could believe in that, too."
"I don't believe in a future life," said Raskolnikov.
Svidrigailov sat lost in thought.
"And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort," he said suddenly.
"He is a madman," thought Raskolnikov.
"We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it's one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that's all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that."
"Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?" Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish.
"Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it's what I would certainly have made it," answered Svidrigailov, with a vague smile.
This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing.
"Only think," he cried, "half an hour ago we had never seen each other, we regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us; we've thrown it aside, and away we've gone into the abstract! Wasn't I right in saying that we were birds of a feather?"
"Kindly allow me," Raskolnikov went on irritably, "to ask you to explain why you have honoured me with your visit . . . and . . . and I am in a hurry, I have no time to waste. I want to go out."
"By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitch?"
"Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her name? I can't understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if you really are Svidrigailov."
"Why, but I've come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning her?"
"Very good, speak, but make haste."
"I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the sake of . . . for the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the match could be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you personally, I am convinced of it."
"All this is very naive . . . excuse me, I should have said impudent on your part," said Raskolnikov.
"You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don't be uneasy, Rodion Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess something psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me tell you that I've no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel something . . ."
"Through idleness and depravity," Raskolnikov put in.
"I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them. But that's all nonsense, as I see myself now."
"Have you seen that long?"
"I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin."
"Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out . . ."
"With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and determining on a certain . . . journey, I should like to make some necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided for; and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too! I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That's enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point. Before the journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It's not that I detest him so much, but it was through him I quarrelled with Marfa Petrovna when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you like in your presence, to explain to her that in the first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then, begging her pardon for all past unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it."
"You are certainly mad," cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as astonished. "How dare you talk like that!"
"I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in some more foolish way. That's the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive. You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna and you will know. The point is, that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and unpleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want--not to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of self-interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly; and I should not have offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I offered her more, Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just the same, only from another man. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly."
Svidrigailov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying this.
"I beg you to say no more," said Raskolnikov. "In any case this is unpardonable impertinence."
"Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour in this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities. That's absurd. If I died, for instance, and left that sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn't refuse it?"
"Very likely she would."
"Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case I beg you to repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna."
"No, I won't."
"In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her myself and worry her by doing so."
"And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?"
"I don't know really what to say. I should like very much to see her once more."
"Don't hope for it."
"I'm sorry. But you don't know me. Perhaps we may become better friends."
"You think we may become friends?"
"And why not?" Svidrigailov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat. "I didn't quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning on it . . . though I was very much struck by your face this morning."
"Where did you see me this morning?" Raskolnikov asked uneasily.
"I saw you by chance. . . . I kept fancying there is something about you like me. . . . But don't be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on all right with card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael's /Madonna/ in Madam Prilukov's album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna's side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at Viazemsky's house in the Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps."
"Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?"
"What travels?"
"Why, on that 'journey'; you spoke of it yourself."
"A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that's a wide subject. . . . if only you knew what you are asking," he added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. "Perhaps I'll get married instead of the journey. They're making a match for me."
"Here?"
"Yes."
"How have you had time for that?"
"But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it. Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes. I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Rodion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will and left her three thousand roubles. That's absolutely certain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or three weeks."
"Are you telling the truth?"
"Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you."
As he went out, Svidrigailov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway.
 
“莫非这还是在作梦吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫又不由得想。
他小心谨慎而又怀疑地细细端详这位不速之客。
“斯维德里盖洛夫？多么荒唐！这不可能！”最后，他困惑不解地说出声来。
对这一惊呼，客人似乎一点儿也不感到奇怪。
“我来找您有两个原因，第一，想和您认识一下，因为我已久仰大名，我听到的都是关于您的好话，而且很有意思；第二，我希望，也许您不会拒绝帮助我做一件事，而这件事直接关系到令妹阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜的利益。由于她对我抱有成见，没人引见，我独自去找她，现在她可能根本不让我进门，而有您帮助，情况就完全不同了，我估计……”
“您估计错了，”拉斯科利尼科夫打断了他的话。
“请问，她们不是昨天刚到吗？”
拉斯科利尼科夫没有回答。
“是昨天，我知道。因为我也不过是前天才到。嗯，至于这件事嘛，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，请您听我说：为自己辩解，我认为那是多余的，不过请您告诉我：在这件事情上我真的犯了那么严重的大罪吗，也就是说，如果不带偏见，客观公正地评判的话？”
拉斯科利尼科夫继续默默地仔细打量他。
“我在自己家里追求一个无力自卫的少女，‘卑鄙地向她求婚，从而侮辱了她’，——是这样吗？（我自己先说了吧！）不过您只要想想看，我也是人，etnihilhumanum……①总之，我也能堕入情网，我也会爱上人（这当然是由不得我们的意志决定的），于是就用最自然的方式表达出来了。这儿的全部问题就是：我是个恶棍呢，还是牺牲者？嗯，怎么会是牺牲者呢？要知道，我向我的意中人提议，要她和我一道私奔，逃往美国或瑞士的时候，我可能是怀着最大的敬意，而且想让我们两个人都能获得幸福！……因为理智总是供爱情驱使；我大概是更害了自己！……”
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①拉丁文，引自古罗马剧作家杰连齐亚（约纪元前一九五——一五九）的喜剧《自我折磨》。引文不正确，原文是：“我是人，凡是人所具有的东西，没有一样是我所没有的。”这句话已经成为箴言。
“问题完全不在这里，”拉斯科利尼科夫厌恶地打断了他，“您只不过是让人感到讨厌，不管您对，还是不对，哼，她们不愿跟您来往，会把您赶走，您请走吧！……”
斯维德里盖洛夫突然哈哈大笑起来。
“不过您……您倒不会上当受骗啊！”他非常坦率地笑着说：“我本想耍点儿手腕，可是，不成，您恰好一下击中了要害！”
“就是现在，您也还是在耍手腕。”
“那又怎样？那又怎样呢？”斯维德里盖洛夫坦率地笑着说：“要知道，这是所谓bonneguerre①，兵不厌诈，耍这样的花招是可以的嘛！……不过您还是打断了我；不管怎么着，我要再说一遍：要不是发生了花园里的那档子事，什么不愉快的事都不会有。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜……”
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①法文，“真正的战争”之意。
“就连玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，据说也是让您给害死的？”拉斯科利尼科夫粗暴地打断了他的话。
“这您也听说了？不过怎么会听不到呢……嗯，对于您提出的这个问题，说真的，我不知道该怎么对您说才好，虽说在这件事情上，我绝对问心无愧。也就是说，请不要以为我怕什么：一切都完全正常，无可怀疑：医生检查，发现是死于中风，这是因为她午饭吃得过饱，把一瓶酒几乎全喝光了，饭后立刻就去进行浴疗，此外没能查出任何别的原因……不，后来我考虑了一段时间，特别是在路上，坐在火车车厢里的时候：这件不幸的事……是不是我促成的，是不是我使她精神上受了刺激，或者是由于什么别的诸如此类的情况？可是我得出结论，这也绝不可能。”
拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。
“那您何必这样不安呢！”
“您笑什么？您想想看：我总共才不过抽了她两鞭子，连伤痕都看不出来……请您别把我看作犬儒主义者；因为我完全知道，我这么做是多么卑鄙，而且我还做过其他卑鄙的事；不过我也确实知道，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜好像也喜欢我的这种，也可以说是风流韵事吧。关于令妹的那件事已经完全结束了。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜不得不待在家里，已经是第三天了；已经没有必要再进城去，她拿去的那封信，大家都已经听厌了（念信的事您听说了吗？）。突然这两鞭子好似天赐的良机！她的头一件事就是吩咐套上马车！……女人有时候非常、非常乐于受侮辱，尽管表面上看上去十分气愤，——这我就不去说它了。所有的人都有这种情况；一般说，人甚至非常、非常喜欢受侮辱，这您发觉没有？不过女人尤其是这样。甚至可以说，这是她们唯一的消遣。”
有那么一会儿，拉斯科利尼科夫想要站起来，出去，这样来结束这次会见。但是某种好奇心，甚至似乎是有某种打算。暂时留住了他。
“您喜欢打架吗？”他心不在焉地问。
“不，不很喜欢，”斯维德里盖洛夫平静地回答。“我和玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜几乎从来不打架。我们在一起过得很和睦，她对我总是十分满意。在我们七年共同生活中，我用鞭子的情况总共只有两次（如果不算另一次，也就是第三次的话，不过那一次有另外的含意）：第一次是我们结婚两个月以后，刚一来到乡下的时候，还有现在这一次，也就是最后一次。您却以为，我是个恶棍，是个顽固落后的家伙，农奴制的拥护者吗？嘿——嘿……顺便说一声，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，您记得吗，几年前，还是在带来良好效果的广开言路的时期①，有个贵族——我忘了他姓什么了！——还在火车上鞭打过一个德国女人呢，可是激起了公愤，遭到我们全民谴责，所有报刊也纷纷予以抨击，弄得他名誉扫地②，这件事您还记得吗？当时，好像就在那一年，还发生了《〈世纪〉杂志岂有此理的行为》③（喏，当众朗诵《埃及之夜》，您记得吗？一双乌黑的眼睛！噢，你在哪里，我们青春的黄金时期！）。嗯，那么，这就是我的意见：对那个鞭打德国女人的先生，我并不深表同情，因为，说实在的……有什么好同情的呢！不过同时我也不能不声明，有时就是有这样一些非揍不可的‘德国女人’，我觉得，没有一个进步人士能够完全担保，自己绝对不会动怒。当时谁也没从这个观点来看这个问题，然而这个观点才是真正人道主义的观点，的确如此！”
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①指为废除农奴制作准备的那段时间（一八五六——一八六一）。在这段时间里，俄国报刊可以公开揭露警察当局滥用职权等社会弊端。
②一八六○年初，报纸上在议论一个地主在火车上鞭打一个里加女人的事。陀思妥耶夫斯基的《时代》杂志上也为此发表过文章，抨击地主的专横。
③这是诗人米哈依洛夫（一八二九——一八六五）一篇文章的题目。他这篇文章是对《世纪》杂志一八六一年第八期一篇叫作《俄罗斯的怪现象》的小品文的回答。那篇小品文攻击积极参加女权运动的托尔马乔夫在彼尔姆市的一次文学——音乐晚会上朗诵普希金的《埃及之夜》。为支持米哈依洛夫，并为托尔马乔夫辩护，陀思妥耶夫斯基曾写过一篇题为《光明磊落的范例》的文章，发表在《时代》杂志一八六一年第三期上。
说完了这些以后，斯维德里盖洛夫突然又大笑起来。拉斯科利尼科夫看得很清楚，知道这是个主意坚决、十分狡猾、决不会暴露自己意图的人。
“您大概是，一连几天没跟人说话了吧？”他问。
“差不多是这样。怎么：我是个这么随和的人，您大概觉得奇怪了吧？”
“不，我觉得奇怪的是，您这个人太随和了。”
“是因为您提的问题粗暴无礼，可我并不见怪吗？是这样吗？是的……有什么好见怪的呢？您怎么问，我就怎么回答，”他带着令人惊讶的天真神情补充说。“因为我几乎对什么也不特别感兴趣，真的，”他不知为什么沉思地接着说下去。“尤其是现在，我很空，什么事也没有……不过您可以认为，我奉承您，是因为我有什么企图，何况我自己也说过，我有事要找令妹。不过我坦白地跟您说吧：我很寂寞！尤其是这三天，所以很高兴找您谈谈……请别生气，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，不过，不知为什么，我觉得您很奇怪。不管您认为怎样，反正您心里有什么心事；就是现在，也就是说，并不是指此时此刻，而是一般说的现在……好，我不说了，不说了，请您别皱眉！要知道，我可不是像您所想象的那样的一头熊。”
拉斯科利尼科夫神情阴郁地看了看他。
“您也许甚至根本就不是熊，”他说，“我甚至觉得，您很有教养，或者至少在必要的时候也能做一个正派人。”
“要知道，无论是谁的意见，我都不怎么特别感兴趣，”斯维德里盖洛夫冷冷地回答，语气甚至好像有点儿傲慢，“这就是我为什么没成为一个庸俗的人的缘故，尽管在我们这个社会上，戴上顶庸俗的帽子倒是挺舒服的……尤其是如果你天生就喜欢戴这顶帽子的话，”他补充说，又哈哈大笑起来。
“不过我听说您在这儿有很多熟人。您可是个所谓‘并不是没有朋友’的人。在这种情况下，要不是有什么目的，您来找我干吗？”
“您说我有熟人，这倒是真的，”斯维德里盖洛夫接住话茬说，却没回答主要问题，“我已经碰到过了；因为我已经闲荡了两天多；我会去打听他们，看来，他们也会来打听我。这还用说吗，我穿得体面，不能算是穷人；就连农民改革①也没影响我：我的财产大都是汛期淹水的森林和草地，收入没受损失；不过……我不会上他们那儿去；早就腻烦了：我已经来了两天多，可是熟人当中谁也没碰到过……还有这座城市！您瞧，我们这座城市是怎么建立的！一座公务员和各种教会学校学生的城市！不错，早先，八年前我住在这儿的时候，这儿有好多东西我都没注意……现在我只把希望寄托在构造上，真的！”
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①一八六一年的农民改革废除了农奴制，但未触及地主的利益，根据有关规定，可耕地、森林和草地都留给了地主。
“什么构造？”
“至于这些俱乐部啊，杜索①啊，你们这些普安特②啊，或者，大概还有什么进步啊——这些，没有我们也行，”他继续说，又没注意向他提出的问题。“可是倒乐意作赌棍吗？”
“您还是个赌棍？”
“怎么能不是呢？我们有这么一伙人，都是最体面的人，这是八年前的事了；大家在一起消磨时间；您要知道，都是些最有风度的人，有诗人，也有资本家。一般说，在我们俄国社会里，只在那些常受打击的人最有风度，——这点您注意到了吗？现在我不修边幅了，因为我是住在乡下。而当时，因为我欠了涅任市③一个希腊人的债，终于进了监狱。这时碰到了玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，经过讨价还价，用三万银币把我赎了出来。（我总共欠了七万卢布的债。）我和她结了婚，她立刻把我当宝贝似的带回乡下她家里去了。因为她比我大五岁。她非常爱我。七年来我没从乡下出来过。您要注意，她一生都握有一张对付我的借据，也就是以别人名义出借的那三万卢布，所以我只要稍一违背她的意旨，——立刻就会落入她的圈套！她准会这么做的！要知道，女人就是这样，爱你也是她，害你也是她，两者并行不悖。”
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①杜索——当时彼得堡一家著名饭店的老板。
②普安特：法语Pointe，意思是“海岬”；这里指涅瓦河各小岛上的时髦娱乐场所。
③乌克兰的一个城市。
“要不是有那张借据，您就会逃走？”
“我不知道该怎么对您说。这张借据几乎没有使我感到拘束。我哪里也不想去，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜看到我觉得无聊，曾两次邀请我出国！这有什么意思呢！以前我曾不止一次出国，可总是感到厌恶。倒不是厌恶，可不知怎的，旭日东升，朝霞满天，还有什么那不勒斯海湾和大海啊，看着都让人感到忧郁！最让人讨厌的是，当真是在想念什么，所以感到忧愁！不，还是在祖国好：在这儿至少可以把什么都归咎于别人，认为自己什么都对。现在我也许想去北极探险，因为 j’ailevinmauvais①。我讨厌喝酒，可是除了酒，就什么也没有了。我试过。据说星期天别尔格②要在尤苏波夫花园乘一个大汽球飞上天去，出一笔巨款征求和他一道飞行的旅伴，这是真的吗？”
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①法文。“我没有酒德”之意。
②别尔格是彼得堡一些娱乐设施的所有者。
“怎么，您想去飞行？”
“我？不……我不过这么问问……”斯维德里盖洛夫含糊不清地说，当真好像在沉思。
“他怎么，是当真吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫想。
“不，借据并不让我感到拘束，”斯维德里盖洛夫沉思默想地继续说，“是我自己不从乡下出来。而且，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜已经在我的命名日把这张借据还给了我，还送给我一大笔钱，数目相当可观，这大概都快有一年了吧。因为她很有钱。‘您要明白，阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇，我是多么相信您啊’，真的，她就是这么说的。您不相信她这么说过？可您要知道，在乡下，我已经变成了一个很正派的主人；附近的人都知道我。我还订购了一些图书。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜起初是赞成的，后来却担心我用功过度，会伤害身体。”
“您好像很想念玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜？”
“我吗？也许是。真的，也许是。顺便说说，您相信鬼魂吗？”
“什么鬼魂？”
“普通的鬼魂呗，还有什么别的呢？”
“可您相信吗？”
“是的，大概，也不相信，pourvousplaire①……也就是说，并不是根本不信……”
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①法文，“为了让您满意’之意。
“经常出现吗，还是怎么呢？”
斯维德里盖洛夫不知为什么很奇怪地看了看他。
“玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜来看过我，”他说，把嘴一撇，露出奇怪的微笑。
“来看您，这是什么意思？”
“她已经来过三次了。我第一次看到她，就是在安葬的那一天，从墓地回来一个钟头以后。这是在我动身上这儿来的头一天。第二次是前天，在路上，天刚亮的时候，在小维舍拉车站上；第三次就在两个钟头以前，在我下榻的寓所，就在屋里；只有我一个人。”
“醒着的时候吗？”
“完全醒着。三次都是醒着的时候。她来了，说了大约一分钟的话，就往门口走去；总是从房门出去。甚至好像能听到开门关门的声音。”
“不知为什么，我就想过，您一定会常常发生这一类的事！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，但立刻又为自己说了这句话而感到惊讶。他非常激动。
“是——吗？您这么想过？”斯维德里盖洛夫诧异地问，“难道真的想过？嗯，我是不是说过我们之间有什么共同点呢，啊？”
“您从来没说过这样的话！”拉斯科利尼科夫很不客气而且十分激动地回答。
“我没说过？”
“没有！”
“我却觉得，我说过了。我刚才一进来，看到您闭着眼躺着，可是假装睡着了的样子，——我立刻就对自己说：‘这就是那个人！’”
“就是那个人，这是什么意思？您这话是指的什么？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然高声大喊。
“指的什么？真的，我不知道是指什么……”斯维德里盖洛夫诚恳地、低声含糊地说，有点儿前言不搭后语。
大约有一分钟，两人都不说话。两人都睁大眼睛，你看着我，我看着你。
“这全都是胡说八道！”拉斯科利尼科夫懊恼地高声叫喊。
“她来的时候，跟您说些什么？”
“她吗？请您想想看，她谈的都是些最无关重要的小事，这个人真让您觉得奇怪：也正是这一点让我生气。第一次她进来（您要知道，我累了：举行葬礼，为死者祈祷，然后是安灵，办酬客宴，——终于书房里只剩了我一个人，我点起一支雪茄，沉思起来），她走进门来，说：‘阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇，饭厅里的钟您忘记上了。’真的，七年来，每星期我都亲自上这个钟，要是忘了，她总是提醒我。第二天，我已经上路，到这里来。黎明的时候，我进站去了，这一夜我只打了个盹儿，精疲力竭，睡眼惺忪，——我要了杯咖啡；我一看——玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜突然坐到我身边，手里拿着一副牌：‘阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇，要不要给您算算，一路上是不是平安无事？’她是个用纸牌算命的行家。唉，我没算一卦，为了这件事，我不会原谅自己的！我吓坏了，赶紧逃跑，不错，这时候开车的铃也响了。今天在一家小饭馆里吆了一顿糟透了的午饭，肚子里装满了不好消化的东西，我正坐着抽烟，突然，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜又进来了，她打扮得很漂亮，穿一件绿绸子的新连衫裙，裙裾长得要命，拖在后面：‘您好！阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇！您喜欢我这件连衫裙吗？做工这么好，阿尼西卡可做不出来。’（阿尼西卡是我们村里的一个女裁缝，农奴出身，在莫斯科学过缝纫，是个好姑娘。）她站在我面前，转动着身子。我仔细看了看连衫裙，随后留心看了看她的脸，我说‘玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，您倒有兴致为了这样一些小事来找我。‘哎哟，天哪，我的爷，都不能来打搅您了！’为了逗她，我说：‘玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，我想结婚。‘您完全可能干得出这种事来，阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇；刚刚埋葬了妻子，马上又去结婚，这可不会给您带来什么好名声。要挑个好姑娘才好，不然的话，无论对她，还是对您，都没有好处，只会让好心的人笑话。’说罢，她就走了，拖在地上的裙裾好像发出窸窸窣窣的响声。真是胡说八道，是吗？”
“不过，说不定您一直是在说谎吧？”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。
“我很少说谎，”斯维德里盖洛夫若有所思地回答，似乎根本没注意到问题提得那么无礼。
“从前，在这以前，您从来没见过鬼魂吗？”
“嗯……不，见过，一生中只见过一次，是在六年以前。菲利卡是农奴制时期我们家的一个仆人；刚刚埋葬了他，我忘了，又喊了一声：‘菲利卡，拿烟斗来！’他进来，一直朝放烟斗的架子走去。我坐在那里，心想：‘他是来向我报仇了，’因为就在他死以前，我们刚刚大吵了一场。我说：‘你的衣服胳膊肘上破了，你怎么胆敢这样进来见我，滚出去，坏蛋！’他转身走了出去，以后再没来过。当时我没跟玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜说，本想为他作安魂弥撒，又觉得不好意思。”
“去看看医生吧。”
“您不说，我也明白，我身体不好，虽说，真的，我不知道害的是什么病；照我看，我的身体大概比你好四倍。我问您的不是这个，——您信不信鬼魂出现？我问您的是：您信不信有鬼？”
“不，无论如何也不相信！”拉斯科利尼科夫甚至是恶狠狠地高声叫嚷。
“通常人们都是怎么说来的？”斯维德里盖洛夫仿佛自言自语似地说，稍稍低下头，望着一边。“他们说：‘你有病，这就是说，你的错觉只不过是根本不存在的幻象。’不过这话并没有严密的逻辑性。我同意，只有病人才会看见鬼魂；但这只不过证明，鬼魂只能让病人看见，而不能证明，鬼魂并不存在。”
“当然不存在！”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地坚持说。
“不存在吗？您这么认为？”斯维德里盖洛夫慢慢地看了看他，接着说下去。“嗯，如果这样来考虑呢（请您指教）：‘鬼魂——这就是，可以这样说吧，是另外一些世界的碎片和片断，是这些世界的一种因素。健康的人当然用不着看到它们，因为健康的人完全是属于这个世界的，所以为了这个世界的完满，也为了维护这个世界上的秩序，他们理应只过这个世界上的生活。可是一旦稍微有了点儿病，身体上尘世的正常秩序稍一遭到破坏，那么立刻就会出现接触另一个世界的可能，病得越厉害，与另一个世界的接触也就越多，所以，当一个人完全死了的时候，他就直接转入另一个世界去了。’我早就作过这样的论断。如果您相信来世，那也就会相信这个论断了。”
“我不相信来世，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
斯维德里盖洛夫坐着，陷入沉思。
“如果那里只有蜘蛛或者这一类的东西，那又怎样呢，”他突然说。
“这是个疯子，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。
“我们一直想象，永恒就好像一个无法理解的概念，是一个硕大无朋、其大无比的东西！可为什么一定是其大无比呢？万一它并不是这样呢，您要知道，它也许是一间小房子，就像农村里的澡堂，熏得漆黑，各个角落都是蜘蛛，而这就是永恒。您要知道，有时我觉得它大致就是这样的。”
“难道，难道您想象不出什么比这让人快慰、也更加真实一些的东西吗！”拉斯科利尼科夫感到十分痛苦地大声喊道。
“更真实些？那怎么知道呢，说不定这就是真实的，您要知道，我倒想一定故意让它成为这个样子！”斯维德里盖洛夫似笑非笑地回答。
听到这岂有此理的回答，拉斯科利尼科夫突然感到一阵发冷。斯维德里盖洛夫抬起头来，凝神看了看他，突然哈哈大笑起来。
“不，这您想得到吗”，他高声叫喊起来，“半个钟头以前我们还没见面，彼此把对方看作仇敌，我们之间有一件还没解决的事情；我们撇开这件事情，瞧，我们谈了些什么啊！喏，我说我们是一样的人，说得对吧？”
“劳您驾，”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地接下去说，“您屈尊就教，到底有何贵干，就请快点儿告诉我吧……而且……而且……我忙得很，我没空，我要出去……”
“请吧，请吧。令妹，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，是要嫁给卢任，彼得•彼特罗维奇先生吗？”
“您能不能设法不谈舍妹的问题，也别提她的名字呢。我甚至不明白，您怎么胆敢当着我的面说出她的名字，如果您真是斯维德里盖洛夫的话？”
“可我就是来谈她的问题的，怎么能不提她的名字呢？”
“好吧；您说吧，不过请快一点儿！”
“如果您已经见过这位卢任先生，也就是我内人的亲戚，哪怕只跟他在一起待过半个钟头，或者听到过有关他的确实可靠的事情，我相信，对这个人，您就已经形成自己的看法了。他可配不上阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。照我看，在这件事情上，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜是未经慎重考虑、过于慷慨地牺牲了自己，而她这样做是为了……为了自己的家庭。由于我听到的关于您的那些话，我觉得，如果这门亲事能够吹掉，而又不损害令妹的利益，您一定会非常满意。现在，认识了您本人以后，我甚至已对此深信不疑。”
“从您那方面来说，这些话是十分天真的；请您原谅，我是想说：无耻，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“也就是说，您的意思是，我在谋求自己的利益。请您放心，罗季昂•罗曼诺谁奇，如果我是为自己谋求什么好处的话，那就不会这么直截了当地说出来了，我还不完全是个傻瓜。关于这一点，我要告诉您一个心理上的奇怪的情况。刚才我为我对阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜的爱情辩解的时候，说我自己是牺牲者。那么请您听我说，现在我已经感觉不到这种爱情了，一点儿也感觉不到了，这连我自己也觉得奇怪，因为以前我的确是感觉到的……”
“由于游手好闲和道德败坏，”拉斯科利尼科夫打断了他。
“是的，我是个道德败坏和游手好闲的人。不过令妹有那么多优点，所以我不可能不受她的某种影响。不过，现在我自己也明白，这全都是废话。”
“早就明白了吗？”
“还在以前就有所发觉了，到前天，几乎是到达彼得堡的时候，才对此完全深信不疑。不过，在莫斯科的时候，我还曾经想，要设法赢得阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜的芳心，和卢任先生竞争一下。”
“请原谅我又要打断您了，劳您驾：您能不能说得简短些，直截了当谈谈您来访的目的呢。我有急事，我得出去……”
“非常高兴。来到这儿以后，现在我决定作一次……旅行，我想事先做一些必要的安排。我的孩子都留在他们姨妈家里了，他们生活都很富裕，他们不需要我。再说我哪像个做父亲的呢！我自己只拿了玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜一年前送给我的那笔财产。这也就足够我用的了。对不起，我这就要谈正经的了。去旅行之前，也许这次旅行会实现的，我想把和卢任先生的事了结掉。倒不是我根本不能容忍他，然而当我知道这门婚事是玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜搞出来的，可真把我惹火了，所以正是因为他，我才跟她发生了争吵。现在我想通过您跟阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜见见面，就这样吧，您也在场，我想向她说明，第一，从卢任先生那儿她不仅得不到丝毫好处，而且甚至定会受到明显的损害。其次，请她原谅不久前发生的所有不愉快的事情，然后再请求她允许我送给她一万卢布，这样可以使她更容易下决心和卢任先生决裂，我相信，只要有可能，她自己是不会反对与他决裂的。”
“不过您当真，当真是个疯子！”拉斯科利尼科夫高声叫喊起来，与其说他很生气，倒不如说他十分惊讶。“您怎么竟敢这样说呢！”
“我就知道您会大喊大叫的；不过，第一，虽说我并不富有，可是这一万卢布在我这儿却没有什么用处，也就是说，我完全，完全不需要这笔钱。如果阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜不接受，我大概会以更愚蠢的方式把它挥霍掉。这是一。第二，我完全问心无愧；我提出这个建议，没有任何个人打算。信不信由您，不过以后您和阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜都会知道的。问题在于，我的确给极为尊敬的令妹带来了一些麻烦和不愉快的事；所以，我真心诚意地感到懊悔，由衷地希望，——不是赎罪，也不是为那些不愉快的事赔偿损失，而只不过是想做点儿对她有益的事，而我这样做的理由就是：我实在没有只干坏事的特权。如果我的建议中哪怕有百万分之一的私心杂念，那我就不会提出只送给她一万卢布了，而只不过五个星期以前，我曾经提出过，要送给她更多的钱。此外，我也许很快、很快就要和一位少女结婚了，所以，关于我对阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜抱有什么企图的一切怀疑，也就应该不复存在了。最后我还要说一句：如果阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜嫁给卢任先生，同样也是拿钱，只不过拿的是另一个人的钱罢了……您别生气，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，请您心平气和地、冷静地考虑考虑。”
说这番话的时候，斯维德里盖洛夫本人非常冷静，而且心平气和。
“请您别说了”，拉斯科利尼科夫说。“无论如何，您这样说是十分无礼，不可原谅的。”
“根本不是。如果是这样的话，在这个世界上，人对人就只能做坏事，因为拘泥于某些习以为常的形式，反倒没有权利去做一了点儿好事了。这是荒谬的。譬如说，如果我死了，立下遗嘱，把这笔钱赠送给令妹，难道她也要拒绝吗？”
“很可能。”
“嗯，这不可能。不过，不，实在不要嘛，也就算了。不过在必要的时候，一万卢布到底是一笔可观的数目。无论如何请把我的话转告阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。”
“不，我不转告。”
“这样的话，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，我就不得不设法自己去见她，那么也就不得不打搅她了。”
“如果我转告她，您就不设法亲自见她了吗？”
“我不知道，真的，我不知道该怎么跟您说。我倒很希望和她见一次面。”
“还是别存这样的希望吧。”
“很遗憾。不过您不了解我。也许我们会更接近些的。”
“您认为我们会更接近些吗？”
“为什么不会呢？”斯维德里盖洛夫微微一笑，说，站起身来，拿起帽子，“要知道，我倒不是那么很想来打搅您，到这儿来的时候，甚至也没抱多大希望，不过，不久前，早上的时候，您的脸色让我十分吃惊……”
“不久前，早上的时候，您在哪儿见过我？”拉斯科利尼科夫不安地问。
“偶然看到的……我总觉得，您有什么对我有用的地方……请别担心，我不会让人觉得腻烦的；我跟赌棍们在一起，也曾和睦相处，斯维尔别依公爵，我的一个远亲，是个大官，我也没让他觉得讨厌过，我还曾经在普里鲁科娃夫人的纪念册上题词，谈论拉斐尔的圣母像①，和玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜在一起过了七年，从来没离开过她，从前我常在干草广场上维亚泽姆斯基的房子②里过夜，说不定还会和别尔格一道乘汽球飞上天去呢。”
--------
①指拉斐尔的杰作《西斯庭圣母像》。拉斐尔（一四八三——一五二○），意大利著名画家，文艺复兴三杰之一。
②彼得堡一家著名的客店。内设饭店、酒馆、赌窟……。
“好了，很好。请问，您不久就要去旅游吗？”
“什么旅游？”
“就是这个‘旅行’啊……您自己说过的嘛。”
“去旅行？啊，对了！……真的，我是跟您说过关于旅行的事……嗯，这是个含义很广的问题……如果您能知道，您问的是什么就好了！”他补上一句，突然短促地高声大笑起来。
“说不定我不去旅行，而要结婚；有人正在给我说亲。”
“在这儿吗？”
“是的。”
“您是什么时候找到一位未婚妻的？”
“不过我很想和阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜见一次面。我郑重其事地请求您。好，再见……啊，对了！看我把什么给忘了！罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，请您转告令妹，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的遗嘱上提到，送给她三千卢布。我完全肯定，千真万确。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜是在死前一个星期这样安排的，当时我也在场。再过两三个星期，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜就可以得到这笔钱了。”
“您说的是实话？”
“实话。请转告。好吧，您的仆人。要知道，我就住在离您这儿不太远的地方。”
斯维德里盖洛夫出去的时候，在门口正
Part 4 Chapter 2
It was nearly eight o'clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev's, to arrive before Luzhin.
"Why, who was that?" asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the street.
"It was Svidrigailov, that landowner in whose house my sister was insulted when she was their governess. Through his persecuting her with his attentions, she was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa Petrovna begged Dounia's forgiveness afterwards, and she's just died suddenly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don't know why I'm afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife's funeral. He is very strange, and is determined on doing something. . . . We must guard Dounia from him . . . that's what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?"
"Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya, for speaking to me like that. . . . We will, we will guard her. Where does he live?"
"I don't know."
"Why didn't you ask? What a pity! I'll find out, though."
"Did you see him?" asked Raskolnikov after a pause.
"Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well."
"You did really see him? You saw him clearly?" Raskolnikov insisted.
"Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a thousand; I have a good memory for faces."
They were silent again.
"Hm! . . . that's all right," muttered Raskolnikov. "Do you know, I fancied . . . I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination."
"What do you mean? I don't understand you."
"Well, you all say," Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, "that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and have only seen a phantom."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that happened all these days may be only imagination."
"Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again! . . . But what did he say, what did he come for?"
Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.
"Now let me tell you my story," he began, "I came to you, you were asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry's, Zametov was still with him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn't speak in the right way. They don't seem to understand and can't understand, but are not a bit ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I'd brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To Zametov I didn't say a word. But, you see, I thought I'd made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why should we trouble? Of course if you were in any danger or anything, but why need you care? You needn't care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I'd mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they'll be afterwards! Hang them! We can thrash them afterwards, but let's laugh at them now!"
"To be sure," answered Raskolnikov. "But what will you say to-morrow?" he thought to himself. Strange to say, till that moment it had never occurred to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he knew. As he thought it, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin's account of his visit to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much had come and gone since then.
In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at eight, and was looking for the number, so that all three went in together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first, while Pyotr Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came forward at once to greet him in the doorway, Dounia was welcoming her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch walked in and quite amiably, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little put out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little embarrassed, hastened to make them all sit down at the round table where a samovar was boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides of the table. Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna, Razumihin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was beside his sister.
A moment's silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliberately drew out a cambric handkerchief reeking of scent and blew his nose with an air of a benevolent man who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to insist on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson and make them feel the gravity of the position. But he could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure uncertainty, and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was better to find it out beforehand; it rested with him to punish them and there would always be time for that.
"I trust you had a favourable journey," he inquired officially of Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch."
"I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is not over-fatigued either?"
"I am young and strong, I don't get tired, but it was a great strain for mother," answered Dounia.
"That's unavoidable! our national railways are of terrible length. 'Mother Russia,' as they say, is a vast country. . . . In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust all passed off without inconvenience?"
"Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly disheartening," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare with peculiar intonation, "and if Dmitri Prokofitch had not been sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we should have been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch Razumihin," she added, introducing him to Luzhin.
"I had the pleasure . . . yesterday," muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with a hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; then he scowled and was silent.
Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very polite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but who, directly they are crossed in anything, are completely disconcerted, and become more like sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society. Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, Avdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the conversation too soon. Razumihin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna was anxious again.
"Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?" she began having recourse to her leading item of conversation.
"To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to make you acquainted with the fact that Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov set off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife's funeral. So at least I have excellent authority for believing."
"To Petersburg? here?" Dounia asked in alarm and looked at her mother.
"Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in view the rapidity of his departure, and all the circumstances preceding it."
"Good heavens! won't he leave Dounia in peace even here?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna have any grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you are yourselves desirous of getting into communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and am now discovering where he is lodging."
"Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a fright you have given me," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on: "I've only seen him twice, but I thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of Marfa Petrovna's death."
"It's impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I do not dispute that he may have contributed to accelerate the course of events by the moral influence, so to say, of the affront; but as to the general conduct and moral characteristics of that personage, I am in agreement with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within a very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any pecuniary resources, he will relapse at once into his old ways. He is the most depraved, and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was so unfortunate as to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years ago, was of service to him also in another way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That's the sort of man he is, if you care to know."
"Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened attentively.
"Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of this?" Dounia asked sternly and emphatically.
"I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner, who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other commissions, and with this woman Svidrigailov had for a long while close and mysterious relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf and dumb girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but, later on, information was given that the child had been . . . cruelly outraged by Svidrigailov. It is true, this was not clearly established, the information was given by another German woman of loose character whose word could not be trusted; no statement was actually made to the police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna's money and exertions; it did not get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant one. You heard, no doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, when you were with them the story of the servant Philip who died of ill treatment he received six years ago, before the abolition of serfdom."
"I heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself."
"Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps disposed him, to suicide was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr. Svidrigailov."
"I don't know that," answered Dounia, dryly. "I only heard a queer story that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher, the servants used to say, 'he read himself silly,' and that he hanged himself partly on account of Mr. Svidrigailov's mockery of him and not his blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they were actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for Philip's death."
"I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his defence all of a sudden," Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into an ambiguous smile, "there's no doubt that he is an astute man, and insinuating where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part it's my firm conviction, that he will end in a debtor's prison again. Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling anything substantial on him, having regard for his children's interests, and, if she left him anything, it would only be the merest sufficiency, something insignificant and ephemeral, which would not last a year for a man of his habits."
"Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you," said Dounia, "say no more of Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me miserable."
"He has just been to see me," said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time.
There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to him. Even Pyotr Petrovitch was roused.
"An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and introduced himself," Raskolnikov continued. "He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and quite hopes that we shall become friends. He is particularly anxious, by the way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at which he asked me to assist. He has a proposition to make to you, and he told me about it. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand roubles in her will, Dounia, and that you can receive the money very shortly."
"Thank God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "Pray for her soul, Dounia!"
"It's a fact!" broke from Luzhin.
"Tell us, what more?" Dounia urged Raskolnikov.
"Then he said that he wasn't rich and all the estate was left to his children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don't know, I didn't ask. . . ."
"But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. "Did he tell you?"
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"I'll tell you afterwards."
Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea.
Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.
"I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in your way," he added with an air of some pique and he began getting up.
"Don't go, Pyotr Petrovitch," said Dounia, "you intended to spend the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an explanation with mother."
"Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna," Pyotr Petrovitch answered impressively, sitting down again, but still holding his hat. "I certainly desired an explanation with you and your honoured mother upon a very important point indeed. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence of some proposals of Mr. Svidrigailov, I, too, do not desire and am not able to speak openly . . . in the presence of others . . . of certain matters of the greatest gravity. Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been disregarded. . . ."
Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified silence.
"Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was disregarded solely at my instance," said Dounia. "You wrote that you had been insulted by my brother; I think that this must be explained at once, and you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted you, then he /should/ and /will/ apologise."
Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line.
"There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to overstep; and when it has been overstepped, there is no return."
"That wasn't what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr Petrovitch," Dounia interrupted with some impatience. "Please understand that our whole future depends now on whether all this is explained and set right as soon as possible. I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at it in any other light, and if you have the least regard for me, all this business must be ended to-day, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he will ask your forgiveness."
"I am surprised at your putting the question like that," said Luzhin, getting more and more irritated. "Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you, I may at the same time, very well indeed, be able to dislike some member of your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I cannot accept duties incompatible with . . ."
"Ah, don't be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch," Dounia interrupted with feeling, "and be the sensible and generous man I have always considered, and wish to consider, you to be. I've given you a great promise, I am your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted on his coming to our interview to-day after your letter, I told him nothing of what I meant to do. Understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose between you--it must be either you or he. That is how the question rests on your side and on his. I don't want to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your sake I must break off with my brother, for my brother's sake I must break off with you. I can find out for certain now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it; and of you, whether I am dear to you, whether you esteem me, whether you are the husband for me."
"Avdotya Romanovna," Luzhin declared huffily, "your words are of too much consequence to me; I will say more, they are offensive in view of the position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy, you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. You say 'you or he,' showing thereby of how little consequence I am in your eyes . . . I cannot let this pass considering the relationship and . . . the obligations existing between us."
"What!" cried Dounia, flushing. "I set your interest beside all that has hitherto been most precious in my life, what has made up the /whole/ of my life, and here you are offended at my making too /little/ account of you."
Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but Pyotr Petrovitch did not accept the reproof; on the contrary, at every word he became more persistent and irritable, as though he relished it.
"Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, ought to outweigh your love for your brother," he pronounced sententiously, "and in any case I cannot be put on the same level. . . . Although I said so emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother's presence, nevertheless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a necessary explanation on a point of great importance closely affecting my dignity. Your son," he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin (or . . . I think that's it? excuse me I have forgotten your surname," he bowed politely to Razumihin) "insulted me by misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation, drinking coffee, that is, that marriage with a poor girl who has had experience of trouble is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than with one who has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally exaggerated the significance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of an opposite conclusion, and thereby considerately reassure me. Kindly let me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovitch."
"I don't remember," faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I repeated them as I understood them. I don't know how Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps he exaggerated."
"He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation."
"Pyotr Petrovitch," Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, "the proof that Dounia and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here."
"Good, mother," said Dounia approvingly.
"Then this is my fault again," said Luzhin, aggrieved.
"Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have just written what was false about him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage.
"I don't remember writing anything false."
"You wrote," Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, "that I gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was the fact, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen till yesterday). You wrote this to make dissension between me and my family, and for that object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you don't know. All that is mean slander."
"Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, quivering with fury. "I enlarged upon your qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your sister's and mother's inquiries, how I found you, and what impression you made on me. As for what you've alluded to in my letter, be so good as to point out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn't throw away your money, and that there are not worthless persons in that family, however unfortunate."
"To my thinking, you, with all your virtues, are not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw stones."
"Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and sister?"
"I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down to-day with mother and Dounia."
"Rodya!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned, Razumihin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm.
"You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna," he said, "whether it is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question is at an end, once and for all. I will withdraw, that I may not hinder the pleasures of family intimacy, and the discussion of secrets." He got up from his chair and took his hat. "But in withdrawing, I venture to request that for the future I may be spared similar meetings, and, so to say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honoured Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter was addressed to you and to no one else."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.
"You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Pyotr Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your desire was disregarded, she had the best intentions. And indeed you write as though you were laying commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a command? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to show particular delicacy and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up everything, and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case in a sense in your hands."
"That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the present moment, when the news has come of Marfa Petrovna's legacy, which seems indeed very apropos, judging from the new tone you take to me," he added sarcastically.
"Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were reckoning on our helplessness," Dounia observed irritably.
"But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularly desire not to hinder your discussion of the secret proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, which he has entrusted to your brother and which have, I perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest for you."
"Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.
"Aren't you ashamed now, sister?" asked Raskolnikov.
"I am ashamed, Rodya," said Dounia. "Pyotr Petrovitch, go away," she turned to him, white with anger.
Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such a conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his power and in the helplessness of his victims. He could not believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered.
"Avdotya Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will never come back. Consider what you are doing. My word is not to be shaken."
"What insolence!" cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. "I don't want you to come back again."
"What! So that's how it stands!" cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the last moment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown out of his reckoning now. "So that's how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, that I might protest?"
"What right have you to speak to her like that?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna intervened hotly. "And what can you protest about? What rights have you? Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? Go away, leave us altogether! We are to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above all. . . ."
"But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna," Luzhin stormed in a frenzy, "by your promise, and now you deny it and . . . besides . . . I have been led on account of that into expenses. . . ."
This last complaint was so characteristic of Pyotr Petrovitch, that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious.
"Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us, hand and foot, not we!"
"Enough, mother, no more please," Avdotya Romanovna implored. "Pyotr Petrovitch, do be kind and go!"
"I am going, but one last word," he said, quite unable to control himself. "Your mamma seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all over the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might very well reckon on a fitting return, and might indeed look for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now been opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict. . . ."
"Does the fellow want his head smashed?" cried Razumihin, jumping up.
"You are a mean and spiteful man!" cried Dounia.
"Not a word! Not a movement!" cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumihin back; then going close up to Luzhin, "Kindly leave the room!" he said quietly and distinctly, "and not a word more or . . ."
Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face that worked with anger, then he turned, went out, and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned, all might "very well indeed" be set right again.
已经差不多八点钟了；他们两人匆匆往巴卡列耶夫的旅馆走去，要在卢任到来之前赶到那里。
“喂，刚刚来的这个人是谁？”刚一来到街上，拉祖米欣就问。“这是斯维德里盖洛夫，就是我妹妹在他们家作家庭教师的时候，受过他们侮辱的那个地主。因为他追求她，她让他的妻子玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜给赶了出来。后来这个玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜请求杜尼娅原谅她，现在她突然死了。不久前我们还谈起过她。不知为什么，我对这个人很害怕。他埋葬了妻子以后，立刻就到这儿来了。他这个人很怪，而且不知已经作出了什么决定……他好像知道一件什么事情……得保护杜尼娅，防备着他……我想告诉你的就是这一点，你听到吗？”
“保护！他能怎么着跟阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜过不去呢？好吧，罗佳，你跟我这样说，我要谢谢你……我们，我们一定会保护她！……他住在哪儿？”
“不知道。”
“你为什么不问呢？唉，可惜！不过，我会打听出来的。”
“你看到他了？”沉默了一会儿以后，拉斯科利尼科夫问。
“嗯，是的，看到了；清清楚楚地看到了。”
“你的确看见了？看清楚了？”拉斯科利尼科夫坚持地问。
“嗯，是的，我清清楚楚记得他；在一千人里面我也能认出他来，我记性好，别人的模样儿，只要我看见过，就忘不了。”
大家又都不说话了。
“嗯哼……这就是了……”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地说。“其实，你要知道……我曾经认为……我一直觉得……这可能是幻想。”
“你指的是什么？我不完全理解你的意思。”
“你们都说，”拉斯科利尼科夫撇撇嘴笑了，接着说下去，“你们都说我是疯子；现在我也好像觉得，说不定我真是个疯子，我只不过是看到了一个幽灵！”
“你这是怎么了？”
“谁知道呢！也许我当真是个疯子，一切，这些天来所发生的一切，说不定都只不过是我想象中的事……”
“唉，罗佳！你的情绪又让他们给弄坏了！……他到底说了些什么？他来干什么？”
拉斯科利尼科夫不回答，拉祖米欣稍想了一下。
“好，你听我给你解释一下，”他开始说。“我到你这儿来过，你在睡觉。后来我们吃过午饭，我去找波尔菲里。扎苗托夫一直还在他那里。我本想跟波尔菲里谈谈，可是毫无结果。我一直没能一本正经地和他谈。他们好像不懂，不理解，可是根本没有显得惊惶失措。我把波尔菲里拉到窗前，开始跟他谈，可是不知为什么，结果还是不像我所想的那样：他不看着我，我也不看着他。最后我对着他的脸扬起拳头，说，作为亲戚，我要打烂他的脸。他只是看了我一眼。我啐了口唾沫，走了，这就是一切。非常愚蠢。跟扎苗托夫，我一句话也没说。不过，你要知道：我想，我做得不对头，下楼去的时候，忽然产生了一个想法，我忽然想：我们操的哪份儿心？如果你有危险，或者有什么诸如此类的情况，那当然了。可是这关你什么事！这和你毫不相干，那么你就别睬他们；以后我们会嘲笑他们的，要是我处在你的地位上，我还要故弄玄虚，愚弄他们呢。以后他们会多么难为情啊！去他们的；以后也可以揍他们一顿，可现在，笑笑也就算了！”
“当然是这样了！”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。“可明天你会怎么说呢？”他心中暗想。怪事，直到现在他还连一次也没想过：“等到拉祖米欣知道了的时候，他会怎么想呢？”想到这里，拉斯科利尼科夫凝神仔细看了看他。拉祖米欣现在所说的去会见波尔菲里的情况，他已经不怎么感兴趣了，因为从那时起有些情况已经变了，而且出现了那么多新情况！……
在走廊上他们碰到了卢任；他正八点钟到达这里，正在寻找房号，所以他们三个人是一起进去的，不过谁也没看谁，也没有互相打个招呼。两个年轻人走到前面去了，为了礼貌的关系，彼得•彼特罗维奇在前室里稍耽搁了一下，脱掉了大衣。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜立刻到门口来迎接他们。
杜尼娅向哥哥问好。
彼得•彼特罗维奇进来后，向两位妇女点头行礼，态度相当客气，虽说也显得加倍神气。不过看上去他似乎有点儿不知所措，还没想出应付这个局面的办法。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜也好像很窘，立刻急急忙忙请大家在圆桌边坐，桌上的茶炊已经在沸腾了。杜尼娅和卢任面对面坐在桌子两端。拉祖米欣和拉斯科利尼科夫坐在普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜对面，——拉祖米欣靠近卢任，拉斯科利尼科夫坐在妹妹身边。
有一瞬间，大家都默默无言，彼得•彼特罗维奇不慌不忙地掏出一块有一股香水味的麻纱手帕，擤了擤鼻涕，虽然很有风度，但那样子还是让人感到，他的尊严有点儿受到了伤害，并且决定要求作出解释。还在前室里的时候，他就产生了这样的想法：不脱大衣，立刻就走，用这种方式严厉地惩罚这两位妇女，给她们留下深刻的印象，让她们一下子就能感觉到这一切的后果。可是他没拿定主意。而且这个人不喜欢不明不白，这是需要解释清楚的：既然他的命令这样公然遭到违抗，这就是说，一定有什么原因，所以最好是先了解清楚；要惩罚，时间总是有的，而且这掌握在他的手里。
“我希望，你们旅途平安吧？”他一本正经地对普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“谢天谢地，彼得•彼特罗维奇。”
“我很高兴。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜也不感到劳累？”
“我年轻，强壮，不觉得累，妈妈却很累了，”杜涅奇卡回答。
“有什么办法呢；我们国家的道路很长嘛。所谓的‘俄罗斯母亲’真是伟大啊……虽然我很想去接你们，可是昨天怎么也没能赶去。不过，我希望没遇到什么麻烦吧？”
“啊，不，彼得•彼特罗维奇，我们真是不知所措了，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜赶紧用一种特殊的语气声明，“昨天要不是上帝亲自给我们派来了德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，我们简直就毫无办法。那就是他，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇•拉祖米欣，”她补充说，把他介绍给卢任。
“那还用说，昨天……已经有幸认识了，”卢任含糊不清地说，怀着敌意斜着眼睛瞟了拉祖米欣一眼，然后皱起眉头，不作声了。一般说，彼得•彼特罗维奇属于这样一类人，在交际场合表面上异常客气，也特别希望别人对他彬彬有礼，但是如果稍有什么不合他们的心意，立刻就会失去那套交际应酬的本事，与其说变得像个毫不拘束、使交际场合显得活跃起来的英雄，倒不如说变得像一袋面粉①。大家又都沉默了：拉斯科利尼科夫执拗地一声不响，不到时候，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜也不想打破沉默，拉祖米欣无话可说，所以普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜又感到不安了。
--------
①意思是：呆头呆脑，举止笨拙。
“玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜过世了，您听说了吗，”她开口说，又使出她最主要的这一招来。
“当然听说了。我最先得到了这个消息，现在甚至要来通知你们，阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇•斯维德里盖洛夫安葬了妻子以后，就立刻匆匆赶到彼得堡来了。至少根据我得到的最可靠的消息，他是到这儿来了。”
“来彼得堡？到这儿来？”杜涅奇卡不安地问，和母亲互相使了个眼色。
“的确是的，如果注意到他来得匆忙，以及以前的各种情况，那么他此行当然不会没有目的。”
“上帝啊！难道在这儿他也要让杜涅奇卡不得安宁吗？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜突然叫喊起来。
“我觉得，用不着特别担心，无论是您，还是阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，当然啦，只要你们自己不想跟他发生任何关系的话。至于我嘛，我在监视他，现在正在打听，他住在哪儿……”
“哎哟，彼得•彼特罗维奇，您不会相信的，刚才您把我吓成了什么样子！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜接下去说。
“我总共只见过他两次，我觉得他真可怕，可怕！我相信，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜就是叫他害死的。”
“还不能就下这样的结论。我有可靠的消息。我不想争辩，可以这样说吧，可能他的侮辱对她精神上产生了影响，从而加速了她的死亡；至于说到这个人的所作所为，以及他的道德品质，我同意您的看法。我不知道，现在他是不是富有，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜到底给他留下了多少财产；关于这一点，在最短期间内我就会知道；不过，在这里，在彼得堡，即使他只有一点儿钱，当然也一定会立刻故态复萌的。在所有这类人当中，他这个人最没有道德观念，腐化堕落已经达到了不可救药的地步！我有相当充分的根据认为，不幸如此深深爱上他的玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，八年前替他还债、把他从狱中赎出来的玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，还在另一件事情上帮助过他：全靠她多方奔走，并不惜作出牺牲，才把一件刑事案从一开始就压了下去，这是一件非常残暴，而且十分离奇的凶杀案，为了这件凶杀案，他很可能，很有可能给流放到西伯利亚去。
如果你们想知道的话，他就是一个这样的人。”
“哎哟，上帝啊！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。拉斯科利尼科夫全神贯注地听着。
“您说，您有可靠的根据，这是真的吗？”杜尼娅严峻而庄重地问。
“我说的只是我亲自从已故的玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜那里听说的，是她秘密告诉我的。必须指出，从法律观点来看，这个案件是十分可疑的。从前这儿有个姓列斯莉赫的外国女人，好像现在她还住在这儿，是个放小额高利贷的女人，还做别的生意。好久以来斯维德里盖洛夫先生就和这个女人有某种十分亲密而又神秘的关系。她家里住着她的一个远房亲戚，好像是她侄女，一个又聋又哑的十五岁的小姑娘，甚至只有十四岁；这个列斯莉赫非常恨她，为了每一小块面包都要责骂她；甚至惨无人道地毒打她。有一次发现她在顶楼上吊死了。法院判定她是自杀。经过通常的程序，这个案子就这样了结了，但是后来有人告密，说这个孩子……遭受过斯维德里盖洛夫残暴的凌辱。诚然，这一切都很可疑，告密的是另一个臭名昭著的德国女人，她的话没人相信；由于玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜多方奔走，还花了些钱，实际上告密没有受理；仅仅被当作流言蜚语。然而这个流言是意味深长的。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，您当然也听说过一个叫菲利普的人的事吧，他是六年前，还在农奴制时期给活活折磨死的。”
“我听到的恰恰相反，说这个菲利普是自缢身亡的。”
“的确是这样，不过是被迫的，或者不如说，是斯维德里盖洛夫先生经常不断地迫害和处罚才使他遭到了横死。”
“这我不知道，”杜尼娅冷冷地回答，“我只听到过一个很奇怪的故事，说这个菲利普是个害忧郁症的人，是个家庭哲学家，人们都说，他‘看书看得太多，把脑子看糊涂了’，说他上吊多半是由于受到斯维德里盖洛夫先生的嘲笑，而不是由于受到他的鞭打。当着我的面，他待仆人都很好，仆人们甚至都喜欢他，虽说确实也都把菲利普的死归罪于他。”
“我看得出来，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，您突然开始倾向于为他辩解了，”卢任撇着嘴说，嘴角上露出具有双重含意的微笑。“的确，他是个很狡猾的人，对女人也很有魅力，死得这么奇怪的玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜就是一个可悲的例子。鉴于他无疑又有什么新的企图，我只不过想对您和令堂提出自己的忠告而已。至于说到我，我坚信，这个人无疑又会给送进债户拘留所去。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜考虑到孩子们的利益，永远不会，也绝对不会有把任何财产留给他的意思，即使给他留下了点儿什么，也只是最必需的、不值钱的、仅供他暂时使用的东西，像他那样挥霍惯了的人，连一年也不够用的。”
“彼得•彼特罗维奇，我请求您，”杜尼娅说，“别再谈斯维德里盖洛夫先生的事了。这让我感到厌倦。”
“他刚才去过我那儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，第一次打破了沉默。
他的话震惊了四座，大家都高声惊呼，转过脸来看着他。
就连彼得•彼特罗维奇也激动不安起来。
“一个半钟头以前，在我睡觉的时候，他进来了，叫醒了我，作了自我介绍，”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说下去。 “他相当随便，相当快乐，满怀希望，想跟我交朋友。顺带说一声，杜尼娅，他一再请求，要跟你见面，还要我从中帮忙。他对你有个建议；建议的内容，他已经告诉了我。此外他还肯定地对我说，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜在死前一个星期立下遗嘱，要送给你三千卢布，而且在最短期间内你就可以得到这笔钱了。”
“谢天谢地！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声说，并且画了个十字。“为她祈祷吧，杜尼娅，为她祈祷吧！”
“这的确是真的，”卢任脱口而出。
“嗯—嗯，后来呢？”杜涅奇卡催促说。
“后来他说，他自己并不富有，所有田产都留给他的孩子们了，现在他们住在姨母那里。后来还说，他就住在离我那儿不远的一个地方，可到底是哪里？我不知道，我没回……”
“不过他向杜尼娅提出的是什么，是什么建议呢？”十分惊慌的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜问。“他对你说了吗？”
“是的，说了。”
“是什么呢？”
“以后再说，”拉斯科利尼科夫不作声了，开始喝他的茶。
彼得•彼特罗维奇掏出表来，看了看。
“我有点儿事，必须去办，那么就不妨碍你们了，”他补上一句，那神情稍有点儿像是受了委屈的样子，说着从椅子上站了起来。
“请您别走，彼得•彼特罗维奇，”杜尼娅说，“您不是想在这儿度过一个晚上吗。况且您信上还说，有件事情想要和妈妈说清楚呢。”
“的确是这样，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，”彼得•彼特罗维奇威严地说，又坐到椅子上，不过一直还把帽子拿在手里，“我的确想和您，也和尊敬的令堂说清楚，我要谈的甚至是非常重要的问题。不过正像令兄不能当着我的面说明斯维德里盖洛夫先生的建议一样，所以我不愿，也不能……当着别人的面……来谈这些非常、非常重要的问题。何况我那个主要的和恳切的请求未能得到遵守……”
卢任作出一副痛心的样子，意味深长地不作声了。
“您要求我们见面的时候我哥哥不要在场，只不过因为我坚持，这个要求才没有照办，”杜尼娅说。“您在信上说，您受了我哥哥的侮辱；我认为这需要立刻解释清楚，你们应该言归于好。如果罗佳当真侮辱了您，他理应而且将会向您道歉。”
彼得•彼特罗维奇立刻变得态度傲慢起来。
“有一些侮辱，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，即使想要忘记，也是忘不了的。一切都有个界限，越过这个界限是危险的；因为一旦越过，就不可能再退回去了。”
“我对您说的，其实并不是指的这个，彼得•彼特罗维奇，”杜尼娅稍有点儿不耐烦地打断了他，“您要明白，现在，您的未来完全取决于这一切能不能尽快解释清楚和顺利解决。我从一开始就十分坦率地说，对这件事我不能有别的看法，如果您对我哪怕多少有一点儿珍惜的意思，那么即使很难，这件事也必须在今天结束。我对您再说一遍，如果我哥哥错了，他会向您道歉的。”
“阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，您这样提出问题，使我感到惊讶，”卢任越来越恼怒了。“我珍惜您，也可以说我热爱您，但同时也完全，完全可以不喜欢府上的某一个成员。我希望有幸和您结为百年之好，但是不能同时接受我不同意的义务……”
“唉，请不要斤斤计较，抱怨不休了，彼得•彼特罗维奇，”杜尼娅很动感情地打断了他，“我一向认为，也希望能把您看作一个聪明和高尚的人，请您不要破坏您在我心目中的形象吧。我已经郑重地应允了您的求婚，我是您的未婚妻；这件事您就信托给我吧，请您相信，我一定能作出不偏不倚的判断。我自愿充当评判人，不但对您，对我哥哥也同样是一件出乎意外的事。接到您的信以后，我邀请他今天一定来参加我们的会见，当时并没有向他透露过我心中的想法。您要明白，如果你们不能言归于好，那么我就必须在你们之间作出抉择：要么选择您，要么选择他。无论是对于他，还是对于您，问题都是这样提出来的。我不愿，也不应作出错误的选择。为了您，我不得不和哥哥决裂；为了哥哥，我不得不和您决裂。现在我想知道，也必然能够知道：他是不是我的哥哥？而对您来说，问题是：您是不是重视我，珍惜我，您是不是我的丈夫？”
“阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，”卢任说，感到不快而且惊讶，“对我来说，您的话实在太重要了，鉴于您我的关系中我有幸所处的地位，说得严重些，这些话甚至是对我的侮辱。至于您那含有侮辱性的、奇怪的对比，竟把我和一个……傲慢的青年人相提并论，这我就不去说它了，您说了这些话，也就是表示，您有可能破坏对我的诺言。您说：‘要么选择您，要么选择他’，可见您是想用这些话向我表示，对于您来说，我是多么无足轻重……由于我们之间业已存在的关系和……
义务，这是我不能容许的”。
“怎么！”杜尼娅脸突然红了，“我们您的利益看得与我生命中至今所珍贵的一切同样重要，看得与直到现在构成我整个生命的一切同样重要，可您却突然觉得受到了侮辱，认为我贬低了您！”
拉斯科利尼科夫一声不响，讥讽地微微一笑，拉祖米欣不由得颤栗了一下；但是彼得•彼特罗维奇不接受杜尼娅的反驳；恰恰相反，他越说越气，他的每一句话也越来越惹人厌烦了，就好像他对这场争论发生了兴趣似的。
“对未来的生活伴侣、对丈夫的爱，应当高于对兄弟的爱，”他以教训的口吻说，“无论如何我不能和他处于同等地位……虽然不久前我曾坚持，有令兄在场，我不愿，也不能说明我来的目的，但是有一个对我十分重要、而且带有侮辱性的问题，现在我想请尊敬的令堂就此作出必要的解释。令郎，”他对普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜说，“昨天当着拉苏德金先生的面（或者……好像是这样吧？对不起，我忘记了您贵姓，”他客气地向拉祖米欣点点头），侮辱我，曲解了那次喝咖啡的时候我和您私下里谈话的意思，当时我是说，与一个经受过生活苦难的贫穷姑娘结婚，照我看，就夫妻关系来说，比与一个过惯富裕生活的姑娘结婚较为有益，因为这在道义上更为有利。令郎却蓄意夸大这句话的含意，把它夸张到了荒谬的程度，责备我用心险恶，而照我看，他所依据的就是您给他的那封信。如果您，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜，能够说服我放弃这个不好的想法，使我完全放心，我将认为自己是很幸福的。请您告诉我，在您给罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇的信里，您究竟是用什么词汇来转述我那句话的？”
“我记不得了，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜感到不知所措了，“我是照我所理解的那样转告他的。我不知道罗佳是怎么对您说的……也许，是他把什么话夸大了。”
“没有您授意，他不可能夸大。”
“彼得•彼特罗维奇，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜庄重地说，“现在我们在这里，这就足以证明，我和杜尼娅并没有把您的话想到很坏的方面去。”
“说得好，妈妈！”杜尼娅赞同地说。
“这么说，这也怪我了！”卢任委屈地说。
“您瞧，彼得•彼特罗维奇，您一直在怪罪罗季昂，可是不久前您在信上说到他的那些话，也不是实情，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜鼓起勇气，补充说。
“我不记得在信上写过任何不是实情的话。”
“您在信上说，”拉斯科利尼科夫很不客气地说，并没朝卢任转过脸去，“我昨天不是把钱送给了被马踩死的那个人的寡妇，——事实的确是这样，——而是把钱送给了他的女儿（在昨天以前我从来没见过她）。您写这些，是想让我和亲人发生争吵，为了达到这个目的，您还用卑鄙的语言补上一句，谈论一个您不认识的少女的品德。这一切都是诽谤和下流的行为。”
“请原谅，先生，”卢任气得发抖，回答说：“我在我的信上谈到您的品质和行为，只不过是应令妹和令堂的请求，她们请求我，把我见到您的情况以及您给我的印象都写信告诉她们。至于您提出来的、我信上写的那些话，您哪怕能找出一句不符合事实吗，也就是说，您没有浪费饯，而且在那个家庭里，虽说是不幸的家庭里，找不出一个不体面的人吗？”
“可是照我看，您，连同您的全部体面，也抵不上您诋毁的这个不幸的姑娘的一个小指头。”
“那么，您决定要让她与令堂和令妹交往吗？”
“我已经这样做了，如果您想知道的话。今天我已经让她与妈妈和杜尼娅坐在一起了。”
“罗佳！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜突然喊了一声。
杜涅奇卡脸红了；拉祖米欣皱了皱眉。卢任讥讽而又高傲地微微一笑。
“您自己也看到了，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，”他说，“这有可能和解吗？现在我希望，这件事已经一劳永逸地结束了，也解释清楚了。我这就走，以免妨碍你们亲人继续欢聚，谈一谈你们之间的秘密（他从椅子上站起来，拿起帽子）。不过临走前，恕我冒昧地说一句，希望今后能避免类似的会见，也可以说是妥协。我特别请求您，尊敬的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜，注意这一点，特别是因为，我的信是写给您本人，而不是写给别人的。”
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜有点儿见怪了。
“您好像认为，完全有权让我们听从您的支配，彼得•彼特罗维奇。杜尼娅已经说出了为什么没有实现您的愿望的原因：她是一片好心。难道我们得把您的每个愿望都当作命令吗？我要告诉您的恰恰相反，现在您应当对我们特别客气，特别体谅我们，因为我们丢下了一切，而且信任您，才来到了这里，所以我们本来就已经几乎是受您支配了。”
“这不完全符合实际，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜，尤其是目前，已经把玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜遗赠三千卢布的事通知你们以后，根据您从来没有过的和我说话的语气来看，大概这笔钱来得正是时候，”他恶毒地补上一句。
“根据这句话来看，的确可以认为，您是把希望寄托在我们无依无靠上了，”杜尼娅气愤地说。
“不过至少现在我是不能抱这样的希望了，而且我尤其不愿妨碍你们听听阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇•斯维德里盖洛夫委托令兄转达的秘密建议，而且我看得出来，这些建议对您具有重大的，也许是让您十分高兴的意义。”
“哎呀，我的天哪！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。
拉祖米欣在椅子上坐不住了。
“现在你不觉得可耻吗，妹妹？”拉斯科利尼科夫问。
“可耻，罗佳，”杜尼娅说。“彼得•彼特罗维奇，您出去！”
她对他说，气得脸都发白了。
彼得•彼特罗维奇大概完全没料到会有这样的结局。他太相信自己，太相信自己的权力，也太相信他的牺牲品处于完全无依无靠的境地了。就是现在，他也不相信事情会闹到这个地步。他脸色发白，嘴唇发抖。
“阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，如果听到您这样的临别赠言，——请您考虑到这一点，——我现在就从这道房门出去的话，我就永远不会回来了。请您好好地想一想吧！我说的话是决不反悔的。”
“多么蛮横无礼！”杜尼娅霍地从座位上站起来，高声说：
“我也不希望您回来！”
“怎么？原来是——这样！”卢任突然高声叫嚷起来，直到最后一瞬间，他还完全不相信会是这样的结局，因此现在完全不知所措了，“原来是这样吗！不过，您要知道，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，我也可以提出抗议的。”
“您有什么权利可以和她这样说话！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜激动地袒护女儿，“您能提出什么抗议？您有什么权利？哼，我会把我的杜尼娅嫁给您这样的人吗？您请走吧，完全离开我们吧！是我们自己错了，竟做了这样一件错事，尤其是我……”
“不过，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜，”卢任气得发狂，焦急地说：“您用许下的诺言把我束缚住了，现在却要否认自己的话……而且，还有……还有，可以这么说吧，由于这件事，我还花了一笔钱……”
这最后一句怨言完全暴露了彼得•彼特罗维奇的本性，拉斯科利尼科夫本来气得脸色发白，努力压制着自己的怒火，听到这句话却突然忍不住了——哈哈大笑起来。但普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜失去了自制：
“您花了一笔钱？花了什么钱？您说的是不是给我们托运箱子的事？要知道，那是列车员免费替您托运的。上帝呀，倒是我们束缚了您！您好好想想吧，彼得•彼特罗维奇，是您束缚了我们的手脚，而不是我们束缚了您！”
“够了，妈妈，请别说了，够了！”阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜请求说。“彼得•彼特罗维奇，请吧，您请走吧！”
“我这就走，不过还有最后一句话，就只一句话！”他说，已经几乎完全控制不住自己了，“令堂似乎完全忘记了，可以这么说吧，我是在有损您名誉的流言蛮语闹得满城风雨以后，才决定娶您的，为了您，我不顾社会舆论，而且恢复了您的名誉，当然，我完全，完全可以指望得到您的报答，甚至可以要求得到您的感谢……只是到现在我的眼睛才算睁开了！
我自己也看出，我不顾公众的意见，也许是做得太轻率了……”
“他是不是有两个脑袋！”拉祖米欣大喊一声，从椅子上跳起来，已经打算收拾他了。
“您是个卑鄙和恶毒的人！”杜尼娅说。
“一句话别说！也别动手！”拉斯科利尼科夫高声喊，制止住拉祖米欣；然后走到卢任面前，几乎挨到他身上：“请您出去！”他轻轻地、清清楚楚地说，“别再说一句话，不然……”
彼得•彼特罗维奇对着他看了几秒钟，脸上没有一点血色，气得扭歪了脸，然后转身走了出去，当然，很少会有人像这个人痛恨拉斯科利尼科夫那样，心中对别人怀有那么多恶毒的憎恨。他把一切都归罪于拉斯科利尼科夫，完全归罪于他一个人。值得注意的是，已经下楼的时候，卢任还一直在想，事情也许还没完全失去希望，如果单单是那两个妇女，事情甚至是“完全、完全”能够好转的。
Part 4 Chapter 3
The fact was that up to the last moment he had never expected such an ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that two destitute and defenceless women could escape from his control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all sorts of devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his superiors.
When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take her in spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfect sincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such "black ingratitude." And yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved by all the townspeople, who were warm in Dounia'a defence. And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution in lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as something heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear agreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.
Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable. For many years he had had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish, in profound secret, over the image of a girl--virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very young, very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who would all her life look on him as her saviour, worship him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold, the dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him; her helpless position had been a great allurement; in her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself in the dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her! . . . Not long before, he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now entering on a wider circle of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely to be realised. . . . He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might make his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, been carried away --and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in his own way; he already possessed her in his dreams--and all at once! No! The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush that conceited milksop who was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too, but, he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a fellow like that could be put on a level with him! The man he really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigailov. . . . He had, in short, a great deal to attend to. . . .
*****
"No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!" said Dounia, kissing and embracing her mother. "I was tempted by his money, but on my honour, brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through him before, nothing would have tempted me! Don't blame me, brother!"
"God has delivered us! God has delivered us!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realise what had happened.
They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what had passed. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though a ton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them. . . . Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to think of further possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had happened. Dounia could not help thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.
"What did Svidrigailov say to you?" said Dounia, approaching him.
"Yes, yes!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
Raskolnikov raised his head.
"He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and he desires to see you once in my presence."
"See her! On no account!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "And how dare he offer her money!"
Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.
"What answer did you give him?" asked Dounia.
"At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without my help. He assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now he has no feeling for you. He doesn't want you to marry Luzhin. . . . His talk was altogether rather muddled."
"How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?"
"I must confess I don't quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and in ten minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says is he going to be married and has already fixed on the girl. . . . No doubt he has a motive, and probably a bad one. But it's odd that he should be so clumsy about it if he had any designs against you. . . . Of course, I refused this money on your account, once for all. Altogether, I thought him very strange. . . . One might almost think he was mad. But I may be mistaken; that may only be the part he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great impression on him."
"God rest her soul," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I shall always, always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, without this three thousand! It's as though it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from that man until he offered help."
Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov's offer. She still stood meditating.
"He has got some terrible plan," she said in a half whisper to herself, almost shuddering.
Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.
"I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again," he said to Dounia.
"We will watch him! I will track him out!" cried Razumihin, vigorously. "I won't lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. He said to me himself just now. 'Take care of my sister.' Will you give me leave, too, Avdotya Romanovna?"
Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her.
A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time, though he did not talk. Razumihin was the speaker.
"And why, why should you go away?" he flowed on ecstatically. "And what are you to do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here together and you need one another--you do need one another, believe me. For a time, anyway. . . . Take me into partnership, and I assure you we'll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I'll explain it all in detail to you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head this morning, before anything had happened . . . I tell you what; I have an uncle, I must introduce him to you (a most accommodating and respectable old man). This uncle has got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his pension and has no need of that money. For the last two years he has been bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six per cent. interest. I know what that means; he simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we have enough for a start, so we'll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?"
Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all of what they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad publishers, and that any decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, been dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had been working in publishers' offices, and knew three European languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days before that he was "schwach" in German with an object of persuading him to take half his translation and half the payment for it. He had told a lie then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.
"Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief means of success--money of our own!" cried Razumihin warmly. "Of course there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Rodion. . . . You get a splendid profit on some books nowadays! And the great point of the business is that we shall know just what wants translating, and we shall be translating, publishing, learning all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I've been scuttling about among the publishers, and now I know every detail of their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why, why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know--and I kept the secret--two or three books which one might get a hundred roubles simply for thinking of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he'd hesitate--they are such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I know my way about. We'll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get back our capital."
Dounia's eyes shone.
"I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!" she said.
"I know nothing about it, of course," put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "it may be a good idea, but again God knows. It's new and untried. Of course, we must remain here at least for a time." She looked at Rodya.
"What do you think, brother?" said Dounia.
"I think he's got a very good idea," he answered. "Of course, it's too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would be sure to go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there's no doubt about that either. He knows the business. . . . But we can talk it over later. . . ."
"Hurrah!" cried Razumihin. "Now, stay, there's a flat here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It's a special flat apart, not communicating with these lodgings. It's furnished, rent moderate, three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I'll pawn your watch to-morrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But where are you off to, Rodya?"
"What, Rodya, you are going already?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in dismay.
"At such a minute?" cried Razumihin.
Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them.
"One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever," he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a smile. "But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each other . . ." he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow was uttered aloud.
"What is the matter with you?" cried his mother.
"Where are you going, Rodya?" asked Dounia rather strangely.
"Oh, I'm quite obliged to . . ." he answered vaguely, as though hesitating what he would say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his white face.
"I meant to say . . . as I was coming here . . . I meant to tell you, mother, and you, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I feel ill, I am not at peace. . . . I will come afterwards, I will come of myself . . . when it's possible. I remember you and love you. . . . Leave me, leave me alone. I decided this even before . . . I'm absolutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether, it's better. Don't inquire about me. When I can, I'll come of myself or . . . I'll send for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me, give me up . . . else I shall begin to hate you, I feel it. . . . Good-bye!"
"Good God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also.
"Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!" cried his poor mother.
He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia overtook him.
"Brother, what are you doing to mother?" she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation.
He looked dully at her.
"No matter, I shall come. . . . I'm coming," he muttered in an undertone, as though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the room.
"Wicked, heartless egoist!" cried Dounia.
"He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don't you see it? You're heartless after that!" Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. "I shall be back directly," he shouted to the horror- stricken mother, and he ran out of the room.
Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.
"I knew you would run after me," he said. "Go back to them--be with them . . . be with them to-morrow and always. . . . I . . . perhaps I shall come . . . if I can. Good-bye."
And without holding out his hand he walked away.
"But where are you going? What are you doing? What's the matter with you? How can you go on like this?" Razumihin muttered, at his wits' end.
Raskolnikov stopped once more.
"Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you. Don't come to see me. Maybe I'll come here. . . . Leave me, but /don't leave/ them. Do you understand me?"
It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov's burning and intent eyes grew more penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between them. . . . Some idea, some hint, as it were, slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides. . . . Razumihin turned pale.
"Do you understand now?" said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously. "Go back, go to them," he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house.
I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consultation. . . . In fact from that evening Razumihin took his place with them as a son and a brother.
主要的是，直到最后一分钟，他无论如何也没料到会有这样的结局。他态度傲慢达到了极点，决没想到，这两个贫穷和无依无靠的女人有可能摆脱他的控制。虚荣心和不如称为自鸣得意的过分自信在很大程度上助长了他的这种信念。彼得•彼特罗维奇出身贫困，一旦出人头地，几乎是病态地习惯于自我欣赏，把自己的智慧和才能估计得过高，甚至有时会对镜顾影自怜。但是他在世界上最爱惜和最看重的，却是他靠劳动和使用一切手段获得的金钱，因为金钱使他得以跻身于社会地位更高的人们的行列。
彼得•彼特罗维奇刚才怀着痛苦的心情提醒杜尼娅，说尽管她名声不好，他还是决心娶她，他这么说是完全真诚的，甚至对这样的“忘恩负义”深感愤慨。其实他向杜尼娅求婚的时候，就已经完全深信，所有这些流言蜚语都十分荒谬，因为玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜本人已经公开辟谣，全城的人早已不再谈论这些谣言，而且还在热烈地为杜尼娅辩护。而且他本人现在也不否认，这一切当时他就已经知道了。然而，是他决定把杜尼娅提高到与自己同等的地位，对这一决定，他还是给予很高的评价，认为这是一件了不起的英勇行为。刚才他对杜尼娅谈起这一点，也就是说出了暗藏在自己心中、极其珍爱的这个想法，对这个想法他自己已经欣赏过不止一次了，他无法理解，别人怎么会不赏识他的这一英勇行为。他去探望拉斯科利尼科夫的时候，完全是以恩人自居，准备去收获成熟的果实，听听甜言蜜语的恭维。当然啦，现在下楼的时候，他认为自己受了极大的侮辱，他的功绩没能得到别人承认。
对他来说，杜尼娅简直是必不可少的；对他来说，要放弃她，是不可思议的。很久以来，已经有好几年了，他一直心里甜滋滋地梦想着结婚，可是一直在攒钱，一直在等待着。他内心深处一直陶醉地暗暗想着，会有这样一个少女，她品德优良，家境贫寒（一定要家境贫寒），十分年轻，非常漂亮，气度高贵，很有教养，胆子很小，经受过很多磨难，百依百顺，终生都认为他是自己的恩人，崇拜他，服从他，赞美他，而且心目中只有他一个人。工余之暇，静静休息的时候，他曾在想象中用这令人神往、而又变幻莫测的主题创造过多少动人的景象，多少甜蜜的插曲！这不是，这么多年来的梦想几乎已经变成现实：阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜的美貌和所受的教育使他惊叹不已；她那无依无靠的境遇使他极为满意。甚至比他所幻想的还多了一些东西：这是一个有自尊心、性格刚强、道德高尚的姑娘，她所受的教育和文化程度都比他高（他认识到了这一点），而这样一个女人，为了他的英勇行为，将终生像奴隶一般对他感恩戴德，诚惶诚恐地在他面前卑躬屈膝，而他对她却拥有无限和完全的权力！……似乎事有凑巧，不久以前，经过长期考虑和等待，他终于下决心彻底改换门庭，进入更广阔的活动范围，借此慢慢钻进更高的上层社会，而这正是他很久以来心驰神往，梦寐以求的……总之，他想到彼得堡来碰碰运气。他知道，女人会赢得“很多很多”东西。一个美艳绝伦、道德高尚、又有教养的女人的魅力会有惊人的作用，能为他创造锦绣前程，让别人注意他，给他带来荣誉……可是，现在一切都落空了！现在这意想不到的、岂有此理的决裂，对他好似晴天一声霹雳。这真是岂有此理，荒谬之极！他只不过稍稍傲慢了一点儿；他甚至还没有坦率地说出自己的意见，他只不过开开玩笑，感情冲动，结果却这么严重！而且他甚至已经按照自己的方式在爱着杜尼娅了，他已经在自己的幻想中行使支配她的权力了——可是突然！…… 不！明天，明天就得重归于好，消除分歧，改正错误，而主要的是，要除掉这个高傲自大的乳臭小儿，他就是这一切的祸根。他也不由自主、十分痛苦地想起了拉祖米欣……不过对他很快就放下心来：“这个家伙怎么能和他相提并论呢！”但是他当真十分害怕的，还是这个斯维德里盖洛夫……总之，会有许多麻烦事……
“不，是我，最有错的是我！”杜涅奇卡说，同时拥抱着母亲，吻她，“我图他的钱，不过，我发誓，哥哥，我没想到他是一个这么卑鄙的人。如果我早点儿看透了他，就什么也不图他的了！你别责备我，哥哥！”
“上帝救了我们！上帝救了我们！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜喃喃地说，不过是多少有点儿无意识地，仿佛对所发生的一切还没完全弄清楚。
大家都高兴起来，五分钟后甚至都笑了。只有杜尼娅有时想起刚刚发生的事情，不由得脸色发白，皱起眉头。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜不能想象，她也会感到高兴；早上她还认为，与卢任决裂是一场可怕的灾难。拉祖米欣却欣喜若狂。他还不敢充分流露自己的喜悦心情，但是却像在发烧一样，浑身发抖，仿佛他心上坠着的一个五普特重的秤砣现在忽然掉下去了。现在他有权把自己的整个生命献给他们，为他们效力了……谁知道现在还会发生些什么事情！不过他更加不敢继续往下想了，他对自己的幻想感到害怕。只有拉斯科利尼科夫仍然坐在原来的座位上，神情几乎是忧郁的，而且心不在焉。本来他最坚持与卢任断绝关系，现在却仿佛对所发生的一切最不感兴趣。杜尼娅不由得想，他一直还在很生她的气，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜却不时怯生生地望望他。
“斯维德里盖洛夫对你说了些什么？”杜尼娅走到他跟前问。
“啊，对，对！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声说。
拉斯科利尼科夫抬起头来：
“他一定要送给你一万卢布，同时宣称，希望在有我在场的情况下和你见一次面。”
“见面！无论如何也不行！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声叫道，“他怎么竟敢提出送给她钱！”
随后拉斯科利尼科夫叙述了（相当枯燥地）他和斯维德里盖洛夫谈话的内容，略去了玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的幽灵出现的那些话，以免说得过于详尽，除了最必要的话，对什么谈话他都觉得讨厌。
“你是怎么回答他的呢？”杜尼娅问。
“最初我说，我什么话也不转告你。于是他宣称，他将自己用一切手段设法和你见面。他让我相信，从前他对你的爱慕之情是痴心妄想，现在他对你已经没有任何非分的想法了……他不希望你嫁给卢任……一般说来，他说得很乱。”
“罗佳，你自己认为他是什么意思？你觉得他这个人怎么样？”
“说实在的，我不大理解他的意思。他提议送给你一万卢布，可又说他并不富有。他说想要到什么地方去，十分钟以后却忘记说过这话了。突然又说，他想结婚，还说已经有人给他提亲……当然，他是有目的的，而且最大的可能是见不得人的目的。可是不知为什么又很奇怪地说，如果他对你不怀好意，那么他这样做就太愚蠢了……我当然代你拒绝了这笔赠款，一劳永逸地拒绝了。总之，我觉得他这个人很怪，而且……甚至……好像有点儿神经错乱的样子。不过我也可能弄错了；也许这只不过是一种骗局。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的死大概对他有些影响……”
“上帝啊，让她的灵魂安息吧！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声说，“我要永远、永远为她向上帝祈祷！唉，杜尼娅，要不是这三千卢布，现在我们可怎么办呢！上帝啊，这笔钱简直就是从天上掉下来的！唉，罗佳，早上我们已经只剩下三个卢布了，我和杜尼娅刚刚还在盘算着把表拿到什么地方去作抵押，借几个钱，免得在这个人自己想到之前，向他开口。”
不知为什么，斯维德里盖洛夫的提议让杜尼娅十分惊讶。
她一直站在那儿，陷入沉思。
“他准是打算做出什么很可怕的事来！”她浑身微微发抖，几乎是喃喃地自言自语。
拉斯科利尼科夫看出了这异常恐惧的神情。
“看来，我还不得不再见到他，而且不止一次，”他对杜尼娅说。
“我们来监视他！我去跟踪他！”拉祖米欣坚决地高声大喊。“我会紧紧地盯着他！罗佳允许我这么做了。不久前他对我说：‘你要保护我妹妹’。您允许我这样做吗，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜？”
杜尼娅微微一笑，把一只手伸给他，不过忧虑的神情并未从脸上消失。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜怯生生地看了看她；不过看得出来，那三千卢布让她感到放心了。
一刻钟后，大家都兴奋地交谈起来。就连拉斯科利尼科夫，虽然没参加谈话，不过有一会工夫也在留心听着。拉祖米欣在高谈阔论。
“你们为什么，为什么要走呢！” 他兴高采烈，热情洋溢，说得娓娓动听，“在那个小城市里你们能做什么？主要的是，你们在这里，大家在一起，互相需要，而且太需要了，——请你们理解我的意思！嗯，至少在一起待一段时间……请把我当作朋友，咱们大家合伙，我担保，我们准能办一件很好的事。请听我说，我给你们详细谈一谈，谈谈整个计划！早上，还什么也没发生的时候，我脑子里就闪过一个念头……是这么回事：我有个舅舅（我要介绍他和你们认识一下；是个很和气、很受人尊敬的老头儿！），他有一千卢布财产，他靠退休金生活，不需要这笔钱。一年多来他一直缠着要把这笔钱借给我，一年只付给他六厘利息。我看出了他是什么意思：他只不过是想帮助我；不过去年我不需要这些钱，可今年，只等他一来，我就决定把这笔钱借下来了。然后你们从你们的三千卢布里拿出一千来，作为第一步，这已经足够了，我们合伙来干。那么我们做什么呢？”
于是拉祖米欣对他的计划大加发挥，并且详细说明，我们所有的书商和出版商几乎都不懂行，所以通常都不善于经营，然而好的出版物一般说都能保本，而且可以赚钱，有时利润相当可观。拉祖米欣所梦想的就是经营出版业；拉祖米欣已经为别的出版商干过两年，而且通晓三种欧洲语言，尽管六天前他曾对拉斯科利尼科夫说，他的德语“不行”，但那是想劝说拉斯科利尼科夫承担一半翻译任务，接受预支的三个卢布稿酬，当时他撒了谎，拉斯科利尼科夫也知道他是撒谎。
“我们为什么，为什么要错过自己的机会呢，既然最主要的手段之一——自己的钱，已经有了？”拉祖米欣激昂慷慨地说。“当然需要付出很多劳动，可是我们都会努力工作的，您，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，我，罗季昂……现在有些出版物利润很高！而我们这个企业的主要基础就是，我们知道究竟该翻译什么。我们翻译，出版，学习，三者一起来。现在用得着我了，因为我有经验。我跟出版商打交道快两年了，了解他们的全部底细：并不是只有圣徒才会做瓦罐①，请你们相信我的话！为什么，为什么要坐失良机呢！我知道有这么两、三本书，单是翻译、出版这些书的主意，每本就值一百卢布，其中一本，就是出五百卢布，我也不把这个主意告诉人家，所以关于翻译这几本书的想法，我一直保守秘密。你们想想看，要是我去告诉什么人，他大概会犹豫不决，他们都是笨蛋！至于印刷厂、纸张，发行等这些具体事情，你们就交给我好了！什么秘密我都知道！一开始规模先小一点儿，慢慢扩大业务，至少可以糊口，无论如何本钱是可以捞得回来的。”
--------
①这是一句谚语，本来是：“并非只有上帝会烧瓦罐”，此处稍作改动。意思是：这种事谁都可以做。
杜尼娅的眼睛亮了。
“您说的这些，我很喜欢，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，”她说。
“这种事我当然什么也不懂，”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜回答，“也许，这个主意不错，不过又是只有上帝知道。这主意有点儿新鲜，对这事我不了解。当然啦，我们必须留在这里，至少要待一段时间……”
她看了看罗佳。
“你认为呢，哥哥？”杜尼娅说。
“我认为，他这个想法很好，”他回答。“当然，用不着先去幻想成立什么公司，倒是当真可以出版五、六本书，而且无疑会获得成功。我也知道一本书，译出来一定畅销。至于他能经营出版业，这一点毫无疑问：他精通业务……不过，你们还需要有时间好好商量一下……”
“乌拉！”拉祖米欣叫喊起来，“现在先别忙，这儿有一套房间，就在这幢房子里，也是同一个房东的。这是另外一套单独的房间，跟这些旅馆的房间不连在一起，带家具出租，房租适中，有三间小房间。你们先把它租下来。明天我就去给你们抵押表，把钱拿来，那么一切就可以办妥了。主要的是你们三个人可以住在一起，罗佳和你们……喂，你去哪儿，罗佳？”
“怎么，罗佳，你要走了？”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜甚至是惊恐地问。
“在这时候走！”拉祖米欣喊了一声。
杜尼娅露出怀疑的诧异神情，看着哥哥。他手里拿着制帽，打算走了。
“你们怎么好像在埋葬我，还是要和我永世诀别呢，”他不知为什么很古怪地说。
他好像微微一笑，可又好像这并不是微笑。
“谁知道呢，说不定这是我们最后一次见面了，”他无意中补了一句。
这句话本来是他心里想的，但不知怎么竟脱口而出，说出声来。
“你这是怎么了！”母亲惊呼。
“你去哪里，罗佳？”杜尼娅有点儿奇怪地问。
“没什么，我得走了，非常需要，”他含含糊糊地回答，仿佛有话要说，又拿不定主意。但是他那苍白的脸上的神情却说明他的决心十分坚决。
“我想要说，……到这儿来的时候……我想对您说，妈妈……还有你，杜尼娅，我想我们最好分开一段时间。我觉得不大舒服，心里也不平静……以后我会来的，我自己来，等到……可以来的时候。我不会忘记你们，我爱你们……请不要管我！让我独自一个人生活吧！还在以前，我就这样决定了……的确决定了……不管我会出什么事，不管我会不会死掉，我都要独自一个人。完全忘了我吧。这样要好些……不要打听我的消息。必要的时候，我自己会来的，或者……会叫你们去。也许一切都会恢复老样子！……可是现在，如果你们爱我，就和我断绝关系吧……不然我就会恨你们，我觉得……别了！”
“上帝啊！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。
母亲和妹妹都吓坏了；拉祖米欣也十分惊恐。
“罗佳，罗佳！跟我们和好如初，还和从前一样吧！”可怜的母亲高声呼喊。
他慢慢地向房门转过身，从屋里慢慢地走出去。杜尼娅追上了他。
“哥哥！你这是干什么，对母亲怎么能这样呢！”她低声说，目光中燃烧着怒火。
他痛苦地看了看她。
“没什么，我会来的，我会来的！”他含糊不清地低声说，好像不完全明白想要说什么，说罢就从屋里出去了。
“无情和狠心的自私自利者！”杜尼娅高声叫喊。
“他是个疯—子，而不是无情无义！他发疯了！难道您看不出来吗？您这样对待他，倒是太无情了！……”拉祖米欣紧紧攥住她的手，激动地对着她的耳朵低声说。
“我这就回来！”他转过脸去，对着面无人色的普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜喊了一声，就从屋里跑了出去。
拉斯科利尼科夫在走廊尽头等着他。
“我就知道你会跑出来，”他说。“请你回到她们那儿去，和她们待在一起……明天也要待在她们那里……而且永远和她们在一起。我……也许会来……如果能来的话。别了！”
他没有和拉祖米欣握手，就离开他走了。
“你去哪儿？你怎么了？你出什么事了吗？可是难道能这样吗！……”完全不知所措的拉祖米欣喃喃地说。
拉斯科利尼科夫又站住了。
“我说最后一次：请你永远什么也别问我。我没有什么话回答你……你也别来找我。也许，我会到这儿来……别管我，可她们……请不要离开她们。你明白我的意思吗？”
走廊里很暗；他们站在灯旁。他们默默地对看了约摸一分钟光景。拉祖米欣终生都记得这一分钟。拉斯科利尼科夫闪闪发光、凝神注视着他的目光仿佛每一瞬间都竭力想穿透到他的心灵、穿诱到他的意识里去。拉祖米欣突然不寒而栗。仿佛有个什么奇怪的东西在他们之间一闪而过……有个什么念头，好像是暗示，转瞬即逝；双方突然都理解，有个什么可怕的、岂有此理的东西隔在他们中间……拉祖米欣脸色白得像死人一样。
“现在你明白了吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，十分痛苦地扭歪了脸。“你回去吧，回到她们那里去，”他突然补充说，然后很快转身从这幢房子里走了出去。
现在我不来描写那天晚上普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜那里的情况：拉祖米欣怎样回到她们那里，怎样安慰她们，怎样发誓说，得让罗佳好好养病，怎样发誓说，罗佳一定会回来，每天都会来，说他非常、非常心烦意乱，不该刺激他；还说他，拉祖米欣，一定会好好照料罗佳，给他请一个好医生，请一个最好的医生，给他会诊……总之，从那天晚上起，拉祖米欣已经成了她们的儿子和哥哥。
Part 4 Chapter 4
Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonia lived. It was an old green house of three storeys. He found the porter and obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of Kapernaumov, the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to the second floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov's door, a door opened three paces from him; he mechanically took hold of it.
"Who is there?" a woman's voice asked uneasily.
"It's I . . . come to see you," answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the tiny entry.
On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.
"It's you! Good heavens!" cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to the spot.
"Which is your room? This way?" and Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, hastened in.
A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The colour rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came into her eyes . . . She felt sick and ashamed and happy, too. . . . Raskolnikov turned away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance.
It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only one let by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall on the left. In the opposite side on the right hand wall was another door, always kept locked. That led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging. Sonia's room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light. The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Two rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking, as it were, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall- paper was black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was every sign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.
Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at last to tremble with terror, as though she was standing before her judge and the arbiter of her destinies.
"I am late. . . . It's eleven, isn't it?" he asked, still not lifting his eyes.
"Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh yes, it is," she added, hastily, as though in that lay her means of escape. "My landlady's clock has just struck . . . I heard it myself. . . ."
"I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went on gloomily, although this was the first time. "I may perhaps not see you again . . ."
"Are you . . . going away?"
"I don't know . . . to-morrow. . . ."
"Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-morrow?" Sonia's voice shook.
"I don't know. I shall know to-morrow morning. . . . Never mind that: I've come to say one word. . . ."
He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting down while she was all the while standing before him.
"Why are you standing? Sit down," he said in a changed voice, gentle and friendly.
She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her.
"How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a dead hand."
He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly.
"I have always been like that," she said.
"Even when you lived at home?"
"Yes."
"Of course, you were," he added abruptly and the expression of his face and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly.
He looked round him once more.
"You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?"
"Yes. . . ."
"They live there, through that door?"
"Yes. . . . They have another room like this."
"All in one room?"
"Yes."
"I should be afraid in your room at night," he observed gloomily.
"They are very good people, very kind," answered Sonia, who still seemed bewildered, "and all the furniture, everything . . . everything is theirs. And they are very kind and the children, too, often come to see me."
"They all stammer, don't they?"
"Yes. . . . He stammers and he's lame. And his wife, too. . . . It's not exactly that she stammers, but she can't speak plainly. She is a very kind woman. And he used to be a house serf. And there are seven children . . . and it's only the eldest one that stammers and the others are simply ill . . . but they don't stammer. . . . But where did you hear about them?" she added with some surprise.
"Your father told me, then. He told me all about you. . . . And how you went out at six o'clock and came back at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt down by your bed."
Sonia was confused.
"I fancied I saw him to-day," she whispered hesitatingly.
"Whom?"
"Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, about ten o'clock and he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I wanted to go to Katerina Ivanovna. . . ."
"You were walking in the streets?"
"Yes," Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and looking down.
"Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I dare say?"
"Oh no, what are you saying? No!" Sonia looked at him almost with dismay.
"You love her, then?"
"Love her? Of course!" said Sonia with plaintive emphasis, and she clasped her hands in distress. "Ah, you don't. . . . If you only knew! You see, she is quite like a child. . . . Her mind is quite unhinged, you see . . . from sorrow. And how clever she used to be . . . how generous . . . how kind! Ah, you don't understand, you don't understand!"
Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands in excitement and distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there was a look of anguish in her eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the very depths, that she was longing to speak, to champion, to express something. A sort of /insatiable/ compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in every feature of her face.
"Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And if she did beat me, what then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it. . . . She is so unhappy . . . ah, how unhappy! And ill. . . . She is seeking righteousness, she is pure. She has such faith that there must be righteousness everywhere and she expects it. . . . And if you were to torture her, she wouldn't do wrong. She doesn't see that it's impossible for people to be righteous and she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is good!"
"And what will happen to you?"
Sonia looked at him inquiringly.
"They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands before, though. . . . And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well, how will it be now?"
"I don't know," Sonia articulated mournfully.
"Will they stay there?"
"I don't know. . . . They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady, I hear, said to-day that she wanted to get rid of them, and Katerina Ivanovna says that she won't stay another minute."
"How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?"
"Oh, no, don't talk like that. . . . We are one, we live like one." Sonia was agitated again and even angry, as though a canary or some other little bird were to be angry. "And what could she do? What, what could she do?" she persisted, getting hot and excited. "And how she cried to-day! Her mind is unhinged, haven't you noticed it? At one minute she is worrying like a child that everything should be right to-morrow, the lunch and all that. . . . Then she is wringing her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all at once she will begin knocking her head against the wall, in despair. Then she will be comforted again. She builds all her hopes on you; she says that you will help her now and that she will borrow a little money somewhere and go to her native town with me and set up a boarding school for the daughters of gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will begin a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts me, and you know she has such faith, such faith in her fancies! One can't contradict her. And all the day long she has been washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with her feeble hands and sank on the bed, gasping for breath. We went this morning to the shops to buy shoes for Polenka and Lida for theirs are quite worn out. Only the money we'd reckoned wasn't enough, not nearly enough. And she picked out such dear little boots, for she has taste, you don't know. And there in the shop she burst out crying before the shopmen because she hadn't enough. . . . Ah, it was sad to see her. . . ."
"Well, after that I can understand your living like this," Raskolnikov said with a bitter smile.
"And aren't you sorry for them? Aren't you sorry?" Sonia flew at him again. "Why, I know, you gave your last penny yourself, though you'd seen nothing of it, and if you'd seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how often I've brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes, I! Only a week before his death. I was cruel! And how often I've done it! Ah, I've been wretched at the thought of it all day!"
Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it.
"You were cruel?"
"Yes, I--I. I went to see them," she went on, weeping, "and father said, 'read me something, Sonia, my head aches, read to me, here's a book.' He had a book he had got from Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he lives there, he always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said, 'I can't stay,' as I didn't want to read, and I'd gone in chiefly to show Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the pedlar, sold me some collars and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much; she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was delighted with them. 'Make me a present of them, Sonia,' she said, 'please do.' '/Please do/,' she said, she wanted them so much. And when could she wear them? They just reminded her of her old happy days. She looked at herself in the glass, admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no things of her own, hasn't had all these years! And she never asks anyone for anything; she is proud, she'd sooner give away everything. And these she asked for, she liked them so much. And I was sorry to give them. 'What use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?' I said. I spoke like that to her, I ought not to have said that! She gave me such a look. And she was so grieved, so grieved at my refusing her. And it was so sad to see. . . . And she was not grieved for the collars, but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah, if only I could bring it all back, change it, take back those words! Ah, if I . . . but it's nothing to you!"
"Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?"
"Yes. . . . Did you know her?" Sonia asked with some surprise.
"Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; she will soon die," said Raskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question.
"Oh, no, no, no!"
And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though imploring that she should not.
"But it will be better if she does die."
"No, not better, not at all better!" Sonia unconsciously repeated in dismay.
"And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you?"
"Oh, I don't know," cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she put her hands to her head.
It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her before and he had only roused it again.
"And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, you get ill and are taken to the hospital, what will happen then?" he persisted pitilessly.
"How can you? That cannot be!"
And Sonia's face worked with awful terror.
"Cannot be?" Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. "You are not insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They will be in the street, all of them, she will cough and beg and knock her head against some wall, as she did to-day, and the children will cry. . . . Then she will fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital, she will die, and the children . . ."
"Oh, no. . . . God will not let it be!" broke at last from Sonia's overburdened bosom.
She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands in dumb entreaty, as though it all depended upon him.
Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A minute passed. Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible dejection.
"And can't you save? Put by for a rainy day?" he asked, stopping suddenly before her.
"No," whispered Sonia.
"Of course not. Have you tried?" he added almost ironically.
"Yes."
"And it didn't come off! Of course not! No need to ask."
And again he paced the room. Another minute passed.
"You don't get money every day?"
Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed into her face again.
"No," she whispered with a painful effort.
"It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt," he said suddenly.
"No, no! It can't be, no!" Sonia cried aloud in desperation, as though she had been stabbed. "God would not allow anything so awful!"
"He lets others come to it."
"No, no! God will protect her, God!" she repeated beside herself.
"But, perhaps, there is no God at all," Raskolnikov answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked at her.
Sonia's face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at him with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not speak and broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands.
"You say Katerina Ivanovna's mind is unhinged; your own mind is unhinged," he said after a brief silence.
Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not looking at her. At last he went up to her; his eyes glittered. He put his two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful face. His eyes were hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were twitching. All at once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground, kissed her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. And certainly he looked like a madman.
"What are you doing to me?" she muttered, turning pale, and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart.
He stood up at once.
"I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of humanity," he said wildly and walked away to the window. "Listen," he added, turning to her a minute later. "I said just now to an insolent man that he was not worth your little finger . . . and that I did my sister honour making her sit beside you."
"Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?" cried Sonia, frightened. "Sit down with me! An honour! Why, I'm . . . dishonourable. . . . Ah, why did you say that?"
"It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you, but because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that's true," he added almost solemnly, "and your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself /for nothing/. Isn't that fearful? Isn't it fearful that you are living in this filth which you loathe so, and at the same time you know yourself (you've only to open your eyes) that you are not helping anyone by it, not saving anyone from anything? Tell me," he went on almost in a frenzy, "how this shame and degradation can exist in you side by side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better, a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and end it all!"
"But what would become of them?" Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion.
Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly, that now she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his peculiar attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed either, and that, too, was clear to him.) But he saw how monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shameful position was torturing her and had long tortured her. "What, what," he thought, "could hitherto have hindered her from putting an end to it?" Only then he realised what those poor little orphan children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivanovna, knocking her head against the wall in her consumption, meant for Sonia.
But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her character and the amount of education she had after all received, she could not in any case remain so. He was still confronted by the question, how could she have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind, since she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of course he knew that Sonia's position was an exceptional case, though unhappily not unique and not infrequent, indeed; but that very exceptionalness, her tinge of education, her previous life might, one would have thought, have killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her up--surely not depravity? All that infamy had obviously only touched her mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him. . . .
"There are three ways before her," he thought, "the canal, the madhouse, or . . . at last to sink into depravity which obscures the mind and turns the heart to stone."
The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, he was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not help believing that the last end was the most likely.
"But can that be true?" he cried to himself. "Can that creature who has still preserved the purity of her spirit be consciously drawn at last into that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the process already have begun? Can it be that she has only been able to bear it till now, because vice has begun to be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be!" he cried, as Sonia had just before. "No, what has kept her from the canal till now is the idea of sin and they, the children. . . . And if she has not gone out of her mind . . . but who says she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her senses? Can one talk, can one reason as she does? How can she sit on the edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is slipping and refuse to listen when she is told of danger? Does she expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn't that all mean madness?"
He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation indeed better than any other. He began looking more intently at her.
"So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?" he asked her.
Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an answer.
"What should I be without God?" she whispered rapidly, forcibly, glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand.
"Ah, so that is it!" he thought.
"And what does God do for you?" he asked, probing her further.
Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak chest kept heaving with emotion.
"Be silent! Don't ask! You don't deserve!" she cried suddenly, looking sternly and wrathfully at him.
"That's it, that's it," he repeated to himself.
"He does everything," she whispered quickly, looking down again.
"That's the way out! That's the explanation," he decided, scrutinising her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almost morbid feeling. He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular, angular little face, those soft blue eyes, which could flash with such fire, such stern energy, that little body still shaking with indignation and anger--and it all seemed to him more and more strange, almost impossible. "She is a religious maniac!" he repeated to himself.
There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had noticed it every time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and looked at it. It was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It was bound in leather, old and worn.
"Where did you get that?" he called to her across the room.
She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table.
"It was brought me," she answered, as it were unwillingly, not looking at him.
"Who brought it?"
"Lizaveta, I asked her for it."
"Lizaveta! strange!" he thought.
Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn over the pages.
"Where is the story of Lazarus?" he asked suddenly.
Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was standing sideways to the table.
"Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia."
She stole a glance at him.
"You are not looking in the right place. . . . It's in the fourth gospel," she whispered sternly, without looking at him.
"Find it and read it to me," he said. He sat down with his elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to listen.
"In three weeks' time they'll welcome me in the madhouse! I shall be there if I am not in a worse place," he muttered to himself.
Sonia heard Raskolnikov's request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly to the table. She took the book however.
"Haven't you read it?" she asked, looking up at him across the table.
Her voice became sterner and sterner.
"Long ago. . . . When I was at school. Read!"
"And haven't you heard it in church?"
"I . . . haven't been. Do you often go?"
"N-no," whispered Sonia.
Raskolnikov smiled.
"I understand. . . . And you won't go to your father's funeral to-morrow?"
"Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too . . . I had a requiem service."
"For whom?"
"For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe."
His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round.
"Were you friends with Lizaveta?"
"Yes. . . . She was good . . . she used to come . . . not often . . . she couldn't. . . . We used to read together and . . . talk. She will see God."
The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them-- religious maniacs.
"I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It's infectious!"
"Read!" he cried irritably and insistently.
Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the "unhappy lunatic."
"What for? You don't believe? . . ." she whispered softly and as it were breathlessly.
"Read! I want you to," he persisted. "You used to read to Lizaveta."
Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the first syllable.
"Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany . . ." she forced herself at last to read, but at the third word her voice broke like an overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath.
Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read to him and the more he saw this, the more roughly and irritably he insisted on her doing so. He understood only too well how painful it was for her to betray and unveil all that was her /own/. He understood that these feelings really were her /secret treasure/, which she had kept perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches. But at the same time he knew now and knew for certain that, although it filled her with dread and suffering, yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to /him/ that he might hear it, and to read /now/ whatever might come of it! . . . He read this in her eyes, he could see it in her intense emotion. She mastered herself, controlled the spasm in her throat and went on reading the eleventh chapter of St. John. She went on to the nineteenth verse:
"And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning their brother.
"Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went and met Him: but Mary sat still in the house.
"Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.
"But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give it Thee. . . ."
Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voice would quiver and break again.
"Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again.
"Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection, at the last day.
"Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live.
"And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. Believest thou this?
"She saith unto Him,"
(And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as though she were making a public confession of faith.)
"Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God Which should come into the world."
She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling herself went on reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his elbows on the table and his eyes turned away. She read to the thirty-second verse.
"Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.
"When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled,
"And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come and see.
"Jesus wept.
"Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him!
"And some of them said, could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?"
Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, he had known it! She was trembling in a real physical fever. He had expected it. She was getting near the story of the greatest miracle and a feeling of immense triumph came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she was reading by heart. At the last verse "Could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind . . ." dropping her voice she passionately reproduced the doubt, the reproach and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who in another moment would fall at His feet as though struck by thunder, sobbing and believing. . . . "And /he, he/--too, is blinded and unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes! At once, now," was what she was dreaming, and she was quivering with happy anticipation.
"Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it.
"Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days."
She laid emphasis on the word /four/.
"Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?
"Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast heard Me.
"And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me.
"And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth.
"And he that was dead came forth."
(She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were seeing it before her eyes.)
"Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go.
"Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which Jesus did believed on Him."
She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickly.
"That is all about the raising of Lazarus," she whispered severely and abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle-end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been reading together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed.
"I came to speak of something," Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it.
"I have abandoned my family to-day," he said, "my mother and sister. I am not going to see them. I've broken with them completely."
"What for?" asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and sister had left a great impression which she could not analyse. She heard his news almost with horror.
"I have only you now," he added. "Let us go together. . . . I've come to you, we are both accursed, let us go our way together!"
His eyes glittered "as though he were mad," Sonia thought, in her turn.
"Go where?" she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back.
"How do I know? I only know it's the same road, I know that and nothing more. It's the same goal!"
She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy.
"No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have understood. I need you, that is why I have come to you."
"I don't understand," whispered Sonia.
"You'll understand later. Haven't you done the same? You, too, have transgressed . . . have had the strength to transgress. You have laid hands on yourself, you have destroyed a life . . . /your own/ (it's all the same!). You might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you'll end in the Hay Market. . . . But you won't be able to stand it, and if you remain alone you'll go out of your mind like me. You are like a mad creature already. So we must go together on the same road! Let us go!"
"What for? What's all this for?" said Sonia, strangely and violently agitated by his words.
"What for? Because you can't remain like this, that's why! You must look things straight in the face at last, and not weep like a child and cry that God won't allow it. What will happen, if you should really be taken to the hospital to-morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she'll soon die and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won't come to grief? Haven't you seen children here at the street corners sent out by their mothers to beg? I've found out where those mothers live and in what surroundings. Children can't remain children there! At seven the child is vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ: 'theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.' He bade us honour and love them, they are the humanity of the future. . . ."
"What's to be done, what's to be done?" repeated Sonia, weeping hysterically and wringing her hands.
"What's to be done? Break what must be broken, once for all, that's all, and take the suffering on oneself. What, you don't understand? You'll understand later. . . . Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all trembling creation and all the ant-heap! . . . That's the goal, remember that! That's my farewell message. Perhaps it's the last time I shall speak to you. If I don't come to-morrow, you'll hear of it all, and then remember these words. And some day later on, in years to come, you'll understand perhaps what they meant. If I come to-morrow, I'll tell you who killed Lizaveta. . . . Good-bye."
Sonia started with terror.
"Why, do you know who killed her?" she asked, chilled with horror, looking wildly at him.
"I know and will tell . . . you, only you. I have chosen you out. I'm not coming to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you out long ago to hear this, when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta was alive, I thought of it. Good-bye, don't shake hands. To-morrow!"
He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But she herself was like one insane and felt it. Her head was going round.
"Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It's awful!" But at the same time /the idea/ did not enter her head, not for a moment! "Oh, he must be terribly unhappy! . . . He has abandoned his mother and sister. . . . What for? What has happened? And what had he in his mind? What did he say to her? He had kissed her foot and said . . . said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he could not live without her. . . . Oh, merciful heavens!"
Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from time to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading the gospel and him . . . him with pale face, with burning eyes . . . kissing her feet, weeping.
On the other side of the door on the right, which divided Sonia's room from Madame Resslich's flat, was a room which had long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the canal advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room's being uninhabited. But all that time Mr. Svidrigailov had been standing, listening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov went out he stood still, thought a moment, went on tiptoe to his own room which adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the door that led to Sonia's room. The conversation had struck him as interesting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it--so much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the future, to-morrow, for instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but might listen in comfort.
拉斯科利尼科夫径直往运河边上的那幢房子走去，索尼娅就住在那里。这是一幢三层楼房，是幢绿色的旧房子。他找到了管院子的，后者明确地告诉了他，裁缝卡佩尔纳乌莫夫住在哪里。他在院子的角落里找到又窄又暗的楼梯的入口，顺着楼梯上去，终于到了二楼①，走进从靠院子的那一边环绕着二楼的回廊。正当他在黑暗中慢慢走着，摸不清哪里是卡佩尔纳乌莫夫家的房门的时候，离他三步远的地方突然有一道门开了；他不由自主地拉住了房门。
--------
①前面曾说，索尼娅是住在三楼。
“是谁？”一个女人的声音惊慌不安地问。
“是我……来找您的，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答，说罢走进了那间很小的前室。这儿一把破椅子上放着个歪着的铜烛台，上面插着一支蜡烛。
“是您！上帝啊！”索尼娅声音微弱地惊呼，像在地上扎了根似地呆呆地站住不动了。
“往您屋里去怎么走？往这边吗？”
拉斯科利尼科夫竭力不看她，赶快走进屋里。
稍过了一会儿，索尼娅也拿着蜡烛进来了，把蜡烛放下，站在他面前，完全惊慌失措，说不出地激动，看来，他的突然来访使她感到吃惊。突然，红云飞上了她苍白的面颊，眼里甚至出现了泪花……她心里很难过，既感到羞愧，又感到快乐……拉斯科利尼科夫很快转身坐到桌边的一把椅子上。
他匆匆地向整个房间扫视了一眼。
这是一间大房间，不过非常矮，是卡佩尔纳乌莫夫家出租的唯一一间房间，通往他们家的房门就在左边墙上，这道门锁起来了。对面，右边墙上还有一道门，也一直紧紧地锁着。门那边已经是邻居家另一个房号的另一套房子了。索尼娅住的房间像间板棚，样子是个很不规则的四边形，好似一个畸形的怪物。靠运河那边的墙上有三扇窗子，这面墙有点儿斜着，好像把这间房子切掉了一块，因此房子的一角显得特别尖，仿佛深深地插进什么地方去了，这样一来，如果光线较暗，甚至看不清那个角落；而另一个角却是个钝得很不像样子的钝角。这个大房间里几乎没有什么家具。右边角落里摆着一张床；床旁靠门的那边放着一把椅子。放床的那堵墙边，紧挨着通另一套房子的房门，放着一张普通的木板桌子，上面铺着淡蓝色的桌布；桌旁放着两把藤椅。对面墙边，靠近那个锐角的地方，放着一个用普通木料做的、不大的五斗橱，因为地方太空旷了，看上去显得孤零零的。这就是屋里的全部家具。各个角落里，那些又脏又破的淡黄色墙纸都已经发黑了；冬天里这儿想必非常潮湿，而且烟气弥漫。贫穷的状况十分明显，床前甚至没有帷幔。
索尼娅默默地看着自己的客人，而他正在那样仔细、那样没有礼貌地打量着她的房间，最后，她甚至吓得发抖了，仿佛她是站在一个法官和能决定她命运的人面前。
“我来的时间太晚了……有十一点了吧？”他问，一直还没有抬起眼睛来看她。
“是的，”索尼娅喃喃地说。“啊，是的，是有十一点了！”她突然急急忙忙地说，似乎她的出路就在于此，“房东家的钟刚刚打过……我听见了，是十一点。”
“我是最后一次来看您，”拉斯科利尼科夫忧郁地接着说下去，虽说这不过是他头一次来这里，“也许，以后，我再也不会看到您了……”
“您……要出门？”
“我不知道……一切都看明天了……”
“那么明天您不去卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜那儿了？”索尼娅的声音发抖了。
“我不知道。一切都看明天早晨……问题不在这里：我来，是要跟您说一句话……”
他向她抬起眼来，目光若有所思，突然发现，他坐着，她却一直站在他面前。
“您为什么站着？您坐啊，”他说，声音突然变得温和而又亲切。
她坐下了。他和蔼可亲地，几乎是怜悯地看了她一会儿。
“您多瘦啊！瞧您的手！多么苍白。手指就像死人的一样。”
他握住她的手。索尼娅微微一笑。
“我一向是这样的，”她说。
“住在家里的时候也是这样？”
“是的。”
“唉，那当然了！”他断断续续地说，他脸上的神情和说话的声音又突然改变了。他又朝四下里看了看。
“这是您向卡佩尔纳乌莫夫租的？”
“是的……”
“他们就住在那边，房门后面？”
“是的……他们住的也是这样一间房子。”
“一家人都住在一间屋里？”
“住在一间屋里。”
“要叫我住在您这间屋里，夜里会害怕的，”他忧郁地说。
“房东一家人都很好，待人很亲切，”索尼娅回答，一直好像还没镇静下来，还没明白是怎么回事，“所有家具，还有这一切……都是房东的，他们心地都很好，孩子们也常上我这儿来……”
“他们说话都口齿不清，是吗？”
“是的……他说话结结巴巴，还是个跛子。他妻子也是这样……倒不是口吃，而是，好像老是没把话说完。她心很好……他从前是地主家的仆人。有七个孩子……只有老大说话结巴，另外几个只不过有病……说话倒不结巴……您怎么知道他们的？”她有点儿惊奇地补上一句。
“当时您父亲把什么全都对我说了。您的情况，他全都告诉了我……连有一次您六点出去，八点多才回来，还有卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜跪在您床前，连这些也都告诉我了。”
索尼娅感到很难为情。
“我今天好像看到了他，”她犹豫不决地喃喃地说。
“看到了谁？”
“父亲。我在街上走着，就在那里附近，街道的一个角落上，八点多的时候，他好像在前面走。完全像他。我想去卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜那里……”
“您在散步？”
“是的，”索尼娅断断续续地喃喃地说，她又不好意思了，于是低下头去。
“住在父亲那里的时候，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜几乎要打您，是吗？”
“啊，不，看您说的，看您说的，没有的事！”索尼娅甚至有点儿惊恐地看了看他。
“那么您爱她吗？”
“她吗？那还—用—说！”索尼娅悲哀地拖长声音回答说，突然痛苦地双手交叉在一起。“唉，您要是……您要是能了解她就好了。因为她完全像个孩子……因为她完全像疯了似的……愁疯的。可从前她多么聪明……多么慷慨……多么善良啊！您什么，什么也不知道……唉！”
索尼娅说这些话的时候十分激动，绞着手，仿佛陷入绝望之中。她那苍白的双颊又变得绯红，眼里露出痛苦的神情。看得出来，她的心灵被深深触动了，她很想有所表示，把心里的话说出来，很想进行辩解。突然她脸上露出一种，如果可以这样说的话，永无止境的同情。
“她打过！您说这些做什么！上帝啊，她打过我！即使打过，那又怎样！嗯，那又怎样呢？您什么，什么也不知道……这是一个多么不幸，唉，多么不幸的人！而且还有病……她在寻求公正……她是纯洁的。她那么相信，无论什么事情都应该有公正，她要求……即使折磨她，她也决不会做不公正的事。她自己不明白，要让人人都公正，这是不可能的，因此她感到气愤……就像个孩子，就像个孩子！她是公正的，公正的！”
“您以后怎么办？”
索尼娅疑问地看看他。
“他们不是都留给您来照顾了吗？不错，以前一家人也是靠您生活，已经去世的那个还要来跟您要钱去买酒喝。嗯，那么现在怎么办呢？”
“我不知道，”索尼娅忧愁地说。
“他们还会住在那儿吗？”
“我不知道，他们欠了那儿的房租；不过听说，女房东今天说过，她要撵他们走，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜却说，她自己连一分钟也不想再待在那儿了。”
“她怎么胆敢说这样的大话？是指望您吗？”
“唉，不，您别这么说……我们是一家人，要在一起生活，”索尼娅突然又激动起来，甚至生气了，完全像一只金丝雀或者什么别的小鸟儿生气一样。“再说她又能怎么办呢？嗯，她能怎么，怎么办呢？”她焦急而激动地问。“今天她哭了多少次啊！她都发疯了，这您没看出来吗？她疯了；一会儿像个小孩子似的，为明天的事担心，想让一切都弄得很体面，下酒的菜啊，还有旁的，一切都应有尽有……一会儿又绞看手，咯血，痛哭，突然头往墙上撞，好像已经完全绝望。后来又自己安慰自己，把希望全都寄托在您的身上，她说，现在您帮助她，她要在什么地方借一点儿钱，和我一起回故乡去，为贵族出身的女孩子办一所寄宿中学，让我作学监，于是我们就会开始过一种十分美好的全新的生活了，说着还吻我，拥抱我，安慰我，因为她是那么相信这一切！那么相信这些幻想！您说，难道能反驳她吗？今天她整天在洗啊，擦啊，缝补啊，她那么虚弱无力，还亲自把洗衣盆拖到屋里去，累得上气不接下气，一下子就倒到床上了；可是早晨我还跟她一道去商场给波列奇卡和廖尼娅①买鞋呢，因为她们的鞋都穿破了，可是一算，我们的钱不够，只差一点儿，可她挑了一双那么好看的小皮鞋，因为她有审美力，您不知道……她就在铺子里，当着卖东西的人哭了起来，因为钱不够……唉，看着多可怜哪。”
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①前面说，小女儿叫莉达（莉多奇卡）。
“你们过的是……这样的日子，这是可以理解的，”拉斯科利尼科夫苦笑着说。
“难道您不觉得可怜吗？不觉得可怜吗？”索尼娅又责问说，“因为您，我知道，您还什么也没看到，就把自己最后的一点儿钱都给了她了。要是您看到这一切的话，上帝啊！可我曾经有多少次惹得她伤心落泪啊！那还是上星期的事！唉，我呀！只不过在他去世前一个星期。我做得太忍心了！而且我这样做了多个次啊。唉，现在整整一天回想起来都感到痛心！”
索尼娅说这些话的时候，由于回忆给她带来的痛苦，甚至绞着双手。
“这是您太忍心吗？”
“是的，是我，是我！那次我到他们那里去，”她哭着继续说，“先父说：‘索尼娅，你给我念念，我头痛，你给我念念……这是书’，他那里有本什么小册子，是从安德烈•谢苗内奇那儿弄来的，也就是从列别贾特尼科夫那儿弄来的，他就住在这儿，经常弄一些这样可笑的书来。我却说：‘我该走了’，我才不愿给他念呢，我去他们那儿，主要是想让卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜看看几条领子；女小贩莉扎薇塔拿来了几条活领和套袖，说是便宜点儿卖给我，这些活领和套袖都挺好看，式样也新颖，还绣着花。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜很喜欢，她戴上，照了照镜子，她非常、非常喜欢，‘索尼娅，”她说，‘请你送给我吧’。她请我送给她。她多想要啊。可是她要这些活领有什么用？只不过让她回想起从前的幸福日子罢了！她照着镜子，顾影自怜，可是她什么衣服都没有，连一件像样的衣裳都没有，什么也没有，这样的日子已经有多少年了！可是她从来没跟任何人要过任何东西；她高傲得很，宁愿把自己最后的东西送给人家，可这时候却跟我要这些活领——可见她是多么喜欢！我却舍不得给她，我说，‘您要这些东西有什么用呢，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜？’我就是这么说的：‘有什么用’。可真不该对她说这种话呀！她那样看了我一眼，我不给她，这让她感到那么难过，看着她真觉得怪可怜的……她难过，倒不是为了那几条活领，而是因为我不肯给她，我看得出来。唉，我觉得，要是现在能收回以前说的这些话，改正这些话，那该多好…… 唉，我呀……我为什么会这样呢！
……可在您看来，还不都是一样！”
“您认识这个女小贩莉扎薇塔？”
“是的……莫非您也认识她？”索尼娅有点儿惊讶地反问。
“卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜有肺病，治不好的；她不久就会死的，”拉斯科利尼科夫沉默了一会儿，说，对她的问题避而不答。
“啊，不，不，不！”索尼娅不由得抓住他的双手，仿佛是求他，不要让她死。
“要知道，她要死了，反倒好些。”
“不，不好，不好，根本不好！”她惊恐地、无意识地反复说。
“可是孩子们呢？要是不让他们到您这里来，您让他们上哪里去呢？”
“唉，这我可不知道！”索尼娅用手抱住头，绝望地叫喊。看来，这个想法已经在她的脑子里闪现过许多次了，他只不过又惊醒了这个想法。
“嗯，如果您，在卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜还活着的时候，就是现在，如果您生了病，给送进医院，那么会怎么样呢？”
他残酷无情地坚持说下去。
“哎哟，您怎么说这种话，怎么说这种话呢！这决不可能！”
索尼娅吓坏了，吓得脸都变了样。
“怎么不可能呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫继续往下说，脸上露出严峻的笑容，“您保过险了？到那时他们会怎样呢？他们一家人将会流浪街头，她会像今天这样，咳嗽，哀求，头往墙上撞，孩子们会放声大哭……她会倒在街上，给送到警察分局，然后送进医院，死在那里，可孩子们……”
“啊，不！……上帝不允许发生这样的事！”最后，从索尼娅感到压抑的胸膛里冲出这样一句话来。她听着，恳求地看着他，合起双手默默无言地恳求着，好像一切都取决于他似的。
拉斯科利尼科夫站起来，开始在屋里踱来踱去。过了一分钟光景。索尼娅垂下双手，低着头站着，心里难过极了。
“不能攒点儿钱吗？能不能积攒点儿钱，以备不时之需？”
他突然在她面前站下来，问。
“不能，”索尼娅喃喃地说。
“当然不能！不过您试过吗？”他几乎是冷笑着补上一句。
“试过。”
“可是攒不下来！唉，那还用说！还用得着问吗！”
于是他又在屋里走了起来。又过了一分钟的样子。
“您不是每天都挣得到钱吧？”
索尼娅比刚才更难为情了，脸忽然又涨得通红。
“不是，”她十分痛苦地勉强说，声音很低，很低。
“大概，波列奇卡也会这样的，”他突然说。
“不！不！不可能，绝不会的！”索尼娅突然绝望地高声叫喊，就像突然被人扎了一刀似的。“上帝，上帝绝不允许发生这种可怕的事！……”
“可他允许别人发生这样的事。”
“不，不！上帝会保佑她，上帝……”她反复说，已经无法控制自己。
“可也许根本就没有上帝，”拉斯科利尼科夫甚至是怀着某种幸灾乐祸的心情回答，他笑了起来，而且看了看她。
索尼娅的脸突然变了，一阵痉挛，使她的脸看上去非常可怕。她瞅了他一眼，目光中流露出难以形容的责备神情，本想说点儿什么，可是什么也没能说出来，只是突然用双手捂住脸，悲悲切切地失声痛哭起来。
“您说卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜失去了理智，倒是您自己已经失去理智了，”沉默了一会儿以后，他说。
过了五分钟。他一直默默地踱来踱去，一直不看着她。最后，他走到她面前，他的眼睛闪闪发亮。他双手抓住她的肩膀，直对着她那挂满泪珠的脸看了一眼。他的目光冷漠，兴奋，锐利，嘴唇抖得厉害……突然他迅速俯下身去，伏在地板上，吻了吻她的脚。索尼娅惊恐地躲开了他，就像躲开一个疯子。真的，看上去他当真像个疯子。
“您这是做什么，您这是做什么？伏在我的脚下！”她脸色发白，喃喃地说，她的心突然十分痛苦地揪紧了。
他立刻站了起来。
“我膜拜的不是你，而是向人类的一切苦难下拜，”他有点儿古怪地说，然后走到窗前。“你听我说，”一分钟后又回到她跟前来，补充说，“不久前我曾对一个欺侮人的人说，他抵不上你的一个小指头……还说，今天我让妹妹坐在你身边，让她感到荣幸。”
“哎哟，您跟他们说这些做什么！而且是当着她的面？”索尼娅惊恐地喊道，“跟我坐在一起！荣幸！可我……我是个可耻的女人，我是个很大的大罪人！唉，您为什么要说这种话！”
“我这样谈论你，不是因为你的耻辱和罪恶，而是因为你所受的极大的苦难。至于说你是个大罪人，这倒是真的，”他几乎是热情洋溢地补充说，“你所以是罪人，就因为你犯下了最大的罪，白白毁掉了自己，出卖了自己。这还不可怕吗！你过着自己这么痛恨的卑贱生活，同时自己也知道（只要睁开眼来看看），这样你既不能帮助任何人，也救不了谁，这难道还不可怕吗？最后，请你告诉我，”他几乎发狂似地说，“这样的耻辱和这样的卑贱怎么能和另一些与之对立的神圣感情集于你一人之身呢？要知道，投水自尽，一下子结束这一切，倒更正确些，正确一千倍，也明智一千倍！”
“那他们呢？”索尼娅有气无力地问，十分痛苦地看了他一眼，但同时又好像对他的建议一点儿也不感到惊讶。拉斯科利尼科夫奇怪地看了看她。
从她看他的目光中，他看出了一切。可见她自己当真已经有过这个想法。也许她在绝望中曾多次认真反复考虑过，真想一下子结束一切，而且这样考虑时是那么认真，所以现在对他的建议已经几乎不觉得奇怪了。就连他的话是多么残酷，她也没有发觉（他对她责备的意思，以及对她的耻辱的特殊看法，她当然也没发觉，这一点他是看得出来的）。不过他完全明白，她也知道自己的地位卑贱，极其可耻，这个想法早已使她痛苦不堪，折磨了她很久了。他想，是什么，到底有什么能使她至今还下不了决心，一下子结束这一切呢？这时他才完全明白，这些可怜的小孤儿，这个不幸的、半疯狂的、害了肺病、头往墙上撞的卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，对她起了多么重大的作用。
虽说这样，然而他还是明白，以索尼娅这样的性格，还有她所受的教育，无论如何她绝不会这样终其一生。不过，对他来说，这还是一个问题：既然她不能投水自尽，为什么她能这么久生活在这样的处境中而没有发疯？当然，他明白，索尼娅的处境是社会上的一种偶然现象，虽说，可惜，远不是个别的和特殊的现象。但是这偶然性本身，还有这一定的文化程度，以及她以前的全部生活，似乎这一切会在她一开始走上这条令人厌恶的道路的时候，立刻就夺去她的生命。那么是什么在支持着她呢？不会是淫荡吧？显然，这种耻辱只不过是机械地接触到了她；真正的淫荡还丝毫也没渗透进她的心灵：这一点他看得出来；她就站在他面前，这是真的……“她面前有三条道路，”他想：“跳进运河，进疯人院，或者……或者，终于堕落，头脑麻木，心变得冷酷无情。”他最厌恶的是最后那个想法；然而他已经是一个怀疑主义者，而且他年轻，又远远脱离了现实生活，所以他也残酷无情，因此他不能不相信，最后一条路，也就是堕落，是最有可能的。
“不过难道这是真的吗，”他心中暗暗惊呼，“难道这个还保持着精神纯洁的人，会终于有意识地陷入这个卑鄙污浊，臭气熏天的深坑吗？难道这陷入的过程已经开始了？难道仅仅是因为这耻辱已经不是让她觉得那么厌恶，她才能忍辱至今吗？不，不，这绝不可能！”他像索尼娅刚才那样叫喊，“不，使她直到现在还没有跳进运河的，是关于罪恶的想法，还有他们，那些……如果到现在她还没有发疯……不过，谁说她还没发疯？难道她有健全的理智吗？难道能像她这样说话吗？难道一个有健全理智的人能像她这样考虑问题？难道能够这样坐在毁灭的边缘，就像坐在一个臭气熏天的深坑边上，眼看就要掉下去，可是有人提醒说这太危险的时候，却塞住耳朵，置之不理吗？她怎么，莫非是在等待奇迹吗？大概是这样。难道这一切不是发疯的迹象吗？”
他把思想执拗地停留在这一点上。与其他任何结局相比，他甚至更喜欢这个结局。他更加凝神注视着她。
“索尼娅，你经常这样虔诚地向上帝祈祷吗？”他问她。
索尼娅默默不语，他站在她身旁，等待回答。
“要是没有上帝的话，我会怎样呢？”她很快而且十分坚决地低声说，抬起那双突然闪闪发光的眼睛匆匆地向他看了一眼，并且用双手紧紧攥住他的一只手。
“嗯，的确是疯了！”他想。
“可上帝为你做什么了？”他继续追问她。
索尼娅沉默了许久，好像无法回答。她那瘦弱的胸脯激动得一起一伏。
“请您别说话！请您别问了！您不配！……”她突然严厉而愤怒地看着他，高声呼喊。
“真的疯了！真的疯了！”他暗自坚决地反复说。
“他在做一切！”她很快地低声说，又低下了头。
“这就是出路！这就是对这条出路的解释！”他暗自作出结论，同时怀着贪婪的好奇心细细打量着她。
他怀着某种奇怪的、几乎是痛苦的、前所未有的感情，细细端详这张苍白、瘦削、轮廓不太端正、颧骨突出的小脸；细细端详这双温柔的浅蓝色的眼睛，这双眼睛能闪射出那么明亮的光芒，流露出那样严厉而坚决的神情；细细端详这瘦小的身躯，因为愤懑和发怒，这身躯还在发抖；这脸，这眼睛，还有这身躯——这一切使他觉得越来越奇怪了，他几乎觉得这是不可能的。“狂热的信徒，狂热的信徒！”他暗自反复说。
五斗橱上放着一本书。他踱来踱去的时候，每次经过那里都注意到它；现在他把它拿起来，看了一眼。这是《新约全书》的俄译本。书是皮封面的，已经破旧了。
“这是哪儿来的？”他从房屋的另一端对她大声喊。她仍然站在原处，离桌子三步远。
“人家拿来的，”她仿佛不乐意似地回答，也不看着他。
“谁拿来的？”
“莉扎薇塔拿来的，我请她拿来的。”
“莉扎薇塔！奇怪！”他想。对他来说，索尼娅这里的一切，每分钟都变得越来越奇怪，越来越不可思议了。他把这本书拿到烛光前，动手翻阅。
“关于拉撒路的那一段在哪里？”他突然问。
索尼娅执拗地看着地上，没有回答。他稍稍侧身对着桌子站着。
“关于拉撒路的复活是在哪一章？你找给我看看，索尼娅。”
她斜着眼睛看了他一眼。
“别在那里找……在第四篇福音里……”她严厉地低声说，并没有向他走过去。
“请你找出来，念给我听听，”他说，坐下来，胳膊肘撑在桌子上，用一只手托着头，忧郁地朝一旁凝望着，做出在听着的样子。
“再过三个星期，七俄里外①会欢迎我去的！我大概会去那儿，如果不把我送到更糟的地方去的话，”他暗自喃喃低语。
--------
①离彼得堡七俄里远的地方有一座著名的精神病院。
索尼娅不相信地听拉斯科利尼科夫说完了他奇怪的愿望，犹豫不决地走到桌边。不过还是拿起书来。
“难道您没看过？”她问，隔着桌子，皱起眉头，看了他一眼。她的声音变得越来越严厉了。
“很久以前……上学的时候。你念吧！”
“在教堂里也没听到过？”
“我……不去教堂。你经常去吗？”
“不——，”索尼娅低声说。
拉斯科利尼科夫冷冷地笑了笑。
“我懂……这么说，明天也不去参加你父亲的葬礼吗？”
“我去。上星期我也去过教堂……去作安魂弥撒。”
“追荐什么人？”
“莉扎薇塔。她让人用斧头砍死了。”
他的神经受到越来越大的刺激。他的头眩晕起来了。
“你跟
Part 4 Chapter 5
When next morning at eleven o'clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the department of the investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in to Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long: it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they would pounce upon him. But he stood in the waiting- room, and people, who apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro before him. In the next room which looked like an office, several clerks were sitting writing and obviously they had no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and suspiciously about him to see whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then other people, no one seemed to have any concern with him. He might go where he liked for them. The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have waited till he elected to appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet given information, or . . . or simply he knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen anything?) and so all that had happened to him the day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling--and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that he ceased trembling at once; he made ready to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry Petrovitch.
He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing-table, that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in the corner and several chairs--all government furniture, of polished yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov's entrance Porfiry Petrovitch had at once closed the door by which he had come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial and good-tempered air, and it was only after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of his reckoning or caught in something very secret.
"Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are . . . in our domain" . . . began Porfiry, holding out both hands to him. "Come, sit down, old man . . . or perhaps you don't like to be called 'my dear fellow' and 'old man!'--/tout court/? Please don't think it too familiar. . . . Here, on the sofa."
Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. "In our domain," the apologies for familiarity, the French phrase /tout court/, were all characteristic signs.
"He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one--he drew it back in time," struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away.
"I brought you this paper . . . about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right or shall I copy it again?"
"What? A paper? Yes, yes, don't be uneasy, it's all right," Porfiry Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after he had said it he took the paper and looked at it. "Yes, it's all right. Nothing more is needed," he declared with the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table.
A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the table and put it on his bureau.
"I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me . . . formally . . . about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?" Raskolnikov was beginning again. "Why did I put in 'I believe'" passed through his mind in a flash. "Why am I so uneasy at having put in that '/I believe/'?" came in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. "It's bad, it's bad! I shall say too much again."
"Yes, yes, yes! There's no hurry, there's no hurry," muttered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at one moment avoiding Raskolnikov's suspicious glance, then again standing still and looking him straight in the face.
His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from one side to the other and rebounding back.
"We've plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your own? Here, a cigarette!" he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. "You know I am receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my government quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to have some repairs done here. It's almost finished now. . . . Government quarters, you know, are a capital thing. Eh, what do you think?"
"Yes, a capital thing," answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost ironically.
"A capital thing, a capital thing," repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as though he had just thought of something quite different. "Yes, a capital thing," he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps from him.
This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor.
But this stirred Raskolnikov's spleen more than ever and he could not resist an ironical and rather incautious challenge.
"Tell me, please," he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. "I believe it's a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal tradition--for all investigating lawyers--to begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an unexpected knock-down blow with some fatal question. Isn't that so? It's a sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?"
"Yes, yes. . . . Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government quarters . . . eh?"
And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes and winked; a good-humoured, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov's repulsion overcame all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing in his visitor's face and to be very little disturbed at the annoyance with which the visitor received it. The latter fact was very significant in Raskolnikov's eyes: he saw that Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarrassed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there must be something, some motive here unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and in another moment would break upon him . . .
He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his cap.
"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began resolutely, though with considerable irritation, "yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you for some inquiries" (he laid special stress on the word "inquiries"). "I have come and if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me to withdraw. I have no time to spare. . . . I have to be at the funeral of that man who was run over, of whom you . . . know also," he added, feeling angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at his anger. "I am sick of it all, do you hear? and have long been. It's partly what made me ill. In short," he shouted, feeling that the phrase about his illness was still more out of place, "in short, kindly examine me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so in the proper form! I will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile, good-bye, as we have evidently nothing to keep us now."
"Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?" cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. "Please don't disturb yourself," he began fidgeting from place to place and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. "There's no hurry, there's no hurry, it's all nonsense. Oh, no, I'm very glad you've come to see me at last . . . I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for my confounded laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? That is your name? . . . It's my nerves, you tickled me so with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with laughter like an india-rubber ball for half an hour at a time. . . . I'm often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry . . ."
Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap.
"I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch," Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding his visitor's eyes. "You see, I'm a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not used to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I'm set, I'm running to seed and . . . and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before they can find a subject for conversation--they are dumb, they sit opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of conversation, ladies for instance . . . people in high society always have their subjects of conversation, /c'est de rigueur/, but people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied and awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public interest, or whether it is we are so honest we don't want to deceive one another, I don't know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, it looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable . . . I am so delighted . . ."
Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry Petrovitch. "Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly babble?"
"I can't offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a friend?" Porfiry pattered on, "and you know all these official duties . . . please don't mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensable for me. I'm always sitting and so glad to be moving about for five minutes . . . I suffer from my sedentary life . . . I always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks, even Privy Councillors, may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern science . . . yes, yes. . . . But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such formalities . . . you mentioned inquiries yourself just now . . . I assure you these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the interrogated. . . . You made the observation yourself just now very aptly and wittily." (Raskolnikov had made no observation of the kind.) "One gets into a muddle! A regular muddle! One keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and we shall be called by a different name, at least, he-he-he! And as for our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that they begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so happily put it) and then deal him a knock-down blow, he-he-he!--your felicitous comparison, he-he! So you really imagined that I meant by 'government quarters' . . . he-he! You are an ironical person. Come. I won't go on! Ah, by the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But what's the use of formality? In many cases it's nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow me to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way, he-he-he!"
Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right hand behind his back, while with his left making gesticulations that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door, as though he were listening.
"Is he expecting anything?"
"You are certainly quite right about it," Porfiry began gaily, looking with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and instantly put him on his guard); "certainly quite right in laughing so wittily at our legal forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological methods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one adheres too closely to the forms. Yes . . . I am talking of forms again. Well, if I recognise, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to be a criminal in any case entrusted to me . . . you're reading for the law, of course, Rodion Romanovitch?"
"Yes, I was . . ."
"Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future--though don't suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took this man or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in quite a different position, you know, so why shouldn't I let him walk about the town a bit? he-he-he! But I see you don't quite understand, so I'll give you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely give him, so to speak, moral support, he-he! You're laughing?"
Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch's.
"Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so different. You say 'evidence'. Well, there may be evidence. But evidence, you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say, mathematically clear. I should like to make a chain of evidence such as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof! And if I shut him up too soon--even though I might be convinced /he/ was the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of getting further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at Sevastopol, soon after Alma, the clever people were in a terrible fright that the enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted, I am told and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at least. You're laughing, you don't believe me again? Of course, you're right, too. You're right, you're right. These are special cases, I admit. But you must observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the general case, the case for which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all, for the reason that every case, every crime, for instance, so soon as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly special case and sometimes a case unlike any that's gone before. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I leave one man quite alone, if I don't touch him and don't worry him, but let him know or at least suspect every moment that I know all about it and am watching him day and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he'll be bound to lose his head. He'll come of himself, or maybe do something which will make it as plain as twice two are four--it's delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant, but with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a certain side, it's a dead certainty. For, my dear fellow, it's a very important matter to know on what side a man is cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are nerves, you have overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous and irritable! . . . And then how they all suffer from spleen! That I assure you is a regular gold-mine for us. And it's no anxiety to me, his running about the town free! Let him, let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that I've caught him and that he won't escape me. Where could he escape to, he-he? Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I am watching and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the country perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such strangers as our peasants. He-he! But that's all nonsense, and on the surface. It's not merely that he has nowhere to run to, he is /psychologically/ unable to escape me, he-he! What an expression! Through a law of nature he can't escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That's how he will keep circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its attractions. He'll begin to brood, he'll weave a tangle round himself, he'll worry himself to death! What's more he will provide me with a mathematical proof--if I only give him long enough interval. . . . And he'll keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer and then--flop! He'll fly straight into my mouth and I'll swallow him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he! You don't believe me?"
Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with the same intensity into Porfiry's face.
"It's a lesson," he thought, turning cold. "This is beyond the cat playing with a mouse, like yesterday. He can't be showing off his power with no motive . . . prompting me; he is far too clever for that . . . he must have another object. What is it? It's all nonsense, my friend, you are pretending, to scare me! You've no proofs and the man I saw had no real existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up beforehand and so to crush me. But you are wrong, you won't do it! But why give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my friend, you are wrong, you won't do it even though you have some trap for me . . . let us see what you have in store for me."
And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger was what he dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked with foam, his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till the right moment. He realised that this was the best policy in his position, because instead of saying too much he would be irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for.
"No, I see you don't believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke on you," Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling at every instant and again pacing round the room. "And to be sure you're right: God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you, and I repeat it, excuse an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are a man still young, so to say, in your first youth and so you put intellect above everything, like all young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that's for all the world like the old Austrian /Hof-kriegsrath/, as far as I can judge of military matters, that is: on paper they'd beaten Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it all out in the cleverest fashion, but look you, General Mack surrendered with all his army, he-he-he! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are laughing at a civilian like me, taking examples out of military history! But I can't help it, it's my weakness. I am fond of military science. And I'm ever so fond of reading all military histories. I've certainly missed my proper career. I ought to have been in the army, upon my word I ought. I shouldn't have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a major, he-he! Well, I'll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about this /special case/, I mean: actual fact and a man's temperament, my dear sir, are weighty matters and it's astonishing how they sometimes deceive the sharpest calculation! I--listen to an old man--am speaking seriously, Rodion Romanovitch" (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch, who was scarcely five-and-thirty, actually seemed to have grown old; even his voice changed and he seemed to shrink together) "Moreover, I'm a candid man . . . am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I really am: I tell you these things for nothing and don't even expect a reward for it, he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life, and what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know where he is, especially when he's liable to be carried away by his own fancy, too, for you know he is a man after all! But the poor fellow is saved by the criminal's temperament, worse luck for him! But young people carried away by their own wit don't think of that 'when they overstep all obstacles,' as you wittily and cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will lie--that is, the man who is a /special case/, the incognito, and he will lie well, in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would triumph and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at the most interesting, the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway! Anyway he's given us the idea! He lied incomparably, but he didn't reckon on his temperament. That's what betrays him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful wit into making fun of the man who suspects him, he will turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness will be /too natural/, too much like the real thing, again he has given us an idea! Though his questioner may be deceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not a fool, and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts himself forward where he is not wanted, speaks continually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of allegorical allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why didn't you take me long ago? he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into it and admire what you see! But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the window?"
"Oh, don't trouble, please," cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke into a laugh. "Please don't trouble."
Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical laughter.
"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. "I see clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and worried . . ."
His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain his voice.
"I won't allow it!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. "Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't allow it."
"Good heavens! What does it mean?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently quite frightened. "Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?"
"I won't allow it," Raskolnikov shouted again.
"Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just think, what could we say to them?" Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov's.
"I won't allow it, I won't allow it," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.
Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.
"Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You're ill!" and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a decanter of water in the corner. "Come, drink a little," he whispered, rushing up to him with the decanter. "It will be sure to do you good."
Porfiry Petrovitch's alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take the water, however.
"Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little."
He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust.
"Yes, you've had a little attack! You'll bring back your illness again, my dear fellow," Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy, though he still looked rather disconcerted. "Good heavens, you must take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yesterday--I know, I know, I've a nasty, ironical temper, but what they made of it! . . . Good heavens, he came yesterday after you'd been. We dined and he talked and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy's sake, sit down!"
"No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went," Raskolnikov answered sharply.
"You knew?"
"I knew. What of it?"
"Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you; I know about everything. I know how you went /to take a flat/ at night when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so that the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I understand your state of mind at that time . . . but you'll drive yourself mad like that, upon my word! You'll lose your head! You're full of generous indignation at the wrongs you've received, first from destiny, and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That's so, isn't it? I have guessed how you feel, haven't I? Only in that way you'll lose your head and Razumihin's, too; he's too /good/ a man for such a position, you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your illness is infectious for him . . . I'll tell you about it when you are more yourself. . . . But do sit down, for goodness' sake. Please rest, you look shocking, do sit down."
Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot all over. In amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovitch who still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude. But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination to believe. Porfiry's unexpected words about the flat had utterly overwhelmed him. "How can it be, he knows about the flat then," he thought suddenly, "and he tells it me himself!"
"Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly similar, a case of morbid psychology," Porfiry went on quickly. "A man confessed to murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought forward facts, he imposed upon everyone and why? He had been partly, but only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that he had given the murderers the opportunity, he sank into dejection, it got on his mind and turned his brain, he began imagining things and he persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High Court of Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was acquitted and put under proper care. Thanks to the Court of Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear fellow, you may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon your nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about blood! I've studied all this morbid psychology in my practice. A man is sometimes tempted to jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the same with bell-ringing. . . . It's all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You have begun to neglect your illness. You should consult an experienced doctor, what's the good of that fat fellow? You are lightheaded! You were delirious when you did all this!"
For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round.
"Is it possible, is it possible," flashed through his mind, "that he is still lying? He can't be, he can't be." He rejected that idea, feeling to what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury might drive him mad.
"I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing," he cried, straining every faculty to penetrate Porfiry's game, "I was quite myself, do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious, you were particularly emphatic about it! I understand all you can tell me! A-ach! . . . Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were actually a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, would you insist that you were not delirious but in full possession of your faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be possible? Quite impossible, to my thinking. If you had anything on your conscience, you certainly ought to insist that you were delirious. That's so, isn't it?"
There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at him.
"Another thing about Razumihin--you certainly ought to have said that he came of his own accord, to have concealed your part in it! But you don't conceal it! You lay stress on his coming at your instigation."
Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back.
"You keep telling lies," he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into a sickly smile, "you are trying again to show that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand," he said, conscious himself that he was not weighing his words as he ought. "You want to frighten me . . . or you are simply laughing at me . . ."
He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of intense hatred in his eyes.
"You keep lying," he said. "You know perfectly well that the best policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible . . . to conceal as little as possible. I don't believe you!"
"What a wily person you are!" Porfiry tittered, "there's no catching you; you've a perfect monomania. So you don't believe me? But still you do believe me, you believe a quarter; I'll soon make you believe the whole, because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good."
Raskolnikov's lips trembled.
"Yes, I do," went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov's arm genially, "you must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do nothing but frighten them . . ."
"What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?"
"Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don't notice that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumihin, too, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but I must tell you that, for all your wit, your suspiciousness makes you lose the common-sense view of things. To return to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having), and you see nothing in it! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like that? No, I should first have disarmed your suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down blow (your expression) saying: 'And what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or nearly eleven at the murdered woman's flat and why did you ring the bell and why did you ask about blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you to the police station, to the lieutenant?' That's how I ought to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought to have taken your evidence in due form, searched your lodging and perhaps have arrested you, too . . . so I have no suspicion of you, since I have not done that! But you can't look at it normally and you see nothing, I say again."
Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not fail to perceive it.
"You are lying all the while," he cried, "I don't know your object, but you are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be mistaken!"
"I am lying?" Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a good-humoured and ironical face, as though he were not in the least concerned at Raskolnikov's opinion of him. "I am lying . . . but how did I treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving you every means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury, melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! He-he-he! Though, indeed, all those psychological means of defence are not very reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I don't remember--that's all right, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may have been others, eh? He-he-he!"
Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him.
"Briefly," he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so doing pushing Porfiry back a little, "briefly, I want to know, do you acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovitch, tell me once for all and make haste!"
"What a business I'm having with you!" cried Porfiry with a perfectly good-humoured, sly and composed face. "And why do you want to know, why do you want to know so much, since they haven't begun to worry you? Why, you are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon us, eh? He-he-he!"
"I repeat," Raskolnikov cried furiously, "that I can't put up with it!"
"With what? Uncertainty?" interrupted Porfiry.
"Don't jeer at me! I won't have it! I tell you I won't have it. I can't and I won't, do you hear, do you hear?" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again.
"Hush! Hush! They'll overhear! I warn you seriously, take care of yourself. I am not joking," Porfiry whispered, but this time there was not the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now he was peremptory, stern, frowning and for once laying aside all mystification.
But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to speak quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury.
"I will not allow myself to be tortured," he whispered, instantly recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and driven to even greater fury by the thought. "Arrest me, search me, but kindly act in due form and don't play with me! Don't dare!"
"Don't worry about the form," Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. "I invited you to see me quite in a friendly way."
"I don't want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? And, here, I take my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me?"
He took up his cap and went to the door.
"And won't you see my little surprise?" chuckled Porfiry, again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door.
He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured which maddened Raskolnikov.
"What surprise?" he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in alarm.
"My little surprise, it's sitting there behind the door, he-he-he!" (He pointed to the locked door.) "I locked him in that he should not escape."
"What is it? Where? What? . . ."
Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was locked.
"It's locked, here is the key!"
And he brought a key out of his pocket.
"You are lying," roared Raskolnikov without restraint, "you lie, you damned punchinello!" and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the other door, not at all alarmed.
"I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that I may betray myself to you . . ."
"Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don't shout, I shall call the clerks."
"You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work me into a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your object! Produce your facts! I understand it all. You've no evidence, you have only wretched rubbishly suspicions like Zametov's! You knew my character, you wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down with priests and deputies. . . . Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you waiting for? Where are they? Produce them?"
"Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to do so would not be acting in form as you say, you don't know the business, my dear fellow. . . . And there's no escaping form, as you see," Porfiry muttered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard.
"Ah, they're coming," cried Raskolnikov. "You've sent for them! You expected them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses, what you like! . . . I am ready!"
But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovitch could have looked for such a conclusion to their interview.
第二天上午十一点整，拉斯科利尼科夫走进×分局侦查科，要求向波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇通报，他来了；可是好久还没接见他，这时他甚至感到奇怪了：至少过了十分钟，才叫他进去。他估计，似乎应该立刻向他提出一连串问题。然而他站在接待室里，一些人从他身边过来过去，看样子，都完全不理会他。后面一间像是办公室的房间里，坐着几个司书，正在书写，显然，他们当中甚至谁也不知道，谁是拉斯科利尼科夫，他是个什么人？他用不安和怀疑的目光注视着自己周围的一切，暗暗观察，他身旁有没有卫兵，有没有监视他的神秘的目光，以防他会逃跑？可是根本就没有任何这一类的迹象：他只看见一些小职员，一些为什么小事操心的人的脸，随后还看见一些别的人，他们谁也不理会他：他爱上哪里去就上哪里去好了，没人管他。他越来越坚定地想：如果昨天这个神秘的人，这个从地底下钻出来的幽灵当真什么都知道，什么都看到了，——那么难道会让他，拉斯科利尼科夫，现在这样站在这里，安安静静地等着吗？难道会在这里一直等到十一点钟，等着他自己来这里吗？可见，要么是那个人还没来告发，要么就是……只不过是他什么都不知道，什么也没看见（他怎么能看见呢？），所以，他，拉斯科利尼科夫，昨天所发生的一切，又是被他那受到刺激的、病态的想象力夸大了的主观幻想。甚至还在昨天，在他感到最强烈的不安，陷于悲观绝望之中的时候，这个猜测就已经在他心中渐渐确定下来了。现在他把这一切又细细考虑了一番，准备投入新的战斗，却突然感到，他在发抖，——一想到他竟会在可恨的波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇面前吓得发抖，他甚至勃然大怒。对他来说，最可怕的就是又要见到这个人：他恨透了他，恨之入骨，甚至害怕自己的憎恨情绪会暴露自己。他的愤怒如此强烈，竟使他立刻不再发抖了；他打算进去的时候装出一副冷静和大胆的样子，决心尽可能保持沉默，细心观察，留心倾听，至少这一次无论如何也要克服自己那种病态的容易激动的性格。这时有人来叫他去见波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇。
原来这时候只有波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇一个人待在自己的办公室里。他的办公室不大，也不算小；里面，一张漆布面的长沙发前摆着一张大写字台，还有一张办公桌，角落里摆着一个公文橱，还有几把椅子——都是公家的家具，都是用磨光的黄色木料制作的。后边那面墙的角落里，或者不如说是在隔板上，有一扇锁着的门：可见那里，隔板后面，大概还有几个房间。拉斯科利尼科夫一进来，波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇立刻把他进去时走的那道门掩上，于是屋里就只有他们两个人了。看来，他是装出最愉快、最亲切的神情来迎接自己的客人，不过，已经过了几分钟以后，拉斯科利尼科夫根据某些迹象发觉，他心里好像有点儿慌乱，——仿佛他突然给搞糊涂了，或者是被人发现了什么隐藏得很深的秘密。
“啊，最尊敬的朋友！瞧，您也……上我们这地方来了……”波尔菲里说，双手都向他伸了过来。“好，请坐，老兄！也许您不喜欢管您叫最尊敬的朋友和……老兄，——不喜欢这样toutcourt①？请不要把这看作亲昵……请这边坐，坐在沙发上。”
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①法文，“亲昵”之意。
拉斯科利尼科夫坐下来，目不转睛地看着他。
“我们这地方”，为过于亲昵而请求原谅，法语词汇“toutcourt”，等等，等等，——这一切都是他的性格特征的表现。
“然而，他把两只手都向我伸了过来，却一只也没和我握手，及时缩回去了，”这想法疑问地在他脑子里忽然一闪。两人互相注视着对方，但是他们的目光一碰到，立刻就像闪电一般移开了。
“我给您送来了申请书……关于表的……这就是。这样写行吗，还是得重写呢？”
“什么？申请书？对，对……您别担心，就是这样写，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇说，好像急于要到哪里去似的，已经说完了这些话，这才接过申请书去，看了一遍。 “对，就这样写。不需要再写什么了，”他又很快地重说了一遍，随手把申请书放到桌子上。后来过了一分钟，已经在谈别的了，他又从桌子上拿起申请书，把它放到自己的办公桌上。
“昨天您好像说过，想要问问我……正式地……问问我认识这个……被害的老太婆的情况？”拉斯科利尼科夫又开始说，“唉，我为什么要加上个好像呢？”这想法像闪电般在他脑子里一闪而过。“可我为什么为了加上个好像就这样担心呢？”立刻又有另一个想法犹如闪电般在他脑子里忽地一闪。
他突然感觉到，刚一与波尔菲里接触，刚刚说了一两句话，刚刚交换了一两次目光，他的神经过敏就已经发展到了骇人听闻的程度……而这是非常危险的：神经紧张起来，不安增强了。“糟糕！糟透了！……我又说漏了嘴。”
“对——对——对！请别担心！时间来得及，来得及的，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇含糊不清地说，同时在桌旁踱来踱去，不过似乎毫无目的，好像一会儿匆匆走到窗前，一会儿走到办公桌那里，一会儿又回到桌子这里，一会儿避开拉斯科利尼科夫怀疑的目光，一会儿又突然站住，目不转睛地直盯着他。这时他那又胖又圆的矮小身躯让人觉得非常奇怪，好像一个小球，一会儿滚到这边，一会儿滚到那边，撞到墙上或角落里，立刻就反弹回来。
“我们来得及的，来得及的！……您抽烟吗？有烟吗？给，来一支香烟吧……”他说着递给客人一支香烟。“您要知道，我在这儿接待您，可我的住房就在这里，隔板后面……公家的房子，不过目前我住在自己租来的房子里，暂时住住。这儿需要修缮一下。现有差不多就要完工了……公家的房子，这玩意儿太好了，——不是吗？您认为呢？”
“是啊，是好得很，”拉斯科利尼科夫几乎是嘲笑地望着他回答。
“好得很，好得很……”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇反复说，似乎突然考虑起与此毫不相干的问题来了，“对！好得很！”最后他几乎高声叫喊起来，突然抬起眼来看了看拉斯科利尼科夫，在离他两步远的地方站住了。他多次愚蠢地重复说，公家的房子好得很，就其庸俗性来说，与现在他注视自己客人的严肃、深思和神秘的目光实在是太矛盾了。
但这更加激怒了拉斯科利尼科夫，他已经无论如何也忍不住了，忍不住要含讥带讽，相当不谨慎地向波尔菲里提出挑战。
“您知道吗，”他突然问，几乎无礼地看着波尔菲里，仿佛从自己的无礼中感觉到乐趣，“好像司法界有这么个惯例，有这么个司法界通用的手法——对所有侦查员都适用的手法，首先从老远开始，从一些无足轻重的小事谈起，或者甚至也可能从严肃的问题开始，不过是毫不相干的其他问题，这样可以，也可以说是鼓励，或者不如说是分散受审的人的注意力，使他麻痹大意，然后突然以最出其不意的方式，冷不防向他提出最具有决定意义的关键性问题，一举击中要害，就像一下子击中天灵盖一样；是这样吗？似乎到目前，所有规章和指南上还都神圣地提到这一点，是吧？”
“是这样，是这样……怎么，您认为，我跟您谈公家的房子就是……啊？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇说过了这句话，眯缝起眼来，眨了眨眼；脸上掠过某种快乐和狡猾的神情，额上的皱纹舒展开了，眼睛眯成了两条细缝，脸拉长了，他突然神经质地、持续不停地哈哈大笑起来，全身抖动着，摇晃着，直瞅着拉斯科利尼科夫的眼睛。后者本来也在笑，不过笑得有点儿做作；可是波尔菲里看到他也在笑，于是高声狂笑起来，笑得几乎涨红了脸，这时拉斯科利尼科夫的厌恶情绪突然越过了小心谨慎所允许的界线：他不再笑了，皱起眉头，在波尔菲里好像故意不停地许久大笑不止的这段时间里，一直目不转睛地久久注视着他。不过，显然双方都不小心，所以，波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇似乎毫不客气地嘲笑这个憎恨他这样大笑的客人，而且对这一情况几乎丝毫也不感到惊慌失措。对拉斯科利尼科夫来说，这一点具有特别重要的意义：他明白，波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇刚才根本就没发窘，恰恰相反，倒是他，拉斯科利尼科夫，大概落入了圈套；这儿显然有什么他不知道的东西，有什么目的；也许一切已经准备就绪，立刻，马上就会见分晓，马上就会落到他头上来了……
他立刻直截了当地谈到正题上来，站起身，拿起制帽。
“波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇，”他坚决地开口说，不过语气相当气愤，“您昨天表示，希望我来这里接受审问。（他特别强调审问这个词。）我来了，如果您要问，那么就请问吧，不然的话，请允许我告退。我没空，我有事……我得去参加那个被马踩死的官员的葬礼，那个人……您也知道的……”他补上一句，可是立刻又为补上这句话生起气来，随后又立刻更加恼怒了，“这一切让我感到厌烦了，您听到吗，早就厌烦了……我生病，在某种程度上就是由于这个原因，……总之，”他几乎高声叫嚷起来，觉得谈到生病，更加不合时宜，“总而言之：请您要么审问我，要么马上让我走……如果审问，一定要合乎手续！不然我是不答应的；因此暂时告辞了，因为现在我们两个人在一起没有什么事情好做了。”
“上帝啊！您这是怎么了！问您什么呢，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇突然抑扬顿挫地说，语气和神情立刻都改变了，笑声也戛然而止，“您请放心好了，”他忙碌起来，又一会儿匆匆地走来走去，一会儿突然请拉斯科利尼科夫坐下，“时间来得及，来得及的，这一切只不过是些小事！我，恰恰相反，您终于到我们这儿来了，我感到那么高兴……我是把您作为客人来接待的。而这该死的笑，您，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇老兄，就请您原谅我吧。是罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇吧？好像，您的父名是这样吧？……我是个神经质的人，您那些非常机智的俏皮话逗乐了我；有时，真的，我会笑得像橡皮一样抖个不停，就这样笑上半个钟头……是个爱笑的人。就我的体质来说，我甚至害怕会瘫痪。嗳，您请坐啊，您怎么了？……请坐，老兄，要不，我会认为您生气了……”
拉斯科利尼科夫默默不语，听着，观察着，一直还在恼怒地皱着眉头。不过他还是坐下了，然而没有放下帽子。
“罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇老兄，我要告诉您一件事，关于我自己的，可以这样说吧，给我自己作个鉴定，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇接着说下去，继续在屋里匆匆走来走去，好像仍然避免与自己客人的目光接触。“我，您要知道，是个单身汉，既不属于上流社会，又没有名望。品质极坏，有些改不了的习惯，可是已经变聪明了，而且……而且……您注意到了吗，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，我们这儿，也就是说，在我们俄罗斯，尤其是在我们彼得堡各界，如果有两个聪明人，彼此还不太熟悉，不过，可以这么说吧，互相尊敬，喏，就像现在我和您这样，这样的两个聪明人到了一起，就会整整半个小时怎么也找不到交谈的话题，——一个对着一个，很不自然，十分冷淡，坐在一起，互相都感到尴尬。要交谈，大家都有话题，譬如说，女士们……譬如说，上流社会那些风度翩翩的人士，他们总有话可谈，c’estderigueur①，可是像我们这些中等的人，却容易发窘，不善于交谈……也就是说，都是些善于思考的人。老兄，这是由于什么原因呢？是不是因为没有共同利益，还是因为我们都很正直，不愿意互相欺骗呢，这我就不知道了。啊？您认为呢？啊，请您把帽子放下吧，好像马上就要走的样子，叫人看着真怪不好意思的……我吗，恰恰相反，我是这么高兴……”
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①法文，“这是必然的；就跟上了发条一样，自然而然地”之意。
拉斯科利尼科夫放下了帽子，仍然默默不语，神情严肃，皱着眉头，在听波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇说这些空空洞洞、不相连贯的废话。“怎么，他真的是想用他这些愚蠢的废话来分散我的注意力吗？”
“我不请您喝咖啡，这儿不是地方；不过为什么不跟朋友在一起坐上五分钟呢，解解闷嘛，”波尔菲里滔滔不绝地说，“您要知道，所有这些公务……老兄，我一直这样走来走去，您可别见怪；请原谅，老兄，我很担心会得罪您，可对我来说，散步简直是必不可少的。我一直坐着，能够这样来来回回走上四、五分钟，真是太高兴了……我有痔疮……一直打算采用体操疗法；据说，那些文官们，四等文官，就连三等文官，也都喜欢跳绳；就是这样嘛，在我们这个时代，这就叫科学……就是这样……至于这儿这些职务，什么审讯啦，还有种种形式上的程序啦……这不是，您，老兄，您刚刚提到了审问……是这样的，您要知道，真的，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇老兄，这些审问有时会把审问的人搞得糊里糊涂，搞得他比受审的人更糊涂……关于这一点，老兄，刚才您说得非常机智，完全正确。（拉斯科利尼科夫根本就没说过一句这样的话。）是会搞糊涂的！真的，是会搞糊涂的！翻来覆去老是那一套，翻来覆去老是那一套，就像敲鼓一样！喏，不是在改革①吗，我们至少会改改名称，换换名目嘛，嘿！嘿！嘿！至于说到我们司法界的手法嘛，——您说得多么俏皮，——我完全同意您的意见。您说，所有被告当中，就连那些穿粗麻布衣服的乡下佬当中，有谁不知道，譬如说吧，一开始会用不相干的问题分散他的注意力（用您的妙语来说），然后突然击中他的要害呢，而且是用斧背，嘿！嘿！嘿！用您巧妙的比喻来说，也就是一下击中他的天灵盖！嘿！嘿！那么您当真认为，我是想用房子来分散您……嘿！嘿！您真是个爱讽刺人的人。好，我不再说了！啊，对了，顺便说说，一句话会引出另一句话，一个想法会引出另一个想法，——这不是，刚才您还提到了手续，您要知道，是关于审问的手续……什么合乎手续啊！您要知道，在很多情况下，手续毫无意义。有时像朋友那样随便聊聊，倒更有好处。手续永远也跑不了，这一点我可以请您放心；可手续的实质是什么呢，我请问您？可不能每走一步都用手续来束缚侦查员，因为侦查员的工作，可以这么说吧，是一种自由的艺术，当然是就某一点来说，或者大致如此……嘿！嘿！嘿！”
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①指一八六四年实行的司法改革。这次改革规定，审理案件时要有律师和陪审员参加，但预审仍然完全是警察局的职权。
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇稍微喘了口气。他不知疲倦地滔滔不绝地说着，一会儿尽说些毫无意义的、空洞的废话，一会儿突然插进几句高深莫测的话，但立刻又语无伦次，又说起废话来了。他已经几乎是在屋里跑来跑去，两条胖胖的腿挪动得越来越快，眼睛一直看着地下，右手背在背后，不停地挥动着左手，做出各种不同的姿势，每个姿势都与他正在说的话很不协调。拉斯科利尼科夫突然发觉，他在屋里跑来跑去的时候，有两次好像在门边站了一会儿，仿佛是侧耳倾听……“他是不是在等什么呢？”
“您当真完全正确，”波尔菲里又接着话茬说，并且快活地、带着异常天真的神情望着拉斯科利尼科夫（他不由得颤栗了一下，立刻作好应付一切的思想准备）， “您这样机智地嘲笑法律手续，当真完全正确，嘿！嘿！我们这些（当然是某些）用意深刻的心理学手法的确极其可笑，大概也毫无用处，如果太受手续束缚的话。是的……我又谈到了手续：唔，如果我认定，或者不如说怀疑某一个人，另一个人或第三个人，可以这么说吧，如果我怀疑他是交给我侦查的某一案件的罪犯……您不是要作法学家吗，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇？”
“是的，是有这个打算……”
“好，那么，可以这么说吧，这儿就有一个案例，可以作为您将来的参考，——您可别以为，我竟敢教导您：您不是发表过论犯罪的文章吗！不，我是向您提供一个实际的案例，——那么，譬如说，如果我认为某个人，另一个人或第三个人是罪犯，试问，时机不到，我为什么要去惊动他呢，即使我有证明他有罪的证据？有的人，譬如说吧，我必须赶快逮捕他，可另一个人却不是这种性质的问题，真的；那么为什么不让他在城里溜达溜达呢，嘿！嘿！不，我看得出来，您还没完全理解，那么我给您说得更清楚些：譬如说吧，如果我过早地把他关起来，那么大概，这样一来，我不是就给了他，可以这么说吧，给了他一精神上的支柱吗，嘿！嘿！您笑了？（拉斯科利尼科夫根本就没想笑：他咬紧嘴唇坐在那里，兴奋的目光一直盯着波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇的眼睛。）然而事实就是这样，特别是对付某一个人，因为人是各式各样的，而对付所有的人，都只能从实践中摸索出经验来。您刚才说：罪证；假定说吧，罪证倒是有了，可是，老兄，罪证大部分都可以作不同的解释，可因为我是个侦查员，所以，很抱歉，也是个能力很差的人：总希望侦查的结果能像数学一般清清楚楚摆在面前，总希望弄到像二二得四一样明白无误的罪证！总希望得到直接的、无可争辩的证据！因为如果我不到时候就把他关起来的话，——虽然我深信，罪犯就是他——那么，我大概是自己夺走了我进一步揭露他的手段，这是为什么呢？因为我，可以这么说吧，让他的处境变得明确了，可以这么说吧，让他在心理上明确起来，反倒使他放了心，于是他就会缩进自己的壳里，什么话也不再说了，因为他终于明白，他被捕了。据说，在塞瓦斯托波尔，阿尔马战役①刚一结束的时候，嗬，一些聪明人都吓得要命，生怕敌人立刻进攻，马上就会夺取塞瓦斯托波尔；可是等他们看到敌人宁愿采取正规围困的办法，正在挖第一道战壕的时候，据说，那些聪明人都高兴死了，放心了，因为既然敌人要正规围困，那么事情至少要拖两个月！您又在笑，又不相信吗？当然，您也是对的。您是对的，您是对的！这都是特殊情况，我同意您的看法；刚才所说的情况的确特殊！不过，最亲爱的罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，同时您也应该看到：一般情况，可供一切法律程序和法规借鉴的、作为制定这些程序和法规的依据、并据以写进书本里的一般情况，事实上根本就不存在，因为各种案件，每个案件，譬如，就拿犯罪来说吧，一旦在现实中发生，立刻就会变成完全特殊的情况；有时会变得那么特殊，和以前的任何案件都不相同。有时也会发生这类滑稽可笑的情况。如果我让某一位先生完全自由：即不逮捕他，也不惊动他，可是让他每时每刻都知道，或者至少是怀疑，我什么都知道，我已经知道他的全部底细，而且日夜都在毫不懈怠地监视着他，如果让他有意识地经常疑神疑鬼，提心吊胆，那么，真的，他一定会心慌意乱，真的，一定会来投案自首，大概还会干出什么别的事来，那可就像二二得四一样，也可以说，像数学一样明确了，——这可是让人高兴的事。就连傻头傻脑的乡下佬也可能发生这种情况，至于我们这样的人，有现代人的头脑，又受过某一方面的教育，那就更不用说了。所以，亲爱的朋友，了解一个人受过哪方面的教育，这可是非常重要的。而神经，神经，您可不能把神经忘了！因为现在人们的神经都有毛病，不太正常，容易激动！……都是那么爱发脾气！我跟您说，必要的时候，这就好像是材料的源泉！我何必为他还没给逮住，还在城里自由活动而担心呢！由他去，让他暂时自由活动吧，由他去；即便如此，我也知道，他是我的猎物，他逃不出我的掌心！再说，他能逃到哪里去呢，嘿！嘿！逃往国外吗？波兰人会逃到国外去，他却不会，何况我还在监视他，采取了某些措施呢。深入祖国腹地吗？可是住在那里的都是农民，穿粗麻布衣服的，真正的俄罗斯农民；而这样一个文化程度很高的现代人却宁愿坐牢，也不愿和像我们农民那样的外国人生活在一起，嘿——嘿！不过这都是废话，是从表面上来看。逃跑，这是什么意思呢！这是说真正逃跑；可主要问题不在这里；并不仅仅是因为他无处可逃，所以才逃不出我的掌心，而是因为在心理上他不可能从我这儿逃脱，嘿——嘿！这话怎么讲呢！由于自然法则，即使他有去处，他也决逃不出我的掌心。您见过飞蛾扑火吗？嗯，就像飞蛾总是围绕着蜡烛盘旋一样，他也将
Part 4 Chapter 6
When he remembered the scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it.
The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a little.
"What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. "Why, I gave orders . . ."
For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing somebody back.
"What is it?" Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.
"The prisoner Nikolay has been brought," someone answered.
"He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What's he doing here? How irregular!" cried Porfiry, rushing to the door.
"But he . . ." began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.
Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then someone gave a violent shove, and then a man, very pale, strode into the room.
This man's appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching.
He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.
Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously.
"Go away, it's too soon! Wait till you are sent for! . . . Why have you brought him so soon?" Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of his reckoning.
But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.
"What's the matter?" cried Porfiry, surprised.
"I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer," Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.
For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood immovable.
"What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary stupefaction.
"I . . . am the murderer," repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause.
"What . . . you . . . what . . . whom did you kill?" Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered.
Nikolay again was silent for a moment.
"Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I . . . killed . . . with an axe. Darkness came over me," he added suddenly, and was again silent.
He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter.
"You're in too great a hurry," he shouted at him, almost angrily. "I didn't ask you what came over you. . . . Speak, did you kill them?"
"I am the murderer. . . . I want to give evidence," Nikolay pronounced.
"Ach! What did you kill them with?"
"An axe. I had it ready."
"Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?"
Nikolay did not understand the question.
"Did you do it alone?"
"Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it."
"Don't be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both!"
"It was to put them off the scent . . . I ran after Mitka," Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.
"I knew it!" cried Porfiry, with vexation. "It's not his own tale he is telling," he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again.
He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.
"My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!" he flew up to him, "this won't do; I'm afraid you must go . . . it's no good your staying . . . I will . . . you see, what a surprise! . . . Good-bye!"
And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.
"I suppose you didn't expect it?" said Raskolnikov who, though he had not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.
"You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling! He-he!"
"You're trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!"
"Yes, I am; I didn't expect it."
They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be gone.
"And your little surprise, aren't you going to show it to me?" Raskolnikov said, sarcastically.
"Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!"
"I believe we can say /good-bye/!"
"That's in God's hands," muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.
As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from /the/ house, whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath.
"One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you . . . so we shall meet again, shan't we?"
And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.
"Shan't we?" he added again.
He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.
"You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed . . . I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.
"Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too . . . I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another."
"And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov.
"Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?"
"To a funeral."
"Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well."
"I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one."
"Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this.
"Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!"
"He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?"
"How could I help noticing it!"
"He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side . . . he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers."
"Yes, of Gogol."
"Yes, of Gogol. . . . I shall look forward to meeting you."
"So shall I."
Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing--something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent.
But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry's aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry's "lead" had been for him. A little more and he /might/ have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There's no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no /facts/ had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn't he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolay?
Porfiry had shown almost all his cards--of course, he had risked something in showing them--and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too. What was that "surprise"? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yesterday's visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him. . . .
He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to the door.
He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna's. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at once he would see Sonia.
He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment on to his lips.
"To-day! To-day," he repeated to himself. "Yes, to-day! So it must be. . . ."
But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there suddenly appeared a figure--yesterday's visitor /from underground/.
The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in his face; he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly like a peasant woman.
"What do you want?" asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching it with his finger.
"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.
"I have sinned," the man articulated softly.
"How?"
"By evil thoughts."
They looked at one another.
"I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go to the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they let you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you. . . ."
"Who came?" Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recollect.
"I did, I've wronged you."
"Then you come from that house?"
"I was standing at the gate with them . . . don't you remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for years past. We cure and prepare hides, we take work home . . . most of all I was vexed. . . ."
And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came clearly before Raskolnikov's mind; he recollected that there had been several people there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered one voice had suggested taking him straight to the police- station. He could not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round and made him some answer. . . .
So this was the solution of yesterday's horror. The most awful thought was that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself on account of such a /trivial/ circumstance. So this man could tell nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porfiry, too, had nothing but that /delirium/, no facts but this /psychology/ which /cuts both ways/, nothing positive. So if no more facts come to light (and they must not, they must not!) then . . . then what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest him? And Porfiry then had only just heard about the flat and had not known about it before.
"Was it you who told Porfiry . . . that I'd been there?" he cried, struck by a sudden idea.
"What Porfiry?"
"The head of the detective department?"
"Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went."
"To-day?"
"I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he worried you."
"Where? What? When?"
"Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time."
"What? Why, then you were the surprise? But how could it happen? Upon my word!"
"I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said," began the man; "for it's too late, said they, and maybe he'll be angry that we did not come at the time. I was vexed and I lost my sleep, and I began making inquiries. And finding out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The first time I went he wasn't there, when I came an hour later he couldn't see me. I went the third time, and they showed me in. I informed him of everything, just as it happened, and he began skipping about the room and punching himself on the chest. 'What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I'd known about it I should have arrested him!' Then he ran out, called somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he turned to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal; and I told him everything, and I told him that you didn't dare to say a word in answer to me yesterday and that you didn't recognise me. And he fell to running about again and kept hitting himself on the chest, and getting angry and running about, and when you were announced he told me to go into the next room. 'Sit there a bit,' he said. 'Don't move, whatever you may hear.' And he set a chair there for me and locked me in. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'I may call you.' And when Nikolay'd been brought he let me out as soon as you were gone. 'I shall send for you again and question you,' he said."
"And did he question Nikolay while you were there?"
"He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to Nikolay."
The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground with his finger.
"Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander."
"May God forgive you," answered Raskolnikov.
And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room.
"It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways," repeated Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever.
"Now we'll make a fight for it," he said, with a malicious smile, as he went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and contempt he recollected his "cowardice."
 
后来，回忆起当时情况的时候，拉斯科利尼科夫脑海中出现的情景是这样的：
从门外传来的喧闹声突然迅速增大了，房门稍稍开了一条缝。
“怎么回事？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇恼怒地喊了一声。
“我不是事先就说过……”
有一瞬间听不到回答，不过看得出来，门外有好几个人，而且好像正在把什么人从这里推开。
“那里到底是怎么回事？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇不安地又问了一遍。
“把犯人尼古拉带来了，”听到了不知是什么人的声音。
“用不着！带走！等一等！……他干吗要来这儿！不守秩序！”波尔菲里冲到门边，大声叫喊。
“可他……”又是那个声音说，可是突然住了声。
一场真正的斗争最多不过持续了两秒种；随后突然好像有什么人用力把什么人推开了，接着有一个面色十分苍白的人迈开大步径直走进了波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇的办公室。
第一眼看上去，这个人的样子很奇怪。他两眼直盯着前面，可是好像什么人也没看见。他眼里露出坚决果断的神情，同时脸上却蒙着一层像死人般苍白的白色，仿佛正在把他押赴刑场似的。他那双完全苍白的嘴唇微微发抖。
他还很年轻，穿得像个平民，中等身材，很瘦，周围的头发剪去一圈，前面的头发聋拉下来，面庞清秀，好像瘦得厉害。那个被他突然推开的人首先跟着他往屋里跑来，而且已经抓住了他的肩膀：这是一个押送他的卫兵；但是尼古拉猛一挣，又一次从他手里挣脱出来。
门口拥挤看好几个好奇的人。其中有几个拚命想往屋里挤。上述一切几乎是在一瞬间发生的。
“带走，还早着呢！先等着，等着叫你们进来！……为什么不到时候就把他带来了？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇仿佛给弄得不知所措了，极其恼怒地、含糊不清地低声说。但是尼古拉突然跪下了。
“你这是干什么？”波尔菲里惊讶地喊了一声。
“我有罪！是我的罪过！我是杀人凶手！”尼古拉突然说，好像有点儿上气不接下气，不过说话的声音相当响亮。
沉默持续了约摸十来秒种，大家似乎都惊呆了；就连那个押送他的卫兵也急忙躲开，不再到尼古拉跟前去，不由自主地退到门边，站住不动了。
“怎么回事？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇呆了一会儿，清醒过来，高声问。
“我是……杀人凶手……”尼古拉稍沉默了一下，又说了一遍。
“怎么……你……怎么…你杀了谁？”
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇显然惊惶失措了。
尼古拉又稍沉默了一会儿。
“阿廖娜•伊万诺芙娜和她妹妹莉扎薇塔，是我……用斧头……杀死的。我一时糊涂……”他突然加上一句，又不作声了。他一直跪着。
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇站了一会儿，好像在沉思，但是突然又很快行动起来，挥手赶开那些不请自来的证人。那些人转瞬间就不见了，门也掩上了。随后他朝站在角落里惊奇地望着尼古拉的拉斯科利尼科夫看了一眼，向他走去，但是突然又站住了，看了看他，立刻又把自己的目光转移到尼古拉身上，然后又去看拉斯科利尼科夫，然后又去看尼古拉，突然仿佛激动起来，又去责骂尼古拉。
“你干吗要先跟我说什么一时糊涂？”他几乎是恶狠狠地冲着他高声大喊。“我还没有问你：你是不是糊涂了……你说：
是你杀的吗？”
“我是杀人凶手……我招认……”尼古拉说。
“哎—呀！你用什么杀的？”
“斧头。我准备好的。”
“唉，急什么！你一个人？”
尼古拉没听懂这个问题。
“你一个人杀的？”
“我一个人。米季卡没有罪，他跟这事毫不相干。”
“先别急着谈米季卡！唉……”
“你是怎么，嗯，当时你是怎么从楼上跑下来的？管院子的不是遇到了你们两个人吗？”
“当时……我和米季卡跑下去……这是我为了转移别人的注意力，”尼古拉好像事先准备好了似的，急急忙忙地回答。
“嗯，这就是了！”波尔菲里恶狠狠地喊了一声，“他说的不是实话！”他自言自语似地喃喃地说，突然又看到了拉斯科利尼科夫。
看来，他全神贯注地在问尼古拉，有一会儿工夫甚至忘记了拉斯科利尼科夫。现在他突然醒悟，甚至发窘了……
“罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，老兄！请原谅，”他匆匆朝他走去，“不能这样；请吧……您在这儿没什么事了……我自己……您看，多么出乎意外的事！请吧！”
说着挽住他的手，向他指了指房门。
“这您大概没料到吧？”拉斯科利尼科夫说，他当然还没弄清这是怎么回事，不过已经大大振作起来。
“老兄，您也没料到吧。瞧，您的手抖得多厉害啊！嘿——
嘿！”
“您也在发抖嘛，波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇。”
“我也在发抖；没料到啊！……”
他们已经站在门口了。波尔菲里急不可耐地等着拉斯科利尼科夫走开。
“意外的礼物不让我看了吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说。
“还说俏皮话呢，可是牙齿还在嘴里捉对儿厮打，嘿——
嘿！您真是个爱讽刺人的人！好啦，再见。”
“照我看，还是说别了吧！”
“那就看情况了，那就看情况了！”波尔菲里喃喃地说，撇着嘴，好像在微笑。
经过办公室的时候，拉斯科利尼科夫注意到，很多人都凝神注视着他。在前室里，他在那儿的一群人中认出了那幢房子里两个管院子的，那天夜里他曾叫他们一起去见警察分局的局长。他们站在那里，不知在等着什么。但是他刚刚走到楼梯上，突然又听到身后有波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇说话的声音。他一回头，看到波尔菲里跑得气喘吁吁地追上了他。
“还有一句话，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇；其余的事情嘛，看情况而定，不过按手续说嘛，有些问题还得问问您……那么我们还会见面的，就这样吧。”
波尔菲里面带微笑，站到了他的面前。
“就这样吧，”他又说了一遍。
可以看出，他还想再说点儿什么，可是不知为什么没有说出来。
“波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇，请您原谅我刚才说的那些话……我太急躁了，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，已经完全振作起来，忍不住想炫耀一下，说两句漂亮话。
“没关系，没关系……”波尔菲里几乎是高兴地附和说。
“我自己也……脾气太坏，我很抱歉，我很抱歉！那么我们还会见面的。如果情况需要，那么还会见好多次面！……”
“最后我们也能互相了解吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫接住话茬说。
“最后我们一定能互相了解，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇随声附和说，说着眯缝起眼睛，神情严肃地看了看他。“现在去参加命名日吗？”
“去参加葬礼。”
“啊，对了，是去参加葬礼！您可要多加保重呀，保重自己的身体……”
“我可不知道该祝您什么！”拉斯科利尼科夫接住话茬说，他已经开始下楼了，可是又回过头来，对波尔菲里说，“祝您获得很大的成功吧，您要知道，您的职务多么富有喜剧性啊！”
“为什么富有喜剧性呢？”本来已经转身要走的波尔菲里立刻竖起耳朵来听着。
“那还用说吗，您想必是用您那套办法，在心理上折磨这个可怜的米科尔卡，让他精神上痛苦不堪，直到他招认为止；您想必是不分昼夜都在向他证明：‘你是杀人凶手，你是杀人凶手……’可是，现在他招认了，您又要详详细细、一点一点地给他分析说：‘你说谎，凶手不是你！你不可能是凶手！你说的不是实话！’嗯，这样一来，您的职务怎么会不富有喜剧性呢？”
“嘿——嘿——嘿！您真的听见我刚才对尼古拉说，他‘说的不是实话’了？”
“怎么会听不见呢？”
“嘿——嘿！您真敏锐，敏锐。什么您都会注意到！真是个会开玩笑的人！正好碰到最富有喜剧性的那根弦上……嘿——嘿！据说，作家当中只有果戈理最具有这个特点。”
“是的，只有果戈理。”
“是的，只有果戈理……最愉快地再见。”
“最愉快地再见……”
拉斯科利尼科夫一直回家去了。他是那么心烦意乱，那么困惑不解，回到家里，倒在沙发上，就这样坐了一刻钟的样子，只不过是在休息，竭力想让思想多少集中起来。他不想去考虑尼古拉的问题：他觉得，他吃了一惊；尼古拉的供词中有某一点是无法解释的，令人感到惊讶，现在他无论如何也无法理解。不过尼古拉的供认是千真万确的事实。这一事实的后果他却立刻就明白了：谎言不可能不被发觉，到那时就又会来找他的麻烦。但是至少在那以前他是自由的，他必须为了自己采取某种行动，因为危险并未过去。
不过危险达到了什么程度呢？情况开始清楚了。他草草地大体上回想了一下刚才会见波尔菲里的情景，不能不又一次吓得浑身发抖。当然，他还不知道波尔菲里的所有目的，不能了解他刚才的所有打算。但是这场游戏中的一部分花招已经暴露出来了，当然，谁也不能像他那样清楚，波尔菲里走的这“步”棋对他来说是多么可怕。再稍一进逼，他就可能完全暴露自己，那可已经是真的暴露无遗了。波尔菲里了解他性格上这种近乎病态的特点，一眼就看透了他，采取的行动虽然过于坚决，却几乎是很有把握的。无疑，拉斯科利尼科夫刚才已经过于暴露了自己，不过毕竟还没接触到事实；这一切还只是相对的。不过现在他对这一切理解得对不对，对不对呢？他是不是理解错了？今天波尔菲里到底想得到什么结果？今天他是不是当真作好了什么准备？究竟是什么准备？他是不是真的在等待什么？如果不是尼古拉使事情发生了出乎意外的转折，今天他们到底会怎样分手呢？”
波尔菲里几乎把他手里的全部牌统统都亮出来了；当然是冒险，不过他都亮出来了，而且（拉斯科利尼科夫一直好像觉得）如果波尔菲里手里当真还有更多的东西，他也会把它全都亮出来的。这“意外的礼物”是什么呢？开玩笑，还是什么别的？这有没有什么意义呢？这后面是不是隐藏着什么类似事实的东西，真正可以证明他有罪的东西？是昨天的那个人吗？他钻到哪里去了？今天他在哪里？要知道，即使波尔菲里掌握了什么真正的罪证，那当然也是因为昨天那个人的关系……
他坐在沙发上，低下了头，胳膊肘支在膝盖上，用双手捂住了脸。全身仍然在神经质地颤抖。最后，他拿起帽子，想了想，向房门走去。
他多少有点儿预感，至少今天，他几乎肯定可以认为自己没有危险了。突然，他心中几乎感到一阵喜悦：他想赶快到卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜那里去。要去参加葬礼，当然已经迟了，不过去参加酬客宴还来得及，而在那里，他立刻就能见到索尼娅了。
他站下来，又想了想，嘴角上勉强露出了痛苦的微笑。
“今天！今天！”他暗自反复说，“是的，今天！应当这样……”
他刚想开门，房门却突然自己开开了。他颤栗起来，赶紧往后一跳。房门慢慢地、轻轻地打开了，突然出现了一个人——昨天那个人从地底下钻出来了。
那人在门口站住了，默默地朝拉斯科利尼科夫看了看，往屋里走进一步。他完全和昨天一模一样，还是那副样子，还是穿着那身衣裳，然而他的脸上和目光中却发生了很厉害的变化：现在他看上去好像有点儿闷闷不乐，稍站了一会儿，深深叹了口气。就只差他没有同时用手掌捂住脸，把头歪到一边，不然就完全像一个乡下女人了。
“您有什么事？”吓得面无人色的拉斯科利尼科夫问。
那人沉默了一会儿，突然向他深深地鞠了一躬，几乎是一躬到地。至少右手的一个手指碰到了地上。
“您这是做什么？”拉斯科利尼科夫惊呼。
“我错了，”那人轻轻地说。
“什么错了？”
“我怀有恶意。”
他们两人互相对望着。
“我很恼怒。那时候您去那里，也许是喝醉了，您叫管院子的去警察局，还问起那摊血，可是没有引起他们的注意，都把您当成了酒鬼，我觉得很气愤。气得觉都睡不着了。我们记住了您的地址，昨天到这儿来过，问起过……”
“谁来过？”拉斯科利尼科夫打断了他，霎时间记起来了。
“也就是说，我得罪您了。”
“那么您是住在那幢房子里？”
“是啊，我就住在那里，当时和他们一道站在大门口，您忘了吗？我是个手艺人，就在那里干活儿，好多年了。我是个制毛皮的工匠，小市民，接了活儿，拿回家里去做……我最恼怒……”
拉斯科利尼科夫突然清清楚楚回想起前天在大门口的那幕情景；他想起，除了两个管院子的，那儿还站着好几个人，有几个是女人。他想起，有一个人的声音提议把他送到警察局去。说话的人的脸像什么样子，他记不起来了，就连现在，他也没能认出来，不过他记得，当时他甚至回答了一句什么，还转过脸去，面对着那个人……
那么，可见昨天的那场恐惧就是这么来的。最可怕的是想到，为了这样一件微不足道的小事，他当真几乎毁了，几乎毁了自己。可见，除了租房子和问起那摊血，这个人不可能说出任何别的东西。可见，除了这些呓语，波尔菲里也没有掌握任何事实，除了可以作不同解释的心理状态，波尔菲里那里并没有任何真正的证据。可见，如果不再出现更多的事实（不应该再出现更多的事实了，不应该了，不应该了！）那么……那么他们能拿他怎么办呢？即使逮捕他，又能用什么来彻底揭穿他呢？而且，可见波尔菲里只不过是现在，只不过是刚刚得知租房子的事，而在这以前，他并不知道这回事。
“这是您今天去对波尔菲里说……说我去过那儿吗？”他高声问，这个突然产生的想法使他吃了一惊。
“哪个波尔菲里？”
“侦查科科长。”
“我对他说了。两个管院子的当时没有去，我去了。”
“今天？”
“就在您去以前不多一会儿。我全都听见了，什么都听见了，听见他是在怎样折磨您。”
“在哪里？听见了什么？什么时候？”
“就在那里，在他的隔板后面，我一直坐在那里。”
“怎么？那么您就是那个意外的礼物吗？这是怎么回事？
请您说说吧！”
“我看到，”那个小市民说，“那两个管院子的不听我的话，不肯去，因为，他们说，时间已经太晚了，大概，局长会生气的，因为去得不是时候，我心里很气，气得睡不着觉，于是就去打听。昨天打听清楚以后，今天就去了。头一次去的时候，他不在。过了一个钟头再去，不接见，第三次去，才让我进去。我把事情的经过原原本本地向他报告了，他在屋里跳了起来，还拿拳头捶自己的胸膛，说：‘你们这些强盗，你们都干了些什么？我要是知道这样的事，我就会派人去把他押了来！’ 随后，他跑出去，叫了一个人来，跟他躲在旮旯儿里说话，随后又回到我这儿，盘问我，骂我。他狠狠地责备我，说了很多很多；我把什么都向他报告了，还说，听了我昨天的话，您什么也不敢回答我，还说，您没认出我来。这时他又跑来跑去，一直捶打自己的胸膛，大发脾气，又跑来跑去，等到向他报告，说您来了，他说，喂，你到隔板后面去，暂时坐在那儿，不管你听到什么，都不要动，还亲自给我端来一把椅子，把我锁在里面；他说，也许我还要找你。等到带来了尼古拉，您走了以后，他把我也放了，他说：我还需要你，还要问你……”
“他当着你的面审问尼古拉了？”
“放您走了以后，立刻也放我走了，在那以后才开始审问尼古拉。”
那个小市民住了口，突然又一躬到地，手指碰到了地板。
“请宽恕我的诬告和怀恨。”
“上帝会宽恕的，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答，刚说完这句话，那个小市民又向他鞠了一躬，不过已经不是一躬到地，而只是深深地弯下了腰，然后慢慢转身，从屋里走了出去。“一切还都祸福难测，现在一切还都祸福难测啊，”拉斯科利尼科夫反复说，比任何时候都更加大胆地从屋里走了出去。
“现在咱们还要较量一下呢，”他恶狠狠地冷笑着说，说着下楼去了。他恨的是他自己；他怀着鄙夷和惭愧的心情回想起自己的“胆怯”。
Part 5 Chapter 1
The morning that followed the fateful interview with Dounia and her mother brought sobering influences to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch. Intensely unpleasant as it was, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact beyond recall what had seemed to him only the day before fantastic and incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed, Pyotr Petrovitch immediately looked in the looking-glass. He was afraid that he had jaundice. However his health seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble, clear-skinned countenance which had grown fattish of late, Pyotr Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the conviction that he would find another bride and, perhaps, even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his present position, he turned aside and spat vigorously, which excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, the young friend with whom he was staying. That smile Pyotr Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his young friend's account. He had set down a good many points against him of late. His anger was redoubled when he reflected that he ought not to have told Andrey Semyonovitch about the result of yesterday's interview. That was the second mistake he had made in temper, through impulsiveness and irritability. . . . Moreover, all that morning one unpleasantness followed another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case in the senate. He was particularly irritated by the owner of the flat which had been taken in view of his approaching marriage and was being redecorated at his own expense; the owner, a rich German tradesman, would not entertain the idea of breaking the contract which had just been signed and insisted on the full forfeit money, though Pyotr Petrovitch would be giving him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way the upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the instalment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the flat.
"Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?" Pyotr Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once more he had a gleam of desperate hope. "Can all that be really so irrevocably over? Is it no use to make another effort?" The thought of Dounia sent a voluptuous pang through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment, and if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it, Pyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the wish.
"It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money," he thought, as he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov's room, "and why on earth was I such a Jew? It was false economy! I meant to keep them without a penny so that they should turn to me as their providence, and look at them! foo! If I'd spent some fifteen hundred roubles on them for the trousseau and presents, on knick-knacks, dressing-cases, jewellery, materials, and all that sort of trash from Knopp's and the English shop, my position would have been better and . . . stronger! They could not have refused me so easily! They are the sort of people that would feel bound to return money and presents if they broke it off; and they would find it hard to do it! And their conscience would prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto been so generous and delicate?. . . . H'm! I've made a blunder."
And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called himself a fool-- but not aloud, of course.
He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna's excited his curiosity as he passed. He had heard about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he had been invited, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no attention. Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel who was busy laying the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery, he heard that the entertainment was to be a great affair, that all the lodgers had been invited, among them some who had not known the dead man, that even Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch, was not only invited, but was eagerly expected as he was the most important of the lodgers. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great ceremony in spite of the recent unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations and was taking a positive pleasure in them; she was moreover dressed up to the nines, all in new black silk, and she was proud of it. All this suggested an idea to Pyotr Petrovitch and he went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov's, somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was to be one of the guests.
Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning. The attitude of Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman was strange, though perhaps natural. Pyotr Petrovitch had despised and hated him from the day he came to stay with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not come to stay with him on his arrival in Petersburg simply from parsimony, though that had been perhaps his chief object. He had heard of Andrey Semyonovitch, who had once been his ward, as a leading young progressive who was taking an important part in certain interesting circles, the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had impressed Pyotr Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient circles who despised everyone and showed everyone up had long inspired in him a peculiar but quite vague alarm. He had not, of course, been able to form even an approximate notion of what they meant. He, like everyone, had heard that there were, especially in Petersburg, progressives of some sort, nihilists and so on, and, like many people, he exaggerated and distorted the significance of those words to an absurd degree. What for many years past he had feared more than anything was /being shown up/ and this was the chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of this as little children are sometimes panic-stricken. Some years before, when he was just entering on his own career, he had come upon two cases in which rather important personages in the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal for the person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reason Pyotr Petrovitch intended to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, if necessary, to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour of "our younger generation." He relied on Andrey Semyonovitch for this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current phrases. He soon discovered that Andrey Semyonovitch was a commonplace simpleton, but that by no means reassured Pyotr Petrovitch. Even if he had been certain that all the progressives were fools like him, it would not have allayed his uneasiness. All the doctrines, the ideas, the systems, with which Andrey Semyonovitch pestered him had no interest for him. He had his own object--he simply wanted to find out at once what was happening /here/. Had these people any power or not? Had he anything to fear from them? Would they expose any enterprise of his? And what precisely was now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them and get round them if they really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not? Couldn't he gain something through them? In fact hundreds of questions presented themselves.
Andrey Semyonovitch was an anaemic, scrofulous little man, with strangely flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. He was a clerk and had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was rather soft-hearted, but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his little figure. He was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia Ivanovna, for he did not get drunk and paid regularly for his lodgings. Andrey Semyonovitch really was rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress and "our younger generation" from enthusiasm. He was one of the numerous and varied legion of dullards, of half-animate abortions, conceited, half-educated coxcombs, who attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vulgarise it and who caricature every cause they serve, however sincerely.
Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was beginning to dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on both sides unconsciously. However simple Andrey Semyonovitch might be, he began to see that Pyotr Petrovitch was duping him and secretly despising him, and that "he was not the right sort of man." He had tried expounding to him the system of Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late Pyotr Petrovitch began to listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun instinctively to guess that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace simpleton, but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked things up third-hand; and that very likely he did not even know much about his own work of propaganda, for he was in too great a muddle. A fine person he would be to show anyone up! It must be noted, by the way, that Pyotr Petrovitch had during those ten days eagerly accepted the strangest praise from Andrey Semyonovitch; he had not protested, for instance, when Andrey Semyonovitch belauded him for being ready to contribute to the establishment of the new "commune," or to abstain from christening his future children, or to acquiesce if Dounia were to take a lover a month after marriage, and so on. Pyotr Petrovitch so enjoyed hearing his own praises that he did not disdain even such virtues when they were attributed to him.
Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise some five- per-cent bonds and now he sat down to the table and counted over bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch who hardly ever had any money walked about the room pretending to himself to look at all those bank notes with indifference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced Pyotr Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really look on the money unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept thinking bitterly that Pyotr Petrovitch was capable of entertaining such an idea about him and was, perhaps, glad of the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding him of his inferiority and the great difference between them.
He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though he, Andrey Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite subject, the foundation of a new special "commune." The brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr Petrovitch between the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame betrayed unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the "humane" Andrey Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch's ill-humour to his recent breach with Dounia and he was burning with impatience to discourse on that theme. He had something progressive to say on the subject which might console his worthy friend and "could not fail" to promote his development.
"There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that . . . at the widow's, isn't there?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked suddenly, interrupting Andrey Semyonovitch at the most interesting passage.
"Why, don't you know? Why, I was telling you last night what I think about all such ceremonies. And she invited you too, I heard. You were talking to her yesterday . . ."
"I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on this feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was surprised just now as I came through at the preparations there, the wines! Several people are invited. It's beyond everything!" continued Pyotr Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the conversation. "What? You say I am asked too? When was that? I don't remember. But I shan't go. Why should I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday of the possibility of her obtaining a year's salary as a destitute widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on that account, hasn't she? He-he-he!"
"I don't intend to go either," said Lebeziatnikov.
"I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well hesitate, he-he!"
"Who thrashed? Whom?" cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered and blushing.
"Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so yesterday . . . so that's what your convictions amount to . . . and the woman question, too, wasn't quite sound, he-he-he!" and Pyotr Petrovitch, as though comforted, went back to clicking his beads.
"It's all slander and nonsense!" cried Lebeziatnikov, who was always afraid of allusions to the subject. "It was not like that at all, it was quite different. You've heard it wrong; it's a libel. I was simply defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out all my whiskers. . . . It's permissable for anyone, I should hope, to defend himself and I never allow anyone to use violence to me on principle, for it's an act of despotism. What was I to do? I simply pushed her back."
"He-he-he!" Luzhin went on laughing maliciously.
"You keep on like that because you are out of humour yourself. . . . But that's nonsense and it has nothing, nothing whatever to do with the woman question! You don't understand; I used to think, indeed, that if women are equal to men in all respects, even in strength (as is maintained now) there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I reflected afterwards that such a question ought not really to arise, for there ought not to be fighting and in the future society fighting is unthinkable . . . and that it would be a queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I am not so stupid . . . though, of course, there is fighting . . . there won't be later, but at present there is . . . confound it! How muddled one gets with you! It's not on that account that I am not going. I am not going on principle, not to take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners, that's why! Though, of course, one might go to laugh at it. . . . I am sorry there won't be any priests at it. I should certainly go if there were."
"Then you would sit down at another man's table and insult it and those who invited you. Eh?"
"Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a good object. I might indirectly assist the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. It's a duty of every man to work for enlightenment and propaganda and the more harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea. . . . And something might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them? They might be offended at first, but afterwards they'd see I'd done them a service. You know, Terebyeva (who is in the community now) was blamed because when she left her family and . . . devoted . . . herself, she wrote to her father and mother that she wouldn't go on living conventionally and was entering on a free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh, that she might have spared them and have written more kindly. I think that's all nonsense and there's no need of softness; on the contrary, what's wanted is protest. Varents had been married seven years, she abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight out in a letter: 'I have realised that I cannot be happy with you. I can never forgive you that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there is another organisation of society by means of the communities. I have only lately learned it from a great-hearted man to whom I have given myself and with whom I am establishing a community. I speak plainly because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Do as you think best. Do not hope to get me back, you are too late. I hope you will be happy.' That's how letters like that ought to be written!"
"Is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free marriage?"
"No, it's only the second, really! But what if it were the fourth, what if it were the fifteenth, that's all nonsense! And if ever I regretted the death of my father and mother, it is now, and I sometimes think if my parents were living what a protest I would have aimed at them! I would have done something on purpose . . . I would have shown them! I would have astonished them! I am really sorry there is no one!"
"To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as you will," Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted, "but tell me this; do you know the dead man's daughter, the delicate-looking little thing? It's true what they say about her, isn't it?"
"What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction that this is the normal condition of women. Why not? I mean, /distinguons/. In our present society it is not altogether normal, because it is compulsory, but in the future society it will be perfectly normal, because it will be voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she was suffering and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she had a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future society there will be no need of assets, but her part will have another significance, rational and in harmony with her environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I regard her action as a vigorous protest against the organisation of society, and I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice indeed when I look at her!"
"I was told that you got her turned out of these lodgings."
Lebeziatnikov was enraged.
"That's another slander," he yelled. "It was not so at all! That was all Katerina Ivanovna's invention, for she did not understand! And I never made love to Sofya Semyonovna! I was simply developing her, entirely disinterestedly, trying to rouse her to protest. . . . All I wanted was her protest and Sofya Semyonovna could not have remained here anyway!"
"Have you asked her to join your community?"
"You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me to tell you. You don't understand! There is no such role in a community. The community is established that there should be no such roles. In a community, such a role is essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible there, what, under present conditions, is unnatural becomes perfectly natural in the community. It all depends on the environment. It's all the environment and man himself is nothing. And I am on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as having wronged her. I am trying now to attract her to the community, but on quite, quite a different footing. What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish a community of our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone further in our convictions. We reject more! And meanwhile I'm still developing Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!"
"And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He-he!"
"No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary."
"Oh, on the contrary! He-he-he! A queer thing to say!"
"Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself how timid, chaste and modern she is with me!"
"And you, of course, are developing her . . . he-he! trying to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense?"
"Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly--excuse me saying so--you misunderstand the word development! Good heavens, how . . . crude you still are! We are striving for the freedom of women and you have only one idea in your head. . . . Setting aside the general question of chastity and feminine modesty as useless in themselves and indeed prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that's for her to decide. Of course if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me, I should think myself very lucky, because I like the girl very much; but as it is, no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more respect for her dignity . . . I wait in hopes, that's all!"
"You had much better make her a present of something. I bet you never thought of that."
"You don't understand, as I've told you already! Of course, she is in such a position, but it's another question. Quite another question! You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly consider deserving of contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You don't know what a character she is! I am only sorry that of late she has quite given up reading and borrowing books. I used to lend them to her. I am sorry, too, that with all the energy and resolution in protesting--which she has already shown once--she has little self-reliance, little, so to say, independence, so as to break free from certain prejudices and certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands some questions, for instance about kissing of hands, that is, that it's an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her hand, because it's a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an account of the workmen's associations in France, too. Now I am explaining the question of coming into the room in the future society."
"And what's that, pray?"
"We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of the community the right to enter another member's room, whether man or woman, at any time . . . and we decided that he has!"
"It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!"
Lebeziatnikov was really angry.
"You are always thinking of something unpleasant," he cried with aversion. "Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I was expounding our system, I referred prematurely to the question of personal privacy! It's always a stumbling-block to people like you, they turn it into ridicule before they understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Tfoo! I've often maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice till he has a firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you find so shameful even in cesspools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out any cesspool you like. And it's not a question of self-sacrifice, it's simply work, honourable, useful work which is as good as any other and much better than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkin, because it is more useful."
"And more honourable, more honourable, he-he-he!"
"What do you mean by 'more honourable'? I don't understand such expressions to describe human activity. 'More honourable,' 'nobler'-- all those are old-fashioned prejudices which I reject. Everything which is /of use/ to mankind is honourable. I only understand one word: /useful/! You can snigger as much as you like, but that's so!"
Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money and was putting it away. But some of the notes he left on the table. The "cesspool question" had already been a subject of dispute between them. What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while it amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted to anger his young friend.
"It's your ill-luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured and annoying," blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his "independence" and his "protests" did not venture to oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still behaved to him with some of the respect habitual in earlier years.
"You'd better tell me this," Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted with haughty displeasure, "can you . . . or rather are you really friendly enough with that young person to ask her to step in here for a minute? I think they've all come back from the cemetery . . . I heard the sound of steps . . . I want to see her, that young person."
"What for?" Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise.
"Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to-day or to-morrow and therefore I wanted to speak to her about . . . However, you may be present during the interview. It's better you should be, indeed. For there's no knowing what you might imagine."
"I shan't imagine anything. I only asked and, if you've anything to say to her, nothing is easier than to call her in. I'll go directly and you may be sure I won't be in your way."
Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She came in very much surprised and overcome with shyness as usual. She was always shy in such circumstances and was always afraid of new people, she had been as a child and was even more so now. . . . Pyotr Petrovitch met her "politely and affably," but with a certain shade of bantering familiarity which in his opinion was suitable for a man of his respectability and weight in dealing with a creature so young and so /interesting/ as she. He hastened to "reassure" her and made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat down, looked about her--at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes remained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the door. Pyotr Petrovitch signed to Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov.
"Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?" he asked him in a whisper.
"Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in. . . . Why?"
"Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave me alone with this . . . young woman. I only want a few words with her, but God knows what they may make of it. I shouldn't like Raskolnikov to repeat anything. . . . You understand what I mean?"
"I understand!" Lebeziatnikov saw the point. "Yes, you are right. . . . Of course, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy, but . . . still, you are right. Certainly I'll stay. I'll stand here at the window and not be in your way . . . I think you are right . . ."
Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia, looked attentively at her and assumed an extremely dignified, even severe expression, as much as to say, "don't you make any mistake, madam." Sonia was overwhelmed with embarrassment.
"In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my excuses to your respected mamma. . . . That's right, isn't it? Katerina Ivanovna stands in the place of a mother to you?" Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity, though affably.
It was evident that his intentions were friendly.
"Quite so, yes; the place of a mother," Sonia answered, timidly and hurriedly.
"Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable circumstances I am forced to be absent and shall not be at the dinner in spite of your mamma's kind invitation."
"Yes . . . I'll tell her . . . at once."
And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat.
"Wait, that's not all," Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of good manners, "and you know me little, my dear Sofya Semyonovna, if you suppose I would have ventured to trouble a person like you for a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I have another object."
Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the grey-and-rainbow-coloured notes that remained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it horribly indecorous, especially for /her/, to look at another person's money. She stared at the gold eye-glass which Pyotr Petrovitch held in his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not knowing where to turn, ended by staring Pyotr Petrovitch again straight in the face. After a pause of still greater dignity he continued.
"I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was sufficient to enable me to ascertain that she is in a position--preternatural, if one may so express it."
"Yes . . . preternatural . . ." Sonia hurriedly assented.
"Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, ill."
"Yes, simpler and more comprehen . . . yes, ill."
"Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to speak compassion, I should be glad to be of service to her in any way, foreseeing her unfortunate position. I believe the whole of this poverty-stricken family depends now entirely on you?"
"Allow me to ask," Sonia rose to her feet, "did you say something to her yesterday of the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had undertaken to get her one. Was that true?"
"Not in the slightest, and indeed it's an absurdity! I merely hinted at her obtaining temporary assistance as the widow of an official who had died in the service--if only she has patronage . . . but apparently your late parent had not served his full term and had not indeed been in the service at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in that case, far from it. . . . And she is dreaming of a pension already, he-he-he! . . . A go-ahead lady!"
"Yes, she is. For she is credulous and good-hearted, and she believes everything from the goodness of her heart and . . . and . . . and she is like that . . . yes . . . You must excuse her," said Sonia, and again she got up to go.
"But you haven't heard what I have to say."
"No, I haven't heard," muttered Sonia.
"Then sit down." She was terribly confused; she sat down again a third time.
"Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad, as I have said before, so far as lies in my power, to be of service, that is, so far as is in my power, not more. One might for instance get up a subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is always arranged in such cases by friends or even outsiders desirous of assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it might be done."
"Yes, yes . . . God will repay you for it," faltered Sonia, gazing intently at Pyotr Petrovitch.
"It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin it to-day, we will talk it over this evening and lay the foundation so to speak. Come to me at seven o'clock. Mr. Lebeziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for which I venture to trouble you, Sofya Semyonovna, to come here. In my opinion money cannot be, indeed it's unsafe to put it into Katerina Ivanovna's own hands. The dinner to-day is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to speak, a crust of bread for to-morrow and . . . well, boots or shoes, or anything; she has bought to-day Jamaica rum, and even, I believe, Madeira and . . . and coffee. I saw it as I passed through. To-morrow it will all fall upon you again, they won't have a crust of bread. It's absurd, really, and so, to my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so that the unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you, for instance. Am I right?"
"I don't know . . . this is only to-day, once in her life. . . . She was so anxious to do honour, to celebrate the memory. . . . And she is very sensible . . . but just as you think and I shall be very, very . . . they will all be . . . and God will reward . . . and the orphans . . ."
Sonia burst into tears.
"Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept for the benefit of your relation the small sum that I am able to spare, from me personally. I am very anxious that my name should not be mentioned in connection with it. Here . . . having so to speak anxieties of my own, I cannot do more . . ."
And Pyotr Petrovitch held out to Sonia a ten-rouble note carefully unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her ceremoniously to the door. She got out of the room at last, agitated and distressed, and returned to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion.
All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked about the room, anxious not to interrupt the conversation; when Sonia had gone he walked up to Pyotr Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand.
"I heard and /saw/ everything," he said, laying stress on the last verb. "That is honourable, I mean to say, it's humane! You wanted to avoid gratitude, I saw! And although I cannot, I confess, in principle sympathise with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the evil but even promotes it, yet I must admit that I saw your action with pleasure--yes, yes, I like it."
"That's all nonsense," muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebeziatnikov.
"No, it's not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as you did yesterday and who yet can sympathise with the misery of others, such a man . . . even though he is making a social mistake--is still deserving of respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovitch, especially as according to your ideas . . . oh, what a drawback your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for instance by your ill-luck yesterday," cried the simple-hearted Lebeziatnikov, who felt a return of affection for Pyotr Petrovitch. "And, what do you want with marriage, with /legal/ marriage, my dear, noble Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do you cling to this /legality/ of marriage? Well, you may beat me if you like, but I am glad, positively glad it hasn't come off, that you are free, that you are not quite lost for humanity. . . . you see, I've spoken my mind!"
"Because I don't want in your free marriage to be made a fool of and to bring up another man's children, that's why I want legal marriage," Luzhin replied in order to make some answer.
He seemed preoccupied by something.
"Children? You referred to children," Lebeziatnikov started off like a warhorse at the trumpet call. "Children are a social question and a question of first importance, I agree; but the question of children has another solution. Some refuse to have children altogether, because they suggest the institution of the family. We'll speak of children later, but now as to the question of honour, I confess that's my weak point. That horrid, military, Pushkin expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of the future. What does it mean indeed? It's nonsense, there will be no deception in a free marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a legal marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest. So that indeed it's not humiliating . . . and if I ever, to suppose an absurdity, were to be legally married, I should be positively glad of it. I should say to my wife: 'My dear, hitherto I have loved you, now I respect you, for you've shown you can protest!' You laugh! That's because you are of incapable of getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I understand now where the unpleasantness is of being deceived in a legal marriage, but it's simply a despicable consequence of a despicable position in which both are humiliated. When the deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it does not exist, it's unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she respects you by considering you incapable of opposing her happiness and avenging yourself on her for her new husband. Damn it all! I sometimes dream if I were to be married, pfoo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or not, it's just the same, I should present my wife with a lover if she had not found one for herself. 'My dear,' I should say, 'I love you, but even more than that I desire you to respect me. See!' Am I not right?"
Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listened, but without much merriment. He hardly heard it indeed. He was preoccupied with something else and even Lebeziatnikov at last noticed it. Pyotr Petrovitch seemed excited and rubbed his hands. Lebeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected upon it afterwards.
 
彼得•彼特罗维奇与杜涅奇卡以及普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜作了那次决定他命运的解释以后，第二天的那个早晨对彼得•彼特罗维奇也起了使他头脑清醒的作用。昨天他还觉得那件事几乎是幻想的产物，虽然事实上已经发生了，可仍然好像是不可能的，现在，尽管他感到极为不快，却不得不渐渐地把它看作木已成舟、无法挽回的事实了。受了伤害的自尊心好似一条毒蛇，整夜在咬噬着他的心。彼得•彼特罗维奇一起床，立刻照了照镜子。他担心，一夜之间是不是会害了黄疸病？然而暂时这方面还没出什么问题，彼得•彼特罗维奇看了看自己轮廓优美、白皙，最近稍有点儿发胖的脸，有一会儿工夫感到宽慰，满怀信心，相信一定能在别的什么地方另找一个未婚妻，大概，还会找到一个更好的；可是他立刻清醒了过来，坚决地往一边吐了口唾沫，这使得与他同住一间房间的年轻朋友安德烈•谢苗诺维奇•列别贾特尼科夫脸上露出了无声的、然而是讥讽的微笑。彼得•彼特罗维奇看到了这个微笑，心里立刻认为，他的年轻朋友这样笑是很不对的。最近他已经发现这个年轻朋友有很多不对的地方。他突然明白了，昨天不该把昨天那件事的结果告诉安德烈•谢苗诺维奇，这样一想，心里感到加倍恼怒。这是他昨天一时冲动，太不善于控制自己的感情，太容易动怒而犯下的第二个错误……随后，好像故意为难似的，这天早晨又接二连三地发生了一些不愉快的事。就连他在参政院里为之多方奔走的那个案件，等待着他的也似乎是败诉。特别惹他生气的是他的房东，为了不久即将结婚，他向这个人租了一套房子，还自己花钱装修了一番；这个房东，这个发了财的德国工匠，无论如何也不同意废除刚刚签订的租约，要求按写进租约的条款，支付全部违约金，尽管彼得•彼特罗维奇交还给他的房子几乎是重新装修过的。家具店的情况也完全一样，虽然定购的家具还没有搬到住宅里去，却无论如何也不肯退还一个卢布的定金。“我可不会为了家具而特意结婚！”彼得•彼特罗维奇咬牙切齿地暗暗地想，同时那个显然已经无望的希望又在他脑子里忽然一闪： “难道这一切真的已经无可挽回地破灭了，结束了吗？难道不能再试一试吗？”一想到杜涅奇卡，这想法再一次诱人地刺痛了他的心。这时他心中痛苦极了，当然，如果现在只要他希望让拉斯科利尼科夫死于非命，就能把他置于死地，那么彼得•彼特罗维奇一定会立刻表示这样的愿望。
“除此而外，我的错误还在于，我根本没给过她们钱，”他边想，边闷闷不乐地走回列别贾特尼科夫的那间小屋去，“见鬼，我为什么这样吝啬？这甚至毫无益处！我想对待她们先苛刻一些，让她们把我看作神明，可她们竟然这样！……呸！……不，如果在这段时间里，譬如说吧，给她们一千五百卢布，在克诺普公司①和英国商店里置办些嫁妆，买些礼物，各式各样的首饰，化妆品、光玉髓，衣料，以及诸如此类的东西，那么事情就会好一些……我们的关系也就牢固一些了！现在她们也就不那么容易拒绝我了！她们就是这样一种人，如果拒绝的话，一定认为有义务把礼物和钱都退还给我；可是要退还是很难的，而且也舍不得！良心也会感到不安，心里会想：怎么，就这样突然把一个直到现在如此慷慨、相当客气的人赶走吗？……嗯哼！我失算了！”彼得•彼特罗维奇又一次咬牙切齿，立刻骂自己是傻瓜——当然是暗自责骂。
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①彼得堡的一家服饰用品商店。
得出这样的结论以后，他回到家里，比出去的时候加倍凶恶，加倍恼怒。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜屋里准备酬客宴的情况在某种程度上引起了他的好奇心。还在昨天他就听说要办酬客宴了；甚至记起，好像也邀请了他；可是由于自己有一大堆麻烦事，别的事情他都没去注意。他赶紧去向利佩韦赫泽尔太太打听；卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜不在家（现在她在墓地上），利佩韦赫泽尔太太正在摆开的桌子旁边张罗着；他得知，酬客宴将会办得十分隆重，几乎所有房客都受到了邀请，就连和死者不认识的人也不例外，甚至连安德烈•谢苗诺维奇•列别贾特尼科夫也受到了邀请，尽管以前他和卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜争吵过，最后，还有他，彼得•彼特罗维奇，不但被邀请了，而且甚至是急不可耐地等待着他，因为他几乎是所有房客中一位最重要的客人。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺夫娜①本人也受到十分尊敬的邀请，尽管以前有过许多不愉快的事情；因此现在她在料理一切，忙着张罗，几乎觉得这是一种享乐，而且，她虽然穿着一身丧服，可全都是崭新的绸衣，打扮得既漂亮，又阔气，并为此感到自豪。这些消息和事实提醒了彼得•彼特罗维奇，使他产生了某种想法，于是他回到自己屋里，也就是回到了安德烈•谢苗诺维奇•列别贾特尼科夫的屋里，不知在想什么心事。问题在于，他也得知，邀请的客人当中也有拉斯科利尼科夫。
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①前面，马尔梅拉多夫曾说，她的父名是“费多罗芙娜”。
不知为什么，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇整整一早上一直坐在家里。彼得•彼特罗维奇与这位先生建立了某种奇怪的、不过在某种程度上也是相当自然的关系：几乎从一住到这儿来的那天起，彼得•彼特罗维奇就瞧不起他，恨他，而且恨得简直太过分了，可是同时又好像有点儿怕他。彼得•彼特罗维奇一来到彼得堡就住到他这里，并不单单是由于吝啬，想省几个钱，虽说这几乎是主要原因，不过还有另外的原因。还在外省的时候，他就听说，这个由他抚养成人的安德烈•谢苗诺维奇，现在是最进步的青年之一，甚至是一个在某些他很感兴趣的、神话般的小团体里起重要作用的人物。这使彼得•彼特罗维奇感到非常惊讶。这些十分强大、无所不知、蔑视和揭露一切人的小团体，早就使彼得•彼特罗维奇感到恐惧了，这是一种特殊的恐惧，不过，也完全是一种模模糊糊的恐惧。当然，还在外省的时候，对这类事情他不可能形成哪怕是大致符合实际情况的概念。他像大家一样，听说有这么一些进步分子，虚无主义者，揭发者，以及诸如此类的人，在彼得堡，这种人特别多，不过和许多人一样，他也把这些名称的涵义和性质夸大和歪曲到了荒谬的程度。已经有好几年了，他最怕的就是揭发，这也就是使他经常感到过分惶恐不安的最主要的原因，特别是在他梦想把自己的活动转移到彼得堡来的时候。在这方面，他是所谓受过惊吓的，就像小孩子有时受了惊吓一样。几年前，他在外省刚刚开始创业的时候，就遇到过两起无情揭发的事件，所揭发的都是省里相当有威望的大人物，而在他们被揭发以前，他一直依靠他们，把他们当作自己的靠山。一次揭发的结果，是被揭发者特别丢脸，另一次的结果，几乎是引起很大的麻烦。这就是彼得•彼特罗维奇一到彼得堡，决定立刻摸清情况的原因，如有必要，他就要抢先一步，讨好“我们的年轻一代”，以防万一。在这方面，他把希望寄托在安德烈•谢苗诺维奇的身上，而且，譬如说吧，他去探望拉斯科利尼科夫的时候，就已经学会勉强重复那些众所周知的、别人的意见了……
当然，不久他就看出，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇是个极其庸俗、而且有点儿傻头傻脑的人。但这丝毫没有打消彼得•彼特罗维奇的顾虑，也没有使他受到鼓舞。即使他相信，所有进步分子都是这样的傻瓜，他的不安也不会消失。说实在的，对这些学说、思想和制度（安德烈•谢苗诺维奇正是用这些东西猛烈地责难他）他丝毫也不关心。他有他自己的目的。他只需要尽快、立刻弄清：这儿发生过什么事情，是怎样发生的？这些人有势力，还是没有势力？如果他着手做某一件事，他们是揭发他呢，还是不揭发他？如果揭发，那么是为什么揭发，现在到底是要揭发些什么？不仅如此，而且要弄清：如果他们当真有能耐的话，能不能设法博得他们的好感，而且立刻稍微欺骗他们一下？该不该这样做？譬如说，能不能通过他们使自己的事业进展得顺利一些？总之，他面前有成百上千的问题。
这个安德烈•谢苗诺维奇是个体质虚弱、害淋巴结核的人，个子矮小，在某处任职，一头淡黄色的头发，颜色淡得出奇，留着肉饼状的连鬓胡子，并为这胡子感到非常自豪。此外，他几乎经常害眼病。他的心肠相当软，可是说话很自以为是，有时甚至极端傲慢，——如果与他的体形相对照，这几乎总是显得十分好笑。不过，在阿玛莉娅•伊万诺夫娜这儿，他却被看作相当受尊敬的房客中的一个，也就是说，他不酗酒，而且按时缴房租。尽管有这些优点，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇却当真有点儿傻里傻气。他赞成进步思想，加入“我们的年轻一代”，——这是由于年轻人的热情。这是那些多得不可数计的形形色色的庸人、思想极其幼稚、对什么都是一知半解、却又刚愎自用的人们当中的一个，他们转眼之间一定会附和最时髦的流行思想，为的是立刻把它庸俗化，为的是把他们有时的确是以最真诚的方式为之效力的一切漫画化。
然而，列别贾特尼科夫虽然心地十分善良，但在某种程度上也开始对和他同住的这个人，也就是他从前的监护人彼得•彼特罗维奇，感到无法忍受了。所以会发生这种情况，从双方来说，都有点儿偶然，不过却是相互的。不管安德烈•谢苗诺维奇多么单纯而又轻信，可还是开始渐渐看出，彼得•彼特罗维奇在欺骗他，心里暗暗地瞧不起他，看出，“这不完全是他想象中的那个人”。他曾试图向他讲述傅立叶的体系和达尔文的学说，但是彼得•彼特罗维奇，特别是近来，不知为什么，听他讲述的时候，已经带着过于明显的讥讽神情，而最近，甚至骂起人来了。问题在于，他本能地开始看透了，列别贾特尼科夫不仅是个庸俗和有点儿傻气的人，而且也许还是个撒谎的家伙，就是在他自己那个小团体里，他也没有建立任何比较重要的关系，而只不过是多少听到过一些几经转述的东西；不仅如此：也许就连他该做的宣传工作，他也不甚了了，因为他太糊涂，他怎么能做什么揭发者呢！我们顺带说一声，在这一个半星期里，彼得•彼特罗维奇很乐于接受（特别是最初）安德烈•谢苗诺维奇的甚至是非常奇怪的赞扬，也就是，譬如说吧，如果安德烈•谢苗诺维奇说，他打算赞助不久即将在小市民街某处成立的新 “公社”①；或者，譬如说吧，认为如果杜涅奇卡在婚后头一个月就想找一个情夫，他也不会干涉；或者，说他不会让自己未来的孩子们受洗礼，等等，等等，对这一类的赞扬，他总是不予否认，而是默不作声。对别人加在他身上的这样一些优点，按照自己的习惯，彼得•彼特罗维奇都不予否认，甚至容许人家这样赞扬他， ——不管是什么赞扬，他听着都感到有点儿飘飘然。
由于某些原因，彼得•彼特罗维奇今天早上把一些五厘债券②换成了现钞，现在正坐在桌边点一叠叠钞票和连号的公债券。几乎经常没有钱的安德烈•谢苗诺维奇在屋里走来走去，装出对这些钱不感兴趣、甚至鄙视的样子。彼得•彼特罗维奇无论如何也不相信，譬如说吧，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇真的会对这么多的钱不感兴趣；安德烈•谢苗诺维奇也苦恼地想，彼得•彼特罗维奇也许真的会认为，他的漠然态度是故意装出来的，而且，大概还很高兴有这样一个机会，用摆在桌子上的这一叠叠钞票来刺激和撩拨自己这位年轻的朋友，提醒他，让他记住自己是个微不足道的人，仿佛他们之间存在真正的差别。
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①在车尔尼雪夫斯基的长篇小说《做什么？》的影响下，彼得堡的一些进步青年成立了一些公社，共同劳动，共同生活，建立了集体经济。其中最著名的是作家和民主主义者斯列普措夫（一八三六—一八七八）在旗帜街（现在的“起义街”）上成立的旗帜公社。
小市民街（现在的“公民街”）上的公社离陀思妥耶夫斯基写（罪与罚）时所住的房子不远。
②利率为五厘的公债券。
这一次他发觉他异乎寻常地容易激动和心不在焉，尽管他，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇又在他面前谈起自己心爱的话题，说什么就要成立一个特殊的新“公社”，还对此大加发挥。彼得•彼特罗维奇正在打算盘，在算盘珠子的响声暂时停顿下来的间歇里，他不时提出简短的反驳，发表自己的看法，而且流露出十分明显、故意无礼嘲讽的讥笑神情。但是“富有人情味”的安德烈•谢苗诺维奇把彼得•彼特罗维奇的情绪归咎于他昨天与杜涅奇卡的决裂，并热切地想要尽快谈谈这个话题：关于这个进步的、宣传性的话题，他是有话可谈的，这可能会给他这位尊敬的朋友带来安慰，而且“无疑”会对他今后提高觉悟有所裨益。
“这个……寡妇家在办什么酬客宴啊？”彼得•彼特罗维奇问，在安德烈•谢苗诺维奇正谈到最有意思的地方的时候，突然打断了他的话。
“好像您还不知道似的；昨天我不是跟您谈起过这个话题，还对所有这些仪式发表了自己的意见……对了，她不是也请了您吗，我听见的。昨天您还跟她说过话呢……”
“我怎么也没想到，这个一贫如洗的傻女人会把从另一个傻瓜……拉斯科利尼科夫那儿得来的钱，全都花在酬客宴上。刚才从那儿经过的时候，我甚至感到惊讶：那儿准备得多丰盛啊，还有酒呢！……还叫了几个人来——天知道是怎么回事！”彼得•彼特罗维奇接着说下去，详细地询问着，好像怀着什么目的，故意把话题转到这上面去。“怎么？您说，也邀请了我吗？”他突然抬起头来，补上一句。“什么时候邀请的？我记不得了。不过，我是不会去的。我去那里干什么？昨天我只不过是顺便告诉她，作为一个官吏的贫寒的遣孀，她有可能得到他一年的薪俸，作为一次性的补助。她是不是为了这才邀请我呢？嘿—嘿！”
“我也不想去，”列别贾特尼科夫说。
“那还用说！亲手打过嘛。您问心有愧啊，这是可以理解的，嘿——嘿——嘿！”
“谁打过？打过谁？”列别贾特尼科夫突然惊慌起来，甚至脸红了。
“就是您嘛，您打了卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，大约是在一个月前，是吗！要知道，我听说了，昨天……原来这就是您的信念！……妇女问题处理得也不好嘛。嘿——嘿——嘿！”
彼得•彼特罗维奇好像得到了安慰，又啪啪地打起算盘来。
“这都是胡说和诽谤！”列别贾特尼科夫羞得面红耳赤，他总是害怕别人提起这件事，“事情完全不是这样！这是另一回事……您听说的话不符合实际；这是造谣！当时我只不过是自卫。是她首先张牙舞爪地向我扑了过来……她把我的连鬓胡子全拔光了……我认为，人人都可以自卫。而且我决不允许任何人对我使用暴力……这是原则。因为这几乎就是专横霸道。我该怎么办呢：就这样在她面前站着吗？我只不过是推开了她。”
“嘿——嘿——嘿！”卢任继续恶意地讥笑他。
“您想惹我发火，是因为你自己让人给惹恼了，心里有气……而这是胡说八道，与妇女问题完全、完全无关！您理解得不对；我甚至认为，如果假定妇女在各方面，就连体力上也和男人一样（已经有人坚决这样主张了），那么可见，在这方面也应该是平等的。当然，后来我考虑，其实根本就不应该有这样的问题，因为打架是不应该的，在未来的社会里，打架这种事是不可思议的……在打架中寻求平等，当然是奇怪的。我并不是那么蠢……不过打架还是常有的事，……也就是说，以后不会有了，可是现在还有……呸！见鬼！跟您说话，会把人搞得糊里糊涂！我不去参加酬客宴，倒不是因为有过这么一件不愉快的事。我不去，只不过是按原则办事，不助长像酬客宴这样的陋习，就是这么回事！不过，也可以去看看，只不过是为了去嘲笑它……不过可惜，神甫不会来。不然我一定要去。”
“也就是说，坐在人家的酒席筵前，却蔑视它，同样也蔑视那些请您的人。是这样吗？”
“根本不是蔑视，而是抗议。我抱着有益的目的。我可以间接促进觉悟的提高，并作些宣传。人人都应该提高觉悟，进行宣传，也许，宣传得越激烈越好。我可以传播思想，播下种子……由这粒种子里就会长出事实来。我哪会侮辱他们呢？一开始他们是会见怪的，可是以后自己就会明白，我是给他们带来了好处。您瞧，我们的杰列比耶娃曾经受人指责（现在她在公社里），因为她从家里出走……委身于一个男人的时候，给父母写了一封信，说她不愿生活在成见之中，不按宗教仪式结婚，就和人同居，似乎她这样对待父母，是太粗暴了，认为她本应怜惜他们，写得委婉一些。照我看，这全都是胡说八道，根本不需要委婉些，恰恰相反，这儿需要的是抗议。瓦莲茨跟丈夫在一起过了七年，丢下了两个孩子，写了封信，和丈夫一刀两断了，信上说：‘我认识到，和您在一起我不会幸福。您欺骗了我，向我隐瞒，通过公社这种形式，还存在另一种社会制度，为了这件事，我永远不会原谅您。不久前我从一个慷慨的人那里知道了这一切，已经委身于他，要和他一同创办公社。我直截了当地告诉您，因为我认为，欺骗您是不正直的。您爱怎么过就怎么过吧。不要对我回去存什么希望，您已经太迟了。希望您幸福。’这一类的信就该像这样写才对！”
“这个杰列比耶娃，不就是您跟我说过，已经是第三次自由结婚的那个人吗？”
“如果认真的说，总共只有两次！即使是第四次，即使是第十五次，那也算不了什么！如果说我有什么时候为我的父母已经去世而感到遗憾的话，那么当然就是现在了。我甚至幻想过好多次，如果他们还在世的话，我准会以自己的抗议让他们感到万分痛苦！我会故意让他们感到为难……这就是‘离开家庭独立生活的人’，呸！我一定要让他们瞧瞧！我要让他们大吃一惊！真的，可惜我什么人也没有！”
“为了让他们大吃一惊吗！嘿—嘿！好吧，您爱怎么着，就怎么着吧，悉听尊便，”彼得•彼特罗维奇打断了他的话，“不过请您告诉我：您认识死者的这个女儿，不是吗，就是那个那么瘦弱的姑娘！人们对她的议论全都是真的，是吗？”
“这有什么呢？照我看，也就是根据我个人的信念，这是女人的最正常的状态。为什么不是呢？也就是说distinZguons①。在现在这个社会里，这当然不完全正常，因为是被迫的，而在未来的社会里，却是完全正常的，因为那是自由的。就是现在，她也有权这样做，因为她受过苦，而这就是她的基金，也可以说是资本，她有充分权利支配的资本。当然，在未来的社会里，基金就不需要了；但是她的作用将会在另一种意义上表现出来，将受到合乎罗辑而且合理的制约。至于说到索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜本人，在目前，我把她的行动看作对社会制度坚决而又具体的抗议，并为此深深地尊敬她；
就连看着她也觉得高兴！”
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①法文，“我们要区别开来”之意。
“可人家告诉我，是您逼着她从这儿搬出去的！”
列别贾特尼科夫甚至勃然大怒。
“这又是谣言！”他高声叫嚷。“根本，根本不是这么回事！完全不是这样！这全都是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜当时冤枉我，因为她什么也不懂！我根本没有俟机接近索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，想要获得什么好处！我只不过是想提高她的觉悟，完全是无私的，竭力激发她的反抗精神……我需要的只是反抗，而且索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜本人也已经不能再住在这幢房子里了！”
“您是不是叫她去参加公社呢？”
“您总是讥笑我，可是笑得很不恰当，请允许我向您指出这一点来。您什么也不懂！公社里没有这样的角色。所以要成立公社，也就是为了让社会上不再有这种角色。在公社里，这样的角色将完全改变他现在的性质，在这里，这是愚蠢的，在那里，这就是聪明的，在这里，在现在的环境里，这是不正常的，在那里就变得完全正常了。一切取决于人是处于什么样的情况下和在什么样的环境里。一切取决于环境，人本身却微不足道。我和索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜现在也是和睦相处，这足以向您证明，她从来也没把我当作敌人，从来也没把我当作欺侮她的人。对了！现在我竭力劝她参加公社，不过这个公社完全，完全是建立在不同的基础上！您干吗发笑！我们想建立自己的公社，一种特殊的公社，不过基础比以前的更为广泛。我们从我们的信念更前进了一步。我们否定得更多了！如果杜勃罗留波夫从棺材里站出来，我就要和他争论一番。我一定会在争论中驳倒别林斯基！目前我在继续提高索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的觉悟，这是一个天性十分优美、十分美好的姑娘！”
“哈，于是您就利用这个十分优美的天性，是吗？嘿——
嘿！”
“不，不！啊，不！恰恰相反！”
“哼，可不是恰恰相反吗！嘿—嘿—嘿！瞧您说的！”
“请您相信！我有什么理由要在您面前隐瞒呢，请您说说看！恰恰相反，就连我自己也觉得这很奇怪：跟我在一起的时候，不知为什么她显得胆怯和格外纯洁，而且很不好意思！”
“于是您，当然啦，就提高她的觉悟……嘿——嘿！向她证明，这些羞耻心什么的全都是胡说八道？……”
“根本不是！根本不是！噢，您对觉悟这个词的理解是多么粗野，甚至是多么愚蠢啊——请您原谅！您什—么也不懂！噢，天哪，您还多么……不成熟啊！我们是在寻求妇女的自由，可您心里只在转那个念头……完全避而不谈贞洁和女性的羞耻心问题，也就和避而不谈本身毫无用处、甚至是属于偏见的事物一样，但与此同时，我完全、完全同意，和我在一起的时候，她可以保持自己的贞操，因为在这个问题上——她有她的意志，她的权利。当然啦，如果她自己对我说：‘我想占有你’，我会认为那是我巨大的成功，因为我很喜欢这个姑娘；但现在，至少是现在，当然啦，从来没有任何人比我待她更有礼貌，更尊敬她，从来没有任何人比我更尊重她的人格……我等待着，并抱有希望——仅此而已！”
“您最好送给她点儿什么东西。我敢打赌，这一点您可没想到过。”
“您什—么也不懂，我已经对您说过了！当然啦，她的处境是这样，不过这儿有另一个问题！完全不同的另一个问题！您简直是蔑视她。您看到了一件误认为理应受到蔑视的事实，于是就拒绝用人道主义的观点来看待这个人了。您还不知道，这个人的天性是多么美！我只不过非常遗憾，不知为什么，最近她完全不再看我借给她的书，也不再来跟我借书了。可从前她常来借书。虽然她正以自己的全部毅力和决心进行反抗，——她已经证明过一次，自己确实有这样的毅力和决心，——可她似乎还是缺少自主精神，也可以说是独立精神，否定得还不够彻底，还没能完全摆脱某些偏见和……糊涂观念，这也是让人感到遗憾的。尽管如此，对某些问题她却理解得十分透彻。譬如说，对吻手的问题，她就理解得十分正确，也就是说，如果男人吻女人的手，那就是男人以不平等的态度来侮辱女性。我们那儿讨论过这个问题，我立刻就向她转述了我们的看法。关于法国工人联合会的事，她也很注意地听着。现在我正在给她讲在未来社会里可以自由进入别人房子里的问题。”
“这又是怎么回事？”
“这是最近正在讨论的一个问题：公社的一个成员有没有进入另一成员房子里去的权利，去一个男人或一个女人那里，而且是在任何时候……嗯，问题已经解决了：有权利……”
“嗯，如果他或者她这时候正在大小便呢，嘿——嘿！”
安德烈•谢苗诺维奇甚至生气了。
“您总是提这样的事，总是提这些该死的‘大小便’！”他憎恨地高声叫喊，&ldq
Part 5 Chapter 2
It would be difficult to explain exactly what could have originated the idea of that senseless dinner in Katerina Ivanovna's disordered brain. Nearly ten of the twenty roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov's funeral, were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to honour the memory of the deceased "suitably," that all the lodgers, and still more Amalia Ivanovna, might know "that he was in no way their inferior, and perhaps very much their superior," and that no one had the right "to turn up his nose at him." Perhaps the chief element was that peculiar "poor man's pride," which compels many poor people to spend their last savings on some traditional social ceremony, simply in order to do "like other people," and not to "be looked down upon." It is very probable, too, that Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at the moment when she seemed to be abandoned by everyone, to show those "wretched contemptible lodgers" that she knew "how to do things, how to entertain" and that she had been brought up "in a genteel, she might almost say aristocratic colonel's family" and had not been meant for sweeping floors and washing the children's rags at night. Even the poorest and most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these paroxysms of pride and vanity which take the form of an irresistible nervous craving. And Katerina Ivanovna was not broken-spirited; she might have been killed by circumstance, but her spirit could not have been broken, that is, she could not have been intimidated, her will could not be crushed. Moreover Sonia had said with good reason that her mind was unhinged. She could not be said to be insane, but for a year past she had been so harassed that her mind might well be overstrained. The later stages of consumption are apt, doctors tell us, to affect the intellect.
There was no great variety of wines, nor was there Madeira; but wine there was. There was vodka, rum and Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there were three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all prepared in Amalia Ivanovna's kitchen. Two samovars were boiling, that tea and punch might be offered after dinner. Katerina Ivanovna had herself seen to purchasing the provisions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an unfortunate little Pole who had somehow been stranded at Madame Lippevechsel's. He promptly put himself at Katerina Ivanovna's disposal and had been all that morning and all the day before running about as fast as his legs could carry him, and very anxious that everyone should be aware of it. For every trifle he ran to Katerina Ivanovna, even hunting her out at the bazaar, at every instant called her "/Pani/." She was heartily sick of him before the end, though she had declared at first that she could not have got on without this "serviceable and magnanimous man." It was one of Katerina Ivanovna's characteristics to paint everyone she met in the most glowing colours. Her praises were so exaggerated as sometimes to be embarrassing; she would invent various circumstances to the credit of her new acquaintance and quite genuinely believe in their reality. Then all of a sudden she would be disillusioned and would rudely and contemptuously repulse the person she had only a few hours before been literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay, lively and peace-loving disposition, but from continual failures and misfortunes she had come to desire so /keenly/ that all should live in peace and joy and should not /dare/ to break the peace, that the slightest jar, the smallest disaster reduced her almost to frenzy, and she would pass in an instant from the brightest hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and knocking her head against the wall.
Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance in Katerina Ivanovna's eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary respect, probably only because Amalia Ivanovna had thrown herself heart and soul into the preparations. She had undertaken to lay the table, to provide the linen, crockery, etc., and to cook the dishes in her kitchen, and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone herself to the cemetery. Everything had been well done. Even the table-cloth was nearly clean; the crockery, knives, forks and glasses were, of course, of all shapes and patterns, lent by different lodgers, but the table was properly laid at the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling she had done her work well, had put on a black silk dress and a cap with new mourning ribbons and met the returning party with some pride. This pride, though justifiable, displeased Katerina Ivanovna for some reason: "as though the table could not have been laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!" She disliked the cap with new ribbons, too. "Could she be stuck up, the stupid German, because she was mistress of the house, and had consented as a favour to help her poor lodgers! As a favour! Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna's father who had been a colonel and almost a governor had sometimes had the table set for forty persons, and then anyone like Amalia Ivanovna, or rather Ludwigovna, would not have been allowed into the kitchen."
Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feelings for the time and contented herself with treating her coldly, though she decided inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set her in her proper place, for goodness only knew what she was fancying herself. Katerina Ivanovna was irritated too by the fact that hardly any of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except the Pole who had just managed to run into the cemetery, while to the memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of them had turned up, the wretched creatures, many of them not quite sober. The older and more respectable of them all, as if by common consent, stayed away. Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, for instance, who might be said to be the most respectable of all the lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina Ivanovna had the evening before told all the world, that is Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole, that he was the most generous, noble-hearted man with a large property and vast connections, who had been a friend of her first husband's, and a guest in her father's house, and that he had promised to use all his influence to secure her a considerable pension. It must be noted that when Katerina Ivanovna exalted anyone's connections and fortune, it was without any ulterior motive, quite disinterestedly, for the mere pleasure of adding to the consequence of the person praised. Probably "taking his cue" from Luzhin, "that contemptible wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up either. What did he fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness and because he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch and was a friend of his, so that it would have been awkward not to invite him."
Among those who failed to appear were "the genteel lady and her old- maidish daughter," who had only been lodgers in the house for the last fortnight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar in Katerina Ivanovna's room, especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk. Katerina Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarrelling with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole family out of doors, had shouted at her that they "were not worth the foot" of the honourable lodgers whom they were disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to invite this lady and her daughter, "whose foot she was not worth," and who had turned away haughtily when she casually met them, so that they might know that "she was more noble in her thoughts and feelings and did not harbour malice," and might see that she was not accustomed to her way of living. She had proposed to make this clear to them at dinner with allusions to her late father's governorship, and also at the same time to hint that it was exceedingly stupid of them to turn away on meeting her. The fat colonel-major (he was really a discharged officer of low rank) was also absent, but it appeared that he had been "not himself" for the last two days. The party consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking clerk with a spotty face and a greasy coat, who had not a word to say for himself, and smelt abominably, a deaf and almost blind old man who had once been in the post office and who had been from immemorial ages maintained by someone at Amalia Ivanovna's.
A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was drunk, had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only fancy--was without a waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down to the table without even greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appeared in his dressing-gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The Pole brought with him, however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna's and whom no one had seen here before. All this irritated Katerina Ivanovna intensely. "For whom had they made all these preparations then?" To make room for the visitors the children had not even been laid for at the table; but the two little ones were sitting on a bench in the furthest corner with their dinner laid on a box, while Polenka as a big girl had to look after them, feed them, and keep their noses wiped like well-bred children's.
Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with increased dignity, and even haughtiness. She stared at some of them with special severity, and loftily invited them to take their seats. Rushing to the conclusion that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were absent, she began treating her with extreme nonchalance, which the latter promptly observed and resented. Such a beginning was no good omen for the end. All were seated at last.
Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted to see him, in the first place, because he was the one "educated visitor, and, as everyone knew, was in two years to take a professorship in the university," and secondly because he immediately and respectfully apologised for having been unable to be at the funeral. She positively pounced upon him, and made him sit on her left hand (Amalia Ivanovna was on her right). In spite of her continual anxiety that the dishes should be passed round correctly and that everyone should taste them, in spite of the agonising cough which interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown worse during the last few days, she hastened to pour out in a half whisper to Raskolnikov all her suppressed feelings and her just indignation at the failure of the dinner, interspersing her remarks with lively and uncontrollable laughter at the expense of her visitors and especially of her landlady.
"It's all that cuckoo's fault! You know whom I mean? Her, her!" Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. "Look at her, she's making round eyes, she feels that we are talking about her and can't understand. Pfoo, the owl! Ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that cap for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she wants everyone to consider that she is patronising me and doing me an honour by being here? I asked her like a sensible woman to invite people, especially those who knew my late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought! The sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And those wretched Poles, ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) Not one of them has ever poked his nose in here, I've never set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask you? There they sit in a row. Hey, /pan/!" she cried suddenly to one of them, "have you tasted the pancakes? Take some more! Have some beer! Won't you have some vodka? Look, he's jumped up and is making his bows, they must be quite starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They don't make a noise, anyway, though I'm really afraid for our landlady's silver spoons . . . Amalia Ivanovna!" she addressed her suddenly, almost aloud, "if your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won't be responsible, I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!" She laughed turning to Raskolnikov, and again nodding towards the landlady, in high glee at her sally. "She didn't understand, she didn't understand again! Look how she sits with her mouth open! An owl, a real owl! An owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!"
Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out on her forehead and her handkerchief was stained with blood. She showed Raskolnikov the blood in silence, and as soon as she could get her breath began whispering to him again with extreme animation and a hectic flush on her cheeks.
"Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak, for inviting that lady and her daughter, you understand of whom I am speaking? It needed the utmost delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has managed things so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and has come to try and get a pension and to fray out her skirts in the government offices, because at fifty she paints her face (everybody knows it) . . . a creature like that did not think fit to come, and has not even answered the invitation, which the most ordinary good manners required! I can't understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come? But where's Sonia? Where has she gone? Ah, there she is at last! what is it, Sonia, where have you been? It's odd that even at your father's funeral you should be so unpunctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for her beside you. That's your place, Sonia . . . take what you like. Have some of the cold entree with jelly, that's the best. They'll bring the pancakes directly. Have they given the children some? Polenka, have you got everything? (Cough-cough-cough.) That's all right. Be a good girl, Lida, and, Kolya, don't fidget with your feet; sit like a little gentleman. What are you saying, Sonia?"
Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch's apologies, trying to speak loud enough for everyone to hear and carefully choosing the most respectful phrases which she attributed to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added that Pyotr Petrovitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss /business/ alone with her and to consider what could be done for her, etc., etc.
Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna, would flatter her and gratify her pride. She sat down beside Raskolnikov; she made him a hurried bow, glancing curiously at him. But for the rest of the time she seemed to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Ivanovna, trying to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get mourning; Sonia was wearing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her only dress, a dark striped cotton one.
The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. Listening to Sonia with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna inquired with equal dignity how Pyotr Petrovitch was, then at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov that it certainly would have been strange for a man of Pyotr Petrovitch's position and standing to find himself in such "extraordinary company," in spite of his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her father.
"That's why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch, that you have not disdained my hospitality, even in such surroundings," she added almost aloud. "But I am sure that it was only your special affection for my poor husband that has made you keep your promise."
Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her visitors, and suddenly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man: "Wouldn't he have some more meat, and had he been given some wine?" The old man made no answer and for a long while could not understand what he was asked, though his neighbours amused themselves by poking and shaking him. He simply gazed about him with his mouth open, which only increased the general mirth.
"What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? But as to Pyotr Petrovitch, I always had confidence in him," Katerina Ivanovna continued, "and, of course, he is not like . . ." with an extremely stern face she addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was quite disconcerted, "not like your dressed up draggletails whom my father would not have taken as cooks into his kitchen, and my late husband would have done them honour if he had invited them in the goodness of his heart."
"Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did drink!" cried the commissariat clerk, gulping down his twelfth glass of vodka.
"My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows it," Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once, "but he was a kind and honourable man, who loved and respected his family. The worst of it was his good nature made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he drank with fellows who were not worth the sole of his shoe. Would you believe it, Rodion Romanovitch, they found a gingerbread cock in his pocket; he was dead drunk, but he did not forget the children!"
"A cock? Did you say a cock?" shouted the commissariat clerk.
Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She sighed, lost in thought.
"No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too severe with him," she went on, addressing Raskolnikov. "But that's not so! He respected me, he respected me very much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I was for him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look at me, I used to feel so sorry for him, I used to want to be kind to him and then would think to myself: 'Be kind to him and he will drink again,' it was only by severity that you could keep him within bounds."
"Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often," roared the commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka.
"Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as well as having their hair pulled. I am not talking of my late husband now!" Katerina Ivanovna snapped at him.
The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. In another minute she would have been ready to make a scene. Many of the visitors were sniggering, evidently delighted. They began poking the commissariat clerk and whispering something to him. They were evidently trying to egg him on.
"Allow me to ask what are you alluding to," began the clerk, "that is to say, whose . . . about whom . . . did you say just now . . . But I don't care! That's nonsense! Widow! I forgive you. . . . Pass!"
And he took another drink of vodka.
Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He only ate from politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina Ivanovna was continually putting on his plate, to avoid hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia intently. But Sonia became more and more anxious and distressed; she, too, foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw with terror Katerina Ivanovna's growing irritation. She knew that she, Sonia, was the chief reason for the 'genteel' ladies' contemptuous treatment of Katerina Ivanovna's invitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna that the mother was positively offended at the invitation and had asked the question: "How could she let her daughter sit down beside /that young person/?" Sonia had a feeling that Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an insult to Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an insult to herself, her children, or her father, Sonia knew that Katerina Ivanovna would not be satisfied now, "till she had shown those draggletails that they were both . . ." To make matters worse someone passed Sonia, from the other end of the table, a plate with two hearts pierced with an arrow, cut out of black bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed crimson and at once said aloud across the table that the man who sent it was "a drunken ass!"
Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and at the same time deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna's haughtiness, and to restore the good-humour of the company and raise herself in their esteem she began, apropos of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers "Karl from the chemist's," who was driving one night in a cab, and that "the cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very much begged him not to kill, and wept and clasped hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his heart." Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the latter was still more offended, and she retorted that her "/Vater aus Berlin/ was a very important man, and always went with his hands in pockets." Katerina Ivanovna could not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia Ivanovna lost patience and could scarcely control herself.
"Listen to the owl!" Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her good- humour almost restored, "she meant to say he kept his hands in his pockets, but she said he put his hands in people's pockets. (Cough- cough.) And have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these Petersburg foreigners, the Germans especially, are all stupider than we! Can you fancy anyone of us telling how 'Karl from the chemist's' 'pierced his heart from fear' and that the idiot, instead of punishing the cabman, 'clasped his hands and wept, and much begged.' Ah, the fool! And you know she fancies it's very touching and does not suspect how stupid she is! To my thinking that drunken commissariat clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see that he has addled his brains with drink, but you know, these foreigners are always so well behaved and serious. . . . Look how she sits glaring! She is angry, ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.)"
Regaining her good-humour, Katerina Ivanovna began at once telling Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her pension, she intended to open a school for the daughters of gentlemen in her native town T----. This was the first time she had spoken to him of the project, and she launched out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared that Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate of honour of which Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov in the tavern, when he told him that Katerina Ivanovna, his wife, had danced the shawl dance before the governor and other great personages on leaving school. This certificate of honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina Ivanovna's right to open a boarding-school; but she had armed herself with it chiefly with the object of overwhelming "those two stuck-up draggletails" if they came to the dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna was of the most noble, "she might even say aristocratic family, a colonel's daughter and was far superior to certain adventuresses who have been so much to the fore of late." The certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands of the drunken guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain it, for it actually contained the statement /en toutes lettres/, that her father was of the rank of a major, and also a companion of an order, so that she really was almost the daughter of a colonel.
Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on the peaceful and happy life they would lead in T----, on the gymnasium teachers whom she would engage to give lessons in her boarding-school, one a most respectable old Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Ivanovna herself in old days and was still living in T----, and would no doubt teach in her school on moderate terms. Next she spoke of Sonia who would go with her to T---- and help her in all her plans. At this someone at the further end of the table gave a sudden guffaw.
Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be disdainfully unaware of it, she raised her voice and began at once speaking with conviction of Sonia's undoubted ability to assist her, of "her gentleness, patience, devotion, generosity and good education," tapping Sonia on the cheek and kissing her warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immediately observing that she was "nervous and silly, that she was too much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner was over, it was time to hand round the tea."
At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at taking no part in the conversation, and not being listened to, made one last effort, and with secret misgivings ventured on an exceedingly deep and weighty observation, that "in the future boarding-school she would have to pay particular attention to /die Wasche/, and that there certainly must be a good /dame/ to look after the linen, and secondly that the young ladies must not novels at night read."
Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very tired, as well as heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut short Amalia Ivanovna, saying "she knew nothing about it and was talking nonsense, that it was the business of the laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high- class boarding-school to look after /die Wasche/, and as for novel- reading, that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be silent." Amalia Ivanovna fired up and getting angry observed that she only "meant her good," and that "she had meant her very good," and that "it was long since she had paid her /gold/ for the lodgings."
Katerina Ivanovna at once "set her down," saying that it was a lie to say she wished her good, because only yesterday when her dead husband was lying on the table, she had worried her about the lodgings. To this Amalia Ivanovna very appropriately observed that she had invited those ladies, but "those ladies had not come, because those ladies /are/ ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady." Katerina Ivanovna at once pointed out to her, that as she was a slut she could not judge what made one really a lady. Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her "/Vater aus Berlin/ was a very, very important man, and both hands in pockets went, and always used to say: 'Poof! poof!'" and she leapt up from the table to represent her father, sticking her hands in her pockets, puffing her cheeks, and uttering vague sounds resembling "poof! poof!" amid loud laughter from all the lodgers, who purposely encouraged Amalia Ivanovna, hoping for a fight.
But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at once declared, so that all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna probably never had a father, but was simply a drunken Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once been a cook and probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned as red as a lobster and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna never had a father, "but she had a /Vater aus Berlin/ and that he wore a long coat and always said poof-poof-poof!"
Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that all knew what her family was and that on that very certificate of honour it was stated in print that her father was a colonel, while Amalia Ivanovna's father--if she really had one--was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably she never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain whether her name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna.
At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist, and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, "that her /Vater/ was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that Katerina Ivanovna's /Vater/ was quite never a burgomeister." Katerina Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and apparently calm voice (though she was pale and her chest was heaving) observed that "if she dared for one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level with her papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her head and trample it under foot." Amalia Ivanovna ran about the room, shouting at the top of her voice, that she was mistress of the house and that Katerina Ivanovna should leave the lodgings that minute; then she rushed for some reason to collect the silver spoons from the table. There was a great outcry and uproar, the children began crying. Sonia ran to restrain Katerina Ivanovna, but when Amalia Ivanovna shouted something about "the yellow ticket," Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed at the landlady to carry out her threat.
At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin appeared on the threshold. He stood scanning the party with severe and vigilant eyes. Katerina Ivanovna rushed to him.
 
很难确切说明，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜已经不大正常的头脑里为什么会产生这样的想法：要办一次毫无意义的酬客宴。真的，为办酬客宴，差不多花掉了从拉斯科利尼科夫那儿得到的二十多卢布中的十个卢布，而这笔钱其实是为了安葬马尔梅拉多夫才送给她的。也许，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜认为自己有责任“好好地”追悼亡夫，让所有房客，特别是阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜知道，他“不仅完全不比他们差，而且，也许要比他们强得多”，让他们知道，他们谁也没有权利在他面前“妄自尊大”。也许，这儿起了最大作用的，是穷人们那种特殊的自尊心，由于这种自尊心作祟，许多穷人都是尽最后努力，把积攒下来的最后几个戈比都花在我们日常生活中人人必须遵守的某些社会礼仪上了，他们这样做，只不过是为了“不比别人差”，也为了不让那些别人“指责”他们。很有可能，正是在这种情况下，正是在她似乎已被世界上所有人抛弃了的时候，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜想要让所有这些“卑微和可恶的住户们”看看，她不但“会生活，善于接待客人”，而且她所受的教育根本就不是为了来过这种穷日子的，她是在“一个高贵的、甚至可以说是在一个有贵族身份的上校家庭里”给教养成人的，她所受的教育完全不是为了自己擦地板，每天夜里洗孩子们的破旧衣服。这种自尊和虚荣有时也会在最为贫困、完全给压垮了的人们心中突然爆发出来，有时甚至会变成一种愤懑的、无法抑制的需求。何况卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜还不是一个给压垮了的人：她本来是会让环境给完全压垮的，但是要在精神上压垮她，也就是使她畏惧，征服她的意志，却决不可能。此外，索涅奇卡说她的精神不正常也是有充分根据的。不错，还不能完全肯定地这么说，不过，最近一个时期，最近这一年来，她那可怜的头脑的确受了太多的折磨，不会不在某种程度上受到一定的损害。据医生说，肺病急剧恶化也会使神经功能发生紊乱。
酒的数量和品种都不多，也没有马德拉酒：这是夸大其词，不过酒是有的。有伏特加、糖酒，里斯本葡萄酒，质量都十分低劣，数量却相当充足。吃的东西，除了蜜粥，还有三、四道菜（顺带说一声，还有煎饼），所有东西都是从阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜的厨房里送来的，此外，还一下子生了两个茶炊，那是准备饭后喝茶和兑五味酒用的。所有东西都是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜亲自采购的，有一个不知为什么住在利佩韦赫泽尔太太这里的、可怜的波兰人帮着她，他立刻同意供卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜差遣，昨天一整天和今天一个早上，他一直拼命东奔西跑，累得气喘吁吁，好像竭力想让人注意到他特别卖力。为了每件小事，他时刻不停地跑去找卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，甚至跑到商场去找她，不停地管她叫“少尉太太”，最后他简直让她觉得烦死了，尽管起初她曾说过，要不是有这个“自愿帮忙的好心人”，她可要完全累垮了。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的性格特点就是如此：对任何一个初次见面的人，她总是赶紧用最美的语言大加称赞，有人甚至会被她吹捧得怪难为情，她会无中生有，用种种虚构的事实往人脸上贴金，而且自己对这一切都完全真诚地深信不疑，后来却突然一下子失望了，跟人家决裂了，对人家横加侮辱，把那个仅仅几小时前还简直崇拜得五体投地的人粗暴地赶出去。她天生是一个爱笑、乐观、对人友好的人，但是由于接连不断的不幸和挫折，她变得那样狂热地希望和要求世界上所有人都过得很愉快，而且不许他们过另一种生活，以致生活中稍有一点儿不和谐，遭受到什么最微不足道的挫折，都几乎会使她立刻发疯，刚刚还存有最光明的希望，浸沉在最美的幻想之中，转瞬间就会诅咒命运，不管抓到什么，都会把它撕碎，随手乱扔出去，还用头往墙上撞。不知为什么，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜也突然受到卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜异乎寻常的重视和异乎寻常的尊敬，唯一的原因也许是，着手办酬客宴的时候，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜全心全意地决定帮着她张罗一切：她给摆好桌子，拿来桌布、碗、碟以及其他东西，还在自己的厨房里准备饭菜。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜要去墓地，于是把一切都托付给她，让她全权处理。真的，一切都安排得好极了：桌上铺了桌布，甚至相当整洁，碗碟、刀叉、酒杯、玻璃杯、茶杯，一应俱全，当然啦，所有这一切都是从各个住户那里借来，东拼西凑的，大小不同，形状各异，然而一切都按时摆妥了。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜觉得，事情做得很出色，迎接从墓地回来的人们时，甚至有点儿自豪，她穿得十分漂亮，戴一顶系着黑色新纱带的包发帽，穿一件黑色的连衫裙。这种自豪感虽然是理所当然的，但不知为什么，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜却很不喜欢，心想：“真的，好像少了您阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜，别人就不会摆桌子开饭似的！”她也不喜欢那顶系上了新纱带的包发帽：“这个愚蠢的德国女人这么神气，说不定是因为，她认为自己是房东，是她大发善心，这才同意帮助穷苦的房客吧？大发善心！这倒要请教了！我卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的爸爸是位上校，差点儿没当上省长，有时他家里大宴宾客，一请就是四十个人，像您阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜这样的人，或者不如说，像柳德维戈芙娜这样的人，连厨房都不会让您进……”不过她决定暂时不把自己心里的想法说出来，虽说她已暗暗拿定了主意，今天一定得制服这个阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜，让她记住自己的真正身份，不然的话，天知道她会把自己想象成什么样的人；但暂时只是对她相当冷淡。另一件事也在某种程度上使卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜感到气愤：除了总算按时赶到墓地的那个波兰人，邀请过的其他房客，几乎谁也没去参加葬礼；来赴酬客宴的，也就是说，来吃下酒菜的，都是住户中最无足轻重的穷人，其中不少人甚至已经喝醉了，真的，都是些上不得台面的货色。房客当中几个较为年长和比较庄重的人，好像故意商量好了似的，全都没来。譬如说，像彼得•彼特罗维奇•卢任，可以说是所有房客中最有身份的，他也没有来，可是还在昨天晚上，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜就已经对所有人，也就是对阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜、波列奇卡、索尼娅和那个波兰人说了许多，说这是一个最高尚、最慷慨的人，说他有很多关系，又有资产，是她第一个丈夫的朋友，是她父亲家里的常客，还说，他答应要用一切办法为她弄到一笔数目可观的抚恤金。这里我们要记住，如果卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜吹嘘说，某人在社会上有很多关系，又有资产，这绝不是出于她个人的利益，或者是自己有什么打算，而是完全无私地，也可以说是完全出于一片热情，只不过是因为她高兴称赞那个人，从而更加抬高那个她所称赞的人的身价而已。大概，“这个可恶的坏蛋列别贾特尼科夫”是“学卢任的样”，所以也没来。“这家伙自以为是个什么人呢？只不过是出于善意，这才邀请了他，而且这还是因为他和彼得•彼特罗维奇同住在一间房子里，又是他的熟人，所以不好意思不邀请他。”那个颇有上流社会风度的太太和她那个“青春已逝、尚未出阁”的女儿也没有来，虽然她们在阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜这里总共才不过住了两个星期左右，可是对于从马尔梅拉多夫家里传出的吵闹声和叫喊声，却已经抱怨过好几次了，特别是当死者生前醉醺醺地回家来的时候；她们的抱怨，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜当然已经知道了，因为每当阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜和她对骂，威胁要把他们全家都赶出去的时候，总是扯着嗓子大喊，说他们惊动了“那两位高贵的房客，而他们连给她们提鞋也都不配”。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜现在故意邀请“她似乎连给她们提鞋都不配”的这母女俩，尤其是因为在这以前偶尔遇到她们的时候，那位太太总是高傲地扭过脸去，——那么就让她了解一下吧，这里的人“思想感情都更高尚些，不记仇恨，也邀请了她们”，而且要让她看到，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜可不是过惯了这种生活的人。她打算在酒席宴前一定要把这一点向她们说清楚，而且一定要告诉她们，她过世的父亲几乎当上了省长，同时也间接向她们暗示，以后碰到的时候用不着把脸扭过去，这样做是非常愚蠢的。那个胖中校（其实是个退役的上尉）也没来，不过，原来还从昨天早上，他就已经“烂醉如泥”了。总而言之，应邀前来的只有这么几个人：那个波兰人，接着来的还有一个样子长得十分难看、一言不发的小职员，他穿一件油污的燕尾服，满脸粉刺，身上还有一股难闻的气味；随后又来了一个小老头儿，是个聋子，眼睛也几乎完全瞎了，以前不知在哪儿的邮政总局里做过事，有个人不知为什么从很久以前就在阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜这儿养着他。还来了一个已经喝醉了的退职中尉，其实是个军需官，经常高声大笑，实在不成体统，而且，“你们瞧”，连背心都没穿！还有一个，一进来就在桌边坐下了，甚至没向卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜点头问好。最后又来了一个，因为没有衣服，就穿着睡衣跑来了，这可太不像话了，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜和那个波兰人费了好大劲，总算把他推了出去。不过那个波兰人还带了两个波兰人来，他们从来根本就没在阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜这儿住过，在这以前，这幢房子里的人谁也没看见过他们。这一切都让卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜感到不快，惹她生气。“这一切到底是为谁准备的？”为了腾出座位来招待客人，甚至没让孩子们坐到桌边，而饭桌本来就已经占据了整个房间；把孩子们安顿在后面角落里，用一个箱子当作桌子，而且让两个最小的孩子坐在长凳上，波列奇卡已经是个大姑娘了，应该照看着他们，喂他们，就像侍候“贵族子弟”那样，给他们擦鼻涕。总之，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜不得已只好格外傲慢、甚至是高傲地迎接所有这些客人。她特别严峻地打量了一下某几个人，做出一副很瞧不起的样子，请他们入席。不知为什么，她认为阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜要为所有那些没来的人承担一切罪责，突然对她很不客气，后者立刻就发觉了，为此感到十分委屈。
这样的开始不会预示好的结局。终于，大家都坐下来了。
拉斯科利尼科夫几乎是在他们刚从墓地回来的时候就进来了。看到他来了，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜高兴得要命，第一，因为他是所有客人中唯一“有教养的人”，而且“正如大家都知道的，两年以后他就要在这儿一所大学里当教授了”，第二，因为他很恭敬地请她原谅，说，尽管他很想去参加葬礼，可还是没能前去。她急忙跑过去招呼他，请他坐在自己左边的座位上（坐在右边的是阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜），尽管她忙个不停，不断地张罗着有条不紊地上菜，把每道菜都送到每位客人面前，尽管一刻也不停的咳嗽使她感到十分痛苦，呼吸困难，不时把她的话打断，而且，最近这两天这咳嗽似乎已经变成了痼疾，她却对拉斯科利尼科夫说个不停，急于低声向他倾诉心中郁积的感情，述说因为酬客宴办得很不称心而感到的理所当然的愤慨；而且这愤慨时常转变为最快乐和抑制不住的嘲笑，嘲笑在座的客人们，但主要是嘲笑女房东。
“一切都怪这只布谷鸟。您要明白我说的是谁：我说的是她，是她！”说着，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜朝女房东那边点点头，向他示意。“您看她：瞪圆了眼睛，感觉出我们是在谈论她了，可是她听不懂，所以瞪大了眼睛。呸，猫头鹰！哈——哈——哈！……咳——咳——咳！她戴着这顶包发帽是想表示什么呢！咳——咳—— 咳！您注意到了吗，她一直想让大家认为，她是在保护我，她的大驾光临，是她瞧得起我。我把她当作正派人，请她去邀请几位体面些的客人，也就是亡夫的熟人，可是您瞧，她请来了些什么人啊：一些小丑！几个邋遢鬼！您瞧瞧这个脸那么脏的家伙：真是个长着两条腿的饭桶！还有这两个波兰人……哈——哈——哈！咳—— 咳——咳！无论谁，无论谁，从来也没在这儿看见过他们，我也从来没见过他们；嗯，我请问您，他们是来干什么的？规规矩矩地坐成一排。潘涅，盖伊①！”她突然对他们当中的一个喊了一声，“您尝过煎饼了吗？再来点儿嘛！请喝点儿啤酒啊，啤酒！不想喝伏特加吗？您瞧：他霍地站起来，点头哈腰，您瞧，您瞧：准是饿坏了，这些穷鬼！没关系，让他们吃吧。他们至少不大吵大闹，不过……不过，真的，我为房东的那些银调羹感到担心！……阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜！”她突然对她几乎是大声说，“我把话说在前头，万一您的调羹给偷走了，我可不能负责！哈——哈——哈！”她哈哈大笑起来，又转过脸来对着拉斯科利尼科夫，又朝女房东那边向他点头示意，为自己这一狂妄的举动感到十分高兴。“她没听懂，又没听懂！她张大了嘴坐在那儿，您瞧：猫头鹰，真是只夜猫子，系着新纱带的猫头鹰，哈——哈——哈！”
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①波兰文，意为“喂，先生们！”
这时笑声又变成了难以忍受的咳嗽，接连不断地足足咳了五分钟。手绢儿上留下了好几点血迹，额上渗出了豆大的汗珠。她默默地让拉斯科利尼科夫看看手绢儿上的血，刚刚喘过一口气来，立刻又异常兴奋地对他低声说了起来，而且双颊上泛起了红晕：
“您瞧，我把一件最微妙的事托付给她，请她去邀请这位太太和她的女儿，您明白我说的是谁吗？这需要以最委婉的方式，用最巧妙的手法，可是她把事情给办砸了，这个外来的傻娘儿们，这个高傲自大的贱货，这个微不足道的外省女人，只不过因为她是个什么少校的遗孀，来京城是为了设法请求发给她抚恤金，天天往政府机关里跑，把下摆都磨破了，她都五十五岁了，还要染头发，搽胭脂抹粉（这大家都知道）……就是这样一个贱货，不但不认为她应该来，甚至都没让人来道声歉，既然她不能来，在这种情况下也该懂得最普通的礼貌，叫人来说一声啊！我真不懂，彼得•彼特罗维奇为什么也没来？不过索尼娅在哪儿呢？她上哪儿去了？啊，她终于来了！索尼娅，你在哪儿？奇怪，就连参加父亲的葬礼，你也没能准时赶到。罗季昂•罗曼内奇，请让她坐在您旁边。喏，索涅奇卡，你坐这儿…… 你想吃什么，自己拿吧。来点儿肉冻吧，这道菜最好。这就要端煎饼来了。给孩子们拿去了吗？波列奇卡，你们那儿什么都有了吗？咳——咳——咳！嗯，好的。要做个乖孩子，廖尼娅，还有你，科利亚，两只脚别晃来晃去；要像贵族家的孩子那样坐着。你说什么，索涅奇卡？”
索尼娅立刻向她转达了彼得•彼特罗维奇的歉意，竭力说得大声些，想让大家都能听到，而且用的是最客气、最尊敬的词句，甚至故意用彼得•彼特罗维奇的口气，不过这些话都是她自己编出来、而且经过润色的。她还补充说，彼得•彼特罗维奇特别让她转告，只要一有可能，他立刻就会前来，当面谈谈几个问题，商量一下，今后可以做些什么，可以采取些什么措施，等等。
索尼娅知道，这样说会让卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜宽心，使她得到安慰，使她感到满意，而主要的，是能满足她的自尊心。她坐到拉斯科利尼科夫身旁，急忙向他行了个礼，并且好奇地匆匆向他看了一眼。不过在其余时间里，不知为什么，她却一直避免看他，避免和他说话。她甚至好像心不在焉，虽然眼睛一直看着卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的脸，讨她喜欢。无论是她，还是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，都没穿孝服，因为她们都没有孝服可穿；索尼娅穿一件颜色较深的褐色衣服，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜穿的是她那件唯一的、有条纹的深色印花布连衫裙。关于彼得•彼特罗维奇的情况，很顺利地讲完了。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜骄傲地听完了索尼娅的话，又带着同样骄傲的神情问：彼得•彼特罗维奇身体怎样？然后立刻，几乎是大声对拉斯科利尼科夫窃窃私语说，如果像彼得•彼特罗维奇这么一位可尊敬的、有身份的人会到这样“稀奇古怪的一伙人”中间来，那才当真是件怪事，尽管他真心诚意地关心她的家庭，也忘不了跟她父亲的老交情。
“所以我才特别感谢您，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，因为在这样的情况下，承蒙不弃，屈尊前来参加我的酬客宴，”她几乎是大声说，“不过，我深信，只是因为您与我可怜的亡夫友情非同一般，才促使您履行了自己的诺言。”
之后，她又一次骄傲而尊严地扫视了一下自己的客人们，突然特别关切地隔着桌子高声问那个耳聋的小老头儿：“要不要再来点儿烤肉？请他喝过里斯本葡萄酒没有？”小老头儿没有回答，好久也不明白，人家在问他什么，尽管他的邻座为了取笑，甚至推了推他。他只是张着嘴朝四下里看了看，这就更让大家感到好笑了。
“瞧，多傻的一个傻瓜！您瞧，您瞧！请他来作什么？至于彼得•彼特罗维奇，我对他是永远相信的，”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜继续对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“他当然不像……”她神情特别严峻、毫不客气地对阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜说，甚至使她感到有些害怕了，“不像您那些穿得特别惹人注目、裙子拖在地上的女人，我爸爸家里都不会让这样的女人去作厨娘，我的亡夫当然会赏她们个脸，接待她们，可那也只不过是因为他心肠太好，他的好心是无限的。”
“不错，他爱喝酒；喜欢这玩意儿，经常喝！”那个退役的军需官突然高声叫喊，说着喝干了第十二杯伏特加。
“亡夫确实有这个嗜好，这大家都知道，”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜突然一下子盯住了他，“可他是一个心地善良，而且高尚的人，爱自己的家，也尊敬自己的家；只有一样不好，由于心肠好，他太相信形形色色腐化堕落的人了，天知道他跟谁没在一道喝过酒啊，就连那些还抵不上他一个鞋掌的家伙，也和他在一道灌过黄汤！您信不信，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，在他口袋里找到过公鸡形状的蜜糖饼干，醉得像个死人，可是还惦记着孩子们。”
“公—鸡？您说：公—鸡？”那个军需官先生大声喊。
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜根本没答理他。她不知想起了什么，叹了口气。
“您大概和大家一样，认为我对他太严厉了，”她转过脸来对着拉斯科利尼科夫，接着说下去。“其实不是这样！他尊敬我，他非常，非常尊敬我！是个好心肠的人！有时觉得那么可怜他！他常常坐在角落里望着我，我觉得他那么可怜，真想跟他亲热一下，可是后来又暗自想：‘对他亲热了，他就又要去喝酒了’，只有对他严厉些，才能多少管得住他。”
“是啊，常常揪他的头发，揪过不止一次了，”又是那个军需官打断了她，又灌下了一杯伏特加。
“不仅揪头发，就是用笤帚来对付某些傻瓜，也挺有好处。现在我说的不是我的亡夫！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜很不客气地对那个军需官说。
她脸上的红晕越来越红了，胸部也一起一伏。再过一会儿，她就要跟人吵架了。许多人在嘿嘿地笑，看得出来，许多人觉得这很有意思。有人开始怂恿军需官，不知在悄悄地跟他说什么。显然是想挑动他们吵架。
“请——请——问，您说这话是什么意思，”军需官说，“也就是说，您指的……是谁……您刚刚说的话是……不过，用不着说了！胡说八道！寡妇！遗孀！我原谅您……我不计较！”他又干了一杯伏特加。
拉斯科利尼科夫坐在那儿，带着厌恶的心情默默地听着。只是出于礼貌，他才多少吃一点儿卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜不断放到他盘子里的菜肴，这也只不过是为了她不致见怪。他凝神注视着索尼娅。但索尼娅越来越忧虑，越来越担心了；她也预感到酬客宴不会平安无事地结束，惊恐地观察着卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜越来越恼怒的神情。同时她也知道，那母女两个所以那样蔑视卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的邀请，主要原因就是她，索尼娅。她曾经听到阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜亲口说，那位母亲甚至认为，邀请她们是对她们的侮辱，还问“她怎么能让自己的女儿和这个女人坐在一起？”索尼娅预感到，对这一点，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜已经多多少少听说了，而侮辱她，侮辱索尼娅，对于卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜来说，这比侮辱她本人，侮辱她的孩子，侮辱她的爸爸还要严重，总之，是极大的侮辱，索尼娅也知道，在卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜“还没能让那两个裙子拖在地上的女人知道，她们俩是……”以及如此等等之前，现在她是决不会安静下来了。好像故意为难似的，有人从桌子的另一头给索尼娅传来一个盘子，盘子里放着用黑面包做的两颗心，还有一支箭穿透了这两颗心。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜脸涨得血红，立刻隔着桌子高声说，传递这个盘子的人当然是“一头喝醉的蠢驴”。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜也预感到要出什么乱子，同时卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的高傲态度又使她深深感到受了侮辱，为了缓和一下紧张气氛，让大家忘掉不愉快的事情，顺带也在大家心目中抬高自己的身价，突然无缘无故地说，她有个熟人，“药房里的卡尔”，一天夜里，他坐了一辆马车，“马车夫想要杀西（死）他，卡尔颗颗（苦苦）哀求，求他不要杀西（死）他，痛哭流去（涕），束手待劈（毙），怕得要命，吓得他的心都好像给穿瘦（透）了”。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜虽然也笑了笑，可是立刻说，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜不该用俄语讲笑话。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜心里更不痛快了，反驳说，她的“法特尔•阿乌斯• 柏林①，是个非常、非常重要的人，走路的时候总是双手摸进（插在）口袋里”。爱笑的卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜忍不住哈哈大笑起来，这样一来阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜已经大为恼火，只是还勉强克制着。
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①德文，“父亲是柏林人”之意。
“瞧，这只猫头鹰！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜几乎快乐起来，立刻又对拉斯科利尼科夫低声说，“她想说：双手插在口袋里，可是说成了他常摸别人的口袋，咳——咳！您发觉吗，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，从这个故事就可以彻底看出，所有这些住在彼得堡的外国人，主要是那些不知从什么地方来到我们这儿的德国人，全都比我们蠢！您同意吗，难道能说这种话：‘药房里的卡尔吓得心都好像给穿透了’，还说，他（饭桶！）不是把那个马车夫捆起来，却‘束手待毙，痛哭流涕，苦苦哀求’。唉，这个傻女人！她以为这样说很感动人，却没想到，这样显得她多么愚蠢！依我看，这个喝醉了的军需官比她聪明得多；至少可以看出，他是个酒鬼，醉得丧失了理智，可这些德国人神情全都那么庄重，那么严肃……瞧，她坐在那儿，眼睛瞪得老大。她生气了！生气了！哈——哈——
哈！咳——咳——咳！”
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜快活起来了，立刻沉醉于种种幻想之中，而且想到许多详情细节，突然说，等她领到抚恤金，一定要在自己的故乡T城办一所贵族女子寄宿中学。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜本人还没有把这个想法告诉过拉斯利尼科夫，她立刻为那些诱人的细节而神往了。不知怎么，她手里忽然出现了一张“奖状”，就是已故的马尔梅拉多夫在小酒馆里跟拉斯科利尼科夫提到过的那张奖状，当时他说，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，他的妻子，从高等学校毕业的时候，“在省长和其他名流面前”跳过披巾舞。这张奖状现在显然应该成为一个证据，证明卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜有权开办寄宿中学；但主要目的还是为了让“那两个穿得特别惹人注意、裙子拖到地上的女人”见识见识，彻底打掉她们的傲气，如果她们来参加酬客宴的话，而且要明确地向她们证明，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜出身于最高贵的，“甚至可以说是贵族的家庭，是上校的女儿，肯定比某些女冒险家要高贵些，而最近却出现了那么多这样的女冒险家”。奖状立刻在醉醺醺的客人们手里传递起来，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜并不阻止他们这样做，因为这张奖状的确entouteslettres①说明，她是获得过勋章的七等文官的女儿，因而实际上差不多也就是上校的女儿了。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜兴奋起来，立刻详尽地描绘将来在T城的美好、平静的生活；谈到了她聘请来在她那所中学教课的教师，说是有一位可敬的老人，是个姓曼戈的法国人，在女子高等学校里，就教过卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜法语，现在他还在T城安度晚年，只要多少给他一点儿薪水，他准会到她的中学里去教书。最后还谈到了索尼娅，说“她要和卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜一同去T城，帮助她料理一切”。但这时桌子的那一头突然有人噗嗤一声笑了出来。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜虽然竭力立刻装作毫不在乎的样子，轻蔑地不去理睬桌子那头发出的笑声，可是又立刻提高声音，兴奋地说，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜无疑有能力作她的助手，说索尼娅“性情温和，有耐心，有自我牺牲精神，高尚，而且很有教养”，说着，还爱抚地拍拍索尼娅的脸蛋儿，欠起身来，热情地吻了她两下。索尼娅脸红了，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜却突然放声大哭起来，可是又立刻自言自语地说，她“是个神经脆弱的傻女人，而且太伤心了，酬客宴也该结束了，因为菜已经上完，该送茶来了”。这场谈话，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜完全插不上嘴，而且别人根本就不听她说话，因此她觉得难过极了，所以就在这个时候，她突然冒险作最后一次尝试，怀着忧虑的心情大胆向卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜提了一个很有道理、而且意义深刻的意见，说是在她要办的那所寄宿中学里，需要特别注意女孩子们内衣（迪•韦舍）②的清洁，而且“一定需要有这样一位能干的太太（迪•达梅）③，让她好好地照管内衣”，其次，“得让所有年轻的女孩子夜里都安安静静，别看小说”。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜当真十分伤心，而且也很累了，酬客宴已经让她感到厌烦透了，所以她立刻“很不客气地打断了”阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜的话，说她“胡说八道”，什么也不懂；说关心迪•韦舍是女管理员的事，而不是贵族女子中学校长的事；至于看小说，说这种话甚至简直不成体统，请她免开尊口。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜涨红了脸，怒不可遏，说，她不过是出于“一片好心”，她“完全出于善意，她的心大大的好”，还说，“租房子的格利德④已经很久很久没给了”。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜立刻让她 “住嘴”，说，她说什么“出于好心”，那是撒谎，因为还在昨天，死者还停放在桌子上的时候，她就为了房子在折磨她了。对这些责难，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜满有道理地反驳说，她去“邀请那位太太和她的小姐，可是她们不肯来，因为她们是高贵的太太和小姐，不能到不高贵的太太这儿来”。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜立刻向她“着重指出”，因为她自己是个邋里邋遢的人，所以她不能判断什么是真正的高贵。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜不能忍受这种侮辱，立刻宣称：“我的法特尔•阿乌斯•柏林，是个非常、非常重要的人，走路的时候双手总是摸进（插在）口袋里，嘴里一直在说：呸！呸！”为了逼真地模仿自己的法特尔，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜从椅子上霍地站了起来，把两只手插在衣袋里，鼓起腮帮，嘴里发出一些含糊不清的声音，好像是在说“呸——呸”，所有房客们都高声大笑，预感到就要打起来了，故意对阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜表示赞许，给她打气。但是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜已经感到忍无可忍，立刻“一字一顿、清清楚楚地”高声说，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜也许从来就没有法特尔，她只不过是一个住在彼得堡的、喝得醉醺醺的芬兰女人，大概以前是在什么地方当厨娘，说不定比这还要卑贱。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜脸红得像煮熟了的虾，尖声叫喊起来，说，也许卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜“根本就没有法特尔；她却有一个法特尔•阿乌斯•柏林，他穿着很长的常礼服，一直在说：呸，呸，呸！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜轻蔑地说，她的出身是大家都知道的，这张奖状上就用铅字印着，她的父亲是位上校；可阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜的父亲（如果她真有个什么父亲的话），大概是个在彼得堡卖牛奶的芬兰人；最有可能的是，她根本就没有父亲，因为直到现在还弄不清楚，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜的父名是什么：是伊万诺芙娜呢，还是柳德维戈芙娜？这时阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜气得发狂了，用拳头捶着桌子，尖声叫喊，说她是阿玛莉—伊万，不是柳德维戈芙娜，说她的法特尔“叫约翰，当过市长”，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的法特尔却“从来也没当过市长”。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜从椅子上站了起来，用听起来相当平静的声音（可是脸色发白，胸部剧烈地一起一伏）严厉地对她说，如果她胆敢，哪怕敢再说一次，“把自己那个坏蛋父亲跟她的爸爸相提并论，那么她，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜就要扯下她的包发帽，把它踩个稀烂”。一听到这些话，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜立刻在屋里奔跑起来，还拼命叫喊，说她是房东，叫卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜“马上从这所房子里搬出去”；随后又不知为了什么扑过去从桌子上收起那些银汤匙。吵闹声、叫喊声、哄笑声乱成一片；孩子们哭起来了。索尼娅急忙过来拉住卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜；可是当阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜突然高声叫嚷，提到什么黄色执照的时候，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜一下子推开了索尼娅，冲到阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜跟前，想立刻把扯下她包发帽的威胁付诸实现。就在这个时候，房门开了，彼得•彼特罗维奇突然出现在门口。他站在那里，用严厉而十分注意的目光扫视了一下这一伙人。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜急忙向他跑去。
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①法文，“充分”之意。
②德文，“内衣”之意。
③德文，“太太”之意。
④德文，“钱”之意。
Part 5 Chapter 3
"Pyotr Petrovitch," she cried, "protect me . . . you at least! Make this foolish woman understand that she can't behave like this to a lady in misfortune . . . that there is a law for such things. . . . I'll go to the governor-general himself. . . . She shall answer for it. . . . Remembering my father's hospitality protect these orphans."
"Allow me, madam. . . . Allow me." Pyotr Petrovitch waved her off. "Your papa as you are well aware I had not the honour of knowing" (someone laughed aloud) "and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting squabbles with Amalia Ivanovna. . . . I have come here to speak of my own affairs . . . and I want to have a word with your stepdaughter, Sofya . . . Ivanovna, I think it is? Allow me to pass."
Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite corner where Sonia was.
Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though thunderstruck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovitch could deny having enjoyed her father's hospitility. Though she had invented it herself, she believed in it firmly by this time. She was struck too by the businesslike, dry and even contemptuous menacing tone of Pyotr Petrovitch. All the clamour gradually died away at his entrance. Not only was this "serious business man" strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party, but it was evident, too, that he had come upon some matter of consequence, that some exceptional cause must have brought him and that therefore something was going to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovitch did not seem to notice him. A minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway; he did not come in, but stood still, listening with marked interest, almost wonder, and seemed for a time perplexed.
"Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it's a matter of some importance," Pyotr Petrovitch observed, addressing the company generally. "I am glad indeed to find other persons present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly beg you as mistress of the house to pay careful attention to what I have to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna," he went on, addressing Sonia, who was very much surprised and already alarmed, "immediately after your visit I found that a hundred-rouble note was missing from my table, in the room of my friend Mr. Lebeziatnikov. If in any way whatever you know and will tell us where it is now, I assure you on my word of honour and call all present to witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite case I shall be compelled to have recourse to very serious measures and then . . . you must blame yourself."
Complete silence reigned in the room. Even the crying children were still. Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at Luzhin and unable to say a word. She seemed not to understand. Some seconds passed.
"Well, how is it to be then?" asked Luzhin, looking intently at her.
"I don't know. . . . I know nothing about it," Sonia articulated faintly at last.
"No, you know nothing?" Luzhin repeated and again he paused for some seconds. "Think a moment, mademoiselle," he began severely, but still, as it were, admonishing her. "Reflect, I am prepared to give you time for consideration. Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely convinced I should not, you may be sure, with my experience venture to accuse you so directly. Seeing that for such direct accusation before witnesses, if false or even mistaken, I should myself in a certain sense be made responsible, I am aware of that. This morning I changed for my own purposes several five-per-cent securities for the sum of approximately three thousand roubles. The account is noted down in my pocket-book. On my return home I proceeded to count the money--as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will bear witness--and after counting two thousand three hundred roubles I put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket. About five hundred roubles remained on the table and among them three notes of a hundred roubles each. At that moment you entered (at my invitation)--and all the time you were present you were exceedingly embarrassed; so that three times you jumped up in the middle of the conversation and tried to make off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness to this. You yourself, mademoiselle, probably will not refuse to confirm my statement that I invited you through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in order to discuss with you the hopeless and destitute position of your relative, Katerina Ivanovna (whose dinner I was unable to attend), and the advisability of getting up something of the nature of a subscription, lottery or the like, for her benefit. You thanked me and even shed tears. I describe all this as it took place, primarily to recall it to your mind and secondly to show you that not the slightest detail has escaped my recollection. Then I took a ten- rouble note from the table and handed it to you by way of first instalment on my part for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov saw all this. Then I accompanied you to the door--you being still in the same state of embarrassment--after which, being left alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten minutes-- then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count it and to put it aside, as I proposed doing before. To my surprise one hundred-rouble note had disappeared. Kindly consider the position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. I am ashamed to allude to such a supposition. I cannot have made a mistake in my reckoning, for the minute before your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the total correct. You will admit that recollecting your embarrassment, your eagerness to get away and the fact that you kept your hands for some time on the table, and taking into consideration your social position and the habits associated with it, I was, so to say, with horror and positively against my will, /compelled/ to entertain a suspicion--a cruel, but justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in spite of my positive conviction, I realise that I run a certain risk in making this accusation, but as you see, I could not let it pass. I have taken action and I will tell you why: solely, madam, solely, owing to your black ingratitude! Why! I invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative, I present you with my donation of ten roubles and you, on the spot, repay me for all that with such an action. It is too bad! You need a lesson. Reflect! Moreover, like a true friend I beg you-- and you could have no better friend at this moment--think what you are doing, otherwise I shall be immovable! Well, what do you say?"
"I have taken nothing," Sonia whispered in terror, "you gave me ten roubles, here it is, take it."
Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a corner of it, took out the ten-rouble note and gave it to Luzhin.
"And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?" he insisted reproachfully, not taking the note.
Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with such awful, stern, ironical, hostile eyes. She looked at Raskolnikov . . . he stood against the wall, with his arms crossed, looking at her with glowing eyes.
"Good God!" broke from Sonia.
"Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the police and therefore I humbly beg you meanwhile to send for the house porter," Luzhin said softly and even kindly.
"/Gott der Barmherzige/! I knew she was the thief," cried Amalia Ivanovna, throwing up her hands.
"You knew it?" Luzhin caught her up, "then I suppose you had some reason before this for thinking so. I beg you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to remember your words which have been uttered before witnesses."
There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. All were in movement.
"What!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the position, and she rushed at Luzhin. "What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the wretches, the wretches!"
And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as in a vise.
"Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? Foolish girl! Give it to me! Give me the ten roubles at once--here!
And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and flung it straight into Luzhin's face. It hit him in the eye and fell on the ground. Amalia Ivanovna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost his temper.
"Hold that mad woman!" he shouted.
At that moment several other persons, besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in the doorway, among them the two ladies.
"What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!" shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. "You are an idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, base man! Sonia, Sonia take his money! Sonia a thief! Why, she'd give away her last penny!" and Katerina Ivanovna broke into hysterical laughter. "Did you ever see such an idiot?" she turned from side to side. "And you too?" she suddenly saw the landlady, "and you too, sausage eater, you declare that she is a thief, you trashy Prussian hen's leg in a crinoline! She hasn't been out of this room: she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down beside me, everyone saw her. She sat here, by Rodion Romanovitch. Search her! Since she's not left the room, the money would have to be on her! Search her, search her! But if you don't find it, then excuse me, my dear fellow, you'll answer for it! I'll go to our Sovereign, to our Sovereign, to our gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet, to-day, this minute! I am alone in the world! They would let me in! Do you think they wouldn't? You're wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You reckoned on her meekness! You relied upon that! But I am not so submissive, let me tell you! You've gone too far yourself. Search her, search her!"
And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and dragged him towards Sonia.
"I am ready, I'll be responsible . . . but calm yourself, madam, calm yourself. I see that you are not so submissive! . . . Well, well, but as to that . . ." Luzhin muttered, "that ought to be before the police . . . though indeed there are witnesses enough as it is. . . . I am ready. . . . But in any case it's difficult for a man . . . on account of her sex. . . . But with the help of Amalia Ivanovna . . . though, of course, it's not the way to do things. . . . How is it to be done?"
"As you will! Let anyone who likes search her!" cried Katerina Ivanovna. "Sonia, turn out your pockets! See! Look, monster, the pocket is empty, here was her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! D'you see, d'you see?"
And Katerina Ivanovna turned--or rather snatched--both pockets inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of paper flew out and describing a parabola in the air fell at Luzhin's feet. Everyone saw it, several cried out. Pyotr Petrovitch stooped down, picked up the paper in two fingers, lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a hundred-rouble note folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held up the note showing it to everyone.
"Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!" yelled Amalia Ivanovna. "They must to Siberia be sent! Away!"
Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, keeping his eyes fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional rapid glance at Luzhin. Sonia stood still, as though unconscious. She was hardly able to feel surprise. Suddenly the colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands.
"No, it wasn't I! I didn't take it! I know nothing about it," she cried with a heartrending wail, and she ran to Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped her tightly in her arms, as though she would shelter her from all the world.
"Sonia! Sonia! I don't believe it! You see, I don't believe it!" she cried in the face of the obvious fact, swaying her to and fro in her arms like a baby, kissing her face continually, then snatching at her hands and kissing them, too, "you took it! How stupid these people are! Oh dear! You are fools, fools," she cried, addressing the whole room, "you don't know, you don't know what a heart she has, what a girl she is! She take it, she? She'd sell her last rag, she'd go barefoot to help you if you needed it, that's what she is! She has the yellow passport because my children were starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband! Do you see? Do you see? What a memorial dinner for you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all standing still? Rodion Romanovitch, why don't you stand up for her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little finger, all of you together! Good God! Defend her now, at least!"
The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a great effect on her audience. The agonised, wasted, consumptive face, the parched blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a child's, the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so piteous that everyone seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petrovitch at any rate was at once moved to /compassion/.
"Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!" he cried impressively, "no one would take upon himself to accuse you of being an instigator or even an accomplice in it, especially as you have proved her guilt by turning out her pockets, showing that you had no previous idea of it. I am most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty, so to speak, drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you refuse to confess, mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the disgrace? The first step? You lost your head, perhaps? One can quite understand it. . . . But how could you have lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen," he addressed the whole company, "gentlemen! Compassionate and, so to say, commiserating these people, I am ready to overlook it even now in spite of the personal insult lavished upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to you for the future," he said, addressing Sonia, "and I will carry the matter no further. Enough!"
Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov's seemed ready to reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging Sonia like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on all sides, and Polenka--though she did not fully understand what was wrong--was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her pretty little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonia's shoulder.
"How vile!" a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway.
Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly.
"What vileness!" Lebeziatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the face.
Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start--all noticed it and recalled it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the room.
"And you dared to call me as witness?" he said, going up to Pyotr Petrovitch.
"What do you mean? What are you talking about?" muttered Luzhin.
"I mean that you . . . are a slanderer, that's what my words mean!" Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at him with his short- sighted eyes.
He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at him, as though seizing and weighing each word. Again there was a silence. Pyotr Petrovitch indeed seemed almost dumbfounded for the first moment.
"If you mean that for me, . . ." he began, stammering. "But what's the matter with you? Are you out of your mind?"
"I'm in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard everything. I kept waiting on purpose to understand it, for I must own even now it is not quite logical. . . . What you have done it all for I can't understand."
"Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your nonsensical riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!"
"You may be a drunkard, perhaps, vile man, but I am not! I never touch vodka, for it's against my convictions. Would you believe it, he, he himself, with his own hands gave Sofya Semyonovna that hundred-rouble note--I saw it, I was a witness, I'll take my oath! He did it, he!" repeated Lebeziatnikov, addressing all.
"Are you crazy, milksop?" squealed Luzhin. "She is herself before you --she herself here declared just now before everyone that I gave her only ten roubles. How could I have given it to her?"
"I saw it, I saw it," Lebeziatnikov repeated, "and though it is against my principles, I am ready this very minute to take any oath you like before the court, for I saw how you slipped it in her pocket. Only like a fool I thought you did it out of kindness! When you were saying good-bye to her at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with the other, the left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it!"
Luzhin turned pale.
"What lies!" he cried impudently, "why, how could you, standing by the window, see the note? You fancied it with your short-sighted eyes. You are raving!"
"No, I didn't fancy it. And though I was standing some way off, I saw it all. And though it certainly would be hard to distinguish a note from the window--that's true--I knew for certain that it was a hundred-rouble note, because, when you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna ten roubles, you took up from the table a hundred-rouble note (I saw it because I was standing near then, and an idea struck me at once, so that I did not forget you had it in your hand). You folded it and kept it in your hand all the time. I didn't think of it again until, when you were getting up, you changed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped it! I noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you meant to do her a kindness without my seeing. You can fancy how I watched you and I saw how you succeeded in slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it, I'll take my oath."
Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations arose on all hands chiefly expressive of wonder, but some were menacing in tone. They all crowded round Pyotr Petrovitch. Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov.
"I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her part! She is an orphan. God has sent you!"
Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing, sank on her knees before him.
"A pack of nonsense!" yelled Luzhin, roused to fury, "it's all nonsense you've been talking! 'An idea struck you, you didn't think, you noticed'--what does it amount to? So I gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for? With what object? What have I to do with this . . .?"
"What for? That's what I can't understand, but that what I am telling you is the fact, that's certain! So far from my being mistaken, you infamous criminal man, I remember how, on account of it, a question occurred to me at once, just when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What made you put it secretly in her pocket? Why you did it secretly, I mean? Could it be simply to conceal it from me, knowing that my convictions are opposed to yours and that I do not approve of private benevolence, which effects no radical cure? Well, I decided that you really were ashamed of giving such a large sum before me. Perhaps, too, I thought, he wants to give her a surprise, when she finds a whole hundred-rouble note in her pocket. (For I know, some benevolent people are very fond of decking out their charitable actions in that way.) Then the idea struck me, too, that you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found it, she would come to thank you. Then, too, that you wanted to avoid thanks and that, as the saying is, your right hand should not know . . . something of that sort, in fact. I thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it, but still thought it indelicate to show you that I knew your secret. But another idea struck me again that Sofya Semyonovna might easily lose the money before she noticed it, that was why I decided to come in here to call her out of the room and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in her pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatnikov's to take them the 'General Treatise on the Positive Method' and especially to recommend Piderit's article (and also Wagner's); then I come on here and what a state of things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas and reflections if I had not seen you put the hundred-rouble note in her pocket?"
When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded harangue with the logical deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and the perspiration streamed from his face. He could not, alas, even express himself correctly in Russian, though he knew no other language, so that he was quite exhausted, almost emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech produced a powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehemence, with such conviction that everyone obviously believed him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt that things were going badly with him.
"What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?" he shouted, "that's no evidence. You may have dreamt it, that's all! And I tell you, you are lying, sir. You are lying and slandering from some spite against me, simply from pique, because I did not agree with your free-thinking, godless, social propositions!"
But this retort did not benefit Pyotr Petrovitch. Murmurs of disapproval were heard on all sides.
"Ah, that's your line now, is it!" cried Lebeziatnikov, "that's nonsense! Call the police and I'll take my oath! There's only one thing I can't understand: what made him risk such a contemptible action. Oh, pitiful, despicable man!"
"I can explain why he risked such an action, and if necessary, I, too, will swear to it," Raskolnikov said at last in a firm voice, and he stepped forward.
He appeared to be firm and composed. Everyone felt clearly, from the very look of him that he really knew about it and that the mystery would be solved.
"Now I can explain it all to myself," said Raskolnikov, addressing Lebeziatnikov. "From the very beginning of the business, I suspected that there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it. I began to suspect it from some special circumstances known to me only, which I will explain at once to everyone: they account for everything. Your valuable evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I beg all, all to listen. This gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin) was recently engaged to be married to a young lady--my sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov. But coming to Petersburg he quarrelled with me, the day before yesterday, at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room --I have two witnesses to prove it. He is a very spiteful man. . . . The day before yesterday I did not know that he was staying here, in your room, and that consequently on the very day we quarrelled--the day before yesterday--he saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral, as a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a note to my mother and informed her that I had given away all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna but to Sofya Semyonovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to the . . . character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at the character of my attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this you understand was with the object of dividing me from my mother and sister, by insinuating that I was squandering on unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and which was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister and in his presence, I declared that I had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral and not to Sofya Semyonovna and that I had no acquaintance with Sofya Semyonovna and had never seen her before, indeed. At the same time I added that he, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, with all his virtues, was not worth Sofya Semyonovna's little finger, though he spoke so ill of her. To his question--would I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my sister, I answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that my mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at his insinuations, he gradually began being unpardonably rude to them. A final rupture took place and he was turned out of the house. All this happened yesterday evening. Now I beg your special attention: consider: if he had now succeeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he would have shown to my mother and sister that he was almost right in his suspicions, that he had reason to be angry at my putting my sister on a level with Sofya Semyonovna, that, in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving the honour of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through all this, have been able to estrange me from my family, and no doubt he hoped to be restored to favour with them; to say nothing of revenging himself on me personally, for he has grounds for supposing that the honour and happiness of Sofya Semyonovna are very precious to me. That was what he was working for! That's how I understand it. That's the whole reason for it and there can be no other!"
It was like this, or somewhat like this, that Raskolnikov wound up his speech which was followed very attentively, though often interrupted by exclamations from his audience. But in spite of interruptions he spoke clearly, calmly, exactly, firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of conviction and his stern face made a great impression on everyone.
"Yes, yes, that's it," Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, "that must be it, for he asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyonovna came into our room, whether you were here, whether I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna's guests. He called me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was essential for him that you should be here! That's it, that's it!"
Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. He seemed to be deliberating on some means of escape. Perhaps he would have been glad to give up everything and get away, but at the moment this was scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth of the accusations brought against him. Moreover, the company, which had already been excited by drink, was now too much stirred to allow it. The commissariat clerk, though indeed he had not grasped the whole position, was shouting louder than anyone and was making some suggestions very unpleasant to Luzhin. But not all those present were drunk; lodgers came in from all the rooms. The three Poles were tremendously excited and were continually shouting at him: "The /pan/ is a /lajdak/!" and muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with strained attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as though she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her eyes off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him. Katerina Ivanovna breathed hard and painfully and seemed fearfully exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood looking more stupid than anyone, with her mouth wide open, unable to make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr Petrovitch had somehow come to grief.
Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did not let him. Everyone was crowding round Luzhin with threats and shouts of abuse. But Pyotr Petrovitch was not intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of Sonia had completely failed, he had recourse to insolence:
"Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don't squeeze, let me pass!" he said, making his way through the crowd. "And no threats, if you please! I assure you it will be useless, you will gain nothing by it. On the contrary, you'll have to answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing the course of justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I shall prosecute. Our judges are not so blind and . . . not so drunk, and will not believe the testimony of two notorious infidels, agitators, and atheists, who accuse me from motives of personal revenge which they are foolish enough to admit. . . . Yes, allow me to pass!"
"Don't let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly leave at once, and everything is at an end between us! When I think of the trouble I've been taking, the way I've been expounding . . . all this fortnight!"
"I told you myself to-day that I was going, when you tried to keep me; now I will simply add that you are a fool. I advise you to see a doctor for your brains and your short sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!"
He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk was unwilling to let him off so easily: he picked up a glass from the table, brandished it in the air and flung it at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew straight at Amalia Ivanovna. She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing, fell heavily under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his way to his room and half an hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid by nature, had felt before that day that she could be ill- treated more easily than anyone, and that she could be wronged with impunity. Yet till that moment she had fancied that she might escape misfortune by care, gentleness and submissiveness before everyone. Her disappointment was too great. She could, of course, bear with patience and almost without murmur anything, even this. But for the first minute she felt it too bitter. In spite of her triumph and her justification--when her first terror and stupefaction had passed and she could understand it all clearly--the feeling of her helplessness and of the wrong done to her made her heart throb with anguish and she was overcome with hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she rushed out of the room and ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin's departure. When amidst loud laughter the glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it was more than the landlady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at Katerina Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything.
"Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!"
And with these words she began snatching up everything she could lay her hands on that belonged to Katerina Ivanovna, and throwing it on the floor. Katerina Ivanovna, pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath, jumped up from the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at Amalia Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the landlady waved her away like a feather.
"What! As though that godless calumny was not enough--this vile creature attacks me! What! On the day of my husband's funeral I am turned out of my lodging! After eating my bread and salt she turns me into the street, with my orphans! Where am I to go?" wailed the poor woman, sobbing and gasping. "Good God!" she cried with flashing eyes, "is there no justice upon earth? Whom should you protect if not us orphans? We shall see! There is law and justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a bit, godless creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I'll come back. Wait for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will see whether there is justice on earth!"
And throwing over her head that green shawl which Marmeladov had mentioned to Raskolnikov, Katerina Ivanovna squeezed her way through the disorderly and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and, wailing and tearful, she ran into the street--with a vague intention of going at once somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the two little ones in her arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk in the corner of the room, where she waited trembling for her mother to come back. Amalia Ivanovna raged about the room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing everything she came across on the floor. The lodgers talked incoherently, some commented to the best of their ability on what had happened, others quarrelled and swore at one another, while others struck up a song. . . .
"Now it's time for me to go," thought Raskolnikov. "Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll say now!"
And he set off in the direction of Sonia's lodgings.
 
“彼得•彼特罗维奇！”她大声喊，“您可要保护我们啊！请您告诉这个愚蠢的贱货，让她知道，可不能这样对待一个遭到不幸的高贵的太太，这可是犯法的……我要去见总督大人……她要负责……您可要记住先父对您的款待，保护我们这些孤儿。”
“对不起，太太……对不起，对不起，太太，”彼得•彼特罗维奇挥手躲开，“您也知道，我根本没有荣幸认识令尊……对不起，太太！（有人哈哈大笑起来）我也不想卷到您和阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜接连不断的争吵中去……我来是为了我自己的事情……想要立刻和您的继女索菲娅……伊万诺芙娜……好像是这样称呼吧？想要和她说说清楚。请让我进去……”
于是彼得•彼特罗维奇侧着身子绕过卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，往对面角落里走去，索尼娅就站在那里。
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜一动不动地站在那里，仿佛五雷轰顶，一下子呆住了。她不能理解，彼得•彼特罗维奇怎么能否认曾经受过她爸爸的款待。既然她臆造了这种款待，自己对此已经深信不疑。彼得•彼特罗维奇那种打官腔似的、冷冰冰的、甚至充满轻蔑意味的威胁语气也使她大为震惊。然而他一出现，不知怎的大家都渐渐安静下来了。此外，这个“精明能干、神情严肃”的人与这儿的这伙人实在太不协调，他们之间的差别实在太显著了，不仅如此，而且可以看出，他到这里来是有什么很重要的事情，大概是有什么很不寻常的原因才使他来到这伙人中间，可见马上就会发生什么事情，一定会出事。站在索尼娅身旁的拉斯科利尼科夫走开了，让他过去；彼得•彼特罗维奇好像根本没看到他。过了一会儿，列别贾特尼科夫也在门口出现了；他没进屋里来，不过也怀着某种特殊的好奇心，几乎是带着惊讶的神情站到门口；他在留心倾听，不过好像好久都弄不明白，这是怎么回事。
“对不起，我也许打断了大家的谈话，不过我的事情相当重要，”彼得•彼特罗维奇说，似乎这话是对大家，而不是特别对某一个人说的，“大家都在这儿，对此我甚至感到高兴。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜，我极诚恳地恳求您，以房东的身份，注意听着我和索菲娅•伊万诺芙娜下面的谈话。索菲娅•伊万诺芙娜，”他直接对异常惊讶、而且事先就已经感到害怕的索尼娅接着说，“在我的朋友安德烈•谢苗诺维奇•列别贾特尼科夫屋里，刚才您来过以后，我的一张一百卢布的钞票从我的桌子上不翼而飞了。如果您不论以任何方式知道它现在在什么地方，并且告诉我们，那么我以人格担保，并请大家作证，这件事情就算了结了。不然的话，我将不得不采取十分严厉的措施，到那时……就只能怨您自己了！”
屋里鸦雀无声，一片寂静。就连正在哭着的孩子们也住了声。索尼娅站在那里，脸色白得像死人一样，看着卢任，什么也不能回答。她似乎还没听懂。几秒钟过去了。
“嗯，那么怎么样？”卢任凝神注视着她，问。
“我不知道……我什么也不知道……”最后索尼娅用微弱的声音说。
“不知道？您不知道？”卢任追问，又沉默了几秒种。“您想想看，小姐，”他严厉地说，不过好像仍然是劝说的口吻，“好好考虑考虑，我同意再给您一些考虑的时间。您要明白，如果我不是这样深信不疑，当然，凭我的经验，我决不会冒险这样直截了当地归罪于您；因为像这样直截了当公开指控别人，然而是诬告，或者甚至只不过是弄错了，在某种意义上，我是要负责的。这一点我是知道的。因为需要，今天早上我把几张五厘债券兑换成现款，票面总额是三千卢布。这笔帐已经记在了我的皮夹子里。回家以后，——安德烈•谢苗诺维奇可以作证——我开始数钱，点出两千三百卢布，放进皮夹子里，又把皮夹子装到了常礼服侧面的口袋里。桌子上还剩下大约五百卢布现钞，其中有三张票面是一百卢布的。就在这时候，您来了（是我请您来的）——后来您在我那儿的这段时间里，一直很窘，谈话中间，您甚至曾三次站起来，不知为什么急于要走，尽管我们的谈话还没结束。对这一切安德烈•谢苗诺维奇都可以作证。小姐，您自己大概也不会否认，不能不说，我通过安德烈•谢苗诺维奇把您请去，唯一目的是为了和您谈谈您的亲属卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜孤苦伶仃、无依无靠的处境（我不能来她这里参加酬客宴），而且商量一下，看能不能做点儿什么对她有益的事情，譬如募捐、抽彩或者其他这一类的事情。您向我道谢，甚至落泪了（我把这些情况原原本本都说出来，第一，是为了提醒您，第二，是为了让您明白，就连最小的细节我也没有忘记）。随后我从桌子上拿了一张十卢布的钞票，以我个人的名义送给了您，作为对您亲属的第一次帮助。这一切安德烈•谢苗诺维奇都看见了。随后我把您送到了房门口，您一直还是那么窘，——在这以后，就只剩下了我和安德烈•谢苗诺维奇两个人，我和他谈了大约十来分钟，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇出去了，我又转身回到放着钞票的桌子跟前，想把钱点一点，照我早先打算的那样，把它们另外放着。使我大吃一惊的是，其中一张一百卢布的票子不见了。请您想想看：无论如何，对安德烈•谢苗诺维奇我是决不能怀疑的；就连作这样的猜测，我也感到可耻。我数错了，这也不可能；因为在您来以前一分钟，我点完以后，发觉总数是正确的。您自己也应该同意，我回想起您的窘态，回想起您急于要走，回想起您有一会儿曾经把双手都放在桌子上；而且考虑到您的社会地位，以及与这种地位有连带关系的习惯，我，可以说是惊恐地，甚至是违反自己的意志，不得不对您产生怀疑，——当然，这怀疑是无情的，不过也是公正的！我要补充一句，再说一遍，尽管我对此深信不疑，可是我也明白，我现在提出的指控，对我来说还是有某种冒险成分。不过。您可以看得出来，我不会就此罢休；我要追查到底，把事情弄个水落石出，而且我要告诉您，这是为了什么：小姐，唯一的原因就是您忘恩负义！怎么？我请您去，是为了您那位极端贫困的亲属的利益，我向您表示，愿意提供力所能及的帮助，周济您十个卢布，您却立刻以这样的行为来报答我！不，这太不像话了！必须给予教训。请您好好考虑考虑；而且，作为您真正的朋友，我请求您（因为在目前您不可能有更好的朋友了），好好想想吧！
不然的话，我可是铁面无情的！嗯，怎么样？”
“我什么也没拿您的，”索尼娅恐惧地低声说，“您给了我十个卢布，这就是的，您拿回去吧。”索尼娅从口袋里掏出一块小手帕，找到上面打的那个结，把它解开，取出那张十卢布的钞票，递给卢任。
“另外那一百卢布，您却不承认吗？”他责备地坚持说，没有收下这张钞票。
索尼娅朝四下里望了望。大家都在瞅着她，他们的脸都那么可怕，那么严厉，带着嘲讽和憎恨的神情。她朝拉斯科利尼科夫看了一眼，……他站在墙边，双手交叉，抱在胸前，目光炯炯，正在看着她。
“噢，上帝啊！”索尼娅突然喊了一声。
“阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜，应当报告警察，所以，我诚恳地恳求您，先打发人去把管院子的找来，”卢任轻轻地，甚至是温和地说。
“戈特•德尔•巴尔姆海尔齐格①！我本来就知道，她常偷东西！”阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜把双手一拍。
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①德文（Gottderbarmherzige）的音译，“仁慈的上帝”之意。
“您本来就知道吗？”卢任接过话茬说，“这么说，以前您就已经至少有某些根据可以作出这样的结论了。尊敬的阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜，请您记住您说过的话，其实，证人们也都听见了。”
突然四下里都高声议论起来。人们都骚动起来了。
“怎—么！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜清醒了过来，突然大喊一声，好像失去自制，朝卢任猛扑过去，“怎么！您指控她偷窃？索尼娅偷钱？啊，你们这些卑鄙的家伙，卑鄙的家伙！”于是她跑到索尼娅跟前，用两条干瘦的手臂紧紧抱住索尼娅，就好像把她夹在老虎钳里。
“索尼娅！你怎么竟敢收下他的十个卢布！噢，傻丫头！
把钱拿来！立刻把这十个卢布拿来——这就是！”
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜从索尼娅手里夺过那张钞票，攥在手里，把它揉作一团，一挥手，对准卢任的脸用力扔了过去。纸团正打中眼睛，弹开，掉到了地板上。阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜赶紧跑过去把钱拾起来。彼得•彼特罗维奇勃然大怒。
“请大家拦住这个疯女人！”他大声叫喊。
这时房门口列别贾特尼科夫身旁又出现了几个人，从外地来的那母女两个也在他们当中往屋里张望。
“怎么！疯女人？我是疯女人？傻—瓜！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜尖声叫喊。“你自己是个傻瓜，讼棍，卑鄙的小人！索尼娅，索尼娅会拿他的钱！索尼娅会是个贼！哼，她还会揍你呢，傻瓜！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜歇斯底里地哈哈大笑起来。“你们看到过傻瓜吗？”她一会儿跑到这边，一会儿跑到那边，指着卢任，让大家看看他。“怎么！你也这么说吗？”她看到了女房东，“你这个卖香肠的，①你也学他的样，证明她‘偷东西’，你这个下流货，你这个穿钟式裙的普鲁士母鸡腿！啊，你们！啊，你们！她从你这个卑鄙的家伙那一回来，就立刻坐到罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇身边，再没从这间屋里出去过！……你们搜搜她身上好了！既然她哪里也没去过，可见钱应该在她身上！你搜吧，搜啊，搜啊！不过如果你搜不出来，那可就对不起了，亲爱的，你就得负责！我要去见皇上，去见皇上，去见仁慈的沙皇本人，我要扑到他的脚下，马上就去，今天就去！我可是个无依无靠的人啊！会让我进去的！你以为，不会让我进去吗？你胡说，我一定能进去！一定能进去！你认为她性情温顺，可以任人欺侮吗？你是指望这一点吗？可是我，老兄，我可是不好惹的！你失算了！你搜啊，搜啊，喂，搜啊！”
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①在彼得堡卖香肠的几乎都是德国人，所以骂德国人的时候，都管他们叫“卖香肠的”。
说着，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜发狂地去拉卢任，把他推到索尼娅跟前。
“我愿意负责……不过，请您安静下来，太太，请您安静下来！我看得太清楚了，您是不好惹的！……这……这……这该怎么办呢？”卢任喃喃地说。“这应该有警察在场……不过现在证人已经足够多了……我愿意……不过男人到底不方便……因为性别的关系……如果有阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜帮忙……不过还是不该这么做……这可怎么办呢？”
“随便什么人！谁愿意，就让谁来搜！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜高声叫喊，“索尼娅，把口袋儿翻过来让他们看看！看哪，看哪！你瞧，恶棍，口袋儿是空的，这儿有块小手帕，口袋儿是空的，看到了吧！这是另一个口袋儿，看吧，看吧！看到了吧！看到了吧！”
与其说卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜是把口袋儿翻过来的，不如说她是一个接着一个，把两个口袋儿全都拉了出来，但是从第二个，也就是右边的口袋儿里突然跳出一张钞票，在空中画了一条抛物线，掉到了卢任的脚边。这情景大家都看到了；许多人惊叫了一声。彼得•彼特罗维奇弯下腰，用两个手指从地板上拾起这张钞票，举起来让大家看看，然后把它打开了。这是一张折作八层的一百卢布的钞票。彼得•彼特罗维奇用手举着钞票，向四周转了一圈，让大家看看这张票子。
“小偷儿！从这儿滚出去！警察，警察！”阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜高声喊叫起来，“得把她们流放到西伯利亚去！滚！”
四面八方飞来一片惊呼声。拉斯科利尼科夫一声不响，一直目不转睛地看着索尼娅，偶尔，然而是很快地把目光转向卢任。索尼娅仍然失魂落魄似地在原地站着：她甚至几乎不感到惊讶。突然她满脸绯红；惊叫一声，用双手捂住了脸。
“不，这不是我！我没拿！我不知道！”她用裂人心肺的声音惊呼，扑到卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜身边。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜一把抱住她，把她紧紧搂在胸前，像似想用自己的胸膛保护她，不让别人欺侮她。
“索尼娅！索尼娅！我不信！你要知道，我不相信！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜大声喊（尽管事情是如此明显），抱着她，像摇小孩儿那样摇她，没完没了地吻她，抓住她的双手，拚命地狂吻。“说你偷钱！这是多蠢的蠢人！噢，上帝啊！你们是愚蠢的，愚蠢的，”她对所有的人叫喊，“你们还不知道，不知道她有一颗多好的心，不知道她是一个多好的姑娘！她会偷钱，她！可她会把自己最后一件连衫裙脱下来，光着脚去把它卖掉，把钱送给你们，如果你们需要的话，她就是这样的一个人！因为我的孩子挨饿，她甚至去领了黄色执照，为了我们出卖了自己！……唉，死鬼呀，死鬼！唉，死鬼呀，死鬼！你看到了吗？看到了吗？这就是给你办的酬客宴！上帝啊！您要保护她呀，您为什么一直站着！罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇！您为什么不为她辩护？莫非您也相信了不成？你们都抵不上她的一个小指头，你们大家，大家，大家，所有的人！上帝啊！您可要保护她呀！”
可怜的、害肺病的、孤苦伶仃的卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的哭声似乎深深感动了所有在场的人。在这张因为痛苦而变得很难看的、害肺病的憔悴的脸上，在这两片干裂而且凝结着血迹的嘴唇上，在这嘶哑的叫喊中，在这好似孩子啼哭的、抽噎的哭声里，在这像孩子样轻信、同时又充满绝望、寻求保护的哀告中，可以看出，可以听出，她是多么不幸，多么痛苦，似乎大家对这个可怜的妇人都产生了怜悯之心。至少彼得•彼特罗维奇立刻表示怜悯了。
“太太！太太！”他用给人留下深刻印象的声音高声说，“这事与您无关！谁也不会指控您是教唆者和同谋者，何况罪证还是您发现的，是您把口袋翻了过来：可见您毫不知情。我非常、非常惋惜，如果，可以这么说吧，如果是贫穷促使索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜这样做的，不过，小姐，您为什么不肯承认呢？害怕羞辱吗？是第一次干这种事？也许是不知所措了？这是当然的，完全可以理解……然而，为什么要干这种事呢！先生们！”他对所有在场的人们说，“先生们！我可怜她，而且，可以这么说吧，深深同情她，大概，我也愿意宽恕她，就连现在也愿宽恕她，尽管我个人受到了侮辱。小姐，但愿现在的耻辱能成为您今后的教训，”他对索尼娅说， “我不再追究了，事情就这样完了，结束了。够了！”
彼得•彼特罗维奇斜着眼睛看了看拉斯科利尼科夫。他们的目光碰到了一起。拉斯科利尼科夫燃烧着怒火的目光似乎要把他烧成灰烬。然而卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜好像再没有听到什么：她发疯似地抱着索尼娅，吻她。孩子们也用自己的小手从四面抱住索尼娅，看来波列奇卡还不完全懂得这是怎么回事，却泪痕满面、抽抽搭搭地哭着，把她那哭肿了的、很好看的小脸俯在索尼娅的肩上。
“这是多么卑鄙！”突然门口传来一声响亮的呼喊。
彼得•彼特罗维奇很快回头一看。
“多么卑鄙！”列别贾特尼科夫又说了一遍，凝神注视着他的眼睛。
彼得•彼特罗维奇甚至好像颤抖了一下。大家都看到了。（后来大家都记起了这一点。）列别贾特尼科夫一步走进屋里。
“您竟敢让我作证吗？”他走到彼得•彼特罗维奇跟前，说。
“这是什么意思，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇？您说的是什么？”
卢任含糊不清地说。
“这意思就是，您……是诬陷者，这就是我的话的意思！”列别贾特尼科夫激动地说，用他那双近视眼严厉地瞅着他。列别贾特尼科夫极为气愤。拉斯科利尼科夫一直拿眼睛盯着他，仿佛立刻理解了他的意思，并且在掂量着他说的每一句话。又是一阵沉默。彼得•彼特罗维奇甚至几乎惊慌失措了，特别是在最初一瞬间。
“如果您这是对我说话……”他结结巴巴地说，“您这是怎么了？您精神正常吗？”
“我精神倒是正常的，您却未必……骗子！啊，这多卑鄙！我一直在听着，我故意等着，为的是把一切都弄明白，因为，老实说，就是到现在，这件事也还不完全合乎逻辑……可是您为什么要这样做呢——我不明白。”
“可我做什么了！您别再胡说八道，莫名其妙地只作暗示了！还是您喝醉了呢？”
“是您，这个卑鄙的家伙，也许喝醉了，我可没喝醉！我从来不喝伏特加，因为这违背我的信念！你们信不信，是他，是他亲手把这张一百卢布的钞票送给索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的，——我看见了，我可以作证，我发誓！是他，是他！”列别贾特尼科夫对着大家，对着每一个人重复说。
“您这个乳臭小儿，您是不是疯了？”卢任尖声叫喊，“她本人就在这儿，就站在您面前，她就在这儿，刚刚当着大家的面证实，除了十个卢布，她没从我这儿得到过任何东西。既然如此，我怎么会又给了她一百卢布呢？”
“我看到了，我看到了！”列别贾特尼科夫高声叫喊着证明说，“虽然这违反我的信念，不过我愿意现在就在法庭上宣誓，随便起什么誓都行，因为我看到了您是怎样偷偷地把钱塞给她的！只是我这个傻瓜，还以为您把钱塞给她是做好事呢！在房门口和她告别的时候，当她转过身来，您用一只手和她握手的时候，您用另一只手，用左手偷偷地把钞票塞进了她的口袋里。我看见了！我看见了！”
卢任的脸发白了。
“您胡说些什么！”他粗暴无礼地高声叫嚷，“您站在窗前，怎么能看清钞票呢！您眼睛高度近视……这准是您的错觉。您是在说胡话！”
“不，不是错觉！虽然我站得远，可是我什么，什么都看见了，虽然从窗前的确很难看清钞票，——这您说得不错，——可是由于一个特殊情况，我确实知道，这正是一张一百卢布的钞票，因为您把那张十卢布的钞票交给索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的时候，我亲眼看到，当时您还从桌子上拿了一张一百卢布的钞票（这我看到了，因为那时候我站得离您很近，因为我立刻产生了一个想法，所以我没有忘记您手里拿着一张钞票）。您把那张钞票叠起来，一直攥在手里。以后我本来又忘记了，可是当您站起来的时候，把这张钞票从右手放到左手里，差点儿没把它丢掉；于是我又立刻想起来了，因为这时候我又产生了那个想法，就是说，您想不让我知道，悄悄地把钱送给她。可以想象得出，当时我是怎样注视着您，——果然看到，您偷偷地把那张钞票塞进了她的口袋。我看到，看到了，我可以起誓！”
列别贾特尼科夫几乎喘不过气来了。四面八方发出各种不同的感叹声，多半是表示惊讶的；但也有含有威胁意味的呼喊。大家都往彼得•彼特罗维奇跟前挤去。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜向列别贾特尼科夫跑了过去。
“安德烈•谢苗诺维奇！我把您看错了！您保护了她！只有您一个人保护她！她无依无靠，是上帝派您来保护她的！安德烈•谢苗诺维奇，亲爱的，我的爷啊！”
卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜几乎不知道自己在做什么，扑通一声跪倒在他的面前。
“荒唐！”气得发狂的卢任拼命号叫，“您一直在胡说八道，先生。‘我忘了，我想起来了，我忘了’——这算什么！这么说，是我故意偷偷塞给她的了？为什么？有什么目的？我和这个……女人有什么关系？”
“为什么？正是这一点连我自己也弄不明白，可我说的是千真万确的事实，这是毫无疑问的！我决没弄错，您这个卑鄙的罪人，正是因为我记得，当时，就是在我感谢您，和您握手的时候，就是为了这个，我脑子里立刻产生了这样一个问题。您究竟为什么要把钱偷偷地塞进她的口袋？也就是说，究竟为什么要偷偷地塞进去？难道仅仅是因为，您知道我的信念和您的信念完全相反，知道我否定不能从根本上解决任何问题的个人慈善行为，所以想瞒着我吗？我还以为，您当真是不好意思当着我的面送给她这么一大笔钱，此外，我想，也许您是想送给她一件意外的礼物，等她在自己口袋里发现整整一百卢布的时候，让她大吃一惊吧。（因为有些慈善家很喜欢这样做，好让人永远感恩戴德；这我是知道的。）后来我又想，您是想试试她，也就是说，看她发现了这些钱以后，会不会来感谢您！后来我还想，您也许是避免别人向您道谢，就像俗话所说的，让右手不知道，是不是这么说的，……总而言之，大概就是这么着吧……唉，当时我想得可多了，所以我决定把这一切留待以后再细细考虑，不过还是认为，在您面前把事情说穿，说我知道这个秘密，是很不恰当的。可是我头脑里立刻又产生了一个问题：索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜发现这张钞票以前，说不定会把这钱弄丢了的；所以我决定来这里，把她叫出来，告诉她，有人往她口袋里放了一百卢布。我顺便先到科贝利亚特尼科夫太太家去了一下，给他们带去一本《实证法概论》①，特别向他们推荐皮德里特②的一篇文章（不过也推荐了瓦格纳③的文章）；然后再来这里，可这里发生了什么事啊！如果我不是的确看到您把一百卢布放进她的口袋里，我会，我会有这些想法和推断吗？”
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①《实证法概论》是一本译成俄文的自然科学论文集，于一八六六年出版。
②特•皮德里特（一八二六——一九一二），德国作家，医生。
③阿•瓦格纳（一八三五——一九一七），德国经济学家，社会学家。
安德烈•谢苗诺维奇结束了他那啰里啰嗦的冗长议论，最后作出如此合乎逻辑的结论，这时他已经累坏了，甚至从脸上淌下了汗水。可惜，就是说俄语，他也不会有条有理地表达自己的意思（可是他又不懂任何别的语言），所以他一下子感到全身已经精疲力竭，在建立了这一律师的功勋以后，好像连面容也消瘦了。然而他的话却产生了异常强烈的效应。他说得那么激昂慷慨，又那么有说服力，看来，大家都相信了。
彼得•彼特罗维奇感觉到事情不妙。
“您头脑里产生了一些什么愚蠢问题，这和我有什么关系，”他高声叫嚷，“这不是证据！这一切可能都是您的梦呓，就是这么回事！不过我告诉您，您是说谎，先生！您说谎，您诽谤，这是因为您怀恨我，确切地说，就是因为我不同意您那些自由思想的、无神论的主张，所以对我怀恨在心，就是这么回事！”
但是这个花招并没有给彼得•彼特罗维奇带来什么好处。恰恰相反，只听到四面八方都传来不满的低语声。
“哼，你扯到哪里去了！”列别贾特尼科夫大声叫喊。“你胡说！你去叫警察来，我发誓！只有一点我弄不懂：他是为了什么冒险干出这种卑鄙的事来！噢，卑鄙无耻的小人！”
“我可以说明他为什么竟敢冒险做出这种事来，如果需要，我可以起誓！”拉斯科利尼科夫终于用坚定的声音说，并且走到前面来了。
看来他坚决而又沉着。只要朝他看上一眼，大家就都明白，他当真知道这是怎么回事，事情就要真相大白了。
“现在我心里完全明白了，”拉斯科利尼科夫直接对着列别贾特尼科夫接下去说。“从事情一开始，我就已经怀疑这里面有什么卑鄙的诡计；我所以产生怀疑，是由于只有我一个人知道的某些特殊情况，我这就要把这些情况告诉大家：问题全在这里！您，安德烈•谢苗诺维奇，您宝贵的证词使我彻底弄清了这是怎么回事。我请大家，请大家都注意听着：这位先生（他指指卢任）不久前曾经向一位少女求婚，确切地说，就是曾向舍妹阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜•拉斯科利尼科娃求婚。但是来到彼得堡以后，前天，在我们第一次见面的时候，他就和我争吵起来，我把他从自己屋里赶了出去，这件事有两位证人。这个人非常恶毒……前天我还不知道他住在这幢房子里，就住在您安德烈•谢苗诺维奇那里，所以，就在我和他发生争吵的那天，也就是前天，他曾经看到，我作为已故的马尔梅拉多夫先生的朋友，把一些钱送给了他的夫人卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，用来安葬我的亡友。他立刻给家母写了一封短简，告诉她，说我把所有的钱不是送给了卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，而是送给了索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，同时还用最卑鄙的语言提到……索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的品行，也就是对我和索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的关系的性质作了某些暗示。你们要明白，这一切的目的就是要离间我们母子和兄妹，让她们相信，为了不正当的目的，我把她们用来帮助我的仅有的一些钱全都挥霍掉了。昨天晚上，当着家母和舍妹的面，他也在场，我说明了事情的真相，证明我是把钱交给卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，作为丧葬费用，而不是交给了索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，而且前天我甚至还不认识索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，连她的面都没见过。同时我还补充说，他，彼得•彼特罗维奇•卢任，连同他的全部身价，还抵不上他如此恶意诋毁的索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的一个小指头。对于他提出的我是不是会让索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜和舍妹坐在一起的问题，我回答说，就在那天，我已经这样做了。家母和舍妹不愿听信他的诽谤，不愿和我争吵，为此他十分恼怒，跟她们你一言我一语地顶了起来，对她们说了些不可原谅的粗暴无礼的话。发生了无可挽回的决裂，他被赶了出来。这都是昨天晚上的事。现在请大家特别注意：你们要知道，如果现在他的阴谋得逞，证明索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜是个贼，那么首先，他就可以向舍妹和家母证明，他对她的怀疑几乎是对的；为了我把舍妹和索菲娅•苗谢诺芙娜放在同等地位，他感到气愤，也是对的；可见，他攻击我，就是保护了，预先保护了舍妹、也就是他的未婚妻的名誉。总之，通过这一切，他甚至可以重新离间我和亲人们的关系，而且，当然啦，他还希望能再次博得她们的好感。至于他向我个人报了仇，那我就不去说它了，因为他有理由认为，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的名誉和幸福，对我来说是十分宝贵的。这就是他的全部打算！对这件事，我就是这样理解的！这就是他这样做的全部动机，不可能有别的原因！”
拉斯科利尼科夫这样，或者几乎是这样结束了自己的话，他的话不时被聚精会神听着的人们的惊叹声打断。但尽管不时被打断，他却说得尖锐，沉着，准确，清楚，而且坚决。他那尖锐的声音，令人信服的语调，严肃的面部表情，对大家产生了异常强烈的感染力。
“是这样，是这样，是这么回事！”列别贾特尼科夫欣喜若狂地证实他的看法。“一定是这样的，因为索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜一进我们的房间，他就问我：‘您在不在这儿？我是不是在卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的客人们当中看到了您？’为此，他把我叫到窗前，在那里悄悄地问我。可见他一定需要您在这里！是这样的，完全是这么回事！”
卢任一声不响，轻蔑地微笑着。不过他的脸色十分苍白。似乎他是在考虑怎样脱身。也许他倒很高兴丢开这一切，一走了之，但在目前，这几乎是不可能的；这意味着直接承认对他的指控完全正确，承认他确实诬陷了索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜。何况本来已经喝得微带醉意的客人们，现在实在是太激动了。那个退休的军需官虽然不完全明白是怎么回事，却叫喊得最响，提出要采取某些会让卢
Part 5 Chapter 4
Raskolnikov had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against Luzhin, although he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort of relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal feeling which impelled him to defend Sonia. He was agitated too, especially at some moments, by the thought of his approaching interview with Sonia: he /had/ to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the terrible suffering it would be to him and, as it were, brushed away the thought of it. So when he cried as he left Katerina Ivanovna's, "Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll say now!" he was still superficially excited, still vigorous and defiant from his triumph over Luzhin. But, strange to say, by the time he reached Sonia's lodging, he felt a sudden impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation at the door, asking himself the strange question: "Must he tell her who killed Lizaveta?" It was a strange question because he felt at the very time not only that he could not help telling her, but also that he could not put off the telling. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only /felt/ it, and the agonising sense of his impotence before the inevitable almost crushed him. To cut short his hesitation and suffering, he quickly opened the door and looked at Sonia from the doorway. She was sitting with her elbows on the table and her face in her hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she got up at once and came to meet him as though she were expecting him.
"What would have become of me but for you?" she said quickly, meeting him in the middle of the room.
Evidently she was in haste to say this to him. It was what she had been waiting for.
Raskolnikov went to the table and sat down on the chair from which she had only just risen. She stood facing him, two steps away, just as she had done the day before.
"Well, Sonia?" he said, and felt that his voice was trembling, "it was all due to 'your social position and the habits associated with it.' Did you understand that just now?"
Her face showed her distress.
"Only don't talk to me as you did yesterday," she interrupted him. "Please don't begin it. There is misery enough without that."
She made haste to smile, afraid that he might not like the reproach.
"I was silly to come away from there. What is happening there now? I wanted to go back directly, but I kept thinking that . . . you would come."
He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging and that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere "to seek justice."
"My God!" cried Sonia, "let's go at once. . . ."
And she snatched up her cape.
"It's everlastingly the same thing!" said Raskolnikov, irritably. "You've no thought except for them! Stay a little with me."
"But . . . Katerina Ivanovna?"
"You won't lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she'll come to you herself since she has run out," he added peevishly. "If she doesn't find you here, you'll be blamed for it. . . ."
Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silent, gazing at the floor and deliberating.
"This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you," he began, not looking at Sonia, "but if he had wanted to, if it had suited his plans, he would have sent you to prison if it had not been for Lebeziatnikov and me. Ah?"
"Yes," she assented in a faint voice. "Yes," she repeated, preoccupied and distressed.
"But I might easily not have been there. And it was quite an accident Lebeziatnikov's turning up."
Sonia was silent.
"And if you'd gone to prison, what then? Do you remember what I said yesterday?"
Again she did not answer. He waited.
"I thought you would cry out again 'don't speak of it, leave off.'" Raskolnikov gave a laugh, but rather a forced one. "What, silence again?" he asked a minute later. "We must talk about something, you know. It would be interesting for me to know how you would decide a certain 'problem' as Lebeziatnikov would say." (He was beginning to lose the thread.) "No, really, I am serious. Imagine, Sonia, that you had known all Luzhin's intentions beforehand. Known, that is, for a fact, that they would be the ruin of Katerina Ivanovna and the children and yourself thrown in--since you don't count yourself for anything--Polenka too . . . for she'll go the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended on your decision whether he or they should go on living, that is whether Luzhin should go on living and doing wicked things, or Katerina Ivanovna should die? How would you decide which of them was to die? I ask you?"
Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this hesitating question, which seemed approaching something in a roundabout way.
"I felt that you were going to ask some question like that," she said, looking inquisitively at him.
"I dare say you did. But how is it to be answered?"
"Why do you ask about what could not happen?" said Sonia reluctantly.
"Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked things? You haven't dared to decide even that!"
"But I can't know the Divine Providence. . . . And why do you ask what can't be answered? What's the use of such foolish questions? How could it happen that it should depend on my decision--who has made me a judge to decide who is to live and who is not to live?"
"Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there is no doing anything," Raskolnikov grumbled morosely.
"You'd better say straight out what you want!" Sonia cried in distress. "You are leading up to something again. . . . Can you have come simply to torture me?"
She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at her in gloomy misery. Five minutes passed.
"Of course you're right, Sonia," he said softly at last. He was suddenly changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone. Even his voice was suddenly weak. "I told you yesterday that I was not coming to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I've said is to ask forgiveness. . . . I said that about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake. I was asking forgiveness, Sonia. . . ."
He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands.
And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened of this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he met her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real feeling; he had taken the one feeling for the other. It only meant that /that/ minute had come.
He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head. Suddenly he turned pale, got up from his chair, looked at Sonia, and without uttering a word sat down mechanically on her bed.
His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when he had stood over the old woman with the axe in his hand and felt that "he must not lose another minute."
"What's the matter?" asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.
He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had intended to "tell" and he did not understand what was happening to him now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through Sonia's heart.
"What's the matter?" she repeated, drawing a little away from him.
"Nothing, Sonia, don't be frightened. . . . It's nonsense. It really is nonsense, if you think of it," he muttered, like a man in delirium. "Why have I come to torture you?" he added suddenly, looking at her. "Why, really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia. . . ."
He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly knowing what he said and feeling a continual tremor all over.
"Oh, how you are suffering!" she muttered in distress, looking intently at him.
"It's all nonsense. . . . Listen, Sonia." He suddenly smiled, a pale helpless smile for two seconds. "You remember what I meant to tell you yesterday?"
Sonia waited uneasily.
"I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying good-bye for ever, but that if I came to-day I would tell you who . . . who killed Lizaveta."
She began trembling all over.
"Well, here I've come to tell you."
"Then you really meant it yesterday?" she whispered with difficulty. "How do you know?" she asked quickly, as though suddenly regaining her reason.
Sonia's face grew paler and paler, and she breathed painfully.
"I know."
She paused a minute.
"Have they found him?" she asked timidly.
"No."
"Then how do you know about /it/?" she asked again, hardly audibly and again after a minute's pause.
He turned to her and looked very intently at her.
"Guess," he said, with the same distorted helpless smile.
A shudder passed over her.
"But you . . . why do you frighten me like this?" she said, smiling like a child.
"I must be a great friend of /his/ . . . since I know," Raskolnikov went on, still gazing into her face, as though he could not turn his eyes away. "He . . . did not mean to kill that Lizaveta . . . he . . . killed her accidentally. . . . He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and he went there . . . and then Lizaveta came in . . . he killed her too."
Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one another.
"You can't guess, then?" he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were flinging himself down from a steeple.
"N-no . . ." whispered Sonia.
"Take a good look."
As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his heart. He looked at her and all at once seemed to see in her face the face of Lizaveta. He remembered clearly the expression in Lizaveta's face, when he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the wall, putting out her hand, with childish terror in her face, looking as little children do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their little hands on the point of crying. Almost the same thing happened now to Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror, she looked at him for a while and, suddenly putting out her left hand, pressed her fingers faintly against his breast and slowly began to get up from the bed, moving further from him and keeping her eyes fixed even more immovably on him. Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the same way he stared at her and almost with the same /childish/ smile.
"Have you guessed?" he whispered at last.
"Good God!" broke in an awful wail from her bosom.
She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that moment, she thought it strange and wondered why she had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have said, for instance, that she had foreseen something of the sort--and yet now, as soon as he told her, she suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen this very thing.
"Stop, Sonia, enough! don't torture me," he begged her miserably.
It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her, but this is how it happened.
She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on her knees before him, she did not know why.
"What have you done--what have you done to yourself?" she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms round him, and held him tightly.
Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile.
"You are a strange girl, Sonia--you kiss me and hug me when I tell you about that. . . . You don't think what you are doing."
"There is no one--no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!" she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke into violent hysterical weeping.
A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at once. He did not struggle against it. Two tears started into his eyes and hung on his eyelashes.
"Then you won't leave me, Sonia?" he said, looking at her almost with hope.
"No, no, never, nowhere!" cried Sonia. "I will follow you, I will follow you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am! . . . Why, why didn't I know you before! Why didn't you come before? Oh, dear!"
"Here I have come."
"Yes, now! What's to be done now? . . . Together, together!" she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. "I'll follow you to Siberia!"
He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to his lips.
"Perhaps I don't want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia," he said.
Sonia looked at him quickly.
Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the murderer speaking. She looked at him bewildered. She knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what object it had been. Now all these questions rushed at once into her mind. And again she could not believe it: "He, he is a murderer! Could it be true?"
"What's the meaning of it? Where am I?" she said in complete bewilderment, as though still unable to recover herself. "How could you, you, a man like you. . . . How could you bring yourself to it? . . . What does it mean?"
"Oh, well--to plunder. Leave off, Sonia," he answered wearily, almost with vexation.
Sonia stood as though struck dumb, but suddenly she cried:
"You were hungry! It was . . . to help your mother? Yes?"
"No, Sonia, no," he muttered, turning away and hanging his head. "I was not so hungry. . . . I certainly did want to help my mother, but . . . that's not the real thing either. . . . Don't torture me, Sonia."
Sonia clasped her hands.
"Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could believe it? And how could you give away your last farthing and yet rob and murder! Ah," she cried suddenly, "that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna . . . that money. . . . Can that money . . ."
"No, Sonia," he broke in hurriedly, "that money was not it. Don't worry yourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the day I gave it to you. . . . Razumihin saw it . . . he received it for me. . . . That money was mine--my own."
Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost to comprehend.
"And /that/ money. . . . I don't even know really whether there was any money," he added softly, as though reflecting. "I took a purse off her neck, made of chamois leather . . . a purse stuffed full of something . . . but I didn't look in it; I suppose I hadn't time. . . . And the things--chains and trinkets--I buried under a stone with the purse next morning in a yard off the V---- Prospect. They are all there now. . . . ."
Sonia strained every nerve to listen.
"Then why . . . why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?" she asked quickly, catching at a straw.
"I don't know. . . . I haven't yet decided whether to take that money or not," he said, musing again; and, seeming to wake up with a start, he gave a brief ironical smile. "Ach, what silly stuff I am talking, eh?"
The thought flashed through Sonia's mind, wasn't he mad? But she dismissed it at once. "No, it was something else." She could make nothing of it, nothing.
"Do you know, Sonia," he said suddenly with conviction, "let me tell you: if I'd simply killed because I was hungry," laying stress on every word and looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, "I should be /happy/ now. You must believe that! What would it matter to you," he cried a moment later with a sort of despair, "what would it matter to you if I were to confess that I did wrong? What do you gain by such a stupid triumph over me? Ah, Sonia, was it for that I've come to you to-day?"
Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak.
"I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all I have left."
"Go where?" asked Sonia timidly.
"Not to steal and not to murder, don't be anxious," he smiled bitterly. "We are so different. . . . And you know, Sonia, it's only now, only this moment that I understand /where/ I asked you to go with me yesterday! Yesterday when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one thing, I came to you for one thing--not to leave me. You won't leave me, Sonia?"
She squeezed his hand.
"And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?" he cried a minute later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. "Here you expect an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see that. But what can I tell you? You won't understand and will only suffer misery . . . on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again. Why do you do it? Because I couldn't bear my burden and have come to throw it on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such a mean wretch?"
"But aren't you suffering, too?" cried Sonia.
Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an instant softened it.
"Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men who wouldn't have come. But I am a coward and . . . a mean wretch. But . . . never mind! That's not the point. I must speak now, but I don't know how to begin."
He paused and sank into thought.
"Ach, we are so different," he cried again, "we are not alike. And why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that."
"No, no, it was a good thing you came," cried Sonia. "It's better I should know, far better!"
He looked at her with anguish.
"What if it were really that?" he said, as though reaching a conclusion. "Yes, that's what it was! I wanted to become a Napoleon, that is why I killed her. . . . Do you understand now?"
"N-no," Sonia whispered naively and timidly. "Only speak, speak, I shall understand, I shall understand /in myself/!" she kept begging him.
"You'll understand? Very well, we shall see!" He paused and was for some time lost in meditation.
"It was like this: I asked myself one day this question--what if Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had not had Toulon nor Egypt nor the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career with, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things, there had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you understand). Well, would he have brought himself to that if there had been no other means? Wouldn't he have felt a pang at its being so far from monumental and . . . and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I worried myself fearfully over that 'question' so that I was awfully ashamed when I guessed at last (all of a sudden, somehow) that it would not have given him the least pang, that it would not even have struck him that it was not monumental . . . that he would not have seen that there was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had had no other way, he would have strangled her in a minute without thinking about it! Well, I too . . . left off thinking about it . . . murdered her, following his example. And that's exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing of all is that perhaps that's just how it was."
Sonia did not think it at all funny.
"You had better tell me straight out . . . without examples," she begged, still more timidly and scarcely audibly.
He turned to her, looked sadly at her and took her hands.
"You are right again, Sonia. Of course that's all nonsense, it's almost all talk! You see, you know of course that my mother has scarcely anything, my sister happened to have a good education and was condemned to drudge as a governess. All their hopes were centered on me. I was a student, but I couldn't keep myself at the university and was forced for a time to leave it. Even if I had lingered on like that, in ten or twelve years I might (with luck) hope to be some sort of teacher or clerk with a salary of a thousand roubles" (he repeated it as though it were a lesson) "and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief and anxiety and I could not succeed in keeping her in comfort while my sister . . . well, my sister might well have fared worse! And it's a hard thing to pass everything by all one's life, to turn one's back upon everything, to forget one's mother and decorously accept the insults inflicted on one's sister. Why should one? When one has buried them to burden oneself with others--wife and children--and to leave them again without a farthing? So I resolved to gain possession of the old woman's money and to use it for my first years without worrying my mother, to keep myself at the university and for a little while after leaving it--and to do this all on a broad, thorough scale, so as to build up a completely new career and enter upon a new life of independence. . . . Well . . . that's all. . . . Well, of course in killing the old woman I did wrong. . . . Well, that's enough."
He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and let his head sink.
"Oh, that's not it, that's not it," Sonia cried in distress. "How could one . . . no, that's not right, not right."
"You see yourself that it's not right. But I've spoken truly, it's the truth."
"As though that could be the truth! Good God!"
"I've only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful creature."
"A human being--a louse!"
"I too know it wasn't a louse," he answered, looking strangely at her. "But I am talking nonsense, Sonia," he added. "I've been talking nonsense a long time. . . . That's not it, you are right there. There were quite, quite other causes for it! I haven't talked to anyone for so long, Sonia. . . . My head aches dreadfully now."
His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen through his excitement. Sonia saw how he was suffering. She too was growing dizzy. And he talked so strangely; it seemed somehow comprehensible, but yet . . . "But how, how! Good God!" And she wrung her hands in despair.
"No, Sonia, that's not it," he began again suddenly, raising his head, as though a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were roused him--"that's not it! Better . . . imagine--yes, it's certainly better--imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive and . . . well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let's have it all out at once! They've talked of madness already, I noticed.) I told you just now I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know that perhaps I might have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed for the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes, boots and food, no doubt. Lessons had turned up at half a rouble. Razumihin works! But I turned sulky and wouldn't. (Yes, sulkiness, that's the right word for it!) I sat in my room like a spider. You've been in my den, you've seen it. . . . And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn't go out of it! I wouldn't on purpose! I didn't go out for days together, and I wouldn't work, I wouldn't even eat, I just lay there doing nothing. If Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn't, I went all day without; I wouldn't ask, on purpose, from sulkiness! At night I had no light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn't earn money for candles. I ought to have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust lies an inch thick on the notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and thinking. And I kept thinking. . . . And I had dreams all the time, strange dreams of all sorts, no need to describe! Only then I began to fancy that . . . No, that's not it! Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept asking myself then: why am I so stupid that if others are stupid--and I know they are--yet I won't be wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if one waits for everyone to get wiser it will take too long. . . . Afterwards I understood that that would never come to pass, that men won't change and that nobody can alter it and that it's not worth wasting effort over it. Yes, that's so. That's the law of their nature, Sonia, . . . that's so! . . . And I know now, Sonia, that whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over them. Anyone who is greatly daring is right in their eyes. He who despises most things will be a lawgiver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the right! So it has been till now and so it will always be. A man must be blind not to see it!"
Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared whether she understood or not. The fever had complete hold of him; he was in a sort of gloomy ecstasy (he certainly had been too long without talking to anyone). Sonia felt that his gloomy creed had become his faith and code.
"I divined then, Sonia," he went on eagerly, "that power is only vouchsafed to the man who dares to stoop and pick it up. There is only one thing, one thing needful: one has only to dare! Then for the first time in my life an idea took shape in my mind which no one had ever thought of before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is that not a single person living in this mad world has had the daring to go straight for it all and send it flying to the devil! I . . . I wanted /to have the daring/ . . . and I killed her. I only wanted to have the daring, Sonia! That was the whole cause of it!"
"Oh hush, hush," cried Sonia, clasping her hands. "You turned away from God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!"
"Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?"
"Hush, don't laugh, blasphemer! You don't understand, you don't understand! Oh God! He won't understand!"
"Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!" he repeated with gloomy insistence. "I know it all, I have thought it all over and over and whispered it all over to myself, lying there in the dark. . . . I've argued it all over with myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to forget it and make a new beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking. And you don't suppose that I went into it headlong like a fool? I went into it like a wise man, and that was just my destruction. And you mustn't suppose that I didn't know, for instance, that if I began to question myself whether I had the right to gain power--I certainly hadn't the right--or that if I asked myself whether a human being is a louse it proved that it wasn't so for me, though it might be for a man who would go straight to his goal without asking questions. . . . If I worried myself all those days, wondering whether Napoleon would have done it or not, I felt clearly of course that I wasn't Napoleon. I had to endure all the agony of that battle of ideas, Sonia, and I longed to throw it off: I wanted to murder without casuistry, to murder for my own sake, for myself alone! I didn't want to lie about it even to myself. It wasn't to help my mother I did the murder--that's nonsense --I didn't do the murder to gain wealth and power and to become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply did it; I did the murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my web and sucking the life out of men, I couldn't have cared at that moment. . . . And it was not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not so much the money I wanted, but something else. . . . I know it all now. . . . Understand me! Perhaps I should never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find out something else; it was something else led me on. I wanted to find out then and quickly whether I was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I can step over barriers or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not, whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the /right/ . . ."
"To kill? Have the right to kill?" Sonia clasped her hands.
"Ach, Sonia!" he cried irritably and seemed about to make some retort, but was contemptuously silent. "Don't interrupt me, Sonia. I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I had not the right to take that path, because I am just such a louse as all the rest. He was mocking me and here I've come to you now! Welcome your guest! If I were not a louse, should I have come to you? Listen: when I went then to the old woman's I only went to /try/. . . . You may be sure of that!"
"And you murdered her!"
"But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to commit a murder as I went then? I will tell you some day how I went! Did I murder the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself once for all, for ever. . . . But it was the devil that killed that old woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!" he cried in a sudden spasm of agony, "let me be!"
He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as in a vise.
"What suffering!" A wail of anguish broke from Sonia.
"Well, what am I to do now?" he asked, suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair.
"What are you to do?" she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to shine. "Stand up!" (She seized him by the shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) "Go at once, this very minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the earth which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say to all men aloud, 'I am a murderer!' Then God will send you life again. Will you go, will you go?" she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of fire.
He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.
"You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?" he asked gloomily.
"Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that's what you must do."
"No! I am not going to them, Sonia!"
"But how will you go on living? What will you live for?" cried Sonia, "how is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what will become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!" she cried, "why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by himself! What will become of you now?"
"Don't be a child, Sonia," he said softly. "What wrong have I done them? Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That's only a phantom. . . . They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And what should I say to them--that I murdered her, but did not dare to take the money and hid it under a stone?" he added with a bitter smile. "Why, they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn't understand and they don't deserve to understand. Why should I go to them? I won't. Don't be a child, Sonia. . . ."
"It will be too much for you to bear, too much!" she repeated, holding out her hands in despairing supplication.
"Perhaps I've been unfair to myself," he observed gloomily, pondering, "perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I've been in too great a hurry to condemn myself. I'll make another fight for it."
A haughty smile appeared on his lips.
"What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!"
"I shall get used to it," he said grimly and thoughtfully. "Listen," he began a minute later, "stop crying, it's time to talk of the facts: I've come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track. . . ."
"Ach!" Sonia cried in terror.
"Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go to Siberia and now you are frightened? But let me tell you: I shall not give myself up. I shall make a struggle for it and they won't do anything to me. They've no real evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost; but to-day things are going better. All the facts they know can be explained two ways, that's to say I can turn their accusations to my credit, do you understand? And I shall, for I've learnt my lesson. But they will certainly arrest me. If it had not been for something that happened, they would have done so to-day for certain; perhaps even now they will arrest me to-day. . . . But that's no matter, Sonia; they'll let me out again . . . for there isn't any real proof against me, and there won't be, I give you my word for it. And they can't convict a man on what they have against me. Enough. . . . I only tell you that you may know. . . . I will try to manage somehow to put it to my mother and sister so that they won't be frightened. . . . My sister's future is secure, however, now, I believe . . . and my mother's must be too. . . . Well, that's all. Be careful, though. Will you come and see me in prison when I am there?"
"Oh, I will, I will."
They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.
"Sonia," he said, "you'd better not come and see me when I am in prison."
Sonia did not answer, she was crying. Several minutes passed.
"Have you a cross on you?" she asked, as though suddenly thinking of it.
He did not at first understand the question.
"No, of course not. Here, take this one, of cypress wood. I have another, a copper one that belonged to Lizaveta. I changed with Lizaveta: she gave me her cross and I gave her my little ikon. I will wear Lizaveta's now and give you this. Take it . . . it's mine! It's mine, you know," she begged him. "We will go to suffer together, and together we will bear our cross!"
"Give it me," said Raskolnikov.
He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the hand he held out for the cross.
"Not now, Sonia. Better later," he added to comfort her.
"Yes, yes, better," she repeated with conviction, "when you go to meet your suffering, then put it on. You will come to me, I'll put it on you, we will pray and go together."
At that moment someone knocked three times at the door.
"Sofya Semyonovna, may I come in?" they heard in a very familiar and polite voice.
Sonia rushed to the door in a fright. The flaxen head of Mr. Lebeziatnikov appeared at the door.
 
拉斯科利尼科夫是索尼娅与卢任对抗的一个积极和勇敢的辩护人，尽管他自己心里有那么多的恐惧和痛苦。然而这天早上他已经饱经忧患，仿佛很高兴有机会改变一下那些让他无法忍受的印象，至于他渴望为索尼娅辩护，其中也包含有他个人的真挚感情，那就更不用说了。此外，即将与索尼娅见面，有时这特别使他感到惊恐不安：因为他必须向她宣布，是谁杀死了莉扎薇塔，他预感到了极其可怕的痛苦，又好像想要逃避它。因此，他从卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜那里出来，高声说：“嗯，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，现在看您说什么吧？”这时他显然还处于表面上情绪激昂的状态，精神振奋，敢于向人挑战，为不久前压倒卢任的胜利感到兴奋。但是他却发生了一件奇怪的事。他一走到卡佩尔纳乌莫夫的住处，突然觉得浑身无力，十分恐惧。他陷入沉思，在房门前站住了，心里产生了一个奇怪的问题：“要不要说出，是谁杀了莉扎薇塔？”这问题是奇怪的，因为同时他突然觉得，不仅不能不说，而且就连推迟说出的时间，哪怕只是稍微推迟一会儿，也是不可能的。他还不知道为什么不可能；他只是感觉到了这一点，他痛苦地意识到，面对必须，他自己是无能为力的，这一想法几乎压垮了他。为了不再考虑，不再折磨自己，他很快推开房门，从门口望了望索尼娅。她坐着，胳膊肘撑在桌子上，用双手捂着脸，但是一看到拉斯科利尼科夫，赶快站起来，走上前去迎接他，仿佛正在等着他似的。
“要是没有您，我会怎样呢！”在房屋当中，他们走到了一起，她很快地说。显然，她急于想对他说的，就是这一句话了。说罢，她在等着。
拉斯科利尼科夫走到桌边，坐到她刚刚站起来的那把椅子上。她面对着他，站在离他两步远的地方，完全和昨天一样。
“您说什么，索尼娅？”他说，突然感觉到，他的声音发抖，“要知道，这件事情完全是由于‘社会地位和与此有关的种种习惯’。这一点，刚才您明白了吗？”
她脸上露出痛苦的神情。
“只是请您不要像昨天那样和我说话！”她打断了他的话。
“请您别说了。就是这样，我也已经够痛苦了……”
她赶快笑了笑，担心他也许不喜欢别人责备他。
“我由于愚蠢，离开了那儿。现在那儿怎么样了？我本想马上就去看看，可又一直在想，您这就……要来了。”
他告诉她，阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜要赶她们走，叫她们搬家，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜不知跑到哪里“寻找正义”去了。
“啊，我的天哪！”索尼娅很快站起来，“咱们赶快去吧……”
说着她拿起自己的披巾。
“总是这样！”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地高声说。“您心里只想着他们！请跟我在一起待一会儿嘛。”
“可是……卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜呢？”
“卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜当然不会丢下您，既然她已经从家里跑出来，准会来找您的，”他埋怨似地补上一句。“如果她碰不到您，那可就要怪您了……”
索尼娅痛苦而犹豫不决地坐到了椅子上。拉斯科利尼科夫默默不语，眼睛看着地下，心里不知在考虑什么。
“假定说，卢任现在不想控告您，”他开始说，眼睛不看着索尼娅。“可是如果他想这么做，或者有这样的打算，要不是有我和列别贾特尼科夫在那儿，他是会设法把您关进监狱的！啊？”
“是的，”她用微弱的声音说，“是的！”她焦虑不安、心不在焉地又说了一遍。
“不过我当真可能不在那儿！而列别贾特尼科夫去那里，已经完全是偶然的了。”
索尼娅默默不语。
“嗯，如果您去坐牢，那会怎样呢？记得我昨天说的话吗？”
她又没回答。他等了一会儿。
“我还以为，您又会叫喊起来：‘唉，请您别说了，别再说下去了！’”拉斯科利尼科夫笑了，不过笑得有点儿勉强。
“怎么，又不说话了？”过了一会儿，他问。“总得说点儿什么啊，不是吗？我很想知道，现在您想怎样解决列别贾特尼科夫所说的那个‘问题’。（他好像开始说得前言不搭后语了。）不，真的，我是很认真的。您要知道，索尼娅，如果您事先知道卢任的一切意图，也知道（也就是说，确实知道），由于他的这些意图，卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜会完全毁灭，而且毁灭的还有孩子们；您也会附带着跟他们一起毁灭（因为您毫不看重自己，那么就算附带着吧）。波列奇卡也是一样……因为她也得走那同一条路。嗯，那么，如果突然这一切现在都让您来决定：让那一个人，还是让那一些人活在世上，也就是说，是让卢任活着干坏事呢，还是让卡捷琳娜• 伊万诺芙娜去死？那么您会怎么决定呢：让他们当中的哪一个去死？我问您。”
索尼娅惊慌不安地看了他一眼：她听出，这语气犹豫不决、而且转弯抹角的话里有什么特殊的含意。
“我已经预感到，您会向我提出这样的问题，”她说，用探询的目光看着他。
“好的，就算是吧；可是您到底会怎样决定呢？”
“根本不可能有这种事，您为什么要问呢？”索尼娅厌恶地说。
“这么说，最好是让卢任活着，去干坏事了！您连这都不敢决定吗？”
“我可没法知道天意……您为什么要问不能问的事？问这些空洞的问题有什么意思？这怎么会由我来决定呢？是谁让我来作法官，决定谁该活着，谁不该活着呢？”
“如果这牵涉到天意，那可就毫无办法了，”拉斯科利尼科夫阴郁地抱怨说。
“您需要什么，最好还是直截了当地说出来吧！”索尼娅痛苦地高声叫喊，“您又想把话引到什么话题上去……难道您只是为了折磨人才来我这儿的吗？”
她忍不住了，突然高声大哭起来。他神情忧郁地看着她。
过了五分钟的样子。
“你是对的，索尼娅，”最后他轻轻地说。他突然完全变了；他故意装出来的厚颜无耻和无可奈何的挑衅语调消失了。就连他的声音也变得十分微弱。“我昨天对你说过，我不是来求你宽恕的，可是现在几乎才一开口就是请求你宽恕……我谈到卢任和天意，是为了自己……我这是求你宽恕，索尼娅……”
他本想笑一笑，可是他那凄惨的笑容中流露出的却是无可奈和欲言又止的神情。他低下头去，用双手捂住了脸。
突然，一种奇怪的、出乎意外对索尼娅十分痛恨的感觉掠过他的心头。似乎他自己对这种感觉感到惊讶和害怕了，突然抬起头来，凝神看了看她；但是他碰到的是她对他痛切关怀的、不安的目光；这是爱情；他的痛恨犹如幻影一般消失了。这不是那种感情；他把一种感情当作了另一种感情。这只不过意味着，那一瞬间已经到来了。
他又用双手捂住脸，低下了头。突然，他面色惨白，从椅子上站起来，看了看索尼娅，什么也没说，无意识地坐到了她的床上。
他觉得，这一瞬间非常像他站在老太婆背后，已经从环扣里把斧子拿下来的那一瞬间，而且感觉到，已经“再也不能失去这一刹那时间了”。
“您怎么了？”索尼娅害怕极了，问。
他什么也说不出来。他完全，完全不希望像这样来宣布，而且自己也不知道，现在他是怎么了。她轻轻地走到他跟前，坐到床上，坐在他身边，目不转睛地瞅着他，等待着。她的心在怦怦地狂跳，似乎这就要停止跳动了。开始变得让人无法忍受了：他把自己那像死人样惨白的脸转过来，面对着她；无可奈何地撇着嘴，竭力想要说什么。索尼娅心里感到非常害怕。
“您怎么了？”她又说了一遍，稍稍躲开了他。
“没什么，索尼娅。你别怕……废话！真的，如果好好想一想，这全都是废话，”他像一个神智不清、无法控制自己的人，含糊不清地说。“我为什么只是来折磨你呢？”他突然瞅着她补上一句。“真的，为什么呢？我一直向自己提出这个问题，索尼娅……”
他也许是在一刻钟前向自己提出过这个问题，但现在完全无可奈何地说出来了，几乎不知道自己在说什么，而且感觉到浑身不停地发抖。
“唉，您多痛苦啊！”她细细端详着他，痛苦地说。
“都是废话！……是这么回事，索尼娅（不知为什么，他突然微微一笑，笑得有点儿凄惨，无可奈何，笑了大约有两秒钟光景），“你记得我昨天说，想要告诉你吗？”
索尼娅担心地等待着。
“临走的时候，我说，也许是和你永别了，不过如果我今天再来，就要告诉你……是谁杀了莉扎薇塔。”
她突然全身颤栗起来。
“所以现在我来告诉你了。”
“那么昨天您真的……”她很费劲地喃喃地说，“您怎么知道的？”她很快地问，仿佛突然明白过来似的。
索尼娅开始感到呼吸困难了。她的脸越来越苍白。
“我知道。”
她沉默了大约一分钟光景。
“是不是发现了他？”她胆怯地问。
“不，没有发现。”
“那么您怎么会知道这件事呢？”又是几乎沉默了一分钟光景，又是用勉强才可以听到的低声问。
他转过脸来对着她，聚精会神地看了她一眼。
“你猜猜看，”他说，脸上仍然带着刚才那种变了形的、无可奈何的微笑。
她仿佛全身一阵痉挛。
“您……把我……您干吗这样……吓唬我？”她像小孩子那样微笑着说。
“既然我知道，……可见我和他是很要好的朋友，”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说下去，仍然目不转睛地瞅着她的脸，似乎无力把目光从她脸上挪开，“他并不想杀死…… 莉扎薇塔……他杀死她……是意外的……他想杀死那个老太婆……在家里只有她独自一个人的时候……他去了……可是这时候莉扎薇塔走了进来……于是他就……杀死了她。”
又过了可怕的一分钟。两人互相对看着。
“那么你还猜不到吗？”他突然问，这时他的感觉就好像是从钟楼上跳了下去。
“猜—不到，”索尼娅用勉强才可以听到的声音喃喃地说。
“你好好看看。”
他刚一说出这句话，从前曾经有过的那种熟悉的感觉突然又冷透了他的心：他瞅着她的脸，突然仿佛在她脸上看到了莉扎薇塔的脸。当时他拿着斧子逼近莉扎薇塔的时候，他清清楚楚记住了她脸上的表情，她躲开他，往墙边退去，朝前伸出一只手，脸上露出完全是孩子似的恐惧神情，和孩子们突然对什么东西感到害怕的时候一模一样——他们也是像这样一动不动、惊恐地看着那个使他们感到害怕的东西，向前伸着一只小手，身子往后倒退，眼看就要哭出来了。现在索尼娅也几乎是这样：也是那样束手无策、也是那么害怕地对着他看了一会儿，突然朝前伸出左手，用手指轻轻地、稍稍抵住他的胸口，从床上慢慢站起来，越来越躲避开他，而且用越来越呆滞的目光直盯着他。她的恐惧突然传染了他：他的脸上也露出同样的惊恐神色，他也像她那样，瞅着她，甚至几乎也带着同样的孩子式的微笑。
“你猜到了？”最后他悄悄地问。
“上帝啊！”从她胸中突然冲出一声可怕的号叫。她软弱无力地倒到床上，脸埋在枕头里。但是不一会儿，她很快欠起身来，很快凑到他身边，抓住他的双手，用自己纤细的手指紧紧攥着它们，好像把它们夹在老虎钳里，又不错眼珠地呆呆地盯着他的脸。她想用这最后的绝望的目光看出和捕捉到哪怕是最后的一线希望。然而希望是没有的；再也没有任何怀疑了；一切确实如此！甚至在这以后，回想起这个时刻，她都觉得奇怪和不可思议：为什么恰恰是她当时立刻就看出，已经没有任何怀疑了？不是吗，她并不能说，譬如，对此已经早有预感了？然而现在，他刚把这件事告诉了她，她却突然觉得，她当真好像是对这件事已经早有预感了。
“得了，索尼娅，够了！你别折磨我了！”他痛苦地请求说。
他完全，完全不是想这样向她公开这一秘密，然而结果却成了这样。
她仿佛控制不住自己，霍地站起来，绞着手，走到房屋中间；但很快又回转来，几乎肩挨肩地又坐到他的身边。突然她仿佛被刀扎了一样，颤栗了一下，大叫一声，自己也不知为什么，一下子跪到他的面前。
“您这是，您这是对自己干了什么呀！”她绝望地说，霍地站起来，扑到他身上，双手勾住他的脖子，紧紧搂住了他。
拉斯科利尼科夫急忙一闪，脸上带着忧郁的微笑瞅了她一眼：
“你多奇怪啊，索尼娅，——我对你讲了这件事以后，你却拥抱我，吻我。你知道自己在做什么吗？”
“不，现在全世界再没有比你更不幸的人了！”她没听见他的责备，发狂似地高声说，而且好像歇斯底里发作，突然高声大哭起来。
一种已经好久没体验过的感情犹如波涛一般涌进他的心头，一下子就使他的心变软了。他没有抗拒这种感情：两滴泪珠从他眼里滚出来，挂在睫毛上。
“这么说，你不会离开我吗，索尼娅？”他几乎是怀着希望看着她说。
“不，不；我永远不离开你，随便在哪里也不离开你！”索尼娅高声喊叫，“我跟着你走，随便去哪里，我都跟着你！噢，上帝啊！……唉，我真不幸啊！……为什么，为什么我以前不认识你！为什么你以前不来呢？噢，上帝啊！”
“我这不是来了吗。”
“这是现在啊！噢，现在可怎么办呢！……我们在一起，我们在一起！”她仿佛出神似地反复说，又抱住了他，“我和你一同去服苦役！”他好像突然颤栗了一下，嘴角上又勉强露出早先那种憎恨的、几乎是傲慢的微笑。
“索尼娅，我也许还不想去服苦役呢，”他说。
索尼娅很快看了他一眼。
对这个不幸的人表示了充满激情和痛苦的最初的同情之后，关于杀人的可怕的想法又使她感到震惊了。她突然从他改变了的语调中听出了杀人凶手的声音。她惊愕地瞅着他。她还什么也不知道，既不知道他为什么杀人，也不知道是怎么杀的，更不知道他的目的何在。现在，这些问题一下子涌进了她的脑海。她又感到不相信了：“他，他是个杀人凶手！难道这可能吗？”
“这是怎么回事！我这是在哪儿呀！”她深感困惑地说，仿佛还没清醒过来，“您怎么，您，这样一个人……您怎么会干这种事？……这是怎么回事啊！”
“嗯，为了抢劫呗。别说了，索尼娅！”他有点儿疲倦地、甚至好像是懊恼地回答。
索尼娅仿佛惊呆了，突然高声叫喊：
“你挨过饿！你……是为了帮助母亲？对吗？”
“不，索尼娅，不是的，”他含糊不清地说，转过脸去，低下了头，“我挨饿也还不到这种程度……我的确想帮助母亲，不过……这也不完全正确……别折磨我了，索尼娅！”
索尼娅双手一拍。
“难道，难道这都是真的吗！上帝啊，这怎么会是真的！这谁会相信呢？……您自己把仅有的钱送给别人，怎么，怎么会为了抢劫而杀人呢！啊！……”她突然惊呼一声，“您送给卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的那些钱……那些钱……上帝啊，莫非那就是那些钱吗……”
“不是的，索尼娅，”他急忙打断了她的话，“这些钱不是那一些，你放心好了！这些钱是母亲通过一个商人寄给我的，我生病的时候收到了这笔钱，当天就送给了……拉祖米欣看见的……就是他代我收下的……这些钱是我的，我自己的，当真是我的。”
索尼娅困惑不解地听着他的话，竭力想弄明白。
“那些钱……其实，我甚至不知道那里有没有钱，”他轻轻地补充说，仿佛陷入沉思，“当时我从她脖子上取下一个钱袋，麂皮的……装得满满的、那么鼓胀胀的一个钱袋，……我没往里面看过；大概是来不及了……至于东西，都是些扣子、链条什么的，就在第二天早晨，我把所有这些东西和钱袋都藏到B大街上别人的一个院子里，压到一块石头底下了……这些东西现在还在那儿……”
索尼娅尽力听着。
“嗯，那么为什么……您怎么说：为了抢劫，可是什么也没拿呢？”她很快地问，好像抓住了一根稻草。
“我不知道……我还没决定，是不是要拿这些钱，”他说，又仿佛陷入沉思，突然醒悟过来，迅速而短促地冷笑了一声。
“唉，刚才我说了些多蠢的蠢话，啊？”
有个想法在索尼娅的脑子里忽然一闪：“他是不是疯子？”但是她立刻放弃了这个想法：不，这是另一回事。这时她什么，什么也不明白！
“你要知道，索尼娅，”他突然灵机一动，说，“你要知道，我要告诉你：如果我杀人，只不过是因为我挨饿，”他接着说，每个字都说得特别清楚，而且神秘然而真诚地看着她，“那么现在我……就幸福了！你要知道这一点！”
“如果现在我承认，”稍过了一会儿，他甚至是绝望地叫喊，“如果现在我承认，我干了坏事，那对你，对你又有什么好处呢？你对我取得这种愚蠢的胜利，对你可有什么好处呢？唉，索尼娅，难道我是为了这个，现在才上你这儿来吗！”
索尼娅又想说什么，可是没有作声。
“昨天我所以叫你和我一道走，那是因为，我只有你一个人了。”
“你叫我去哪里？”索尼娅胆怯地问。
“不是去偷，也不是去杀人，请你放心，不是去干这些事情，”他讥讽地冷笑一声，“我们是不同类型的人……你要知道，索尼娅，我只是现在，只是这时候才明白：昨天我叫你上哪里去？昨天我叫你的时候，连我自己也不知道要去哪里。我叫你只不过是为了，我来也只是为了：请你别抛弃我。你不会抛弃我吧，索尼娅？”
她紧紧地握了握他的一只手。
“我为什么，为什么要告诉她，为什么要对她坦白地说出这一切啊！”过了一会儿，他无限痛苦地瞅着她，绝望地喊道，“你在等着我解释，索尼娅，你坐着，在等着，这我看得出来；可我能跟你说什么呢？因为这件事你是不会理解的，你只会为我感到……痛心！瞧，你哭了，又拥抱我，——唉，你为什么拥抱我呢？为了我自己承受不住，来把痛苦转嫁给别人吗：‘你也受些痛苦吧，这样我会轻松些！’你能爱这样一个卑鄙的家伙吗？”
“你不是也很痛苦吗？”索尼娅高声说。
那种感情又像波浪般涌上他的心头，霎时间又使他的心变软了。
“索尼娅，我的心是恶毒的，这你可要注意：这可以说明许多问题。正因为我恶毒，所以我才来你这里。有些人是不会来的。可我是个胆小鬼，也是个……卑鄙的家伙！不过……算了！这一切都不是我想要说的……现在得说，可我却不知从何说起……”
他停顿下来，陷入沉思。
“唉，我们是不同类型的人！”他又高声说，“我们配不到一起。为什么，我为什么要来！为了这，我永远也不会宽恕自己！”
“不，不，你来了，这很好！”索尼娅高声叫道，“让我知道，这就更好！好得多！”
他痛苦地瞅了她一眼。
“如果真是这样呢！”他说，好像拿定了主意，“因为事实就是这样！是这么回事：我想要作拿破仑，所以就杀了人……
怎么样，现在明白了吗？”
“不—明白，”索尼娅天真而又胆怯地低声说，“不过，……你说，你说啊！我会明白的，我心里什么都会明白！”她请求说。
“你会明白吗？那好，咱们倒要瞧瞧！”
他不说话了，考虑了很久。
“问题在于：有一次我向自己提出这样一个问题：如果拿破仑处在我的地位上，为了开创自己的事业，他既没有土伦，也没有埃及，也没有越过勃朗峰①，他没有机会完成所有这一切壮丽辉煌的丰功伟绩，而只不过遇到了一个可笑的老太婆，一个十四等文官的太太，而且还得杀死她，为的是把她箱子里的钱拿出来（为了事业，你懂吗？），如果没有别的出路，他会下决心干这种事吗？他会不会因为这太不伟大，而且……是犯罪，于是就感到厌恶呢？我告诉你，为了这个‘问题’，我苦恼了很久很久，当我终于领悟（不知怎么突然一下子明白了），他不但不会感到厌恶，而且根本就不会想到，这不伟大……甚至完全不会理解：这有什么可以感到厌恶的？这时候我真是羞愧极了。只要他没有别的路可走，那么他准会不假思索地掐死她，连叫都不让她叫一声！……所以我也……学这个权威的样……不再思索……掐死了她……事实完全是这样的！你觉得好笑吗？是的，索尼娅，这儿最可笑的就是，也许事情的确是这样的……”
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①一七九六——一七九七法意战争中，拿破仑曾率大军越过勃朗峰，进入意大利境内。
索尼娅一点儿也不觉得好笑。
“您最好是直截了当地告诉我……不要举例子，”她更加胆怯地，用勉强可以听到的低声请求说。
他转身面对着她，忧郁地看了看她，抓住了她的手。
“你又说对了，索尼娅。因为这都是胡说八道，几乎全都是废话！你要明白：你是知道的，我母亲几乎一无所有。妹妹是偶然受了些教育，命中注定长期给人作家庭教师。她们的一切都寄托在我一个人身上。我上过学，可是上大学，我就不能维持生活，不能不暂时退学了。即使是这样拖下去，那么十年以后，十二年以后（如果情况好转的话），我还是有希望当上教师，或者成为一个官吏，年薪可以拿到上千卢布……（他好像是在背诵。）而在这以前，由于操心和悲伤，母亲却早已憔悴了，可我还是不能让她过上安宁的日子，而妹妹……唉，我妹妹的情况可能更糟！……何苦一辈子不顾一切，漠视一切，忘记母亲，忍心看着妹妹受辱而不敢说半个不字？为了什么？是不是为了埋葬了她们后，挣钱去养活别人——妻子和孩子，而以后又不能给他们留下一文钱和一片面包？嗯……所以我决定，拿到老太婆的钱，供我最初几年使用，不再折磨母亲，在大学里用这些钱来维持自己的生活，大学毕业以后作为实现初步计划的经费，——广泛活动，从根本上改变一切，为自己创造一个全新的前程，走上一条独立自主的新路……嗯……嗯，这就是我所想的一切……嗯，当然啦，我杀了这个老太婆，&a
Part 5 Chapter 5
Lebeziatnikov looked perturbed.
"I've come to you, Sofya Semyonovna," he began. "Excuse me . . . I thought I should find you," he said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, "that is, I didn't mean anything . . . of that sort . . . But I just thought . . . Katerina Ivanovna has gone out of her mind," he blurted out suddenly, turning from Raskolnikov to Sonia.
Sonia screamed.
"At least it seems so. But . . . we don't know what to do, you see! She came back--she seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps beaten. . . . So it seems at least, . . . She had run to your father's former chief, she didn't find him at home: he was dining at some other general's. . . . Only fancy, she rushed off there, to the other general's, and, imagine, she was so persistent that she managed to get the chief to see her, had him fetched out from dinner, it seems. You can imagine what happened. She was turned out, of course; but, according to her own story, she abused him and threw something at him. One may well believe it. . . . How it is she wasn't taken up, I can't understand! Now she is telling everyone, including Amalia Ivanovna; but it's difficult to understand her, she is screaming and flinging herself about. . . . Oh yes, she shouts that since everyone has abandoned her, she will take the children and go into the street with a barrel-organ, and the children will sing and dance, and she too, and collect money, and will go every day under the general's window . . . 'to let everyone see well-born children, whose father was an official, begging in the street.' She keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She is teaching Lida to sing 'My Village,' the boy to dance, Polenka the same. She is tearing up all the clothes, and making them little caps like actors; she means to carry a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of music. . . . She won't listen to anything. . . . Imagine the state of things! It's beyond anything!"
Lebeziatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had heard him almost breathless, snatched up her cloak and hat, and ran out of the room, putting on her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her and Lebeziatnikov came after him.
"She has certainly gone mad!" he said to Raskolnikov, as they went out into the street. "I didn't want to frighten Sofya Semyonovna, so I said 'it seemed like it,' but there isn't a doubt of it. They say that in consumption the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it's a pity I know nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she wouldn't listen."
"Did you talk to her about the tubercles?"
"Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn't have understood! But what I say is, that if you convince a person logically that he has nothing to cry about, he'll stop crying. That's clear. Is it your conviction that he won't?"
"Life would be too easy if it were so," answered Raskolnikov.
"Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather difficult for Katerina Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris they have been conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the insane, simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific man of standing, lately dead, believed in the possibility of such treatment. His idea was that there's nothing really wrong with the physical organism of the insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake, an error of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He gradually showed the madman his error and, would you believe it, they say he was successful? But as he made use of douches too, how far success was due to that treatment remains uncertain. . . . So it seems at least."
Raskolnikov had long ceased to listen. Reaching the house where he lived, he nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went in at the gate. Lebeziatnikov woke up with a start, looked about him and hurried on.
Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the middle of it. Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow and tattered paper, at the dust, at his sofa. . . . From the yard came a loud continuous knocking; someone seemed to be hammering . . . He went to the window, rose on tiptoe and looked out into the yard for a long time with an air of absorbed attention. But the yard was empty and he could not see who was hammering. In the house on the left he saw some open windows; on the window-sills were pots of sickly-looking geraniums. Linen was hung out of the windows . . . He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the sofa.
Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone!
Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia, now that he had made her more miserable.
"Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison her life? Oh, the meanness of it!"
"I will remain alone," he said resolutely, "and she shall not come to the prison!"
Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile. That was a strange thought.
"Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia," he thought suddenly.
He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging through his mind. All at once the door opened and Dounia came in. At first she stood still and looked at him from the doorway, just as he had done at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place as yesterday, on the chair facing him. He looked silently and almost vacantly at her.
"Don't be angry, brother; I've only come for one minute," said Dounia.
Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft. He saw that she too had come to him with love.
"Brother, now I know all, /all/. Dmitri Prokofitch has explained and told me everything. They are worrying and persecuting you through a stupid and contemptible suspicion. . . . Dmitri Prokofitch told me that there is no danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I don't think so, and I fully understand how indignant you must be, and that that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That's what I am afraid of. As for your cutting yourself off from us, I don't judge you, I don't venture to judge you, and forgive me for having blamed you for it. I feel that I too, if I had so great a trouble, should keep away from everyone. I shall tell mother nothing /of this/, but I shall talk about you continually and shall tell her from you that you will come very soon. Don't worry about her; /I/ will set her mind at rest; but don't you try her too much--come once at least; remember that she is your mother. And now I have come simply to say" (Dounia began to get up) "that if you should need me or should need . . . all my life or anything . . . call me, and I'll come. Good-bye!"
She turned abruptly and went towards the door.
"Dounia!" Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. "That Razumihin, Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very good fellow."
Dounia flushed slightly.
"Well?" she asked, waiting a moment.
"He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love. . . . Good-bye, Dounia."
Dounia flushed crimson, then suddenly she took alarm.
"But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting for ever that you . . . give me such a parting message?"
"Never mind. . . . Good-bye."
He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked at him uneasily, and went out troubled.
No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant (the very last one) when he had longed to take her in his arms and /say good-bye/ to her, and even /to tell/ her, but he had not dared even to touch her hand.
"Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her, and will feel that I stole her kiss."
"And would /she/ stand that test?" he went on a few minutes later to himself. "No, she wouldn't; girls like that can't stand things! They never do."
And he thought of Sonia.
There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was fading. He took up his cap and went out.
He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all this continual anxiety and agony of mind could not but affect him. And if he were not lying in high fever it was perhaps just because this continual inner strain helped to keep him on his legs and in possession of his faculties. But this artificial excitement could not last long.
He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of an eternity "on a square yard of space." Towards evening this sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily.
"With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on the sunset or something, one can't help doing something stupid! You'll go to Dounia, as well as to Sonia," he muttered bitterly.
He heard his name called. He looked round. Lebeziatnikov rushed up to him.
"Only fancy, I've been to your room looking for you. Only fancy, she's carried out her plan, and taken away the children. Sofya Semyonovna and I have had a job to find them. She is rapping on a frying-pan and making the children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the cross-roads and in front of shops; there's a crowd of fools running after them. Come along!"
"And Sonia?" Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after Lebeziatnikov.
"Simply frantic. That is, it's not Sofya Semyonovna's frantic, but Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya Semyonova's frantic too. But Katerina Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I tell you she is quite mad. They'll be taken to the police. You can fancy what an effect that will have. . . . They are on the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofya Semyonovna's, quite close."
On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away from the one where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of people, consisting principally of gutter children. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna could be heard from the bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle likely to attract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress with the green shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way on one side, was really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her wasted consumptive face looked more suffering than ever, and indeed out of doors in the sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home. But her excitement did not flag, and every moment her irritation grew more intense. She rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed them, told them before the crowd how to dance and what to sing, began explaining to them why it was necessary, and driven to desperation by their not understanding, beat them. . . . Then she would make a rush at the crowd; if she noticed any decently dressed person stopping to look, she immediately appealed to him to see what these children "from a genteel, one may say aristocratic, house" had been brought to. If she heard laughter or jeering in the crowd, she would rush at once at the scoffers and begin squabbling with them. Some people laughed, others shook their heads, but everyone felt curious at the sight of the madwoman with the frightened children. The frying-pan of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not there, at least Raskolnikov did not see it. But instead of rapping on the pan, Katerina Ivanovna began clapping her wasted hands, when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polenka sing. She too joined in the singing, but broke down at the second note with a fearful cough, which made her curse in despair and even shed tears. What made her most furious was the weeping and terror of Kolya and Lida. Some effort had been made to dress the children up as street singers are dressed. The boy had on a turban made of something red and white to look like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida; she simply had a red knitted cap, or rather a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov, decorated with a broken piece of white ostrich feather, which had been Katerina Ivanovna's grandmother's and had been preserved as a family possession. Polenka was in her everyday dress; she looked in timid perplexity at her mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears. She dimly realised her mother's condition, and looked uneasily about her. She was terribly frightened of the street and the crowd. Sonia followed Katerina Ivanovna, weeping and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina Ivanovna was not to be persuaded.
"Leave off, Sonia, leave off," she shouted, speaking fast, panting and coughing. "You don't know what you ask; you are like a child! I've told you before that I am not coming back to that drunken German. Let everyone, let all Petersburg see the children begging in the streets, though their father was an honourable man who served all his life in truth and fidelity, and one may say died in the service." (Katerina Ivanovna had by now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly believed it.) "Let that wretch of a general see it! And you are silly, Sonia: what have we to eat? Tell me that. We have worried you enough, I won't go on so! Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, is that you?" she cried, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to him. "Explain to this silly girl, please, that nothing better could be done! Even organ-grinders earn their living, and everyone will see at once that we are different, that we are an honourable and bereaved family reduced to beggary. And that general will lose his post, you'll see! We shall perform under his windows every day, and if the Tsar drives by, I'll fall on my knees, put the children before me, show them to him, and say 'Defend us father.' He is the father of the fatherless, he is merciful, he'll protect us, you'll see, and that wretch of a general. . . . Lida, /tenez vous droite/! Kolya, you'll dance again. Why are you whimpering? Whimpering again! What are you afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what am I to do with them, Rodion Romanovitch? If you only knew how stupid they are! What's one to do with such children?"
And she, almost crying herself--which did not stop her uninterrupted, rapid flow of talk--pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to go home, and even said, hoping to work on her vanity, that it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets like an organ-grinder, as she was intending to become the principal of a boarding-school.
"A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air," cried Katerina Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. "No, Rodion Romanovitch, that dream is over! All have forsaken us! . . . And that general. . . . You know, Rodion Romanovitch, I threw an inkpot at him--it happened to be standing in the waiting-room by the paper where you sign your name. I wrote my name, threw it at him and ran away. Oh, the scoundrels, the scoundrels! But enough of them, now I'll provide for the children myself, I won't bow down to anybody! She has had to bear enough for us!" she pointed to Sonia. "Polenka, how much have you got? Show me! What, only two farthings! Oh, the mean wretches! They give us nothing, only run after us, putting their tongues out. There, what is that blockhead laughing at?" (She pointed to a man in the crowd.) "It's all because Kolya here is so stupid; I have such a bother with him. What do you want, Polenka? Tell me in French, /parlez-moi francais/. Why, I've taught you, you know some phrases. Else how are you to show that you are of good family, well brought-up children, and not at all like other organ-grinders? We aren't going to have a Punch and Judy show in the street, but to sing a genteel song. . . . Ah, yes, . . . What are we to sing? You keep putting me out, but we . . . you see, we are standing here, Rodion Romanovitch, to find something to sing and get money, something Kolya can dance to. . . . For, as you can fancy, our performance is all impromptu. . . . We must talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and then we shall go to Nevsky, where there are far more people of good society, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida knows 'My Village' only, nothing but 'My Village,' and everyone sings that. We must sing something far more genteel. . . . Well, have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only you'd help your mother! My memory's quite gone, or I should have thought of something. We really can't sing 'An Hussar.' Ah, let us sing in French, 'Cinq sous,' I have taught it you, I have taught it you. And as it is in French, people will see at once that you are children of good family, and that will be much more touching. . . . You might sing 'Marlborough s'en va-t-en guerre,' for that's quite a child's song and is sung as a lullaby in all the aristocratic houses.
"/Marlborough s'en va-t-en guerre Ne sait quand reviendra/ . . ."
she began singing. "But no, better sing 'Cinq sous.' Now, Kolya, your hands on your hips, make haste, and you, Lida, keep turning the other way, and Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands!
"/Cinq sous, cinq sous Pour monter notre menage."
(Cough-cough-cough!) "Set your dress straight, Polenka, it's slipped down on your shoulders," she observed, panting from coughing. "Now it's particularly necessary to behave nicely and genteelly, that all may see that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the bodice should be cut longer, and made of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia, with your advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite deformed by it. . . . Why, you're all crying again! What's the matter, stupids? Come, Kolya, begin. Make haste, make haste! Oh, what an unbearable child!
"Cinq sous, cinq sous.
"A policeman again! What do you want?"
A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat--a solid- looking official of about fifty with a decoration on his neck (which delighted Katerina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman)-- approached and without a word handed her a green three-rouble note. His face wore a look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave him a polite, even ceremonious, bow.
"I thank you, honoured sir," she began loftily. "The causes that have induced us (take the money, Polenka: you see there are generous and honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress). You see, honoured sir, these orphans of good family--I might even say of aristocratic connections--and that wretch of a general sat eating grouse . . . and stamped at my disturbing him. 'Your excellency,' I said, 'protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband, Semyon Zaharovitch, and on the very day of his death the basest of scoundrels slandered his only daughter.' . . . That policeman again! Protect me," she cried to the official. "Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have only just run away from one of them. What do you want, fool?"
"It's forbidden in the streets. You mustn't make a disturbance."
"It's you're making a disturbance. It's just the same as if I were grinding an organ. What business is it of yours?"
"You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven't got one, and in that way you collect a crowd. Where do you lodge?"
"What, a license?" wailed Katerina Ivanovna. "I buried my husband to-day. What need of a license?"
"Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself," began the official. "Come along; I will escort you. . . . This is no place for you in the crowd. You are ill."
"Honoured sir, honoured sir, you don't know," screamed Katerina Ivanovna. "We are going to the Nevsky. . . . Sonia, Sonia! Where is she? She is crying too! What's the matter with you all? Kolya, Lida, where are you going?" she cried suddenly in alarm. "Oh, silly children! Kolya, Lida, where are they off to? . . ."
Kolya and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their mother's mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by the hand, and ran off at the sight of the policeman who wanted to take them away somewhere. Weeping and wailing, poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was a piteous and unseemly spectacle, as she ran, weeping and panting for breath. Sonia and Polenka rushed after them.
"Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful children! . . . Polenka! catch them. . . . It's for your sakes I . . ."
She stumbled as she ran and fell down.
"She's cut herself, she's bleeding! Oh, dear!" cried Sonia, bending over her.
All ran up and crowded around. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the first at her side, the official too hastened up, and behind him the policeman who muttered, "Bother!" with a gesture of impatience, feeling that the job was going to be a troublesome one.
"Pass on! Pass on!" he said to the crowd that pressed forward.
"She's dying," someone shouted.
"She's gone out of her mind," said another.
"Lord have mercy upon us," said a woman, crossing herself. "Have they caught the little girl and the boy? They're being brought back, the elder one's got them. . . . Ah, the naughty imps!"
When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had not cut herself against a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood that stained the pavement red was from her chest.
"I've seen that before," muttered the official to Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov; "that's consumption; the blood flows and chokes the patient. I saw the same thing with a relative of my own not long ago . . . nearly a pint of blood, all in a minute. . . . What's to be done though? She is dying."
"This way, this way, to my room!" Sonia implored. "I live here! . . . See, that house, the second from here. . . . Come to me, make haste," she turned from one to the other. "Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!"
Thanks to the official's efforts, this plan was adopted, the policeman even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia's room, almost unconscious, and laid on the bed. The blood was still flowing, but she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov, Lebeziatnikov, and the official accompanied Sonia into the room and were followed by the policeman, who first drove back the crowd which followed to the very door. Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lida, who were trembling and weeping. Several persons came in too from the Kapernaumovs' room; the landlord, a lame one-eyed man of strange appearance with whiskers and hair that stood up like a brush, his wife, a woman with an everlastingly scared expression, and several open-mouthed children with wonder-struck faces. Among these, Svidrigailov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked at him with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not having noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest wore spoken of. The official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now for the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself.
Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased for a time. She looked with sick but intent and penetrating eyes at Sonia, who stood pale and trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with a handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on the bed, supporting her on both sides.
"Where are the children?" she said in a faint voice. "You've brought them, Polenka? Oh the sillies! Why did you run away. . . . Och!"
Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes, looking about her.
"So that's how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been in your room."
She looked at her with a face of suffering.
"We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya, come here! Well, here they are, Sonia, take them all! I hand them over to you, I've had enough! The ball is over." (Cough!) "Lay me down, let me die in peace."
They laid her back on the pillow.
"What, the priest? I don't want him. You haven't got a rouble to spare. I have no sins. God must forgive me without that. He knows how I have suffered. . . . And if He won't forgive me, I don't care!"
She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered, turned her eyes from side to side, recognised everyone for a minute, but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and difficult, there was a sort of rattle in her throat.
"I said to him, your excellency," she ejaculated, gasping after each word. "That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah! Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips, make haste! /Glissez, glissez! pas de basque!/ Tap with your heels, be a graceful child!
"/Du hast Diamanten und Perlen/
"What next? That's the thing to sing.
"/Du hast die schonsten Augen Madchen, was willst du mehr?/
"What an idea! /Was willst du mehr?/ What things the fool invents! Ah, yes!
"In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan.
"Ah, how I loved it! I loved that song to distraction, Polenka! Your father, you know, used to sing it when we were engaged. . . . Oh those days! Oh that's the thing for us to sing! How does it go? I've forgotten. Remind me! How was it?"
She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking and gasping at every word, with a look of growing terror.
"In the heat of midday! . . . in the vale! . . . of Dagestan! . . . With lead in my breast! . . ."
"Your excellency!" she wailed suddenly with a heart-rending scream and a flood of tears, "protect the orphans! You have been their father's guest . . . one may say aristocratic. . . ." She started, regaining consciousness, and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once recognised Sonia.
"Sonia, Sonia!" she articulated softly and caressingly, as though surprised to find her there. "Sonia darling, are you here, too?"
They lifted her up again.
"Enough! It's over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!" she cried with vindictive despair, and her head fell heavily back on the pillow.
She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did not last long. Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back, her mouth fell open, her leg moved convulsively, she gave a deep, deep sigh and died.
Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms about her, and remained motionless with her head pressed to the dead woman's wasted bosom. Polenka threw herself at her mother's feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though Kolya and Lida did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling that it was something terrible; they put their hands on each other's little shoulders, stared straight at one another and both at once opened their mouths and began screaming. They were both still in their fancy dress; one in a turban, the other in the cap with the ostrich feather.
And how did "the certificate of merit" come to be on the bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow; Raskolnikov saw it.
He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped up to him.
"She is dead," he said.
"Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words with you," said Svidrigailov, coming up to them.
Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew. Svidrigailov drew Raskolnikov further away.
"I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know it's a question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum, and I will settle fifteen hundred roubles to be paid to each on coming of age, so that Sofya Semyonovna need have no anxiety about them. And I will pull her out of the mud too, for she is a good girl, isn't she? So tell Avdotya Romanovna that that is how I am spending her ten thousand."
"What is your motive for such benevolence?" asked Raskolnikov.
"Ah! you sceptical person!" laughed Svidrigailov. "I told you I had no need of that money. Won't you admit that it's simply done from humanity? She wasn't 'a louse,' you know" (he pointed to the corner where the dead woman lay), "was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you'll agree, is Luzhin to go on living, and doing wicked things or is she to die? And if I didn't help them, Polenka would go the same way."
He said this with an air of a sort of gay winking slyness, keeping his eyes fixed on Raskolnikov, who turned white and cold, hearing his own phrases, spoken to Sonia. He quickly stepped back and looked wildly at Svidrigailov.
"How do you know?" he whispered, hardly able to breathe.
"Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich's, the other side of the wall. Here is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted friend of mine. I am a neighbour."
"You?"
"Yes," continued Svidrigailov, shaking with laughter. "I assure you on my honour, dear Rodion Romanovitch, that you have interested me enormously. I told you we should become friends, I foretold it. Well, here we have. And you will see what an accommodating person I am. You'll see that you can get on with me!"
 
列别贾特尼科夫神色惊慌不安。
“我是来找您的，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜。请原谅……我就料到会在家里找到您，”他突然对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“也就是说我根本没往……这方面想过……不过我想的是……卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜在我们那儿发疯了，”他突然撇开拉斯科利尼科夫，斩钉截铁地对索尼娅说。
索尼娅惊叫了一声。
“也就是，至少是看上去好像疯了。不过……我们在那儿都不知道该怎么办，事情就是这样！她回来了，——好像不知从哪里把她赶了出来，也许还打了她……至少看上去好像是这样……她跑去找谢苗•扎哈雷奇的上司，在家里没找到他，他在一位也是将军的人家里吃饭……请您想想看，她就到他们吃饭的那儿去了……也就是到那另一位将军家里去了，而且，请您想想看，她坚持要把谢苗•扎哈雷奇的上司叫出来，而且，好像是要把人家从饭桌旁叫出来。可想而知，那里发生了什么事情。当然，人家赶走了她；她却说，她把他骂了一顿，还朝他扔了个什么东西。这甚至是可以想象得到的……怎么会没把她抓起来，——这可就不知道了！现在她正对大家讲这件事，也对阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜说，只不过很难听懂她说什么，她在大喊大叫，浑身发抖……啊，对了：她说，而且高声叫嚷说，因为现在大家都抛弃了她，所以她要带着孩子们上街去，背着手摇风琴，让孩子们唱歌跳舞，她也唱歌跳舞，向观众讨钱，而且每天都到那位将军的窗子底下去……她说，‘让他们看到，父亲做过官的高贵的子弟怎样在街上乞讨！’ 她打那些孩子们，孩子们在哭。她教廖尼娅唱《小小农庄》，教男孩子跳舞，也教波琳娜•米哈依洛芙娜跳舞，撕掉所有的衣服；给他们做了些像给演员戴的那种小帽子；她想带着一个面盆，去敲敲打打，当作音乐……她什么话也不听……请您想想看，怎么能这样呢？这样简直是不行的！”
列别贾特尼科夫也许还会说下去的，但是几乎气也不喘地听着的索尼娅，突然抓起披巾、帽子，跑出屋去，一面跑，一面戴上帽子，披上披巾。拉斯科利尼科夫也跟着她出去了，列别贾特尼科夫跟在他的后面。
“一定是疯了！”他对拉斯科利尼科夫说，跟他一道来到了街上，“我只是不想吓坏索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，所以说：‘好像’，不过，这是毫无疑问的。据说，害肺病的人，结核也会突然跑到脑子里去；可惜我不懂医学。不过我曾试图说服她，可她什么话也不听。”
“您跟她谈结核了？”
“也就是说，不完全是谈结核。而且她什么也不会懂的。不过我说的是：如果合乎逻辑地劝说一个人，告诉他，其实他没有什么好哭的，那么他就不会再哭了。这是很清楚的。您却认为，他不会不哭吗？”
“要是那样的话，生活也就太容易了，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。
“对不起，对不起；当然，要让卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜理解，那是相当困难的；不过您是不是知道，巴黎已经在进行认真的试验了，试验单用合乎逻辑地劝说的办法，是不是有可能治好疯子？那里有一个教授，不久前才去世，是个很严肃的学者，他认为，可以这样治疗。他的基本观念是，疯子的机体并没有受到特殊损害，而疯狂这种症状，可以说是一种逻辑性的错误，判断的错误，对事物的不正确的看法。他逐渐驳倒病人的错误看法，您要知道，据说，获得了结果！不过因为他同时还使用了淋浴疗法，所以这种治疗的效果当然也就受到了怀疑……至少看来好像是这样……”
拉斯科利尼科夫早就已经没听他在说什么了。来到了自己那幢房子跟前，他向列别贾特尼科夫点了点头，转身进了大门。列别贾特尼科夫明白过来，朝四下里望了望，继续往前跑去。
拉斯科利尼科夫回到自己那间小屋里，站到房屋中间。
“他为什么回到这里来呢？”他扫视了一下这些微微发黄的破旧的墙纸，这些灰尘，他那张沙发床……从院子里传来不知是敲打什么的、连续不断的、刺耳的响声；好像什么地方在钉什么，在钉钉子……他走到窗前，踮起脚尖，朝院子里望了好久，好像异常关心的样子。但院子里空荡荡的，看不见有人在敲打什么。左边厢房里，可以看到有些地方窗子敞着；窗台上摆着几盆长得很不茂盛的天竺葵，窗外晾着内衣……
这一切他都太熟悉了。于是他转身坐到沙发上。
他从来，还从来没感到过这样可怕的孤独！
是的，他又一次感觉到，也许他真的会痛恨索尼娅，而且正是现在，在他使她更加不幸以后，他却要恨她。“他为什么去她那里，乞求她的眼泪？他为什么一定要坑害她一辈子？
噢，卑鄙！”
“我还是孤单单的一个人吧！”他突然坚决地说，“她也不会到监狱去看我！”
过了大约五分钟，他抬起头来，奇怪地微微一笑。这是一个奇怪的想法：“也许去服苦役当真会好一些，”他突然想。
他脑子里塞满种种模模糊糊的想法，他记不得这样在自己屋里坐了多久。突然房门开了，进来的是阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。她先站住，像不久前索尼娅进来时那样，从门口看了看他，然后才进来，在他对面的椅子上坐下，坐在昨天她坐过的地方。他默默地看了她一眼，不知为什么心里什么也没有想。
“你别生气，哥哥，我只待一会儿，”杜尼娅说。她脸上的表情若有所思，但并不严峻。她的目光明亮而且平静。他看出，这一个也是满怀着爱心来找他的。
“哥哥，我现在什么都知道了，一切都知道了。德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇把一切都告诉了我，讲给我听了。由于愚蠢和卑鄙的怀疑，你受到迫害，受尽折磨……德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇对我说，没有任何危险，你用不着对这件事感到那么害怕。我倒不这样想，而且完全理解你心里感到多么愤慨，这样的愤慨会在你心里留下永不磨灭的痕迹。我担心的就是这一点。你抛弃了我们，我并不责备你，也不敢责备你，我以前责备过你，请你原谅我。我自己也觉得，如果我心里有这么大的痛苦，我也会离开所有的人。关于这件事，我什么也不会告诉母亲，不过会经常不断地谈起你，还要用你的名义告诉她，说你很快就会去看她。你不要为她难过，我会安慰她的；不过请你也不要折磨她，——哪怕去看她一次也好；你要记住，她是母亲！现在我来，只是要告诉你（杜尼娅说着从座位上站起来），如果万一你需要我做什么事情，或者你需要……我的整个生命或者什么…… 那么只要你喊一声，我就会来。别了！”
她急遽地转身往门口走去。
“杜尼娅！”拉斯科利尼科夫叫住了她，站起来，走到她跟前，“这个拉祖米欣，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，是个很好的人。”
杜尼娅微微脸红了。
“说呀！”稍等了一会儿，她问。
“他是个能干、勤劳、正直而且能热爱人的人……别了，杜尼娅！”
杜尼娅满脸绯红，随后突然惊慌起来：
“可你这是什么意思，哥哥，难道我们真的要永远分别了，所以你给我……留下这几句遗言？”
“反正一样……别了……”
他转身离开她，朝窗前走去。她站了一会儿，担心地看了看他，十分担忧地走了。
不，他对她并不是冷酷无情。有一瞬间（最后一刹那），他非常想紧紧拥抱她，和她告别，甚至还想告诉她，可是就连跟她握手，他也下不了决心：
“以后，她想起现在我拥抱过她，也许会发抖的，还会说，是我偷去了她的吻！”
“这个人经受得住吗？”几分钟以后他暗自补充说。“不，她经受不住；这样的人是经受不住的！这样的人永远也经受不住……”
于是他想起了索尼娅。
从窗外吹进一阵凉爽的微风。外面光线已经不是那么亮了。他突然拿起帽子，走了出去。
他当然不能，而且也不想注意自己的病情。但是所有这些不断的担忧和内心的恐惧，对他的病情却不能不产生影响。如果说他虽然在发高烧，却没有完全病倒，那也许正是因为这内心里不断的忧虑还在支持着他，不让他倒下来，让他的头脑保持清醒，不过这种状况是人为的，暂时的。
他无目的地徘徊着。太阳正在慢慢地落下去。最近他开始感到一种特殊的烦闷。这烦闷中并没有任何特别刺激他、让他特别伤心的东西；但是他却感觉到，这愁闷是经常的和永恒的，预感到这令人沮丧的、无情的烦闷将终生伴随着他，无穷无尽，预感到他将永远站在那“一俄尺见方的空间”。通常，在黄昏时分，这种感觉会使他更加痛苦。
“太阳落山会让人身体特别虚弱，在这种十分愚蠢、纯粹是体力虚弱的情况下，可要当心，别干出什么蠢事来！这时你不但会去找索尼娅，而且还会去找杜尼娅呢！”他憎恨地喃喃地说。
有人喊了他一声。他回头一看；列别贾特尼科夫向他跑来。
“您要知道，我去过您那里，去找您。您信不信，她怎么想，真的就那么干了，领着孩子们出去了！我和索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜好容易才找到他们。她自己敲着煎锅，让孩子们跳舞。孩子们在哭。他们停在十字路口几家小铺子前面。一群蠢人跟着他们跑。咱们快去吧。”
“索尼娅呢？……”拉斯科利尼科夫担心地问，赶紧跟着列别贾特尼科夫走了。
“简直是发疯了。也就是说，发疯的不是索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，而是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，不过索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜也快疯了。我告诉您，她完全疯了。会把他们弄到警察局去的。您要知道，这会产生什么影响啊……他们这会儿在运河岸上，x桥附近，离索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜那里不远。近得很。”
离桥不太远，和索尼娅住的房子隔着不到两幢房子，那儿运河岸上聚集着一小群人。小男孩和小姑娘们特别多。还从桥上就听到了卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜异常激动的、嘶哑的声音。这当真是一个很能吸引街头观众的、奇怪的场面。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜穿着她那件旧连衫裙，披着德拉德达姆呢的披巾，歪戴着一顶已经压得不像帽子的破草帽，的确像真的疯了一样。她累坏了，气喘吁吁。她那害肺病的、疲惫不堪的脸，看上去比以往任何时候都更痛苦（何况在街上，在阳光下，害肺病的人看上去总好像比在屋里的时候病得更厉害，显得更难看）；但是她那激动的心情并未平静下来，她的怒气反而每时每刻都在增长。她冲到孩子们跟前，对他们高声叫喊，就在这里，当着观众，哄他们，教他们跳舞、唱歌，还对他们解释，为什么要这样做，因为他们不理解她的意思，她感到绝望了，于是动手打他们……随后，跟孩子们还没说完，又突然朝观众跑去；如果发现一个穿得稍微像样一点儿的人站下来观看，她就立刻对他解释说，请看，“高贵的家庭里，甚至可以说是贵族家庭的子弟”沦落到了什么样的地步。如果听到人群中有笑声或者是有人讥笑他们，她立刻就冲到那些无礼的人面前，和他们对骂起来。有人当真笑了，另一些人却在摇头；总之大家都很好奇，都想看看这个疯婆娘和那些吓坏了的孩子们。列别贾特尼科夫说的那个煎锅不见了，至少拉斯科利尼科夫没有看到；不过卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜虽然没敲煎锅，在她逼着波列奇卡唱歌、廖尼娅和科利亚跳舞的时候，却用她那干瘦的手掌打起拍子来；而且她自己也跟着和唱，可是由于痛苦的咳嗽，每次唱到第二个音的时候，就猝然中断了，这样一来她又感到悲观失望了，于是咒骂自己的咳嗽，甚至会哭起来。最惹她生气的是科利亚和廖尼娅的哭泣和恐惧。真的，她曾试图让孩子们装扮起来，给他们穿上街头卖唱的男女艺人们穿的那种服装。男孩子头上裹着不知用什么做的红白相间的缠头巾，让他扮作土耳其人。廖尼娅却没有服装化装了；只给她头上戴了一顶已故的谢苗•扎哈雷奇的红绒线帽（或者不如说是一顶尖顶帽），帽子上又插了一段白鸵鸟毛，这鸵鸟毛还是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜祖母的遗物，至今一直作为传家宝保藏在箱子里。波列奇卡还是穿着平常穿的衣服。她胆怯而且惊慌失措地瞅着母亲，一步也不离开她，不让人看见她在掉泪，她猜到母亲疯了，不时焦急不安地朝四下里看看。街道和人群都让她觉得非常害怕。索尼娅寸步不离地紧跟着卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，哭着不断地恳求她回家去。但是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜无动于衷。
“别说了，索尼娅，别说了！”她急急忙忙，说得很快地高声叫嚷，气喘吁吁，不停地咳嗽。“你自己也不知道你是在要求什么，就像个小孩子似的！我已经跟你说过了，我决不回到那个醉鬼德国女人那里去。让大家都看到，让全圣彼得堡都看到，高贵的父亲的孩子们在乞讨，他们的父亲忠诚地服务了一辈子，而且可以说是以身殉职。（卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜已经臆造出这样一个故事，而且盲目地对此深信不疑。）让这个，让这个卑鄙的将军看看。唉，索尼娅，你真傻：现在我们吃什么呢，你说说看？我们拖累了你，让你受够了苦，我不想再拖累你了！哎哟，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，这是您吗！”她看到了拉斯科利尼科夫，向他跑了过去，同时大声叫喊，“请您跟这个傻丫头解释解释，再没有比这样做更聪明的办法了！就连背手摇风琴的流浪乐师也能挣钱，可是人们一眼就能看出，就能分辨出来，我们是高贵的贫困家庭里的人，无依无靠，沦落到赤贫的地步，这个卑鄙的将军准会丢掉官职的，您瞧着吧！我们每天都到他窗子底下去，要是皇上打这儿路过，我就跪下来，让这些孩子们跪在前面，让他看看他们：‘父亲，你要保护他们呀！’他是孤儿们的父亲，他是仁慈的，他一定会保护我们，您会看到的，而这个卑鄙的将军……廖尼娅！tenez－vousdroite！①你，科利亚，马上又要跳舞了。你抽抽搭搭地哭什么？又哭！唉，你怕什么，怕什么呢，小傻瓜！上帝啊！我可拿他们怎么办呢，罗季昂•罗曼内奇！要是您知道的话，他们是多么不懂事啊！唉，拿这样的孩子们可怎么办呢！……”
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①法文，“站直”之意。
她向他指着那些嘤嘤啜泣的孩子，自己也几乎要哭出来了（但是这并不妨碍她继续滔滔不绝、毫不停顿、很快地说话）。拉斯科利尼科夫本想试图劝她回去，甚至想激起她的自尊心，说她像流浪乐师那样到街头来卖唱是不成体统的，因为她打算作贵族女子寄宿中学的校长……
“寄宿中学，哈——哈——哈！无法实现的梦想！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜高声叫喊，笑过一阵以后，立刻不停地咳嗽起来，“不，罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，梦想已经破灭了！所有人都抛弃了我们！……而这个卑鄙的将军……您要知道，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，我拿墨水瓶朝他扔了过去，——刚好在门房里的桌子上，签名簿旁有一个墨水瓶，我签了名，把墨水瓶朝他扔过去，就跑掉了。噢，卑鄙的人们，卑鄙的人们。我才瞧不起他们呢；现在我要自己来养活这些孩子，决不向任何人弯腰低头！我们折磨她已经折磨得够了！（她指指索尼娅。）波列奇卡，让我看看，收了多少钱了？怎么？总共才两个戈比？噢，这些卑鄙的家伙！什么也不给，只是伸着舌头跟着我们跑！喂，这个蠢货笑什么？（她指指人群中的一个人。）这都是因为，这个科利亚这么不机灵，尽给我添麻烦！你是怎么了，波列奇卡？用法语跟我说，parlez－moifrancais①我不是教过你，你不是会说几句吗！……要不然，怎么能看得出来，你们是高贵家庭里受过教育的孩子，根本不像那些流浪乐师们呢；我们可不是在街头演什么《彼特鲁什卡》②，而是唱高尚的抒情歌曲……啊，对了！我们唱什么呢？你们老是打断我，可我们……您要知道，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，我们在这里停留下来，是想挑一首歌来演唱的，——挑一首科利亚能够伴舞的歌……因为这一切，您要知道，我们都没有准备；应当商量一下，完全排练好，然后我们到涅瓦大街去，那儿上流社会的人要多得多，我们立刻就会引起他们的注意：廖尼娅会唱《小小农庄》……不过老是唱什么《小小农庄》，《小小农庄》，这首歌大家都会唱！我们应当唱一首优美得多的歌……喂，你想出什么来吗，波莉娅，哪怕你能帮帮母亲也好啊！我记性太差，记性太差了，要不，我会想得起来的！真的，不该唱《一个骠骑兵拄着马刀》③！哦，咱们用法语来唱《Cinqsous！》④吧！我不是教过你们吗，是教过啊。主要是因为，这是用法语来唱的，那么人家立刻就会看出，你们是贵族家庭的孩子，这会更让人感动……甚至也可以唱《Malboroughs’enva－t－enguerre》⑤，因为这完全是一首儿童歌曲，贵族家庭里摇着孩子哄他们睡觉的时候，都是唱这首歌：
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①法文，“用法语对我说”之意。
②《彼特鲁什卡》是俄罗斯民间讽刺木偶戏中一个很受欢迎的人物。
③用俄罗斯诗人康•尼•巴丘什科夫（一七八七——一八五五）的一首诗《离别》谱写的歌曲。在十九世纪，这首歌十分流行。
④法文，《五个苏》。这是法国剧本《上帝的恩惠》中乞丐们唱的一首歌。一个苏等于二十分之一法郎。
⑤法文，《马尔布鲁格准备远征》。这是一首流行的法国诙谐歌曲。
Malboroughs’enva－t－enguerre，
Nesaitquandreviendra……”①
她本来已经开始唱了……“不过，不，最好还是唱《Cinqsous》！喂，科利亚，双手插腰，快，而你，廖尼娅，你也要往相反的方向转圈子，我跟波列奇卡和唱，打拍子！
Cinqsous，cinqsous，
Pourmonternotreménage……②
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①法文，马尔布鲁格准备远征，
不知何时才能踏上归程……
②法文，五个苏，五个苏，
安排我们家里的开支……
咳——咳——咳！（她不停地咳嗽起来。）把衣服拉好，波列奇卡，背带都滑下来了，”她咳着，稍喘了口气，说。“现在你们特别需要举止得体，显得特别尊严，好让大家都看到，你们是贵族子弟。当时我就说过，胸衣要裁得长一些，而且要用两幅布料。是你，索尼娅，当时你出主意说：‘短一些，短一些’，你看，结果让孩子穿着显得多难看……唉，你们又哭了！你们是怎么搞的，傻孩子们！好，科利亚，快点儿，开始吧，快点儿，快点儿，——哎呀，这孩子多讨厌啊！……
当兵的又来了！喂，你来干什么？”
真的，有个警察从人丛中挤了过来。可是就在这时候，有一个穿文官制服和大衣的先生，一个五十来岁、神态庄严、脖子上挂着勋章（对这一点卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜非常高兴，而且这也影响了那个警察）的官员走近前来，默默地递给卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜一张绿色的三卢布的钞票。他脸上流露出真挚的同情。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜接过钱来，并且彬彬有礼，甚至是恭恭敬敬地向他鞠了个躬。
“谢谢您，先生，”她高傲地说，“使我们流落街头的原因……波列奇卡，把钱拿去。你看，是有一些高尚和慷慨的人，立刻准备向落难的贵族妇人伸出援助之手。先生，您看到这些出身于高贵家庭的孤儿们了，甚至可以说他们有贵族亲友……可是这个将军却坐着吃松鸡……还要跺脚，因为我打扰了他……‘大人，’我说， ‘请您保护这些孤儿，因为您很熟悉已故的谢苗•扎哈雷奇，而且因为，就在他去世的那天，有一个最卑鄙的家伙诬陷他的亲生女儿……’这个当兵的又来了！请您保护我们！”她对那个官员高声呼喊，“这个当兵的干吗老来找我的麻烦？我们已经躲开了一个，从小市民街逃到这里来了……喂，关你什么事，傻瓜！”
“因为不准在街上这样。请不要胡闹。”
“你自己才是胡闹！我不过是像背着手摇风琴那样嘛，这关你什么事？”
“背手摇风琴要得到许可，可您未经许可，而且惊动了这么多人。您住在哪里？”
“怎么，许可，”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜喊叫起来。“我今天才安葬了丈夫，这还要什么许可！”
“太太，太太，请您安静下来，”那个官员说，“我们一道走，我送您回去……这儿，在人群当中，这可不好……您有病……”
“先生，先生，您什么也不了解！”卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜大声叫喊，“我们去涅瓦大街，——索尼娅，索尼娅！她在哪儿？她也在哭！你们大家到底是怎么了！……科利亚，廖尼娅，你们上哪儿去？”她突然惊恐地大喊一声，“噢，傻孩子们！科利亚，廖尼娅，他们这是上哪儿去！……”
事情是这样的，科利亚和廖尼娅被街上的人群和发疯的母亲的反常行为吓坏了，而且看到那个当兵的要把他们抓起来，送到什么地方去，突然不约而同地手拉手逃跑了。可怜的卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜高声哭喊着跑去追赶他们。她边哭边跑，气喘吁吁，那样子叫人看了觉得又不像话，又很可怜。
索尼娅和波列奇卡都急忙跑去追她。
“叫他们回来，叫他们回来，索尼娅！噢，这些不知好歹的傻孩子！……波莉娅！抓住他们……我都是为了你们呀……”
她拼命地跑着，绊了一下，跌倒了。
“她跌伤了，流血了！噢，上帝啊！”索尼娅弯下腰去看着她，喊了一声。
大家都跑拢来，拥挤着围成一圈。最先跑过来的人们当中有拉斯科利尼科夫和列别贾特尼科夫；那个官员也急忙走了过来，那个警察跟在他后面，抱怨说：“唉——！”并且挥了挥手，预感到事情麻烦了。
“走！走！”他赶开挤在周围的人们。
“她要死了！”有人叫喊。
“她疯了！”另一个说。
“上帝啊，保佑她吧！”一个女人画着十字说。“小姑娘和小男孩给抓住了吗？那不是，把他们领来了，大女儿抓住的……唉，这些任性的孩子！”
可是等大家仔细看了看卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，这才看清，她并不是像索尼娅所想的那样，碰到石头上，摔伤了，染红了路面的血是从她胸膛里、由喉咙里涌出来的。
“这我是知道的，我看到过，”那个官员对拉斯科利尼科夫和列别贾特尼科夫低声说，“这是肺痨；血这样涌出来，是会把人憋死的。还在不久前我就曾亲眼看到，我的一个女亲戚也是这样，吐出的血有一杯半……突然……不过，怎么办呢？她马上就会死的。”
“这儿来，这儿来，到我家去！”索尼娅恳求说，“瞧，我就住在这里！……就是这幢房子，从这儿数起，第二幢……到我家去，快，快！……”她一会儿跑到这个人那里，一会儿跑到另一个人跟前。“叫人去请医生……噢，上帝啊！”
多亏那个官员努力，事情总算顺利解决了，就连那个警察也帮着来抬卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜。把她抬到索尼娅家去的时候，她几乎已经失去知觉，把她放到了床上。还在继续吐血，不过她开始慢慢苏醒过来了。几个人一起走进屋里，除了索尼娅，还有拉斯科利尼科夫和列别贾特尼科夫，那个官员和预先驱散了看热闹的人群的警察，人群中有几个一直跟着他们，直到门口。波列奇卡拉看浑身发抖、正在哭泣的科利亚和廖尼娅的手，把他们领进屋里。卡佩尔纳乌莫夫家的人也全都跑来了：卡佩尔纳乌莫夫是个跛子，又是独眼，样子很古怪，又粗又硬的头发直竖着，还留着连鬓胡子；他的妻子神情好像总是有点儿害怕的样子；他们的几个孩子脸上经常露出惊讶的神情，因此反而显得很呆板，而且他们都一直张着嘴。斯维德里盖洛夫突然也在这群人中间出现了。拉斯科利尼科夫惊讶地望了望他，不明白他是打哪儿来的，也不记得曾在看热闹的人群中看到过他。
大家都在谈论，该请医生和神甫来。那个官员虽然悄悄对拉斯科利尼科夫说，看来，现在请医生已经是多此一举了，不过还是叫人去请了。卡佩尔纳乌莫夫亲自跑去请医生。
然而卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜已经苏醒过来，吐血也暂时停止了。她用痛苦的、然而是专注和感人的目光瞅着面色苍白、浑身发抖的索尼娅，索尼娅正在用手帕擦去她额上的汗珠；最后，她请求把她扶起来。让她在床上坐了起来，两边都有人扶着她。
“孩子们呢？”她有气无力地问。“你把他们领来了，波莉娅？噢，傻孩子们！……唉，你们跑什么……哎呀！”
鲜血还积在她那干裂的嘴唇上。她转着眼珠朝四下里望望，说：
“原来你是住在这样的地方，索尼娅！我连一次也没来过你这儿……现在却有机会……”
她痛苦地瞅了瞅索尼娅：
“我们把你的血都吸干了，索尼娅……波莉娅，廖尼娅，科利亚，到这儿来……瞧，他们都在这儿了，索尼娅，你就收留下他们吧……我把他们交给你了……就我来说，已经够了！……一切都完了！啊！……让我睡下来，至少让我安安静静地死吧……”
又让她躺到枕头上。
“什么？请神甫？……用不着……你们哪儿来的闲钱？……我没有罪！……不用忏悔，上帝也会宽恕我……他知道我受了多少苦！……即使他不宽恕我，那也就算了！……”
她越来越陷入不安宁的昏迷状态。有时她打个哆嗦，用眼睛往四下里看看，有一会儿认出了大家；但短时间的清醒后立刻又变得不省人事了。她声音嘶哑、困难地喘着气，仿佛喉咙里有个什么东西呼哧呼哧地响。
“我对他说：‘大人！……’”她拼命地喊出来，每说出一个词，都要喘息一下，“这个阿玛莉娅•柳德维戈芙娜……唉！廖尼娅，科利亚！双手叉腰，快，快，滑步——滑步，巴斯克人①的舞步！用脚打拍子……要作个舞姿优美的好孩子。
DuhastDiamantenundPerlen……②下面怎么唱
啊？应该唱……
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①巴斯克人是西班牙和法国的一个少数民族。
②德文，你有钻石和珍珠（这是舒伯特以海涅的诗句作歌词谱写的一首抒情歌曲）。
Duhastdiescho(nstenAugen，
Ma(dchen，waswillstdumehr？①
嗯，是吗，才不是这样呢！waswillstdumehr，——这是他臆造的，傻瓜！……啊，对了，还有：
中午溽暑难熬，在达吉斯坦伪山谷里……②
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①德文，你有一双最美的眼睛，姑娘，你还需要什么？
②这是俄罗斯著名作曲家米•阿•巴拉基烈夫（一八三六——一九一○）用莱蒙托夫的诗《梦》作歌词谱写的一首抒情歌曲。
啊，我多喜欢啊……这首抒情歌曲我真喜欢极了，波列奇卡！……你要知道，你父亲……在他还是我未婚夫的时候，他就唱过……噢，那些日子啊！……要是我们，要是我们也来唱这首歌，那该多好！啊！怎么唱的了，怎么唱的了……我忘了……你们提示一下啊，是怎么唱来的？”她异常激动，努力欠起身来。终于用可怕的嘶哑的声音，拼命叫喊着唱了起来，每唱一个词都累得喘不过气来，神色也越来越可怕了：
“中午溽暑难熬，在山谷里！……达吉斯坦！……
胸膛里带着一颗子弹！……”
“大人！”突然一声裂人心肺的哀号，泪水止不住地从她眼里流淌出来，“请您保护这些孤儿啊！您受过已故的谢苗•扎哈雷奇的款待！……甚至可以说是贵族家庭的！……啊！”她颤栗了一下，突然清醒过来，恐惧地看了看所有在场的人，但立刻认出了索尼娅。“索尼娅，索尼娅！”她柔和而又亲切地说，看到她站在自己面前，似乎感到惊讶，“索尼娅，亲爱的，你也在这里吗？”
又扶着她稍微欠起身来。
“够了！……是时候了！……别了，苦命的人！……驽马已经给赶得精疲力尽！①……再也没有——力——气了！”她绝望而痛恨地大喊一声，头沉重地倒在了枕头上。
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①这里她是以一匹累坏的马自比。这句话的意思是：“我这个身体虚弱的人已经给折磨得精疲力尽”。
她又昏迷过去了，但是这最后一次昏迷持续的时间不长。她那白中透黄、憔悴不堪的脸往后一仰，嘴张了开来，两条腿抽搐着伸直了。她深深地叹了一口气，死了。
索尼娅扑到她的尸体上，双手抱住她，头紧贴在死者干瘦的胸膛上，就这样一动不动了。波列奇卡伏在母亲脚边，吻她的脚，放声大哭。科利亚和廖尼娅还不明白发生了什么事，不过预感到这非常可怕，彼此用双手搭在对方的肩上，目不转睛地互相对看着，突然一下子一起张开小嘴，高声叫喊起来。两人还都穿着演出的服装：一个头上裹着缠头巾，另一个戴一顶插着鸵鸟毛的小圆帽。
这张“奖状”怎么会突然出现在床上，放在卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜身旁？它就放在枕头旁边；拉斯科利尼科夫看到了它。
他走到窗前。列别贾特尼科夫也急忙到他跟前来了。
“她死了！”列别贾特尼科夫说。
“罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇，我要对您说两句必须要说的话，”斯维德里盖洛夫走过来，说。列别贾特尼科夫立刻让开，很客气地悄悄走到一边去了。斯维德里盖洛夫把感到惊讶的拉斯科利尼科夫拉到更远一些的一个角落
Part 6 Chapter 1
A strange period began for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for instance as to the date of certain events. Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he learnt a great deal about himself from what other people told him. He had mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came upon him as a reaction from his previous terror and might be compared with the abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to escape from a full and clear understanding of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate consideration were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would have been to be free from some cares, the neglect of which would have threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.
He was particularly worried about Svidrigailov, he might be said to be permanently thinking of Svidrigailov. From the time of Svidrigailov's too menacing and unmistakable words in Sonia's room at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna's death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break down. But although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness, Raskolnikov was in no hurry for an explanation of it. At times, finding himself in a solitary and remote part of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he suddenly thought of Svidrigailov. He recognised suddenly, clearly, and with dismay that he ought at once to come to an understanding with that man and to make what terms he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he positively fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for Svidrigailov. Another time he woke up before daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes and could not at first understand how he had come there.
But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna's death, he had two or three times met Svidrigailov at Sonia's lodging, where he had gone aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference to the vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak of it for a time.
Katerina Ivanovna's body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigailov was busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At their last meeting Svidrigailov informed Raskolnikov that he had made an arrangement, and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna's children; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded in getting hold of certain personages by whose help the three orphans could be at once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had settled on them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place orphans with some property than destitute ones. He said something too about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two to see Raskolnikov, mentioning that "he would like to consult with him, that there were things they must talk over. . . ."
This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigailov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping his voice, asked: "But how is it, Rodion Romanovitch; you don't seem yourself? You look and you listen, but you don't seem to understand. Cheer up! We'll talk things over; I am only sorry, I've so much to do of my own business and other people's. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch," he added suddenly, "what all men need is fresh air, fresh air . . . more than anything!"
He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who were coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. By Svidrigailov's orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigailov went his way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the priest into Sonia's room. He stood at the door. They began quietly, slowly and mournfully singing the service. From his childhood the thought of death and the presence of death had something oppressive and mysteriously awful; and it was long since he had heard the requiem service. And there was something else here as well, too awful and disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the coffin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed, softly and, as it were, timidly weeping.
"These last two days she hasn't said a word to me, she hasn't glanced at me," Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room; the incense rose in clouds; the priest read, "Give rest, oh Lord. . . ." Raskolnikov stayed all through the service. As he blessed them and took his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov. It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.
Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude, he would have thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late, he had never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town on to the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he positively enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as though his conscience smote him. "Here I sit listening to singing, is that what I ought to be doing?" he thought. Yet he felt at once that that was not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was something requiring immediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly understand or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. "No, better the struggle again! Better Porfiry again . . . or Svidrigailov. . . . Better some challenge again . . . some attack. Yes, yes!" he thought. He went out of the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dounia and his mother suddenly reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning among some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over with fever; he walked home, and it was early morning when he arrived. After some hours' sleep the fever left him, but he woke up late, two o'clock in the afternoon.
He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna's funeral had been fixed for that day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasya brought him some food; he ate and drank with appetite, almost with greediness. His head was fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He even felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks of panic.
The door opened and Razumihin came in.
"Ah, he's eating, then he's not ill," said Razumihin. He took a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.
He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident annoyance, but without hurry or raising his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed determination.
"Listen," he began resolutely. "As far as I am concerned, you may all go to hell, but from what I see, it's clear to me that I can't make head or tail of it; please don't think I've come to ask you questions. I don't want to know, hang it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I shouldn't stay to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come to find out once for all whether it's a fact that you are mad? There is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit I've been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid, repulsive and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior to your mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you have; so you must be mad."
"When did you see them last?"
"Just now. Haven't you seen them since then? What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I've been to you three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her; she wouldn't hear a word. 'If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look after him like his mother?' she said. We all came here together, we couldn't let her come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came in, you weren't here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said: 'If he's gone out, that is, if he is well, and has forgotten his mother, it's humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.' She returned home and took to her bed; now she is in a fever. 'I see,' she said, 'that he has time for /his girl/.' She means by /your girl/ Sofya Semyonovna, your betrothed or your mistress, I don't know. I went at once to Sofya Semyonovna's, for I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying them on mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologised, came away, and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So that's all nonsense and you haven't got a girl; the most likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef as though you'd not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that goes, madmen eat too, but though you have not said a word to me yet . . . you are not mad! That I'd swear! Above all, you are not mad! So you may go to hell, all of you, for there's some mystery, some secret about it, and I don't intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I've simply come to swear at you," he finished, getting up, "to relieve my mind. And I know what to do now."
"What do you mean to do now?"
"What business is it of yours what I mean to do?"
"You are going in for a drinking bout."
"How . . . how did you know?"
"Why, it's pretty plain."
Razumihin paused for a minute.
"You always have been a very rational person and you've never been mad, never," he observed suddenly with warmth. "You're right: I shall drink. Good-bye!"
And he moved to go out.
"I was talking with my sister--the day before yesterday, I think it was--about you, Razumihin."
"About me! But . . . where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?" Razumihin stopped short and even turned a little pale.
One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently.
"She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me."
"She did!"
"Yes."
"What did you say to her . . . I mean, about me?"
"I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn't tell her you love her, because she knows that herself."
"She knows that herself?"
"Well, it's pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me, you would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your keeping, Razumihin. I say this because I know quite well how you love her, and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too may love you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself, as you know best, whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not."
"Rodya! You see . . . well. . . . Ach, damn it! But where do you mean to go? Of course, if it's all a secret, never mind. . . . But I . . . I shall find out the secret . . . and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense and that you've made it all up. Anyway you are a capital fellow, a capital fellow! . . ."
"That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was a very good decision of yours not to find out these secrets. Leave it to time, don't worry about it. You'll know it all in time when it must be. Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant by that."
Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent conclusion.
"He's a political conspirator! He must be. And he's on the eve of some desperate step, that's certain. It can only be that! And . . . and Dounia knows," he thought suddenly.
"So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you," he said, weighing each syllable, "and you're going to see a man who says we need more air, and so of course that letter . . . that too must have something to do with it," he concluded to himself.
"What letter?"
"She got a letter to-day. It upset her very much--very much indeed. Too much so. I began speaking of you, she begged me not to. Then . . . then she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part . . . then she began warmly thanking me for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in."
"She got a letter?" Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully.
"Yes, and you didn't know? hm . . ."
They were both silent.
"Good-bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I. . . . Never mind, good-bye. You see, there was a time. . . . Well, good-bye! I must be off too. I am not going to drink. There's no need now. . . . That's all stuff!"
He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away:
"Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry's, that old woman? Do you know the murderer has been found, he has confessed and given the proofs. It's one of those very workmen, the painter, only fancy! Do you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, all that scene of fighting and laughing with his companions on the stairs while the porter and the two witnesses were going up, he got up on purpose to disarm suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind of the young dog! One can hardly credit it; but it's his own explanation, he has confessed it all. And what a fool I was about it! Well, he's simply a genius of hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the lawyers--so there's nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course people like that are always possible. And the fact that he couldn't keep up the character, but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a fool I was! I was frantic on their side!"
"Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that, and why does it interest you so?" Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation.
"What next? You ask me why it interests me! . . . Well, I heard it from Porfiry, among others . . . It was from him I heard almost all about it."
"From Porfiry?"
"From Porfiry."
"What . . . what did he say?" Raskolnikov asked in dismay.
"He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, after his fashion."
"He explained it? Explained it himself?"
"Yes, yes; good-bye. I'll tell you all about it another time, but now I'm busy. There was a time when I fancied . . . But no matter, another time! . . . What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without wine. I am drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I'm going. I'll come again very soon."
He went out.
"He's a political conspirator, there's not a doubt about it," Razumihin decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. "And he's drawn his sister in; that's quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna's character. There are interviews between them! . . . She hinted at it too . . . So many of her words. . . . and hints . . . bear that meaning! And how else can all this tangle be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking . . . Good heavens, what I thought! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was his doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Pfoo! What a crude, nasty, vile idea on my part! Nikolay is a brick, for confessing. . . . And how clear it all is now! His illness then, all his strange actions . . . before this, in the university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy. . . . But what's the meaning now of that letter? There's something in that, too, perhaps. Whom was it from? I suspect . . .! No, I must find out!"
He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and his heart throbbed, and he suddenly broke into a run.
As soon as Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window, walked into one corner and then into another, as though forgetting the smallness of his room, and sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to speak, renewed; again the struggle, so a means of escape had come.
"Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonising. A lethargy had come upon him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry's he had been suffocating, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay's confession, on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his behaviour and his last words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined beforehand; he had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed at the time with Sonia, he had agreed in his heart he could not go on living alone with such a thing on his mind!
"And Svidrigailov was a riddle . . . He worried him, that was true, but somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with Svidrigailov. Svidrigailov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry was a different matter.
"And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it /psychologically/. He had begun bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to think that Porfiry should for one moment believe that Nikolay was guilty, after what had passed between them before Nikolay's appearance, after that tete-a-tete interview, which could have only /one/ explanation? (During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene with Porfiry; he could not bear to let his mind rest on it.) Such words, such gestures had passed between them, they had exchanged such glances, things had been said in such a tone and had reached such a pass, that Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first gesture, could not have shaken his conviction.
"And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect! The scene in the corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry. . . . But what had induced the latter to receive him like that? What had been his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? He must have some plan; there was some design, but what was it? It was true that a long time had passed since that morning--too long a time--and no sight nor sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign. . . ."
Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It was the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind, at least. "I must settle Svidrigailov," he thought, "and as soon as possible; he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord." And at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he might have killed either of those two--Porfiry or Svidrigailov. At least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now.
"We shall see, we shall see," he repeated to himself.
But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porfiry himself in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a minute, but only for one minute. Strange to say, he was not very much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of him. He was simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard. "Perhaps this will mean the end? But how could Porfiry have approached so quietly, like a cat, so that he had heard nothing? Could he have been listening at the door?"
"You didn't expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch," Porfiry explained, laughing. "I've been meaning to look in a long time; I was passing by and thought why not go in for five minutes. Are you going out? I won't keep you long. Just let me have one cigarette."
"Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down." Raskolnikov gave his visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have marvelled at himself, if he could have seen it.
The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear.
Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a cigarette.
"Speak, speak," seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov's heart. "Come, why don't you speak?"
 
对拉斯科利尼科夫来说，一个奇怪的时期开始了：好像一片大雾突然降落到他的面前，把他禁锢在毫无出路的、痛苦的孤独之中。已经过了很久以后，回想起这段时间，他才恍然大悟，有时他的思想仿佛变得糊里糊涂，就这样一直持续下去，直到发生最后的灾难，不过这中间也偶尔有明白的时候。他完全确信，当时在许多事情上他都犯了错误，譬如，对某些事件的期限和时间，就是如此。至少他后来回忆、并竭力想弄清回想起来的那些事情的时候，根据从旁人那里得到的材料，他知道了许多关于自己的情况。譬如，他曾经把一件事情和另一件事情混淆起来；把另一件事情看作仅仅存在于他想象中的某一事件的后果。有时病态的痛苦的担心完全支配了他，这种担心甚至会转变为惊慌失措的恐惧。不过他也记得，往往有这样的几分钟，几个小时，甚至也许是几天，支配着他的是一种与以前的恐惧恰恰相反的漠然态度，——很像有些垂死的人那种病态的冷漠。总之，在这最后几天，他似乎有意竭力避免完全弄清自己的处境；有些迫切需要立刻得到解释的事实尤其使他感到苦恼不堪；如果能摆脱某些忧虑，能够回避它们，他将会感到多么高兴啊，然而处在他的地位上，忘记这些让他担心的事，就不可避免地有遭到完全毁灭的危险。
特别让他担心的是斯维德里盖洛夫：甚至可以说，他似乎把注意力完全集中在斯维德里盖洛夫身上了。自从卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜咽气的时候，斯维德里盖洛夫在索尼娅家过于明显地说了那些对他具有过于严重的威胁性的话，他平常的思路仿佛一下子给打乱了。然而，尽管这个新的事实使他感到异常不安，不知为什么，他却不急于弄清，这到底是怎么回事。有时他突然发觉自己到了城市里某个远离市中心区的僻静地方，独自坐在一家下等小饭馆里一张桌子旁边，陷入沉思，几乎记不起他是怎么来到这里的，却突然会想起斯维德里盖洛夫来：他突然十分清楚而又担心地意识到，需要尽快和这个人达成协议，可能的话，要彻底结束这件事。有一次他来到城外某处，甚至想象，他是在这儿等着斯维德里盖洛夫，他们已经约好，要在这里会面。还有一次，他睡在某处灌木丛里的地上，黎明前醒来，几乎记不得是怎么来到这里的了。不过在卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜死后的这两三天里，他已经有两次碰到过斯维德里盖洛夫，每次几乎都是在索尼娅家里，他去那里并没有什么目的，而且几乎总是只逗留一会儿工夫。他们总是简短地交谈几句，一次也没谈到过那个重要问题，似乎他们之间自然而然地达成了协议，暂时不谈这个问题。卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的尸体还停放在棺材里。斯维德里盖洛夫在料理丧事，忙忙碌碌。索尼娅也很忙。最近一次见面的时候，斯维德里盖洛夫对拉斯科利尼科夫说，卡捷琳娜• 伊万诺芙娜的孩子们的事情，他已经办妥了，而且办得很顺利；说是他通过某些关系，找到了这样几个人，在他们的帮助下，可以立刻把三个孤儿都安置到对他们非常合适的孤儿院里；还说，为他们存的那笔钱对安置他们大有帮助，因为安置有钱的孤儿，比安置贫苦的孤儿要容易得多。他还谈到了索尼娅，答应这几天内，说不定什么时候就会去拉斯科利尼科夫那里，还提到“想要向他请教；有些事情很需要和他谈谈……”这些话是在穿堂里、楼梯附近说的。斯维德里盖洛夫凝神注视着拉斯科利尼科夫的眼睛，沉默了一会儿以后，突然压低了声音问：
“您这是怎么了，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，您好像心神不定，精神恍惚？真的！您在听，也在看，可是好像什么也不理解。您要振作起来。咱们谈谈吧，只可惜事情太多，有别人的事，也有自己的……唉，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，”他突然补上一句：
“人人都需要空气，空气，空气……首先需要空气！”
他突然闪开，让上楼来的神甫和教堂执事过去。他们是来追荐亡魂的。照斯维德里盖洛夫吩咐的，每天要按时追荐两次。斯维德里盖洛夫径自走了。拉斯科利尼科夫稍站了一会儿，想了想，然后跟着神甫走进索尼娅的住房。
他在门口站住了。追荐仪式已经开始，肃静、庄严而又悲哀。从儿时起，一想到死，感觉到死亡确实存在，他总是感到很难过，神秘，可怕；而且已经有很久没听到过追荐亡魂了。而且这儿还有一种非常可怕、令人惊惶不安的气氛。他望着孩子们：他们都脆在棺材前，波列奇卡在哭。索尼娅跪在他们后面，轻轻地祈祷，好像是胆怯地低声啜泣。“这几天她没朝我看过一眼，也没跟我说过一句话，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然想。太阳明晃晃地照耀着这间屋子；香炉里的烟袅袅升起；神甫在念 “上帝啊，让她安息吧。”拉斯科利尼科夫一直站到追荐仪式结束。神甫祝福和告辞的时候，有点儿奇怪地朝四下里望了望。追荐仪式结束后，拉斯科利尼科夫走到索尼娅跟前。她突然握住他的双手，把头靠到他的肩上。这亲昵的姿态甚至使拉斯科利尼科夫吃了一惊，感到困惑不解；甚至觉得奇怪：这是怎么了？对他毫不厌恶，毫无反感，她的手一点儿也不发抖！这是一种极端自卑的表现。至少他是这样理解的。索尼娅什么也没说。拉斯科利尼科夫握了握她的手，就走了出去。他感到非常痛苦。如果这时能随便躲到哪里去，只有他孤单单的一个人，哪怕终生如此，他也认为自己是幸福的。然而问题在于：最近一个时期，尽管他几乎总是一个人，却怎么也不能感觉到他确实是形单影只，孑然一身。有时他到城外去，走到一条大路上，有一次他甚至走进一片小树林里；但地方越僻静，他就越发强烈地意识到，似乎有人就站在他身旁，让他感到惶恐不安，倒不是觉得可怕，然而不知怎的，让他感到十分苦恼，于是他赶快回到城里，混杂在人群中间，走进小饭馆、小酒店，到旧货市场或干草广场去。在这些地方似乎反而会觉得轻松些，甚至也更孤独些。一天傍晚，一家小酒馆里有人在唱歌，他在那里坐了整整一个钟头，听人唱歌，记得，当时他甚至觉得十分愉快。可是最后他又突然感到不安了；仿佛良心的谴责突然又让他痛苦起来：“瞧，我坐在这儿听唱歌呢，可难道这是我应该做的吗！”他似乎这样想。不过他立刻猜到，并不仅仅是这一点使他感到不安；有一件要求立刻解决的事情，然而这件事既无法理解，也不能用语言表达出来。一切都纠缠在一起，乱作一团。
“不，最好还是斗争！最好是波尔菲里再来……或者斯维德里盖洛夫……但愿赶快再来一个什么挑战，或者有人攻击……是的！是的！”他想。他走出小酒馆，几乎奔跑起来。一想到杜尼娅和母亲，不知为什么他突然仿佛感到心惊胆战，说不出的恐惧。这天夜里，黎明前他在克列斯托夫岛上的灌木丛里醒来了，他在发烧，浑身发抖；他走回家去，清晨才回到家里。睡了几个钟头以后，烧退了，但是醒来的时候已经很迟：下午两点了。
他想起这天是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜安葬的日子，他没去参加，为此感到高兴。娜斯塔西娅给他送来了吃的；他津津有味地吃着，喝着，胃口好极了，几乎是贪婪地把送来的东西一扫而光。他的头脑清醒些了，心情也比最近三天来安宁些了。有一会儿，他甚至为先前那种突然而来的无以名状的恐惧感到惊讶。房门开了，拉祖米欣走了进来。
“啊！在吃饭，可见病好了！”拉祖米欣说，端过一把椅子，挨着桌子，坐在拉斯科利尼科夫的对面。他心情焦急不安，也不设法掩饰这种心情。他说话时流露出明显的烦恼神情，不过说得从容不迫，也没有特别提高嗓音。可以认为，他心里有个特别的、甚至是十分独特的打算。“你听我说，”他坚决地说，“对你的事，我一点儿也不感兴趣，不过就我目前所看到的情况来说，我清清楚楚地看出，我什么也不明白；请你别以为我是来盘问你。我才不呢！我不想问！就是你现在自己公开你的全部秘密，把什么都告诉我，也许我连听都不要听，我会啐一口唾沫，转身就走。我来找你，只不过是想亲自彻底弄个明白：第一，你是个疯子，这是不是真的？你要知道，对你有一种坚定的看法（嗯，不管是什么地方吧），认为你大概是个疯子，或者很容易变成疯子。我老实告诉你，我自己也非常同意这种看法；第二，根据你那些愚蠢的、在某种程度上也是卑鄙的行为（无法解释的）看来，是如此；第三，从你不久前对令堂和令妹的行为来看，也是如此。如果不是疯子，只有恶棍和坏蛋才会像你那样对待她们；可见你是疯子……”
“你见到她们已经很久了吗？”
“刚刚见到她们。而你从那时候起就没见过她们吗？你去哪儿闲逛了，请你告诉我，我已经来找过你三次了。从昨天起，令堂就病得很厉害。她打算来看你；阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜不让她来；她什么话也不想听，她说：‘如果说他有病，如果说他精神不正常，那么母亲不去照顾他，谁去照顾他呢？’我们和她一道来过这里，因为我们不能丢下她一个人不管。一路上，直到你的房门口，我们一直劝她安静下来。进到屋里，你不在家；瞧，她就坐在这儿。坐了十分钟，我们站在她身边，一句话也不说。她站起来，说：‘既然他出去了，可见他身体是健康的，既然他把母亲忘了，那么做母亲的站在门口，像乞求施舍一样恳求他的爱，是不成体统的，也是可耻的。’回家以后，她就病倒了；现在在发烧，她说：‘现在我明白了，为了自己人，他倒是有时间的。’她认为，这个自己人就是索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，她是你的未婚妻，还是情妇，这我就不知道了。我刚才去找过索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，因为，老兄，我想把事情弄清楚，我到了那里，一看：停着一口棺材，孩子们在哭。索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜在给他们试穿孝服。你不在那里。我看了看，道了歉，就走了，把这情况告诉了阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。这么说，这一切全都是瞎猜，这儿根本没有什么自己人，可见，最正确的看法是，你发疯了。可是，瞧，你坐在这儿狼吞虎咽地吃炖牛肉，就像三天没吃饭似的。假定说，疯子也吃东西，可是虽然你还没跟我说过一句话，可是你……不是疯子！对这一点，我可以起誓。首先，你不是疯子。那么我就不管你的事了，因为这儿准是有个什么秘密，一件不能让人知道的事；我可不想绞尽脑汁去猜测你的秘密。所以我只是来骂你一顿，”说完他站了起来，“发泄一下，我知道现在该做什么了！”
“现在你要做什么？”
“现在我要做什么，关你什么事？”
“当心，你要喝酒去！”
“为什么……这你是怎么知道的？”
“哈，让我猜着了！”
拉祖米欣沉默了一会儿。
“你一向是个很理智的人，你从来，从来就不是疯子！”他突然激动地说。“这你说对了：我是要去喝酒！别了！”他说罢就走。
“大概是前天，我跟妹妹说起过你，拉祖米欣。”
“说我！对了……前天你能在哪儿见到过她？”拉祖米欣突然站住了，脸甚至有点儿发白。可以猜到，他的心在胸膛里慢慢地、紧张地跳动起来。
“她到这儿来了，一个人来的，坐在这儿，和我说过话。”
“她！”
“是的，是她。”
“你说什么了……我是想说，你说我什么了？”
“我对她说，你是个好人，正直而且勤劳。至于你爱她，我可没告诉她，因为这个她自己也知道。”
“她自己知道？”
“嗯，那还用说！不管我去哪里，不管我出什么事，你都要像神明一样，和她们待在一起。我，可以这么说吧，把她们托付给你了，拉祖米欣。我所以这么说，是因为我完全明白，你多么爱她，而且对于你心地纯洁，深信不疑。我也知道，她会爱你，甚至也许已经在爱着你了。现在你自己决定好了，你自己知道得最清楚，—— 你该不该去喝酒。”
“罗季卡……你要知道……嗯……唉，见鬼！可是你想上哪儿去？你瞧：如果这全都是秘密，那就算了！不过我……我一定会把这个秘密打听出来……而且相信，这一定是什么胡说八道，是一些可怕的荒唐念头，而且这全都是你胡思乱想，自己想出来的。不过，你是个最好的好人！最好的好人！
……”
“我正想对你补充一句，可是你打断了我的话，我要补充的就是，刚才你说不打听这些秘密，这些不能让人知道的事情，你的这个决定是很对的。暂时你先别管，请别劳神。到时候你会全知道的，确切地说，就是到必要的时候。昨天有个人对我说，人需要空气，空气，空气！现在我想去他那里，去弄清楚，这话是什么意思。”
拉祖米欣站着，陷入沉思，心情激动，在考虑着什么。
“这是个政治阴谋家！一定是！他正处于采取某一决定性步骤的前夕，——这是一定的！不可能不是这样，而且……
而且杜尼娅知道……”他突然暗自想。
“这么说，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜常来看你，”他一字一顿地说，“你呢，要去会见一个人，这个人说，需要更多的空气，空气，而且……而且，这样看来，这封信……也是从那儿来的了，”他仿佛自言自语地断定。
“什么信？”
“她收到了一封信，就是今天，这使她惊慌不安。很不安。甚至非常担心。我跟她谈你的事——她求我不要说。后来……后来她说，也许我们很快就会分手，随后她又为了什么事情热烈地感谢我；随后她就回到自己屋里，把门锁上了。”
“她收到了一封信？”拉斯科利尼科夫若有所思地又问了一声。
“是啊，一封信；可是你不知道吗？嗯哼。”
他们两人都不说话了。
“再见，罗季昂。我，老兄……有一个时期……不过，再见，你要知道，有一个时期……嗯，再见！我也该走了。我不会去喝酒。现在用不着了……你胡说！”
他匆匆地走了；但是已经出去，已经几乎随手掩上了房门，却又突然把门推开，望着旁边什么地方，说：
“顺带说一声！你记得这件凶杀案吗，嗯，就是这个波尔菲里经办的：谋杀那个老太婆的案子？嗯，要知道，凶手已经查明，他自己招认了，还提供了一切证据。这就是那两个工人，那两个油漆匠当中的一个，你想想看，还记得吧，在这儿我还为他们辩护过呢？你相信吗，那几个人——管院子和那两个见证人上楼去的时候，他和他的同伴打打闹闹，在楼梯上哈哈大笑，这都是他为了转移别人的视线，故意做出来的。这个狗崽子多么狡猾，多么镇静！让人难以相信；可是他自己作了解释，自己全都招认了！我上当了！有什么呢，照我看，这只不过是一个善于伪装、善于随机应变的天才，一个从法律观点来看善于转移视线的天才，——所以没什么好奇怪的！难道不可能有这样的人吗？至于他没能坚持到底，终于招认了，这就让我更加相信他的话了。更合乎情理嘛……
可是我，那时候我却上当了！为了他们气得发狂！”
“请你说说看，这一切你是怎么知道的，对这件事你为什么这么感兴趣？”拉斯科利尼科夫问，看得出来，他很焦急。
“这还用问！我为什么感兴趣！是你问我！……我是从波尔菲里那里知道的，也从别人那里听说过。不过从他那里几乎了解了一切情况。”
“从波尔菲里那里？”
“从波尔菲里那里。”
“他……他的意思呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫惊慌地问。
“关于这件事，他对我作了极好的解释。按照他的方式，从心理学上作了解释。”
“他作了解释？他亲自给你作了解释？”
“亲自，亲自；再见！以后还要跟你谈点儿事情，不过现在我还有事。以后再说……有一段时间，我以为……没什么；以后再说！……现在我干吗还要喝酒呢。不用酒，你已经把我灌醉了！我真的醉了，罗季卡！现在不用喝酒我就醉了，好，再见；我还会来的，很快就来。”
他走了。
“这，这是个政治阴谋家，一定是的，一定是！”拉祖米欣慢慢下楼去的时候，完全肯定地暗自断定。“把妹妹也拉进去了；像阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜这样的性格，这非常，非常可能。他们见过好几次面……要知道，她也对我暗示过。根据她的许多话……她的片言只语……和暗示来看，这一切都只能是这个意思！不然，对这些错综复杂、一团乱麻似的情况应作何解释呢？嗯哼，我本来以为……噢，上帝啊，我怎么会这样想呢。是的，这是我一时糊涂，我对不起他！这是他当时在走廊上，在灯光下把我搞糊涂了。呸！我的想法多么可恶、不可宽恕而且卑鄙啊！尼科尔卡招认了，他真是好样的……以前的所有情况，现在全都清楚了！那时候他的病，他那些奇怪的行为，甚至以前，以前，还在大学里的时候，他一向都是那么阴郁，那么愁闷……不过现在这封信又是什么意思？大概这也有什么用意。这封信是谁来的？我怀疑……
嗯哼。不，我一定要把这一切都弄清楚。”
他回忆着，并细细考虑着有关杜涅奇卡的一切，他的心揪紧了。他拔脚就跑。
拉祖米欣刚走，拉斯科利尼科夫就站起来，转身走向窗前，一下子走到这个角落，一下子又走到另一个角落，仿佛忘记了他这间小屋是那么狭小，后来……又坐到了沙发上。他好像获得了新生；再作斗争——那么，出路就找到了！“是的，那么，出路就找到了！不然，这一切积累在一起，毫无出路，压得人喘不过气来，痛苦不堪，使人昏昏沉沉，糊里糊涂。自从在波尔菲里那里看到米科尔卡演的那场戏，他就感到毫无出路，陷入了绝境。看了米科尔卡的演出以后，就在那天，在索尼娅家里又发生了那样的情景，那幕戏是由他导演的，可是演出的情况和结局都完全，完全不像他以前想象的那样……他变得虚弱无力了，就是说，转瞬间变得完全虚弱无力了！一下子！不是吗，当时他曾同意索尼娅的意见，自己同意了，心里同意了，认为心里有这么一件事，独自一个人是无法活下去的！可是斯维德里盖洛夫呢？斯维德里盖洛夫是个谜……斯维德里盖洛夫搅得他心神不定，这是实情，不过在某种程度上，不该光从这方面考虑。也许跟斯维德里盖洛夫也还要进行一场斗争。斯维德里盖洛夫也许是一条出路；不过波尔菲里却是另一回事。
“这么说，波尔菲里还亲自向拉祖米欣作了解释，从心理学上给他作了解释！又把他那可恶的心理学搬出来了！波尔菲里吗？难道波尔菲里会相信米科尔卡有罪？哪怕是有一分钟相信？既然在米科尔卡到来之前，当时他和波尔菲里之间曾经有过那样的事，出现过那样的情景，他们曾面对面地交谈，而除了一种解释，对这找不出任何合理的解释。（这几天拉斯科利尼科夫头脑里有好多次闪现出、并且回想起会见波尔菲里的情景的几个片断；回忆当时的全部情景是他受不了的。）当时他们之间说过那样的一些话，做过那样的一些动作和手势，说话时使用过那样的语调，而且达到了这样的界限，在发生了这一切之后，米科尔卡（从他开始说第一句话，从他的第一个动作，波尔菲里就已经把他看透了），米科尔卡可动摇不了他的基本信念。
“怎么！连拉祖米欣也产生怀疑了！当时在走廊上，在灯光下发生的那幕情景不是没有结果的。于是他跑去找波尔菲里了……不过这家伙何必要这样欺骗他呢？他让拉祖米欣把视线转移到米科尔卡身上去，究竟有什么目的？因为他一定有什么想法；这肯定有什么意图，不过是什么意图呢？不错，从那天早上，已经过了很多时候了，——太多了，太多了，但关于波尔菲里，却毫无消息。看来，这当然更加不妙……”拉斯科利尼科夫拿起帽子，沉思了一会儿，从屋里走了出去。在这段时间里，这还是第一天他感觉到，至少他的思想是正常的。“得把跟斯维德里盖洛夫的事情了结掉，”他想，“而且无论如何也要了结掉，尽可能快一点儿：看来这一个也是等着我自己去找他”。在这一瞬间，从他疲惫不堪的心灵里突然升起一股如此强烈的憎恨情绪，说不定他真会杀死两个人当中的一个：斯维德里盖洛夫，或者是波尔菲里。至少他觉得，即使不是现在，那么以后他也会这么做。“咱们等着瞧，咱们等着瞧吧，”他暗自反复地说。
可是他刚打开通穿堂的门，突然遇到了波尔菲里本人。他进到屋里来了。拉斯科利尼科夫呆呆地愣了一会儿。奇怪，波尔菲里来找他，他并不觉得十分惊讶，几乎不怕他。他只是颤栗了一下，但很快，刹时间就作好了思想准备。“也许，这就是结局！不过他怎么会像只猫一样悄悄地走近，我竟什么也没听到呢？难道他在偷听吗？”
“没想到有客人来吧，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇笑着高声说。“早就想顺便来看看了，我打这儿路过，心想，为什么不进去看看，坐上五分钟呢。您要上哪儿去？我不耽误您的时间。只稍坐一会儿，抽支烟，如果您允许的话。”
“请坐，波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇，请坐，”拉斯科利尼科夫请客人坐下，看样子他很满意，而且相当友好，如果他能看看自己，一定会对自己感到惊讶。图穷匕见，去伪存真，一切马上就要见分晓了！有时一个人遇到强盗，有半个小时会吓得要命，可是当刀子架到他脖子上的时候，甚至会突然不害怕了。他正对着波尔菲里坐下来，不眨眼地直瞅着他。波尔菲里眯缝起眼，点着了烟。
“喂，说吧，说吧，”好像这样的话就要从拉斯科利尼科夫的心里跳出来了。“喂，怎么，怎么，你怎么不说啊？”
Part 6 Chapter 2
"Ah these cigarettes!" Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having lighted one. "They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I can't give them up! I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and a difficulty in breathing. You know I am a coward, I went lately to Dr. B----n; he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He positively laughed looking at me; he sounded me: 'Tobacco's bad for you,' he said, 'your lungs are affected.' But how am I to give it up? What is there to take its place? I don't drink, that's the mischief, he-he-he, that I don't. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovitch, everything is relative!"
"Why, he's playing his professional tricks again," Raskolnikov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him then.
"I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn't know?" Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking round the room. "I came into this very room. I was passing by, just as I did to-day, and I thought I'd return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open, I looked round, waited and went out without leaving my name with your servant. Don't you lock your door?"
Raskolnikov's face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his state of mind.
"I've come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! I owe you an explanation and must give it to you," he continued with a slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov's knee.
But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn look came into his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a touch of sadness in it. He had never seen and never suspected such an expression in his face.
"A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovitch. Our first interview, too, was a strange one; but then . . . and one thing after another! This is the point: I have perhaps acted unfairly to you; I feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged and your knees were shaking and so were mine. And, you know, our behaviour was unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in any case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you remember what we came to? . . . and it was quite indecorous."
"What is he up to, what does he take me for?" Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on Porfiry.
"I've decided openness is better between us," Porfiry Petrovitch went on, turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former wiles. "Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolay put a stop to it, or I don't know what we might not have come to. That damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room--can you realise that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he came to you afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had not sent for anyone, I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I hadn't? What shall I say to you? it had all come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely sent for the porters (you noticed them as you went out, I dare say). An idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the time, you see, Rodion Romanovitch. Come, I thought--even if I let one thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of something else--I shan't lose what I want, anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion Romanovitch, by temperament; it's out of proportion with other qualities of your heart and character, which I flatter myself I have to some extent divined. Of course I did reflect even then that it does not always happen that a man gets up and blurts out his whole story. It does happen sometimes, if you make a man lose all patience, though even then it's rare. I was capable of realising that. If I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon, something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not merely psychological. For if a man is guilty, you must be able to get something substantial out of him; one may reckon upon most surprising results indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Rodion Romanovitch, on your temperament above all things! I had great hopes of you at that time."
"But what are you driving at now?" Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking the question without thinking.
"What is he talking about?" he wondered distractedly, "does he really take me to be innocent?"
"What am I driving at? I've come to explain myself, I consider it my duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole misunderstanding arose. I've caused you a great deal of suffering, Rodion Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who is proud, imperious and above all, impatient, to have to bear such treatment! I regard you in any case as a man of noble character and not without elements of magnanimity, though I don't agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you this first, frankly and quite sincerely, for above all I don't want to deceive you. When I made your acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from the first and indeed you've no reason to like me. You may think what you like, but I desire now to do all I can to efface that impression and to show that I am a man of heart and conscience. I speak sincerely."
Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent began to make him uneasy.
"It's scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail," Porfiry Petrovitch went on. "Indeed, I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with there were rumours. Through whom, how, and when those rumours came to me . . . and how they affected you, I need not go into. My suspicions were aroused by a complete accident, which might just as easily not have happened. What was it? Hm! I believe there is no need to go into that either. Those rumours and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I admit it openly--for one may as well make a clean breast of it--I was the first to pitch on you. The old woman's notes on the pledges and the rest of it--that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred. I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office, from a man who described it capitally, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can't make a horse, a hundred suspicions don't make a proof, as the English proverb says, but that's only from the rational point of view--you can't help being partial, for after all a lawyer is only human. I thought, too, of your article in that journal, do you remember, on your first visit we talked of it? I jeered at you at the time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovitch, you are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and . . . had felt a great deal I recognised long before. I, too, have felt the same, so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is dangerous! I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary amateur, I am awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there's a transparent sincerity, a youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It's a gloomy article, but that's what's fine in it. I read your article and put it aside, thinking as I did so 'that man won't go the common way.' Well, I ask you, after that as a preliminary, how could I help being carried away by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything, I am not making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there in it? I reflected. There's nothing in it, that is really nothing and perhaps absolutely nothing. And it's not at all the thing for the prosecutor to let himself be carried away by notions: here I have Nikolay on my hands with actual evidence against him--you may think what you like of it, but it's evidence. He brings in his psychology, too; one has to consider him, too, for it's a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you? That you may understand, and not blame my malicious behaviour on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you, he-he! Do you suppose I didn't come to search your room at the time? I did, I did, he-he! I was here when you were lying ill in bed, not officially, not in my own person, but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first suspicion; but /umsonst/! I thought to myself, now that man will come, will come of himself and quickly, too; if he's guilty, he's sure to come. Another man wouldn't, but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to excite you, so we purposely spread rumours, that he might discuss the case with you, and Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zametov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think of blurting out in a restaurant 'I killed her.' It was too daring, too reckless. I thought so myself, if he is guilty he will be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought at the time. I was expecting you. But you simply bowled Zametov over and . . . well, you see, it all lies in this--that this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting you, and so it was, you came! My heart was fairly throbbing. Ach!
"Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you remember? I saw it all plain as daylight, but if I hadn't expected you so specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You see what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then--ah, that stone, that stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zametov and afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we began picking your article to pieces, how you explained it! One could take every word of yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning hidden.
"So in this way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached the furthest limit, and knocking my head against a post, I pulled myself up, asking myself what I was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another sense if you like, and it's more natural so, indeed. I couldn't help admitting it was more natural. I was bothered! 'No, I'd better get hold of some little fact' I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing, I held my breath and was all in a tremor. 'Here is my little fact,' thought I, and I didn't think it over, I simply wouldn't. I would have given a thousand roubles at that minute to have seen you with my own eyes, when you walked a hundred paces beside that workman, after he had called you murderer to your face, and you did not dare to ask him a question all the way. And then what about your trembling, what about your bell-ringing in your illness, in semi-delirium?
"And so, Rodion Romanovitch, can you wonder that I played such pranks on you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to have sent you, by Jove! And if Nikolay had not parted us . . . and do you remember Nikolay at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt! And how I met him! I didn't believe in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself; and how could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he began making very, very plausible answers on certain points, so that I was surprised at him myself, even then I didn't believe his story! You see what it is to be as firm as a rock! No, thought I, /Morgenfruh/. What has Nikolay got to do with it!"
"Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay guilty and had yourself assured him of it. . . ."
His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through and through him, went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for something more definite and conclusive.
"Mr. Razumihin!" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question from Raskolnikov, who had till then been silent. "He-he-he! But I had to put Mr. Razumihin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin is not the right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to me with a pale face. . . . But never mind him, why bring him in? To return to Nikolay, would you like to know what sort of a type he is, how I understand him, that is? To begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but something by way of an artist. Really, don't laugh at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to influence. He has a heart, and is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances, he tells stories, they say, so that people come from other villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs till he cries if you hold up a finger to him; he will drink himself senseless--not as a regular vice, but at times, when people treat him, like a child. And he stole, too, then, without knowing it himself, for 'How can it be stealing, if one picks it up?' And do you know he is an Old Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers(*) in his family, and he was for two years in his village under the spiritual guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all this from Nikolay and from his fellow villagers. And what's more, he wanted to run into the wilderness! He was full of fervour, prayed at night, read the old books, 'the true' ones, and read himself crazy.
(*) A religious sect.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.
"Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see him, and now this business came upon him.
"Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can one get over the idea the people have of Russian legal proceedings? The very word 'trial' frightens some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in prison, it seems, he remembered the venerable elder; the Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovitch, the force of the word 'suffering' among some of these people! It's not a question of suffering for someone's benefit, but simply, 'one must suffer.' If they suffer at the hands of the authorities, so much the better. In my time there was a very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on the stove at night and he read himself crazy, and so crazy, do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a brick and flung it at the governor; though he had done him no harm. And the way he threw it too: aimed it a yard on one side on purpose, for fear of hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an officer with a weapon. So 'he took his suffering.'
"So I suspect now that Nikolay wants to take his suffering or something of the sort. I know it for certain from facts, indeed. Only he doesn't know that I know. What, you don't admit that there are such fantastic people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influencing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But he'll come and tell me all himself. You think he'll hold out? Wait a bit, he'll take his words back. I am waiting from hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolay and am studying him in detail. And what do you think? He-he! He answered me very plausibly on some points, he obviously had collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is simply at sea, knows nothing and doesn't even suspect that he doesn't know!
"No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn't come in! This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of to-day when the heart of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood 'renews,' when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn't take the money, and what he did manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell, no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to recall the bell-ringing, he wanted to feel the cold shiver over again. . . . Well, that we grant, was through illness, but consider this: he is a murderer, but looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others, poses as injured innocence. No, that's not the work of a Nikolay, my dear Rodion Romanovitch!"
All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he had been stabbed.
"Then . . . who then . . . is the murderer?" he asked in a breathless voice, unable to restrain himself.
Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at the question.
"Who is the murderer?" he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. "Why, /you/, Rodion Romanovitch! You are the murderer," he added, almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.
Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively.
"Your lip is twitching just as it did before," Porfiry Petrovitch observed almost sympathetically. "You've been misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion Romanovitch," he added after a brief pause, "that's why you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with you."
"It was not I murdered her," Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened child caught in the act.
"No, it was you, you Rodion Romanovitch, and no one else," Porfiry whispered sternly, with conviction.
They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry.
"You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method again. I wonder you don't get sick of it!"
"Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether you confess it or not is nothing to me now; for myself, I am convinced without it."
"If so, what did you come for?" Raskolnikov asked irritably. "I ask you the same question again: if you consider me guilty, why don't you take me to prison?"
"Oh, that's your question! I will answer you, point for point. In the first place, to arrest you so directly is not to my interest."
"How so? If you are convinced you ought. . . ."
"Ach, what if I am convinced? That's only my dream for the time. Why should I put you in safety? You know that's it, since you ask me to do it. If I confront you with that workman for instance and you say to him 'were you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to be drunk, and you were drunk, too.' Well, what could I answer, especially as your story is a more likely one than his? for there's nothing but psychology to support his evidence--that's almost unseemly with his ugly mug, while you hit the mark exactly, for the rascal is an inveterate drunkard and notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly several times already that that psychology can be taken in two ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far more probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you. And though I shall put you in prison and indeed have come--quite contrary to etiquette--to inform you of it beforehand, yet I tell you frankly, also contrary to etiquette, that it won't be to my advantage. Well, secondly, I've come to you because . . ."
"Yes, yes, secondly?" Raskolnikov was listening breathless.
"Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation. I don't want you to look upon me as a monster, as I have a genuine liking for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I've come to you with a direct and open proposition--that you should surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to my advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part or not?"
Raskolnikov thought a minute.
"Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have nothing but psychology to go on, yet now you've gone on mathematics. Well, what if you are mistaken yourself, now?"
"No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even then, Providence sent it me."
"What little fact?"
"I won't tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. And in any case, I haven't the right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it over: it makes no difference to me /now/ and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rodion Romanovitch."
Raskolnikov smiled malignantly.
"That's not simply ridiculous, it's positively shameless. Why, even if I were guilty, which I don't admit, what reason should I have to confess, when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison?"
"Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don't put too much faith in words, perhaps prison will not be altogether a restful place. That's only theory and my theory, and what authority am I for you? Perhaps, too, even now I am hiding something from you? I can't lay bare everything, he-he! And how can you ask what advantage? Don't you know how it would lessen your sentence? You would be confessing at a moment when another man has taken the crime on himself and so has muddled the whole case. Consider that! I swear before God that I will so arrange that your confession shall come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these psychological points, of a suspicion against you, so that your crime will appear to have been something like an aberration, for in truth it was an aberration. I am an honest man, Rodion Romanovitch, and will keep my word."
Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again, but his smile was sad and gentle.
"No!" he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances with Porfiry, "it's not worth it, I don't care about lessening the sentence!"
"That's just what I was afraid of!" Porfiry cried warmly and, as it seemed, involuntarily. "That's just what I feared, that you wouldn't care about the mitigation of sentence."
Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.
"Ah, don't disdain life!" Porfiry went on. "You have a great deal of it still before you. How can you say you don't want a mitigation of sentence? You are an impatient fellow!"
"A great deal of what lies before me?"
"Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it? Seek and ye shall find. This may be God's means for bringing you to Him. And it's not for ever, the bondage. . . ."
"The time will be shortened," laughed Raskolnikov.
"Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that you are afraid of it without knowing it, because you are young! But anyway /you/ shouldn't be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing."
"Ach, hang it!" Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and contempt, as though he did not want to speak aloud.
He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in evident despair.
"Hang it, if you like! You've lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering you; but how long has your life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out something base, that's true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base! At least you didn't deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is right in wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe in it--but don't be over-wise; fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation; don't be afraid--the flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before you. I know that you take all my words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of use some time. That's why I speak. It's as well that you only killed the old woman. If you'd invented another theory you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something. But keep a good heart and have less fear! Are you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfil the demands of justice. I know that you don't believe it, but indeed, life will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!"
Raskolnikov positively started.
"But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what majestic calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom?"
"Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that's all. A man perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for you. Though, who knows? maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that you will pass into another class of men? It's not comfort you regret, with your heart! What of it that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It's not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and all will see you. The sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? At my being such a Schiller? I bet you're imagining that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he! Perhaps you'd better not believe my word, perhaps you'd better never believe it altogether--I'm made that way, I confess it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how far I am a base sort of man and how far I am honest."
"When do you mean to arrest me?"
"Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It's more in your interest, believe me."
"And what if I run away?" asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile.
"No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man's thought, for you've only to show him the end of your little finger and he'll be ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you've ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run away with? And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you ran away, you'd come back to yourself. /You can't get on without us./ And if I put you in prison--say you've been there a month, or two, or three--remember my word, you'll confess of yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand that you are coming with a confession. I am convinced that you will decide, 'to take your suffering.' You don't believe my words now, but you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I know all the same. Don't laugh at it, there's an idea in suffering, Nokolay is right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanovitch."
Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch also rose.
"Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we don't have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air."
He, too, took his cap.
"Porfiry Petrovitch, please don't take up the notion that I have confessed to you to-day," Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence. "You're a strange man and I have listened to you from simple curiosity. But I have admitted nothing, remember that!"
"Oh, I know that, I'll remember. Look at him, he's trembling! Don't be uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a bit, you won't be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request to make of you," he added, dropping his voice. "It's an awkward one, but important. If anything were to happen (though indeed I don't believe in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet in case you were taken during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to the business in some other way, in some fantastic fashion--laying hands on yourself--(it's an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for it) do leave a brief but precise note, only two lines, and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we meet! Good thoughts and sound decisions to you!"
Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room.
 
“要知道，所有这些香烟！”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇把烟抽着了，抽了几口以后，终于说话了，“都是有害的，只有害处，可我就是戒不掉！我常咳嗽，喉咙里发痒，呼吸困难。您要知道，我胆很小，前两天去包医生①那里看病，每个病人他minimum②给检查半个小时；他看着我，甚至大笑起来：他敲了敲，听了听，说，您不能抽烟；肺扩张了。唉，可是我怎么能不抽呢？拿什么来代替它？我不喝酒，这可真是毫无办法，嘿——嘿——嘿，我不喝酒，真是糟糕透了！要知道，什么都是相对的，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，什么都是相对的！”
“他这是干什么，又在玩以前玩弄过的老把戏吗，还是怎么的！”拉斯科利尼科夫心里厌恶地想。他不由得想起不久前他们最后一次会见的情景，当时的感情又像波浪一般突然涌上他的心头。
--------
①指包特金医生（一八三二——一八八九）。一八六五年陀思妥耶夫斯基在他那里看过病。
②拉丁文，“最少”，“至少”之意。
“前天晚上我已经来找过您了；您不知道吗？”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇接着说下去，同时在打量这间房子，“我走进屋里，就是这间屋里。也是像今天一样，打附近路过，我想，去拜访拜访他吧。我来了，可是房门敞着；我朝四下里看了看，等了一会儿，连您的女仆也没告诉一声，就出去了。您不锁门？”
拉斯科利尼科夫的脸色越来越阴沉了。波尔菲里立刻猜到了他在想什么。
“我是来解释一下，亲爱的罗季昂•罗曼内奇，我是来向您作解释的！我应该，而且有责任向您解释一下，”他微笑着继续说，甚至用手掌轻轻拍了拍拉斯科利尼科夫的膝盖，但是几乎就在同时，他脸上突然露出严肃、忧虑的神情；甚至仿佛蒙上了一层愁云，这使拉斯科利尼科夫感到十分惊讶。他还从来没见过，也从未想到，波尔菲里的脸上会有这样的表情。“最后一次见面的时候，我们之间发生过一种奇怪的情景，罗季昂•罗曼内奇。大概，我们第一次会见的时候，也发生过这种奇怪的情景；不过当时……唉，现在已经是一次接着一次了！事情是这样的：我也许很对不起您；这一点我感觉到了。我们是怎样分手的呢，您记得吗：您神经紧张，双膝颤抖，我也神经紧张，双膝颤抖。您要知道，当时我们之间甚至是剑拔弩张，缺乏君子风度。可我们毕竟都是君子；也就是说，无论如何，我们首先都是君子；这一点必须明白。您该记得，事情闹到了什么地步……甚至已经完全不成体统了。”
“他这是干什么，他把我当成了什么人？”拉斯科利尼科夫惊讶地问自己，微微抬起头，睁大了眼睛直瞅着波尔菲里。
“我考虑过了，认为现在我们最好还是开诚布公，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇接着说，微微仰起头，低下眼睛，仿佛不愿再以自己的目光让自己以前的受害者感到困惑不解，似乎也不屑再使用以前使用的那些手法，不屑再玩弄以前玩弄过的那些诡计了，“是的，这样的猜疑和这样的争吵是不能长久继续下去的。当时米科尔卡使我们摆脱了困境，不然我真不知道我们之间会闹到什么地步。当时这个该死的小市民就坐在隔板后面，——这您想象得到吗？当然，这事现在您已经知道了；而且我也知道，后来他上您这儿来过；但是当时您猜测的事情却是没有的：当时我并没派人去叫任何人，也没布置过什么。您会问，为什么不布置？怎么跟您讲呢：当时这一切似乎使我自己也大吃一惊。就连那两个管院子的，我也是勉强派人去把他们叫来的。（您出去的时候，大概看到那两个管院子的了吧。）当时有个想法，真的，有一个想法，像闪电一样在我脑子里飞快地一闪而过；您要知道，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，当时我坚信不疑。我想，让我哪怕是暂时放过一个去好了，然而我会抓住另一个的尾巴，——至少不会放过自己的那一个，自己的那一个。您很容易激动，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，天生容易激动；甚至是太容易激动了，虽说您还有其他性格和心情上的种种主要特点，对此我多少有点儿了解，所以就把希望寄托在这上面了。嗯，当然啦，就是在那时候，我也能考虑到，一个人突然站起来，冒冒失失地把全部底细都告诉您，这样的事不是经常会发生的。虽说也会有这样的事，特别是当一个人给弄得失去最后的忍耐的时候，不过无论如何这十分罕见。这一点我也能考虑到。不，我想，我要是掌握了一点事实，那就好了！哪怕是微不足道的一点事实，只要有一点就够了，不过是可以用手抓得到的，是个实实在在的东西，而不是这种心理上的玩意儿。因为，我想，如果一个人有罪，那么当然无论如何也可以从他那里得到点儿什么非常重要的东西；甚至可以指望得到最出乎意外的结果。当时我把希望寄托在您的性格上，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，最大的希望寄托在性格上！当时我对您确实抱有很大的希望。”
“可是您……可现在您为什么还是这么说呢，”拉斯科利尼科夫终于含糊不清地说，甚至不大理解这句问话的意义。
“他说这话是什么意思，”他感到困惑莫解，“难道他真的认为我是无辜的吗？”
“我为什么这么说吗？我是来作解释的，可以这么说吧，我认为这是我神圣的责任。我想把一切统统都对您说出来，事情的全部经过，当时那些，可以说是不愉快的事情，统统都对您讲清楚。我让您忍受了许多痛苦，罗季昂•罗曼内奇。可我不是恶魔。因为我也理解，一个精神负担很重、然而骄傲、庄严和缺乏耐性的人，特别是一个缺乏耐性的人，怎么能忍受得了这一切呢！不管怎样，我还是把您看作一个最高尚的人，甚至有舍己为人的精神，尽管我不同意您所有的那些信念，并且认为有责任把话说在前头，坦率地、十分真诚地说出自己的意见，因为首先，我不想欺骗您。自从认识了您，我就对您有一种依依不舍的感情。对我的这些话，您也许会哑然失笑吧？您当然有笑的权利。我知道，您从一见到我就不喜欢我，因为实际上也没有什么好喜欢的。不过，不管您认为怎样，请您相信，现在我想从我这方面用一切办法来改变我给您留下的印象，而且向您证明，我也是个有人性、有良心的人。我说这话是很真诚的。”
波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇尊严地停顿了一下。拉斯科利尼科夫感觉到，一阵新的恐惧犹如浪涛一般涌上心头。波尔菲里认为他是无辜的，这个想法突然使他感到害怕起来。
“按照顺序把一切都讲一遍，讲一讲当时这是怎么突然发生的，这大概没有必要，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇接着说；“我认为，这甚至是多余的。而且我也未必能都说清楚。因为，怎么能详细说明这一切呢？一开始是有一些传说。至于这是些什么传闻，是谁说的，是什么时候……又是因为什么牵连到您，——我想，这些也都不必说了。就我个人来说，这是从一件偶然的事情开始的，是一件纯属偶然的事情，这件事情极有可能发生，也极可能不发生，——那么是件什么事情呢？嗯哼，我想，这也没有什么好说的。所有这一切，那些传闻，还有那些偶然的事情，凑在一起就使我当时产生了一个想法。我坦白地承认，因为既然承认，那就得毫无保留地承认一切，——当时是我首先对您产生了怀疑。就算是有老太婆在抵押的东西上所做的记号以及其他等等，——所有这一切都是无稽之谈。这种玩意儿数以百计。当时我也有机会得知区警察分局办公室里发生的那一幕的详情细节，也是偶然听说的，倒不是道听途说，而是从一个特殊的、很重要的人那里听说的，他自己也没意识到，他把当时的情景叙述得多么生动。要知道，这些事情是一件接着一件，一件接着一件，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，亲爱的朋友！嗯，这怎么能不使注意力转向某个一定的方向呢？一百只兔子永远也凑不成一匹马，一百个疑点永远也不能构成一个证据，不是有这么一句英国谚语吗，然而，要知道，这只是一种理智的说法，可是对于热情，对于热情，你倒试试看去控制它吧，因为侦查员也是人啊。这时我也想起了您在杂志上发表的那篇文章，您还记得吧，还有您第一次去我家的时候，咱们就详细谈过这篇文章。当时我嘲讽了一番，但这是为了让您作进一步的发挥。我再说一遍，您没有耐性，而且病得很厉害，罗季昂•罗曼内奇。至于您大胆，骄傲，严肃，而且……您有所感受，您有很多感受，这一切我早就知道了。所有这些感受我都并不陌生，就连您那篇文卓，我看着也觉得是熟悉的。这篇文章是在不眠之夜和近乎发狂的情况下酝酿构思的，当时一定是心情振奋，心在怦怦地狂跳，而且满怀着受压抑的激情。然而青年人的这种受压抑的激情是危险的！当时我曾对这篇文章冷嘲热讽，可现在却要对您说，也就是说，作为一个欣赏者，我非常喜欢这篇青春时期热情洋溢的处女作。烟，雾，琴弦在茫茫雾海中发出铮铮的响声①。您的文章是荒谬的，脱离实际的，但是也闪烁着如此真挚的感情，它包含有青年人的骄傲和坚定不移的信念，包含有无所顾忌的大胆；这是一篇心情阴郁的文章，不过这很好。我看了您的文章，就把它放到了一边，而且……在把它放到一边去的时候，我心里就想：‘唉，这个人是不会碌碌终生的！’现在请您说说看，既然有了上述情况，以后发生的事怎么会不让我发生兴趣呢！唉，上帝啊？难道我是在没什么吗？难道我是在证明什么吗？当时我只不过是注意到了。我想，这儿有什么呢？这儿什么也没有，也就是根本什么都没有，也许是完全没有什么。我，一个侦查员，这样全神贯注，甚至是完全不应该的：我手里已经有一个米科尔卡，而且已经有一些事实，——不管您有什么看法，可这都是事实！他在谈他的心理；在他身上还得下点儿工夫；因为这是件生死攸关的事。现在我为什么要向你解释这一切呢？为了让您知道，而且以您的智慧和您的心灵作出判断，不致为我当时那些恶意的行为而责备我。不是恶意的，我这样说是真诚的，嘿—— 嘿！您认为当时我没上您这儿来搜查过吗？来过，来过，嘿——嘿，当您在这儿卧病在床的时候，我来搜查过了。不是正式搜查，也不是以侦查员的身份，可是来搜查过了。甚至是根据最初留下的痕迹，在您屋里仔细察看过了，没有漏掉任何最细小的东西；然而——um－sonst！②我想：现在这个人会来的，他会自己来的，而且不久就要来；如果他有罪，他就一定会来。别人不会来，可这个人会来。您记得拉祖米欣先生曾向您泄露消息吗？这是我们安排的，目的是让您心里发慌，因此我们故意放出谣言，让他透露给您，而拉祖米欣先生是个心中有气就忍不住的人。
您的愤怒和露骨的大胆行为首先引起了扎苗托夫先生的注意：嗯，竟突然在小饭馆里贸然说：‘我杀了人！’太大胆了，太放肆了，我想，如果他有罪，那么这是个可怕的对手！当时我这么想。我在等着。竭力耐心等着，而扎苗托夫当时简直让您给搞得十分沮丧……问题在于，这该死的心理是可以作不同解释的！嗯，于是我就等着您，一看，您真的来了！我的心怦怦地直跳。唉！当时您为什么要来呢？您的笑，您记得吗，那时候您一进来就哈哈大笑，当时我就像透过玻璃一样识破了一切，如果我不是怀着特殊的心情等着您，那么在您的大笑中是不会发现什么的。瞧，精神准备是多么重要。拉祖米欣先生当时也，——啊！石头，石头，您记得吗，还有把东西蒙在一块什么石头底下？嗯，我好像看到了那块石头，在什么地方菜园里的那块石头——您不是对扎苗托夫说过，是在菜园里吗，后来在我那里又说过一次？当时我们开始分析您这篇文章，您给我作了说明——您说的每一句话都有双重含意，仿佛每句话的背后都隐藏着另一种意思！瞧，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，我就这样走到了极限，直到碰了壁，这才清醒过来。不，我说，我这是怎么了！我说，如果愿意，那么这一切，直到最后一个细节，都可以作另一种解释，那样甚至更自然些。真伤脑筋啊！‘不，’我想，‘我最好是能有一个事实！……’当时我一听到这拉门铃的事，我甚至都呆住了，甚至浑身颤栗起来。‘嘿，’我想， ‘这就是事实！这就是的！’当时我没好好考虑一下，简直就不想多加考虑。那时候我情愿自己掏出一千卢布，只要能亲眼看一看，看您当时是怎样和那个小市民并肩走了百来步，他当面管您叫‘杀人凶手’，在这以后你们并肩走了整整一百步，您却什么也不敢问他！……嗯，还有那透入脊髓的冷气？这拉门铃的事是在病中，是在神智不清的时候干出来的吗？所以，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，在这以后，我跟您开了那样一些玩笑，难道您还会感到惊讶吗？您为什么正好在这个时候来呢？真好像是有人推着您来的，真的，要不是米科尔卡让我们分手，那……您记得米科尔卡当时的样子吗？记得很清楚？这可真是一声霹雳！乌云中突然一声霹雳，一道闪电！嗯，我是怎样接待他的呢？对这道闪电，我根本就不相信，这您自己也看得出来！我怎么能相信呢！后来，您走了以后，他开始很有条理地回答了某几个问题，这使我感到惊讶，可是以后我对他的话一点儿也不相信了！对此变得像金刚石一般坚定。不，我想，莫尔根•弗里③！
这哪里会是米科尔卡！”
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①引自果戈理的《狂人日记》。但引文不确切。原文是：“灰蓝色的雾在脚下弥漫，琴弦在雾中震颤。”
②德文，“徒劳”之意。
③德文，明天早晨。这里的意思是“去他的”。
“拉祖米欣刚才对我说，现在您也认为米科尔卡有罪，而且还要让拉祖米欣也相信……”
他感到喘不过气来，没有把话说完。他异常焦急不安地听着，这个对他了解得十分透彻的人竟放弃了自己的看法。他不敢相信，也不相信。他贪婪地在这些仍然是语意双关的话里寻找并抓住更为确切、更为确定的东西。
“拉祖米欣先生嘛！”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇高声说，仿佛对一直默默无言的拉斯科利尼科夫提出问题感到高兴似的，“嘿！嘿！嘿！本来就不该让拉祖米欣先生插进来：两个人满好嘛，第三者请别来干涉。拉祖米欣先生是另一回事，而且他是局外人，他跑到我那里去，脸色那么白……嗯，上帝保佑他，用不着他来多管闲事！至于米科尔卡，您想不想知道这是个什么人，也就是说，在我看来，他是个什么样的人？首先，这还是个未成年的孩子，倒不是说，他是个胆小鬼，而是说，他好像是个艺术家。真的，我这样来形容他，您可别笑。他天真，对一切都很敏感。他有良心；是个爱幻想的人。他会唱歌，也会跳舞，据说，他讲起故事来讲得那么生动，人们都从别处来听他讲故事。他上过学，别人伸出手指来指指他，他也会哈哈大笑，一直笑得浑身瘫软无力，他也会喝得烂醉如泥，倒不是因为喝酒毫无节制，而是有时会让人给灌醉，他还像个小孩子。于是他也偷东西了，可是自己并不知道这是偷窃；因为‘既然他是在地上拾的，那能算偷吗？’您知道不知道，他是个分裂派教徒①，还不仅是分裂派教徒，而且简直就是其中某个教派的信徒；他的家族中有几个别古纳②，不久前他本人曾经有整整两年在农村里受过一个长老的精神熏陶。这一切我是从米科尔卡和他的一些同乡那里了解到的。他怎么会杀人呢！他简直想跑到荒凉无人的地方去！他很虔诚，每天夜里向上帝祈祷，他看‘真正’古老的经书，看得入了迷。彼得堡对他产生了强烈的影响，特别是女人，嗯，还有酒。他很容易受环境影响，把长老啊什么的全都忘了。我知道，这儿有个画家很喜欢他，开始去找他，可是这件事情发生了！嗯，他吓坏了，想要上吊！逃跑！民间对我们的法律就是这样理解的，有什么办法呢！对‘审判’这个词儿，有人觉得可怕。唉，但愿上帝保佑！嗯，看来，现在他在监狱里想起这位正直的长老来了；《圣经》也又出现了。罗季昂•罗曼内奇，您知道吗，在他们当中的某些人看来，‘受苦’意味着什么？这倒不是说为了什么人去受苦，而只不过是‘应该受苦’；这意思就是说，对痛苦应该逆来顺受，来自当局的痛苦，那就更应该忍受了。我任职期间，有个最驯良的犯人坐了整整一年牢，每天夜里都在火坑上看《圣经》，看得入了迷，您要知道，他简直已经走火入魔了，竟无缘无故抓起一块砖头，朝典狱长扔了过去，可他毫无伤害他的意思。他扔的时候故意不对准，砖头从典狱长身旁一俄尺远的地方飞了过去，免得打伤了他！犯人用武器袭击长官，那还得了，大家都知道，他会有什么样的下场：‘这就是说，他要受苦了’。所以，现在我也怀疑，米科尔卡是想要‘受苦’，或者是有类似的想法。我确实知道，甚至根据事实来看，也是如此。不过他自己不知道，我知道他心里的想法。怎么，您不认为这样的人里面会有怪人吗？有的是呢。现在长老又开始起作用了，特别是在上吊以后，他又想起长老来了。不过，他自己会来告诉我的。您认为他会坚持到底吗？您先别忙，他还会反供的！我随时都在等着他来推翻自己的供词。我很喜欢这个米科尔卡，正在细细研究他。您是怎么想的呢！嘿！嘿！有些问题，他对我回答得很有条理，显然，他得到了必要的材料，作过精心准备；可是对于另一些问题，却完全茫然了，什么也不知道，而且自己并没意识到他不知道！不，罗季昂•罗曼内奇老兄，这不是米科尔卡干的！这是一件荒诞的、阴暗的案件，现代的案件，发生在我们时代的事，在这个时代，人心都变糊涂了；文章里总爱引用血会使一切‘焕然一新’这句话；宣传人生的全部意义就在于过舒适的生活。这是书本上的幻想，这是一颗被理论搅得失去了平静的心；这儿可以看得出迈出第一步的决心，然而是一种特殊类型的决心，——他下定了决心，就好像是从山上跌下来，或者从钟楼上掉下去似的，而且好像是不由自主地去犯了罪。他忘了随手关门，却杀了人，杀了两个人，这是根据理论杀的。他杀了人，却不会偷钱，而来得及拿到的东西，又都藏到石头底下去了。他呆在门后担惊受怕，还嫌不够，又闯进门去，去拉门铃，——不，后来他在神智不清的情况下，又走进那套空房子，去回味门铃的响声，想再体验一下背脊上发冷的滋味……嗯，就假定说他是有病吧，可是还有这样的事：他杀了人，却自以为他是个正直的人，蔑视别人，他面色苍白，还装得像个天使一样，这哪里会是米科尔卡呢，亲爱的罗季昂•罗曼内奇，这不是米科尔卡！”
在他以前说了那些好像是放弃对他怀疑的话以后，这最后几句话实在是太出乎意外了。拉斯科利尼科夫像给扎了一刀似的，浑身颤抖起来。
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①脱离了正统东正教教会的宗教派别，叫分裂派；分裂派中又分为一些不同的教派。所有这些教派的信徒统称为分裂派教徒。
②别古纳是分裂派中的一个教派。这个教派产生于十八世纪末，其成员脱离家庭，不服从当时的政权，逃到森林中去生活。
“那么……是谁……杀的呢？”他忍不住用气喘吁吁的声音问。波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇甚至急忙往椅背上一靠，仿佛这个问题提得这么出乎意料，使他吃了一惊。
“怎么是谁杀的？……”他反问，似乎不相信自己的耳朵，“是您杀的，罗季昂•罗曼内奇！就是您杀的……”他用深信不疑的语气几乎是低声补上一句。
拉斯科利尼科夫霍地从沙发上站起来，站了几秒钟，什么话也没说，又坐了下去。他脸上掠过一阵轻微的痉挛。
“嘴唇又像那时候一样发抖了，”波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇甚至好像同情似地喃喃地说。“罗季昂•罗曼内奇，看来，您没正确理解我的意思，”沉默了一会儿，他又补充说，“所以您才这么吃惊。我来这里正是为了把一切都说出来，把事情公开。”
“这不是我杀的，”拉斯科利尼科夫喃喃地说，真像被当场捉住、吓得要命的小孩子。
“不，这是您，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，是您，再不会是任何别的人，”波尔菲里严峻而且深信不疑地低声说。
他们俩都不说话了，沉默持续得太久了，甚至让人感到奇怪，约摸有十来分钟。拉斯科利尼科夫把胳膊肘撑在桌子上，默默地用手指抓乱自己的头发。波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇安静地坐在那儿等着。突然拉斯科利尼科夫轻蔑地朝波尔菲里看了一眼。
“您又把老一套搬出来了，波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇！还是您那套手法：这一套您真的不觉得厌烦吗？”
“唉，够了，现在我干吗还要玩弄手法呢！如果这儿有证人，那就是另一回事了；可我们是两个人私下里悄悄地谈谈。您自己也看得出来，我并不是像追兔子那样来追捕您。您承认也好，不承认也好，——这个时候对我来说反正一样。您不承认，我心里也已经深信不疑了。”
“既然如此，那您来干什么呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地问。“我向您提出一个从前已经问过的问题：既然您认为我有罪，为什么不把我抓起来，关进监狱？”
“唉，这可真是个问题！我可以逐点回答您：第一，这样直接把您抓起来，对我不利。”
“怎么会不利呢！既然您深信不疑，那么您就应该……”
“唉，我深信不疑又怎样呢？因为这一切暂时还都是我的幻想。我为什么要把您关到那里去，让您安心呢？这一点您自己也是知道的，既然您自己要求到那里去。譬如说吧，我把那个小市民带来，让他揭发您，您就会对他说：“你是不是喝醉了？谁看见我跟你在一起了？我只不过是把你当成了醉鬼，你的确是喝醉了’，到那时我跟您说什么呢，尤其是因为，您的话比他的话更合乎情理，因为他的供词里只有心理分析，——这种话甚至不该由像他这样的人来说，——您却正好击中了要害，因为这个坏蛋是个出了名的酒鬼。而且我自己也已经有好几次坦白地向您承认，这种心理上的玩意儿可以作两种解释，而第二种解释更为合情合理，而且合理得多，此外，我手里暂时还没掌握任何能证明您有罪的东西。尽管我还是要把您关起来，甚至现在亲自来（完全不合乎情理）把一切预先告诉您，可我还是要坦白地对您说（也不合乎情理），这会对我不利。嗯，第二，我所以要到您这儿来……”
“嗯，这第二呢？”（拉斯科利尼科夫仍然喘不过气来。）
“因为，正像我刚才已经说过的，我认为有责任来向您解释一下。我不想让您把我看作恶棍，何况我对您真诚地抱有好感，不管您是不是相信。因此，第三，我来找您是为了向您提出一个诚恳、坦率的建议——投案自首。这对您有数不清的好处，对我也比较有利，——因为一副重担可以卸下来了。怎么样，从我这方面来说，是不是够坦白了？”
拉斯科利尼科夫想了大约一分钟。
“请您听我说，波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇，您自己不是说，只有心理分析吗，然而您却岔到数学上去了。如果现在您弄错了，那会怎样呢？”
“不，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，我没弄错。这样的事实我还是有的。要知道，这个事实我当时就掌握了；上帝赐给我的！”
“什么事实？”
“是什么事实，我可不告诉您，罗季昂•罗曼内奇。而且无论如何现在我无权再拖延了；我会把您关起来的。那么请您考虑考虑：对我来说，现在反正都一样了，所以，我只是为您着想。真的，这样会好一些，罗季昂•罗曼内奇！”
拉斯科利尼科夫恶狠狠地冷笑了一声。
“要知道，这不但可笑，这甚至是无耻。哼，即使我有罪（我根本没说我真的有罪），可我何苦要向您自首呢，既然您自己也说，坐进你们的监狱，我就会安心了？”
“唉，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，对我的话您可别完全信以为真；也许，您并不会完全安心！因为这只是理论，而且还是我的理论，可对您来说，我算什么权威呢？也许，就连现在我也还对您瞒着点儿什么呢。我可不会不管三七二十一，把什么都向您和盘托出啊，嘿！嘿！第二：您怎么问，有什么好处呢？您知道不知道，这样做您会获得减刑，大大缩短刑期？要知道，您是在什么时候去自首的？您只要想想看！您去自首的时候，另一个人已经承认自己有罪，把案情搞得复杂化了，不是吗？我可以向上帝起誓，我会在‘那里’造成假象，安排得似乎您的自首完全是出乎意外的。所有这些心理分析，我们要完全排除掉，对您的一切怀疑，我也要让它完全化为乌有，这样一来，您的犯罪就好像是一时糊涂，因为，凭良心说，也的确是一时糊涂。我是个正直的人，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，我说话是算数的。”
拉斯科利尼科夫忧郁地一言不发，低下了头；他想了好久，最后又冷笑一声，不过他的笑已经是温和而且悲哀的了。
“唉，用不着！”他说，仿佛对波尔菲里已经完全不再隐瞒了。“不值得！我根本不需要你们的减刑！”
“唉，我担心的也就是这一点！”波尔菲里激动地，仿佛不由自主地高声说，“我担心的也就正是这一点：您不需要我们的减刑。”
拉斯科利尼科夫忧郁而又威严地看了他一眼。
“唉，您可不要厌恶生活啊！”波尔菲里接下去说，“前面生活道路还长着呢。怎么不需要减刑呢，怎么会不需要呢！您真是个缺乏耐心的人！”
“前面什么还长着呢？”
“生活嘛！您算是什么先知，您知道得很多吗？寻找，就寻见①。也许这就是上帝对您的期待。而且它也不是永久的，我是说镣铐……”
--------
①见《新约全书•马太音福》第七章第八节。
“会减刑……”拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。
“怎么，您害怕的是不是资产阶级的耻辱？这也许是害怕的，可是您自己并不知道这一点，——因为还年轻！不过您还是不应该害怕，或者耻于自首。”
“哼——，我才不在乎呢！”拉斯科利尼科夫轻蔑而厌恶地低声说，好像不愿说话。他又欠起身来，似乎想上哪里去，可是又坐下了，显然感到了绝望。
“对，对，是不在乎！您不相信我，而且认为我是在拙劣地恭维您；不过您是不是已经生活了很久？您是不是懂得很多呢？您发明了一个理论，可是理论破产了，结果不像您原来所想的那样，于是您感到不好意思了！结果证明这是卑鄙的，这是事实，不过您毕竟不是一个无可救药的卑鄙的人。完全不是一个这样卑鄙的人！您至少没有长期欺骗自己，一下子就走到了尽头。您知道我把您看作什么样的人吗？我把您看作这样的一个人：即使割掉他的肠子，他也会屹立不动，含笑望着折磨他的人，——只要他能找到信仰或上帝。嗯，您去找吧，找到了，那么您就会活下去了。第一，您早就已经该换换空气了。有什么呢，受苦也是件好事。您就去受苦吧，米科尔卡想去受苦，也许是对的。我知道，您不信上帝，——不过请您也别卖弄聪明；干脆顺应生活的安排，别再考虑了；您别担心，——生活会把您送上岸去，让您站稳脚根的。送到什么岸上吗？我怎么知道呢？我只是相信，您还会生活很久。我知道，您现在把我的话当作早已背熟的、长篇大论的教训；不过也许以后什么时候会想起来，会用得到的；正是为此我才说这些话。幸好您只杀了一个老太婆。如果您发明另一个理论，那么说不定会干出比这坏万万倍的事来！也许还得感谢上帝呢；您怎么知道：也许上帝正是为了什么事情而保护您。而您有一颗伟大的心，不必太害怕。您害怕行将到来的伟大的赎罪吗？不，害怕是可耻的。既然您迈出了这一步，那就要坚强起来。这是正义。请您按照正义所要求的去做吧。我知道您不信上帝，可是，真的，生活会把您带上正路的。以后您一定会恢复自尊心。现在您只需要空气，空气，空气！”
拉斯科利尼科夫甚至颤栗了一下。
“可您是什么人？”他大喊一声，“您算是什么先知？您是站在什么样的庄严、宁静的高处，郑重其事地向我宣布聪明的预言？”
“我是什么人吗？我是一个已经毫无希望的人，仅此而已。我大概是个有感情、也有同情心的人，大概也多少有点儿知识，不过已经毫无希望了。而您，却是另一回事：上帝给您把生活安排好了（谁知道呢，也许您的一生会像烟一样消失，什么也不会留下）。您要成为另一类人，那又怎样呢？有您那样的一颗心，您大概不会为失去舒适的生活而感到惋惜吧？也许将有很久，谁也不会看到您，可那又有什么呢？问题不在于时间，而在于您自己。您要是成为太阳，那么大家就都会看见您了。太阳首先应该是太阳。您为什么又笑了：我算是什么席勒吗？我敢打赌，您认为，现在我是在讨好您！也许我真的是在讨好您，可这又有什么呢，嘿！嘿！嘿！罗季昂•罗曼内奇，好吧，您还是别相信我的话，甚至永远也不要完全相信，——我就是这样的性格，
Part 6 Chapter 3
He hurried to Svidrigailov's. What he had to hope from that man he did not know. But that man had some hidden power over him. Having once recognised this, he could not rest, and now the time had come.
On the way, one question particularly worried him: had Svidrigailov been to Porfiry's?
As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he had not. He pondered again and again, went over Porfiry's visit; no, he hadn't been, of course he hadn't.
But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he fancied he couldn't. Why? He could not have explained, but if he could, he would not have wasted much thought over it at the moment. It all worried him and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to say, none would have believed it perhaps, but he only felt a faint vague anxiety about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety tormented him--it concerned himself, but in a different, more vital way. Moreover, he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was working better that morning than it had done of late.
And was it worth while, after all that had happened, to contend with these new trivial difficulties? Was it worth while, for instance, to manoeuvre that Svidrigailov should not go to Porfiry's? Was it worth while to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over anyone like Svidrigailov?
Oh, how sick he was of it all!
And yet he was hastening to Svidrigailov; could he be expecting something /new/ from him, information, or means of escape? Men will catch at straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigailov but some other whom he needed, and Svidrigailov had simply presented himself by chance. Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as an irrevocable sentence. He must go his own way or hers. At that moment especially he did not feel equal to seeing her. No, would it not be better to try Svidrigailov? And he could not help inwardly owning that he had long felt that he must see him for some reason.
But what could they have in common? Their very evil-doing could not be of the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant, evidently depraved, undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such stories were told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina Ivanovna's children, but who could tell with what motive and what it meant? The man always had some design, some project.
There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late about Raskolnikov's mind, and causing him great uneasiness. It was so painful that he made distinct efforts to get rid of it. He sometimes thought that Svidrigailov was dogging his footsteps. Svidrigailov had found out his secret and had had designs on Dounia. What if he had them still? Wasn't it practically certain that he had? And what if, having learnt his secret and so having gained power over him, he were to use it as a weapon against Dounia?
This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never presented itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigailov. The very thought moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would transform everything, even his own position; he would have at once to confess his secret to Dounia. Would he have to give himself up perhaps to prevent Dounia from taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dounia had received a letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps? It's true Razumihin was there to protect her, but Razumihin knew nothing of the position. Perhaps it was his duty to tell Razumihin? He thought of it with repugnance.
In any case he must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible, he decided finally. Thank God, the details of the interview were of little consequence, if only he could get at the root of the matter; but if Svidrigailov were capable . . . if he were intriguing against Dounia-- then . . .
Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that month that he could only decide such questions in one way; "then I shall kill him," he thought in cold despair.
A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle of the street and began looking about to see where he was and which way he was going. He found himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty paces from the Hay Market, through which he had come. The whole second storey of the house on the left was used as a tavern. All the windows were wide open; judging from the figures moving at the windows, the rooms were full to overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarionet and violin, and the boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear women shrieking. He was about to turn back wondering why he had come to the X. Prospect, when suddenly at one of the end windows he saw Svidrigailov, sitting at a tea-table right in the open window with a pipe in his mouth. Raskolnikov was dreadfully taken aback, almost terrified. Svidrigailov was silently watching and scrutinising him and, what struck Raskolnikov at once, seemed to be meaning to get up and slip away unobserved. Raskolnikov at once pretended not to have seen him, but to be looking absent-mindedly away, while he watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently. Yet, it was evident that Svidrigailov did not want to be seen. He took the pipe out of his mouth and was on the point of concealing himself, but as he got up and moved back his chair, he seemed to have become suddenly aware that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was watching him. What had passed between them was much the same as what happened at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's room. A sly smile came into Svidrigailov's face and grew broader and broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other. At last Svidrigailov broke into a loud laugh.
"Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!" he shouted from the window.
Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svidrigailov in a tiny back room, adjoining the saloon in which merchants, clerks and numbers of people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of billiard balls could be heard in the distance. On the table before Svidrigailov stood an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne. In the room he found also a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking red- cheeked girl of eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt, and a Tyrolese hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some servants' hall song in a rather husky contralto, to the accompaniment of the organ.
"Come, that's enough," Svidrigailov stopped her at Raskolnikov's entrance. The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully. She had sung her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in her face.
"Hey, Philip, a glass!" shouted Svidrigailov.
"I won't drink anything," said Raskolnikov.
"As you like, I didn't mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don't want anything more to-day, you can go." He poured her out a full glass, and laid down a yellow note.
Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down, in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigailov's hand, which he allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy trailed after her with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street. Svidrigailov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything about him was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing; the waiter, Philip, was by now an old friend and very obsequious.
The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigailov was at home in this room and perhaps spent whole days in it. The tavern was dirty and wretched, not even second-rate.
"I was going to see you and looking for you," Raskolnikov began, "but I don't know what made me turn from the Hay Market into the X. Prospect just now. I never take this turning. I turn to the right from the Hay Market. And this isn't the way to you. I simply turned and here you are. It is strange!"
"Why don't you say at once 'it's a miracle'?"
"Because it may be only chance."
"Oh, that's the way with all you folk," laughed Svidrigailov. "You won't admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it a miracle! Here you say that it may be only chance. And what cowards they all are here, about having an opinion of their own, you can't fancy, Rodion Romanovitch. I don't mean you, you have an opinion of your own and are not afraid to have it. That's how it was you attracted my curiosity."
"Nothing else?"
"Well, that's enough, you know," Svidrigailov was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so, he had not had more than half a glass of wine.
"I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having what you call an opinion of my own," observed Raskolnikov.
"Oh, well, it was a different matter. everyone has his own plans. And apropos of the miracle let me tell you that I think you have been asleep for the last two or three days. I told you of this tavern myself, there is no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told you where it was, and the hours you could find me here. Do you remember?"
"I don't remember," answered Raskolnikov with surprise.
"I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically and yet precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware of it. When I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovitch. And another thing, I'm convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves as they walk. This is a town of crazy people. If only we had scientific men, doctors, lawyers and philosophers might make most valuable investigations in Petersburg each in his own line. There are few places where there are so many gloomy, strong and queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere influences of climate mean so much. And it's the administrative centre of all Russia and its character must be reflected on the whole country. But that is neither here nor there now. The point is that I have several times watched you. You walk out of your house--holding your head high--twenty paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind your back. You look and evidently see nothing before nor beside you. At last you begin moving your lips and talking to yourself, and sometimes you wave one hand and declaim, and at last stand still in the middle of the road. That's not at all the thing. Someone may be watching you besides me, and it won't do you any good. It's nothing really to do with me and I can't cure you, but, of course, you understand me."
"Do you know that I am being followed?" asked Raskolnikov, looking inquisitively at him.
"No, I know nothing about it," said Svidrigailov, seeming surprised.
"Well, then, let us leave me alone," Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.
"Very good, let us leave you alone."
"You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed me twice to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to get away just now when I looked at the window from the street? I saw it."
"He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and pretended to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in your doorway? I saw it."
"I may have had . . . reasons. You know that yourself."
"And I may have had my reasons, though you don't know them."
Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigailov. For a full minute he scrutinised his face, which had impressed him before. It was a strange face, like a mask; white and red, with bright red lips, with a flaxen beard, and still thick flaxen hair. His eyes were somehow too blue and their expression somehow too heavy and fixed. There was something awfully unpleasant in that handsome face, which looked so wonderfully young for his age. Svidrigailov was smartly dressed in light summer clothes and was particularly dainty in his linen. He wore a huge ring with a precious stone in it.
"Have I got to bother myself about you, too, now?" said Raskolnikov suddenly, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. "Even though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to injure me, I don't want to put myself out any more. I will show you at once that I don't prize myself as you probably think I do. I've come to tell you at once that if you keep to your former intentions with regard to my sister and if you think to derive any benefit in that direction from what has been discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked up. You can reckon on my word. You know that I can keep it. And in the second place if you want to tell me anything --for I keep fancying all this time that you have something to tell me--make haste and tell it, for time is precious and very likely it will soon be too late."
"Why in such haste?" asked Svidrigailov, looking at him curiously.
"Everyone has his plans," Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently.
"You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first question you refuse to answer," Svidrigailov observed with a smile. "You keep fancying that I have aims of my own and so you look at me with suspicion. Of course it's perfectly natural in your position. But though I should like to be friends with you, I shan't trouble myself to convince you of the contrary. The game isn't worth the candle and I wasn't intending to talk to you about anything special."
"What did you want me, for, then? It was you who came hanging about me."
"Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the fantastic nature of your position--that's what it was! Besides you are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that person I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn't that enough? Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather complex, and is difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have come to me not only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing something new. Isn't that so? Isn't that so?" persisted Svidrigailov with a sly smile. "Well, can't you fancy then that I, too, on my way here in the train was reckoning on you, on your telling me something new, and on my making some profit out of you! You see what rich men we are!"
"What profit could you make?"
"How can I tell you? How do I know? You see in what a tavern I spend all my time and it's my enjoyment, that's to say it's no great enjoyment, but one must sit somewhere; that poor Katia now--you saw her? . . . If only I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you see I can eat this."
He pointed to a little table in the corner where the remnants of a terrible-looking beef-steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish.
"Have you dined, by the way? I've had something and want nothing more. I don't drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I never touch anything, and not more than a glass of that all the evening, and even that is enough to make my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind myself up, for I am just going off somewhere and you see me in a peculiar state of mind. That was why I hid myself just now like a schoolboy, for I was afraid you would hinder me. But I believe," he pulled out his watch, "I can spend an hour with you. It's half-past four now. If only I'd been something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist . . . I am nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively bored. I really thought you would tell me something new."
"But what are you, and why have you come here?"
"What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the cavalry, then I knocked about here in Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. There you have my biography!"
"You are a gambler, I believe?"
"No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-sharper--not a gambler."
"You have been a card-sharper then?"
"Yes, I've been a card-sharper too."
"Didn't you get thrashed sometimes?"
"It did happen. Why?"
"Why, you might have challenged them . . . altogether it must have been lively."
"I won't contradict you, and besides I am no hand at philosophy. I confess that I hastened here for the sake of the women."
"As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?"
"Quite so," Svidrigailov smiled with engaging candour. "What of it? You seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about women?"
"You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?"
"Vice! Oh, that's what you are after! But I'll answer you in order, first about women in general; you know I am fond of talking. Tell me, what should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up women, since I have a passion for them? It's an occupation, anyway."
"So you hope for nothing here but vice?"
"Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being vice. But anyway I like a direct question. In this vice at least there is something permanent, founded indeed upon nature and not dependent on fantasy, something present in the blood like an ever-burning ember, for ever setting one on fire and, maybe, not to be quickly extinguished, even with years. You'll agree it's an occupation of a sort."
"That's nothing to rejoice at, it's a disease and a dangerous one."
"Oh, that's what you think, is it! I agree, that it is a disease like everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this one must exceed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in one way or another, and in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate and prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I to do? If I hadn't this, I might have to shoot myself. I am ready to admit that a decent man ought to put up with being bored, but yet . . ."
"And could you shoot yourself?"
"Oh, come!" Svidrigailov parried with disgust. "Please don't speak of it," he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had shown in all the previous conversation. His face quite changed. "I admit it's an unpardonable weakness, but I can't help it. I am afraid of death and I dislike its being talked of. Do you know that I am to a certain extent a mystic?"
"Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting you?"
"Oh, don't talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg, confound them!" he cried with an air of irritation. "Let's rather talk of that . . . though . . . H'm! I have not much time, and can't stay long with you, it's a pity! I should have found plenty to tell you."
"What's your engagement, a woman?"
"Yes, a woman, a casual incident. . . . No, that's not what I want to talk of."
"And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn't that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?"
"And do you pretend to strength, too? He-he-he! You surprised me just now, Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to me about vice and aesthetics! You--a Schiller, you--an idealist! Of course that's all as it should be and it would be surprising if it were not so, yet it is strange in reality. . . . Ah, what a pity I have no time, for you're a most interesting type! And, by-the-way, are you fond of Schiller? I am awfully fond of him."
"But what a braggart you are," Raskolnikov said with some disgust.
"Upon my word, I am not," answered Svidrigailov laughing. "However, I won't dispute it, let me be a braggart, why not brag, if it hurts no one? I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I come across an intelligent person like you--intelligent and highly interesting--I am simply glad to talk and, besides, I've drunk that half-glass of champagne and it's gone to my head a little. And besides, there's a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that I . . . will keep quiet. Where are you off to?" he asked in alarm.
Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and, as it were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that Svidrigailov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth.
"A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!" Svidrigailov begged. "Let them bring you some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won't talk nonsense, about myself, I mean. I'll tell you something. If you like I'll tell you how a woman tried 'to save' me, as you would call it? It will be an answer to your first question indeed, for the woman was your sister. May I tell you? It will help to spend the time."
"Tell me, but I trust that you . . ."
"Oh, don't be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me, Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the deepest respect."
 
他急于去找斯维德里盖洛夫。在这个人身上他能寄托什么希望呢——他自己也不知道。但是这个人身上却暗藏着一种能够支配他的权力。才一意识到这一点，他就已经不能放心了，何况现在时候已经到了呢。
一路上，有一个问题特别使他感到苦恼：斯维德里盖洛夫去没去过波尔菲里那里？
就他所了解的情况来看，他可以起誓——不，没去过！他想了又想，回想波尔菲里来访的全部过程，他明白：不，没去过，当然没去过！
不过如果他还没去过，那么他会不会去找波尔菲里呢？
目前他暂时觉得，不会去。为什么？对此他不能作出解释，不过如果他能解释的话，现在也就不会为此绞尽脑汁了。这一切使他非常苦恼，但同时不知为什么他又顾不得这个了。真是怪事，也许谁也不会相信，然而对自己目前的命运，对必须立刻作出决定的命运，不知为什么他却并不怎么关心，甚至是漫不经心。使他感到痛苦的是另一件重要得多、异常重要的事情，——这也是一件只关系到他本人、与别人都不相干的事，不过是另一件事，也是一件最主要的事情。加以他感到精神上已经疲劳到极点，尽管这天早上他的思考能力比最近这几天都要好一些。
已经发生了这么多事情，现在还值不值得努力设法克服这些新的、微不足道的困难呢？譬如说，还值不值得千方百计竭力不让斯维德里盖洛夫去找波尔菲里；还值不值得去研究、打听，在一个什么斯维德里盖洛夫的身上浪费时间呢？
噢，这一切让他多么厌烦啊！
然而他还是急于去找斯维德里盖洛夫；他是不是期望从他那里了解到什么新情况，从他那里得到什么指示，找到什么出路呢？就连一根稻草也会抓住不放嘛！是不是命运，是不是什么本能促使他们遇到了一起？也许，这只不过是疲倦和绝望；也许需要的不是斯维德里盖洛夫，而是另一个人，而斯维德里盖洛夫只不过是偶然给碰上了而已。索尼娅吗？可现在他去找索尼娅作什么？又去乞求她的眼泪吗？而且索尼娅让他感到可怕。索尼娅就是无情的判决，索尼娅就是不可改变的决定。现在——不是走她的路，就是走他的路。特别是在这个时候，他不能去见她。不，是不是最好去试探一下斯维德里盖洛夫，弄清他究竟是个什么人？他内心里不得不承认，不知为什么他似乎当真是早就已经需要这个人了。
然而他们之间能有什么共同之处呢？就连他们干的坏事也不可能是相同的。而且这个人还很讨厌，显然异常淫荡，一定十分狡猾，喜欢骗人，说不定还很恶毒。关于他，就有一些这样的议论。不错，他为卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的孩子们奔走张罗；可是谁知道他这样做是为了什么，又意味着什么？
这个人总是有什么企图，有什么计划的。
这些天来，拉斯科利尼科夫的头脑里还经常出现一个模模糊糊的想法，这想法使他感到非常不安，尽管他甚至曾努力设法驱除它，它让他感到太苦恼了！有时他想：斯维德里盖洛夫一直在他周围转来转去，现在仍然在他周围转悠；斯维德里盖洛夫已经知道了他的秘密；斯维德里盖洛夫以前曾经有一些算计杜尼娅的阴谋诡计。如果现在还有这样的阴谋呢？几乎可以肯定地说：是的。如果现在，他知道了他的秘密，因而获得了控制他的权力，那么他想不想用这种权力作为武器，来算计杜尼娅呢？
这个想法有时甚至会在梦中折磨他，但是像现在，像他去找斯维德里盖洛夫的时候这样清晰地想到这一切，却还是第一次。单单是这么想一想，就已经使他心情抑郁，怒火中烧了。第一，当时一切都已经发生了变化，就连他自己的处境也改变了，所以应该立刻向杜涅奇卡坦白说出这个秘密。或许应该牺牲自己，以免杜涅奇卡行动不够谨慎。一封信？今天早晨杜尼娅接到了一封信！在彼得堡，她能接到谁的信呢？（难道是卢任吗？）不错，有拉祖米欣在那儿守护着；不过拉祖米欣什么也不知道。或许也应该向拉祖米欣坦白地说出来？
拉斯科利尼科夫极端厌恶地想。
无论如何，必须尽快见到斯维德里盖洛夫，他暗自拿定了主意。谢天谢地，他需要知道的与其说是细节，不如说是事情的实质；不过，如果斯维德里盖洛夫有算计杜尼娅的阴谋，只要他能做得到，那就……
这些时候，这一个月来，拉斯科利尼科夫已经心力交瘁，对类似的问题现在已经不能作出任何别的决定，他能想出的唯一办法就是：“那么我就杀了他”，他怀着冷酷绝望的心情想。他心情沉重，感到压抑；他在街道中间站住了，朝四下里望望：他走的是哪条路，这是上哪儿去啊？他正站在×大街上，离他刚刚穿过的干草广场有三十或四十步远。左边一幢房子的二楼上是一家小饭馆。所有窗子全都大敞着；根据窗内来回走动的人影来看，小饭馆里已经座无虚席。大厅里歌声婉转，黑管和小提琴奏出悠扬的曲调，土耳其鼓敲得热情奔放。还可以听到女人的尖叫声。他感到困惑不解，不知为什么竟会转到×大街上来了，本想转身回去，突然在小饭馆最边上一扇开着的窗户里看到了斯维德里盖洛夫，斯维德里盖洛夫嘴里叼着烟斗，靠窗坐在一张茶桌旁边。这使他十分惊讶，甚至是大吃一惊。斯维德里盖洛夫正在默默地观察他，仔细打量他，这也立刻使拉斯科利尼科夫吃了一惊：似乎斯维德里盖洛夫本想站起来，在还没被发觉之前悄悄地溜走。拉斯科利尼科夫立刻装作好像没看到他的样子，若有所思地望着一旁，可是还在用眼角盯着他。拉斯科利尼科夫的心忐忑不安地怦怦地狂跳。一点不错：斯维德里盖洛夫显然不愿意让人看到自己。他从嘴里拿出烟斗，已经想要躲起来了；可是，站起来，推开椅子以后，大概突然发觉，拉斯科利尼科夫已经看见他了，而且正在观察他。他们之间发生了与他们在拉斯科利尼科夫家初次见面时十分相似的情景，当时拉斯科利尼科夫正在睡觉。斯维德里盖洛夫脸上露出了狡猾的微笑，笑容越来越舒展了。两人都知道，他们彼此都看到了对方，而且在互相观察对方。最后斯维德里盖洛夫高声哈哈大笑起来。
“喂，喂，您高兴的话，那就进来吧；我在这里！”他从窗子里喊。
拉斯科利尼科夫上楼到小饭馆里去了。
他在后面一间很小的房间里找到了他，这间小房间只有一扇窗子，与大厅毗连，大厅里摆着二十张小桌，歌手们正在合唱，扯着嗓子拚命叫喊，一些商人、官吏和各色人等一边听唱歌，一边在喝茶。不知从哪里传来了打台球的响声。斯维德里盖洛夫面前的小桌上放着一瓶已经打开的香槟和一个盛着半杯酒的玻璃杯。这间小房间里还有一个背着一架小手摇风琴的少年流浪乐师，一个身体健康、面颊红润的姑娘，她那条花条裙子的下摆掖在腰里，戴一顶系带子的蒂罗尔①式的帽子，她是个卖唱的，约摸十七、八岁，尽管隔壁屋里正在高声合唱，她却在手摇风琴的伴奏下，用相当嘶哑的女低音在唱一首庸俗的流行歌曲……
“喂，够了！”拉斯科利尼科夫一进来，斯维德里盖洛夫就叫她别唱了。
姑娘立刻停下来，恭恭敬敬地等着。她唱那首押韵的庸俗流行歌曲的时候，脸上也是带着这样严肃而又恭敬的神情。
“喂，菲利普，拿个杯子来！”斯维德里盖洛夫喊了一声。
“我不喝酒，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“随您便，我不是给您的。喝吧，卡佳！今天不需要再唱了，你走吧！”他给她斟了满满一杯酒，拿出一张淡黄色的钞票②来。卡佳照妇女们喝酒的方式，也就是接连喝了二十来口，一口气把一杯酒全喝光了，拿了那张钞票，吻了吻斯维德里盖洛夫一本正经伸出来让她吻的手，从屋里走了出去，那个背手摇风琴的男孩子也跟着她慢慢地出去了。他们俩都是从街上叫来的。斯维德里盖洛夫在彼得堡住了还不到一个星期，可是他身边的一切已经带有古代宗法制社会的遗风了。小饭馆里的堂倌菲利普已经成了他的“熟人”，在他面前奴颜婢膝。通大厅的门锁起来了；斯维德里盖洛夫在这间屋里就像在自己家里一样，说不定整天整天都待在这里。这家小饭馆很脏，可以说很不好，甚至够不上中等水平。
--------
①蒂罗尔是奥地利的一个州。
②一卢布的钞票。
“我去您那儿找您，”拉斯科利尼科夫开始说，“可是不知为什么从干草广场拐了个弯，来到了×大街上！我从来不弯到这儿来，也不打这儿经过。我从干草广场往右转弯。而且去您那儿的路也不是往这边来。我刚一拐弯，就看到了您！这真怪！”
“您为什么不直截了当地说：这是奇迹！”
“因为这也许只不过是偶然的。”
“要知道，所有你们这些人都是这样的性格！”斯维德里盖洛夫哈哈大笑起来，“即使心里相信奇迹，可就是不肯承认，您不是说吗：‘也许’只不过是偶然的。谈到发表自己的意见嘛，这儿的人都是些胆小鬼，这您想象不到吧，罗季昂•罗曼内奇！我说的不是您。您有自己的见解，也不怕有自己的见解。正是因为这一点，您才引起了我的好奇心。”
“再没有旁的了吗？”
“就这一点已经足够了。”
显然斯维德里盖洛夫心情是兴奋的，不过只是稍有点儿兴奋；他只喝了半杯酒。
“我觉得，在您知道我能有您所谓的自己的见解之前，您就来找我了，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“啊，那时候是另一回事。无论什么事情都有几个发展阶段。至于说到奇迹嘛，我要告诉您，最近这两三天您好像都白白错过了。是我约您到这家小饭馆来的，您径直到这儿来了，根本就不是什么奇迹；我亲自详细告诉过您，到这儿来的路怎么走，还告诉过您，这家小饭馆在哪儿，几点钟的时候可以在这儿找到我。您记得吗？”
“我忘了，”拉斯科利尼科夫惊讶地说。
“我相信。我跟您说过两次了。这个地址不知不觉深深印在了您的脑子里。于是您也就不知不觉弯到这儿来了，然而您是精确地按照地址找来的，虽说您自己并没意识到这一点。当时我跟您说的时候，并没指望您会理解我的意思。您太露马脚了，罗季昂•罗曼内奇。我还要告诉您：我深信，彼得堡有许多人走路的时候都在自言自语。这是个半疯狂的人的城市。如果我们有科学的话，那么医生、法学家和哲学家都可以根据自己的专业作一次极有价值的调查研究。难得找到这么一个地方，像在彼得堡这样，对人有这么多忧郁的、强烈的和奇怪的影响。单是气候的影响就令人吃惊！然而这是全俄罗斯的中心，它的特征应该在一切事物上都反映出来。不过现在问题不在这里，而在于，我已经有好几次对您冷眼旁观了。您从家里出来的时候还在昂着头。走了二十来步，您已经低下头，把双手背在背后了。您在看，可是无论是前面、还是两旁的东西，您已经什么也看不见了。最后，您嘴唇微微翕动，自言自语起来，有时您还伸出一只手，作着手势。这很不好。说不定，除了我，还有别人在注意您，这可就对您不利了。其实，对我来说，反正一样，我不会治好您这个病，不过您当然明白我的意思。”
“您知道有人在监视我？”拉斯科利尼科夫问，同时试探地打量着他。
“不，我什么也不知道，”斯维德里盖洛夫似乎惊讶地回答。
“嗯，那就请您不要管我，”拉斯科利尼科夫皱起眉头，含糊不清地说。
“好吧，我不管您。”
“您最好还是说说，既然您常来这儿喝酒，而且曾两次约我到这儿来会面，那么现在，我从街上朝窗子里望的时候，您为什么却躲起来，想要溜走呢？这我看得很清楚。”
“嘿！嘿！当时我站在您房门口的时候，您为什么闭着眼睛躺在沙发上，假装睡觉呢？其实您根本就没睡。这我看得很清楚。”
“我可能有……原因……这您是知道的。”
“我也可能有我的原因，虽说您不会知道，是什么原因。”
拉斯科利尼科夫把右胳膊肘撑在桌子上，用右手的手指从下面托着下巴，凝神注视着斯维德里盖洛夫。他对着他的脸仔细看了一会儿，以前这张脸也总是让他感到惊讶。这是一张奇怪的脸，好像是个假面具：面色白中透红，鲜红的嘴唇，留着一部色泽光亮的谈黄色大胡子，一头淡黄色的头发还相当浓密。他的眼睛不知怎么好像太蓝了，目光不知怎么似乎过于阴沉而又呆滞。在这张就年龄来说显得异常年轻的、美丽的脸上，不知有点儿什么让人感到极不愉快的东西。斯维德里盖洛夫的衣服极其考究，是一套轻而薄的夏装，而他特别向人炫耀的，还是他的内衣。一只手指上戴着一枚镶着贵重宝石的老大的戒指。
“难道我也得和您较量较量吗，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然焦躁不安、急不可耐、直截了当地说，“如果您想伤害我，虽然您也许是一个最危险的人，可是我却不想突然改变自己的习惯。我这就让您看看，我并不是像您所想的那样爱惜自己，您大概认为我非常爱惜自己吧。您要知道，我来找您，是要直截了当地告诉您，如果您对舍妹还有从前的那种打算，如果为了达到这个目的，您想利用最近发现的秘密，那么在您把我关进监狱之前，我就先杀了您。我说话是算数的：您要知道，我说得到，就做得到。第二，如果您想对我没什么，——因为这些时候我一直觉得您好像有话要对我说，——那么就请快点儿说吧，因为时间是很宝贵的，也许，要不了多久，就会迟了。”
“您这么急，是急于上哪儿去啊？”斯维德里盖洛夫问，一边好奇地细细打量他。
“什么事情都有几个发展阶段，”拉斯科利尼科夫阴郁地、急不可耐地说。
“您自己刚才要求我们开诚布公，可是对我的第一个问题，您就拒绝回答，”斯维德里盖洛夫微笑着说。“您总是觉得我有什么目的，所以一直用怀疑的目光来看我。有什么呢，处在您的地位上，这是可以理解的。不过不管我多么想跟您交朋友，可我还是不敢让您相信，事情恰恰相反。真的，这样做得不偿失，而且我也没打算跟您谈任何特殊的事情。”“那么您为什么那样需要我呢？您不是对我很感兴趣吗？”
“只不过是作为一个有趣的观察对象罢了。您的处境很不平常，我喜欢这种很不平常的性质，——这就是我对您感兴趣的原因！此外，您是我十分关心的一个女人的哥哥，还有，当时我经常从这个女人那里听到许多关于您的事情，因此我得出结论，您对她有很大的影响；难道这还不够吗？嘿——嘿——嘿！不过，我得承认，对于我来说，您的问题非常复杂，我很难回答您。嗯，譬如说，现在您来找我，不仅是有事，而且还想来了解点儿什么新情况吧？是这样吧？是这样的，不是吗？”斯维德里盖洛夫脸上带着狡猾的微笑，坚持说，“既然如此，那么您要知道，还在我到这儿来的路上，在火车上的时候，我就对您抱有希望了，希望您也能告诉我点儿什么新情况，希望能从您这里得到点儿什么对我有用的东西！
瞧，我们都是多么富有啊！”
“什么有用的东西呢？”
“怎么跟您说呢？难道我知道是什么吗？您瞧，我一直待在一家小饭馆里，就已经感到心满意足了，也就是说，倒不是心满意足，而是说，总得有个地方坐坐吧。嗯，就拿这个可怜的卡佳来说吧，——您看到了吧？……嗯，譬如说，虽然我是个爱吃的人，俱乐部①的美食家，可是您瞧，像这样的东西我也能吃！（他伸出一只手指，指指角落里，那里一张小桌子上摆着一个洋铁盘子，盘子里盛着吃剩的、让人难以下咽的土豆烧牛排。）顺便问一声，您吃过午饭了吗？我稍微吃了一点儿，不想再吃了。譬如说吧，我根本不喝酒。除了香槟，什么也不喝，就连香槟，整整一晚上也只喝了一杯，就这样还觉得头痛。现在我叫了这杯酒，是为了提提神，因为我打算到一个地方去，您看得出来，我的心情有点儿特别。刚才我所以像个小学生样躲起来，是因为我想，您会妨碍我；不过，看来（他掏出表来），还可以跟您在一起坐一个钟头；现在是四点半。您相信吗，要是有个什么专长就好了；要是我是个地主，要么是神甫，要么是枪骑兵，摄影师，新闻记者……那就好了，可是什么、什么专长都没有！有时候甚至觉得无聊。真的，我还以为您会告诉我点儿什么新情况呢。”
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①指莫斯科、彼得堡的英国俱乐部，那里有最好的厨师；美食家们都喜欢到那里去享用烹调得最好的菜肴。
“那么您是什么人，您为什么要来这里？”
“我是什么人？您是知道的：我是个贵族，曾在骑兵队里服役两年，后来在这儿，在彼得堡闲荡，后来和玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜结婚，住在乡下。这就是我的履历！”
“您好像是个赌徒？”
“不，我算什么赌徒。是赌棍，不是赌徒。”
“您是赌棍？”
“是啊，是赌棍。”
“怎么，有人打过您吗！”
“有过。那又怎样呢？”
“喂，那么，您可以要求决斗……一般说，决斗会使人获得新生……”
“我不反驳您，而且我也不善于谈论哲学问题。我坦白地对您说，我匆匆赶到这里来，多半是为了女人。”
“刚刚埋葬了玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，您就赶来了吗？”
“嗯，是的，”斯维德里盖洛夫微微一笑，感到在开诚布公这一点上，他获得了胜利。“那又怎样呢？您好像认为，我这样谈论女人是不道德的？”
“也就是说，我是不是认为，生活放荡是不道德的？”
“生活放荡！唉，您说到哪里去了！不过我要按顺序来回答您，首先一般地谈谈女人，您要知道，我喜欢闲扯。您倒说说看，我为什么要克制自己？既然我爱女人，那我为什么要放弃女人呢？至少可以有事做。”
“那么您在这儿仅仅是希望过放荡的生活了！”
“就算是想过放荡生活吧，那又怎样呢！您老是想着放荡的生活。至少我喜欢直截了当的问题。在这种放荡生活里至少有一种固定不变的东西，它甚至是以天性为基础，而不是为幻想所左右的，它犹如血液中永不熄灭的炭火，永远燃烧着，还要燃烧很久很久，随着年龄的增长，或许也不能让它很快熄灭。您应该承认，这难道不也是一种工作吗？”
“这有什么值得高兴的？这是一种病，而且是一种危险的病。”
“唉，您又说到哪里去了？我同意，这是一种病，正如一切过度的事情一样，——而这种事情是一定会过度的，——不过要知道，这种事情，第一，各人的情况不同，第二，当然啦，一切都要有分寸，要有节制，虽然是下流的，可是有什么办法呢？要不是有这种工作，大概，真会开枪自杀。我同意，一个正派人理应不怕寂寞，可是……”
“您会开枪自杀吗？”
“唉，”斯维德里盖洛夫厌恶地阻止他说，“请您别谈这个，”他又赶紧补充说，甚至不像以前那样，已经不再吹牛了。就连他的脸色也好像变了。“我承认有这个不可原谅的弱点，可是有什么办法呢：我怕死，也不喜欢别人谈死。您知道吗，在某种程度上，我是个神秘主义者。”
“啊！玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的鬼魂！怎么，还继续出现吗？”
“去它的吧，您别提了；在彼得堡还没出现过；去它的！”他高声说，脸上露出恼怒的神情。“不，最好还是谈谈这个吧……对了，不过……嗯哼！哎呀，时间不多了，我不能跟您长久待在这里，很可惜！本想告诉您的。”
“您有什么事，是女人吗？”
“是的，是女人，一个意外的机会……不，我要说的不是这个。”
“嗯，这儿环境的卑鄙污浊已经不影响您了？您已经无力自制了吗？”
“那么您也希望获得这种力量吗？嘿——嘿——嘿！刚才您让我吃了一惊，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，虽说我早就知道，事情是会这样的。您在跟我大谈放荡的生活，大谈美学！您是席勒，您是理想主义者！当然，这一切理应如此，如果不是这样，倒要让人觉得奇怪了，然而实际上还是奇怪的……唉，可惜，时间不多了，因为您是个非常有趣的人！顺便问一声，您喜欢席勒吗？我倒非常喜欢。”
“不过，您可真是个爱吹牛的人！”拉斯科利尼科夫有些厌恶地说。
“唉，真的，我不是！”斯维德里盖洛夫哈哈大笑着回答，“不过，我不争辩，就算是爱吹牛吧；可是为什么不吹呢，既然吹牛并不会伤害别人。我在乡下，在玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的庄园里住了七年，所以现在急于想跟像您这样的聪明人——聪明而又十分有趣的人谈谈，真高兴海阔天空，随便聊聊，此外，我喝了半杯酒，酒劲已经有点儿冲上来了。主要的是，有一个情况让我感到十分兴奋，不过这件事……我不想谈。您去哪里？”斯维德里盖洛夫突然惊恐地问。
拉斯科利尼科夫站了起来。他来到这里，感到难过，气闷，不大舒服。他确信，斯维德里盖洛夫是世界上最无聊、最渺小的一个恶棍。
“唉——！别走，再坐一会儿嘛，”斯维德里盖洛夫请求说。 “至少也得要杯茶喝。好，请坐一会儿，好，我不再胡扯了，也就是说，不再谈我自己的事了。我要告诉您一件事。嗯，如果您想听，我跟您谈谈，一个女人怎么，用您的说法，怎么‘救了’我？这甚至就是对您第一个问题的回答，因为这个女人就是令妹。可以谈吗？而且咱们还可以消磨时间。”
“您说吧，不过我希望，您……”
“噢，请您放心！而且就连像我这样一个品质恶劣、精神空虚的人，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜使我心中产生的也只有深深的敬意。”
Part 6 Chapter 4
"You know perhaps--yes, I told you myself," began Svidrigailov, "that I was in the debtors' prison here, for an immense sum, and had not any expectation of being able to pay it. There's no need to go into particulars how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know to what a point of insanity a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest woman, and very sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you believe that this honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysterics and reproaches, condescended to enter into a kind of contract with me which she kept throughout our married life? She was considerably older than I, and besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There was so much swinishness in my soul and honesty too, of a sort, as to tell her straight out that I couldn't be absolutely faithful to her. This confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her if I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know, that's the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten contract was drawn up between us: first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never absent myself without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a free hand with the maidservants, but only with her secret knowledge; fifthly, God forbid my falling in love with a woman of our class; sixthly, in case I--which God forbid--should be visited by a great serious passion I was bound to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible woman and so she could not help looking upon me as a dissolute profligate incapable of real love. But a sensible woman and a jealous woman are two very different things, and that's where the trouble came in. But to judge some people impartially we must renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to the ordinary people about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment rather than in anyone's. Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She certainly had some very ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I feel really sorry for the innumerable woes of which I was the cause. Well, and that's enough, I think, by way of a decorous /oraison funebre/ for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled, I usually held my tongue and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed to attain its object, it influenced her, it pleased her, indeed. These were times when she was positively proud of me. But your sister she couldn't put up with, anyway. And however she came to risk taking such a beautiful creature into her house as a governess. My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impressionable woman and simply fell in love herself--literally fell in love--with your sister. Well, little wonder--look at Avdotya Romanovna! I saw the danger at the first glance and what do you think, I resolved not to look at her even. But Avdotya Romanovna herself made the first step, would you believe it? Would you believe it too that Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me at first for my persistent silence about your sister, for my careless reception of her continual adoring praises of Avdotya Romanovna. I don't know what it was she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of telling literally everyone all our family secrets and continually complaining of me; how could she fail to confide in such a delightful new friend? I expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt Avdotya Romanovna heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were current about me. . . . I don't mind betting that you too have heard something of the sort already?"
"I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child. Is that true?"
"Don't refer to those vulgar tales, I beg," said Svidrigailov with disgust and annoyance. "If you insist on wanting to know about all that idiocy, I will tell you one day, but now . . ."
"I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom you treated badly."
"I beg you to drop the subject," Svidrigailov interrupted again with obvious impatience.
"Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe? . . . you told me about it yourself." Raskolnikov felt more and more irritated.
Svidrigailov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov fancied he caught a flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svidrigailov restrained himself and answered very civilly:
"Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Upon my soul! I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some people. Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotya Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any case it worked in my interests. With all Avdotya Romanovna's natural aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect--she did at least feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And if once a girl's heart is moved to /pity/, it's more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want to 'save him,' to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness--well, we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at once that the bird was flying into the cage of herself. And I too made ready. I think you are frowning, Rodion Romanovitch? There's no need. As you know, it all ended in smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I am drinking!) Do you know, I always, from the very beginning, regretted that it wasn't your sister's fate to be born in the second or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigning prince or some governor or pro-consul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who would endure martyrdom and would have smiled when they branded her bosom with hot pincers. And she would have gone to it of herself. And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked away into the Egyptian desert and would have stayed there thirty years living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face some torture for someone, and if she can't get her torture, she'll throw herself out of a window. I've heard something of a Mr. Razumihin--he's said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it, indeed. He's probably a divinity student. Well, he'd better look after your sister! I believe I understand her, and I am proud of it. But at the beginning of an acquaintance, as you know, one is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One doesn't see clearly. Hang it all, why is she so handsome? It's not my fault. In fact, it began on my side with a most irresistible physical desire. Avdotya Romanovna is awfully chaste, incredibly and phenomenally so. Take note, I tell you this about your sister as a fact. She is almost morbidly chaste, in spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in her way. There happened to be a girl in the house then, Parasha, a black-eyed wench, whom I had never seen before--she had just come from another village--very pretty, but incredibly stupid: she burst into tears, wailed so that she could be heard all over the place and caused scandal. One day after dinner Avdotya Romanovna followed me into an avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes /insisted/ on my leaving poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves. I, of course, was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly. Then came interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplications, even tears--would you believe it, even tears? Think what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to! I, of course, threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting for light, and finally resorted to the most powerful weapon in the subjection of the female heart, a weapon which never fails one. It's the well-known resource--flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there's the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all, to the last note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be sure to seem true. That's so for all stages of development and classes of society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can never remember without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her husband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little trouble! And the lady really had principles--of her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure of the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach myself for having snatched it by force, and would declare that she had resisted, so that I could never have gained anything but for my being so unprincipled. I maintained that she was so innocent that she could not foresee my treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and obligations and had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me when I explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on the side of flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her property settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an awful lot of wine now and talking too much.) I hope you won't be angry if I mention now that I was beginning to produce the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient and spoiled it all. Avdotya Romanovna had several times--and one time in particular--been greatly displeased by the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was sometimes a light in them which frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and more unguarded till it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in the coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha came on to the scene again, and not she alone; in fact there was a tremendous to-do. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, if you could only see how your sister's eyes can flash sometimes! Never mind my being drunk at this moment and having had a whole glass of wine. I am speaking the truth. I assure you that this glance has haunted my dreams; the very rustle of her dress was more than I could stand at last. I really began to think that I might become epileptic. I could never have believed that I could be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled, but by then it was impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought by frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovitch. I reflected that Avdotya Romanovna was after all a beggar (ach, excuse me, that's not the word . . . but does it matter if it expresses the meaning?), that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and you to keep (ach, hang it, you are frowning again), and I resolved to offer her all my money--thirty thousand roubles I could have realised then--if she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of course I should have vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about her at that time that if she had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat and to marry herself, it would have been done at once! But it ended in the catastrophe of which you know already. You can fancy how frantic I was when I heard that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that scoundrelly attorney, Luzhin, and had almost made a match between them--which would really have been just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? I notice that you've begun to be very attentive . . . you interesting young man. . . ."
Svidrigailov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed. Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him-- and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious of Svidrigailov.
"Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have come to Petersburg with designs on my sister," he said directly to Svidrigailov, in order to irritate him further.
"Oh, nonsense," said Svidrigailov, seeming to rouse himself. "Why, I told you . . . besides your sister can't endure me."
"Yes, I am certain that she can't, but that's not the point."
"Are you so sure that she can't?" Svidrigailov screwed up his eyes and smiled mockingly. "You are right, she doesn't love me, but you can never be sure of what has passed between husband and wife or lover and mistress. There's always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is only known to those two. Will you answer for it that Avdotya Romanovna regarded me with aversion?"
"From some words you've dropped, I notice that you still have designs --and of course evil ones--on Dounia and mean to carry them out promptly."
"What, have I dropped words like that?" Svidrigailov asked in naive dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet bestowed on his designs.
"Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What are you so afraid of now?"
"Me--afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to be afraid of me, /cher ami/. But what nonsense. . . . I've drunk too much though, I see that. I was almost saying too much again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!"
He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without ceremony out of the window. Philip brought the water.
"That's all nonsense!" said Svidrigailov, wetting a towel and putting it to his head. "But I can answer you in one word and annihilate all your suspicions. Do you know that I am going to get married?"
"You told me so before."
"Did I? I've forgotten. But I couldn't have told you so for certain for I had not even seen my betrothed; I only meant to. But now I really have a betrothed and it's a settled thing, and if it weren't that I have business that can't be put off, I would have taken you to see them at once, for I should like to ask your advice. Ach, hang it, only ten minutes left! See, look at the watch. But I must tell you, for it's an interesting story, my marriage, in its own way. Where are you off to? Going again?"
"No, I'm not going away now."
"Not at all? We shall see. I'll take you there, I'll show you my betrothed, only not now. For you'll soon have to be off. You have to go to the right and I to the left. Do you know that Madame Resslich, the woman I am lodging with now, eh? I know what you're thinking, that she's the woman whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come, are you listening? She arranged it all for me. You're bored, she said, you want something to fill up your time. For, you know, I am a gloomy, depressed person. Do you think I'm light-hearted? No, I'm gloomy. I do no harm, but sit in a corner without speaking a word for three days at a time. And that Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell you. I know what she has got in her mind; she thinks I shall get sick of it, abandon my wife and depart, and she'll get hold of her and make a profit out of her--in our class, of course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken-down retired official, who has been sitting in a chair for the last three years with his legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a son serving in the provinces, but he doesn't help; there is a daughter, who is married, but she doesn't visit them. And they've two little nephews on their hands, as though their own children were not enough, and they've taken from school their youngest daughter, a girl who'll be sixteen in another month, so that then she can be married. She was for me. We went there. How funny it was! I present myself--a landowner, a widower, of a well- known name, with connections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty and she is not sixteen? Who thinks of that? But it's fascinating, isn't it? It is fascinating, ha-ha! You should have seen how I talked to the papa and mamma. It was worth paying to have seen me at that moment. She comes in, curtseys, you can fancy, still in a short frock--an unopened bud! Flushing like a sunset--she had been told, no doubt. I don't know how you feel about female faces, but to my mind these sixteen years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears of bashfulness are better than beauty; and she is a perfect little picture, too. Fair hair in little curls, like a lamb's, full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charmer! . . . Well, we made friends. I told them I was in a hurry owing to domestic circumstances, and the next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were betrothed. When I go now I take her on my knee at once and keep her there. . . . Well, she flushes like a sunset and I kiss her every minute. Her mamma of course impresses on her that this is her husband and that this must be so. It's simply delicious! The present betrothed condition is perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called /la nature et la verite/, ha-ha! I've talked to her twice, she is far from a fool. Sometimes she steals a look at me that positively scorches me. Her face is like Raphael's Madonna. You know, the Sistine Madonna's face has something fantastic in it, the face of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven't you noticed it? Well, she's something in that line. The day after we'd been betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of fifteen hundred roubles--a set of diamonds and another of pearls and a silver dressing-case as large as this, with all sorts of things in it, so that even my Madonna's face glowed. I sat her on my knee, yesterday, and I suppose rather too unceremoniously--she flushed crimson and the tears started, but she didn't want to show it. We were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on my neck (for the first time of her own accord), put her little arms round me, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, would make me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in return is my /respect/, and that she wants 'nothing, nothing more from me, no presents.' You'll admit that to hear such a confession, alone, from an angel of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little curls, with a flush of maiden shyness in her cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes is rather fascinating! Isn't it fascinating? It's worth paying for, isn't it? Well . . . listen, we'll go to see my betrothed, only not just now!"
"The fact is this monstrous difference in age and development excites your sensuality! Will you really make such a marriage?"
"Why, of course. Everyone thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily who knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why are you so keen about virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful man. Ha- ha-ha!"
"But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna. Though . . . though you had your own reasons. . . . I understand it all now."
"I am always fond of children, very fond of them," laughed Svidrigailov. "I can tell you one curious instance of it. The first day I came here I visited various haunts, after seven years I simply rushed at them. You probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew acquaintance with my old friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought of these places where anyone who knows his way about can find a great deal. Yes, upon my soul! The peasants have vodka, the educated young people, shut out from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and visions and are crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and are amassing money, and all the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From the first hour the town reeked of its familiar odours. I chanced to be in a frightful den--I like my dens dirty--it was a dance, so called, and there was a /cancan/ such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you have progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely dressed, dancing with a specialist in that line, with another one /vis-a-vis/. Her mother was sitting on a chair by the wall. You can't fancy what a /cancan/ that was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and began to cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and performing before her; everyone laughed and--I like your public, even the /cancan/ public--they laughed and shouted, 'Serves her right-- serves her right! Shouldn't bring children!' Well, it's not my business whether that consoling reflection was logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat down by the mother, and began by saying that I too was a stranger and that people here were ill-bred and that they couldn't distinguish decent folks and treat them with respect, gave her to understand that I had plenty of money, offered to take them home in my carriage. I took them home and got to know them. They were lodging in a miserable little hole and had only just arrived from the country. She told me that she and her daughter could only regard my acquaintance as an honour. I found out that they had nothing of their own and had come to town upon some legal business. I proffered my services and money. I learnt that they had gone to the dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class. I offered to assist in the young girl's education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted with enthusiasm as an honour--and we are still friendly. . . . If you like, we'll go and see them, only not just now."
"Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile, sensual man!"
"Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! /O la vertu va-t-elle se nicher?/ But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure of hearing your outcries!"
"I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself," muttered Raskolnikov angrily.
Svidrigailov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill, and began getting up.
"I say, but I am drunk, /assez cause/," he said. "It's been a pleasure."
"I should rather think it must be a pleasure!" cried Raskolnikov, getting up. "No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his mind--especially under such circumstances and to such a man as me. . . . It's stimulating!"
"Well, if you come to that," Svidrigailov answered, scrutinising Raskolnikov with some surprise, "if you come to that, you are a thorough cynic yourself. You've plenty to make you so, anyway. You can understand a great deal . . . and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely regret not having had more talk with you, but I shan't lose sight of you. . . . Only wait a bit."
Svidrigailov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after him. Svidrigailov was not however very drunk, the wine had affected him for a moment, but it was passing off every minute. He was preoccupied with something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes, and he was ruder and more sneering every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became very suspicious of Svidrigailov and resolved to follow him.
They came out on to the pavement.
"You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way. Only /adieu, mon plaisir/, may we meet again."
And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.
 
“您也许知道（不过，我自己也跟您讲过了），”斯维德里盖洛夫开始说，“因为我欠了一大笔钱，又没有任何财产，可以指望靠它来还债，所以在这儿给关进了债务拘留所。用不着细说，当时玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜是怎么把我赎出来的；您知道吗，有时一个女人爱上一个人，会糊涂到什么程度？这是一个正直和相当聪明的女人（虽然根本没受过教育）。您要知道，这个最爱吃醋的正直女人发狂似地跟我大吵大闹，责备了我许多次以后，竟决心对我采取宽容态度，跟我订了一个合同，在我们婚后的这段时间里，一直履行合同上规定的义务。问题在于，她年龄比我大得多，此外她嘴里还经常含着丁香。我卑鄙到了这种地步，不过也似乎相当诚实，竟直截了当地对她说，我不能对她完全忠实。我这样坦白说出心里的话，把她气得发狂，不过在某种程度上她也喜欢我这种粗鲁的坦率，她说， ‘既然他事先向我声明，也就是说，他不想欺骗我，’嗯，对于一个嫉妒的女人来说，这一点是最要紧的。她哭了很久，流了很多眼泪，在这以后，我们之间订立了一个口头协议：第一，我绝不遗弃玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，永远是她的丈夫；第二，未经她允许，我哪里也不能去；第三，我永远不搞长期的情妇；第四，作为交换条件，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜允许我有时跟女仆勾搭，可是一定得让她暗暗地知道；第五，绝对不许我爱上我们同一个阶层的女人；第六，万一我又产生严肃认真的真挚爱情，——而这是绝对不允许的，——那么我必须坦白地告诉玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜。不过，对于最后一点，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜一直相当放心；这是个聪明女人，所以她一定是把我看作一个浪荡子和淫棍，而这样的人是不会严肃认真地爱上什么人的。然而聪明女人和嫉妒的女人是两种不同的人，糟就糟在这里。不过，要对某些人作出公正的判断，就得事先摒弃某些先入为主的偏见，对通常在我们周围的那些人和事物，要改变那些通常的习惯看法。我有理由希望，您会作出比任何人都公正的判断。也许您已经听到过许多有关玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的可笑和荒唐的事情了。她的确有一些非常可笑的习惯；不过我要坦率地对您说，对于我给她造成的数不尽的伤心事，我真诚地感到悔恨。我觉得，一个最温柔的妻子死后，她最温柔的丈夫能在安葬时说这样几句很不错的o－raisonfunèbre①，也就够了。在我们争吵的时候，我多半一声不响，也不发脾气，这种绅士风度几乎总是会达到预期的目的；这种态度影响了她，她甚至觉得喜欢，有时候她甚至为我感到自豪。可是对令妹，她还是无法容忍了。她竟然冒险请这样一位美人儿到家里来作家庭教师，真不知怎么会发生这样的事！我的解释是这样的：玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜是个非常热情和敏感的女人，她简直是自己爱上了——的确是爱上了令妹。而且阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜也真让人爱！第一眼看到她，我心里就十分清楚，事情不妙，——您想怎么着？——我决定不抬起眼来看她。可是，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜自己迈出了第一步——您信不信？起初我总是绝口不提令妹，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜不断地夸奖阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，我对她的这些赞辞根本不感兴趣，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜甚至为此很生我的气，这您也会相信吗？我自己也不明白，她需要什么！嗯，当然啦，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜把我的全部底细都讲给阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜听了。她有个很坏的特点，总是把我们家的一切秘密毫无例外地讲给所有的人听，而且逢人就抱怨，不断地对人诉说我不好；她怎么会放过这么一个极好的新朋友呢？我认为，她们谈话，不外乎是谈论我，而且所有这些据认为是我干的极不愉快而又神秘的事情，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜无疑已经全都知道了……我敢打赌，您也已经听到过这一类的故事了吧？”
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①法文，“安葬时的悼词”之意。
“听到过了。卢任指控您，甚至把一个孩子的死归罪于您。
这是真的吗？”
“唉，请别提这些卑鄙的事了，”斯维德里盖洛夫厌恶而且抱怨地推托说，“如果您一定想知道这件毫无意思的事情，什么时候我专门讲给您听，可是现在……”
“还谈到了乡下您一个仆人的事，似乎这件事也要怪您。”
“请别说了，够了！”斯维德里盖洛夫又显然很不耐烦地打断了他。
“这是不是那个死后来给您装过烟斗的仆人……还是您自己讲给我听的呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫越来越气愤了。
斯维德里盖洛夫仔细看了看拉斯科利尼科夫，拉斯科利尼科夫仿佛觉得，这个人的目光里好似电光一闪，刹时间露出了恶毒的微笑，然而斯维德里盖洛夫控制住了自己，非常客气地回答：
“这就是那个仆人。我看得出来，您对这一切也非常感兴趣；我认为这是我的义务：一有适当的机会，就一一讲给您听，以满足您的好奇心。见鬼！我看得出来，我的确会被人看作浪漫人物。玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜对令妹讲了那么多关于我的神秘而有趣的事情，您想想看，为此，我该多么感谢我的亡妻啊。我不敢推测，她会产生什么印象；不过无论如何，这对我是有利的。尽管阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜自然会厌恶我，尽管我总是神情阴郁，那副样子就让人感到讨厌，她却终于可怜起我来，可怜起我这个不可救药的人来了。而当一位姑娘心里产生了怜悯，那么，当然，这对她是最危险的了。这时一定会想要‘救’他，想要开导他，使他获得新生，要求他有较为崇高的理想，开始过新的生活，从事新的活动，嗯，大家都知道，会有多少这一类的幻想。我立刻明白，小鸟儿自己飞进网里来了，于是我也作好了准备。您好像皱起了眉头，罗季昂•罗曼内奇？没关系，您要知道，事情没有什么结果。（见鬼，我喝了多少酒啊！）您要知道，从一开始，我就总是感到惋惜，命运怎么不让令妹生在公元二世纪或三世纪，做某位王公、或者执政官、或者小亚细亚总督的千金。无疑她一定会是那些忍受殉难之苦的人们当中的一个，而且，当然啦，用烧红的火钳烫她胸脯的时候，她也会面带笑容。她会自己故意去受这样的痛苦；而在四世纪或五世纪的时候，她就会到埃及的沙漠里去，在那里住上三十年，靠草根、狂热和幻想生活。她自己只渴望并要求尽快去为什么人受苦，如果不让她受苦，大概她就会从窗口跳下去自杀。我听到过有关拉祖米欣先生的一些事情。据说他是个年轻小伙子，通情达理（就连他的姓也显示出，他大概是个教会学校的毕业生），那么就让他来保护令妹吧。总之，我觉得我了解她，并为此感到荣幸。不过当时，也就是说在刚认识的时候，您也知道，不知为什么，人总是较为轻率，也更愚蠢，看问题不正确，往往看不到实质。见鬼，她为什么长得那么美呢？这不是我的过错！总之，我这方面是从无法抑制的性欲冲动开始的。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜非常贞洁，可说是闻所未闻，见所未见。（请您注意，我对您说的关于令妹的这些话，都是事实。她的贞洁也许达到了病态的程度，尽管她见多识广，聪明过人，可这对她是有害的。）这时我们家来了一个姑娘，叫巴拉莎，黑眼睛的巴拉莎，是刚从另一个村里搭车来的，她是个丫头，我还从来没见过她， ——人长得很漂亮，可是蠢得让人难以置信：眼泪汪汪，号叫得到处都能听见，结果大吵了一场。有一次午饭后，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜故意趁我只有一个人的时候，在花园里的林荫道上找到了我，她两眼闪闪发光，要求我别再缠着可怜的巴拉莎。这大概是我们两个人第一次谈话。我当然认为，满足她的愿望是我的荣幸，竭力装出一副惊讶和发窘的样子，总之，这个角色我演得还挺不错。于是开始往来，又是秘密交谈，又是劝谕和开导，又是请求和央告，甚至泪流满面，——您相信吗，甚至还流泪呢！有些姑娘的宣传热情达到了何种程度啊！我当然把一切都归咎于自己的命运，装作一个如饥似渴追求光明的人，最后还采用了征服女人们的心的最伟大和最可靠的办法，这个办法永远不会让任何人失望，无一例外，对所有人都绝对有效。这个办法是尽人皆知的，就是阿谀奉承。世界上没有什么比直言不讳更难，也没有什么比阿谀奉承更容易的了。直言不讳，即使其中只有百分之一的音调是虚假的，那么立刻就会产生不和谐，随之而来的是争吵。而阿谀奉承，即使从头至尾全部音调都是虚假的，可还是让人高兴，听着不会觉得不愉快；哪怕这愉快有点儿肉麻，可还是感到愉快。而且不管阿谀奉承多么肉麻，其中却至少有一半让人觉得好像是真实的。对于各种不同文化程度的人，对于社会上的各个阶层来说，都是如此。就连贞洁的少女，也可以用阿谀奉承去勾引她。至于普通人，那就更不用说了。有一次我勾搭上了一个忠于自己的丈夫、孩子，而且严守闺训的太太，一回想起这件事来，就不禁觉得好笑。这件事是多么让人开心，而且多么不费力啊！这位太太品德当真是高尚的，至少自以为是这样。我的全部策略只不过是每一分钟都表示，我已完全屈服，对她的贞洁佩服得五体投地。我厚颜无耻地奉承她，有时，只要能让她和我握一握手，甚至看我一眼，我就责备自己，说这是我强迫她这样做的，说她曾抗拒过，竭力抗拒过，如果不是我那么恶劣，大概永远什么也得不到；说由于她天真，不能预见到勾引她的阴谋诡计，无意中失身，自己还不知道，等等，等等。总之，我得到了一切，而我的这位太太却仍然完全相信，她是纯洁无瑕和贞洁的，始终信守她的责任和义务，而她的堕落完全是无意的。当我最后向她宣布，我真诚地相信，她也像我一样，是在寻欢作乐，这时她对我是多么生气啊。可怜的玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜也非常爱听恭维话，如果我想这么做的话，那么，毫无疑问，还在她活着的时候，就会把她的全部财产统统留给我了。（不过我酒喝得太多，话也太多了。）如果现在我谈到，对阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜也开始产生了同样的效果，希望您不要生气。可是我很傻，而且缺乏耐心，于是把整个事情都给破坏了。还在以前，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜就有好几次（特别有一次）表示，很不喜欢我的眼神，这您相信吗？总之，我的眼里越来越强烈、越来越不谨慎地燃烧起某种火焰，这使她感到害怕，终于使她感到憎恨了。详细情况用不着说了，不过，我们不再往来了。这时我又干了件蠢事。我以极其粗暴的方式嘲笑所有这些说教和请求；巴拉莎又上场上了，而且还不止她一个，总之，闹得很不像话。噢，罗季昂• 罗曼内奇，如果您一生中哪怕只有一次看到令妹的眼睛，看到她的眼睛有时会像那样闪闪发光，那就好了！现在我喝醉了，整整一杯酒都喝光了，这没关系，我说的全是真话；请您相信，我梦见过这样的目光；她的衣服窸窸窣窣的响声也终于让我受不了了。真的，我想，我是发疯了，我从来也没想到，我会这样发狂。总之，必须和解；然而这是不可能的。您想想看，当时我做了些什么？疯狂能使人糊涂到什么程度啊！可千万别在疯狂的时候采取任何行动，罗季昂•罗曼内奇。我考虑到，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜实际上一贫如洗，（唉，请原谅，我并不想这么说……不过如果讲的是同一个概念，用什么词汇不是都一样吗？）总之，是靠自己双手劳动生活，而且令堂和您也都靠她（唉，见鬼，您又皱眉了……），于是我决定把我的钱（当时我可以拿得出三万卢布来）都送给她，让她跟我一起私奔，哪怕逃到这里，逃到彼得堡来也行。当然啦，这时我还发誓永远爱她，让她终生幸福，等等。您相信吗，当时我爱她爱到了这种程度，如果她对我说：你把玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜杀死或者毒死，跟我结婚，那么这立刻就会实现！可结果是一场灾难，这您已经知道了，您自己可以想象得出，当时我得知玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜找到了这个最卑鄙的小官僚卢任，差点儿没给他炮制成了这门亲事，我简直气成了什么样子，——因为这实际上还不就跟我的提议一样吗。是这样吗？是这样吗？是这样的，不是吗？我发觉，您开始注意听了……有意思的青年人……”
斯维德里盖洛夫焦躁地用拳头捶了一下桌子。他的脸涨得血红。拉斯科利尼科夫清清楚楚看出，他不知不觉一口一口喝下去的那一杯或者是一杯半香槟对他产生了病态的影响，于是决定利用这个机会。斯维德里盖洛夫让他觉得很可疑。
“嗯，知道了这些情况以后，我完全相信，您到这里来，一定是对舍妹有什么打算，”他直截了当、毫不隐讳地对斯维德里盖洛夫说，想惹他更加发火。
“唉，别再提这个了，”斯维德里盖洛夫好像突然想起了什么，“我不是跟您说过了……再说，令妹也非常讨厌我。”
“她非常讨厌您，对这一点我也深信不疑，不过现在问题不在这里。”
“您深信她非常讨厌我吗？（斯维德里盖洛夫眯缝起眼来，嘲讽地微微一笑。）您是对的，她不喜欢我；可是对夫妻间或者情人之间的事，您永远也不能担保。这儿总是有这么一个角落，对全世界始终是个秘密，只有他们两个才知道。您能担保阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜一定会厌恶我吗？”
“根据您谈话时使用的某些词句，我发觉，现在您对杜尼娅仍然有什么企图，还有一些刻不容缓、十分迫切的打算，当然，是卑鄙的打算。”
“怎么！我随口说出过这样的话吗？”斯维德里盖洛夫突然非常天真地惊慌起来，丝毫没有注意那个显示出他的意图的形容词。
“这样的话现在也随口说出来了。您为什么，譬如说吧，这么害怕？现在您为什么突然大吃一惊？”
“我害怕和吃惊吗？我怕您？倒不如说您该怕我，cherami①可是，多么荒唐……不过，我喝醉了，这我明白；差点又说漏了嘴。酒，去它的！喂，拿水来！”
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①法文，“亲爱的朋友”之意。
他抓起酒瓶，毫不客气地把它扔出窗外。菲利普拿来了水。
“这全都是胡说八道，”斯维德里盖洛夫说，把毛巾浸湿，按在头上，“我只要说一句话就能让您不再胡扯，使您的一切疑虑烟消云散。譬如说，您知道我要结婚了吗？”
“这您以前就对我说过了。”
“说过了吗？我忘了。不过那时候我还不能肯定地说，因为那时候连未婚妻都还没见过呢，只是有这个意图。可现在未婚妻已经有了，事情已经办妥了，要不是有刻不容缓的事情，我一定这会儿就带您去见见他们，因为我想听听您的建议。唉，见鬼！只剩十分钟了。您看看表，看到了吧；不过我要讲给您听听，因为这是件很有趣的事，我指的是我的婚事，也就是说，从某一点来看，——您去哪儿？又要走吗？”
“不，现在我不走了。”
“根本不走了吗？咱们倒要瞧瞧！我要带您到那里去，这是真的，让您看看我的未婚妻，不过不是现在，现在您很快就要走了。您往右去，我往左走。您知道这个列斯莉赫吗？就是现在我住在她那儿的这个列斯莉赫，啊？您听说过吗？不，您是在想，就是人们议论的那个女人，说是她家有个小姑娘冬天投水自尽了，——嗯，您听说过吗？听说过吗？嗯，这件事就是她给我办的；她说，你这样怪寂寞的，暂时解解闷儿吧。我这个人抑郁寡欢，枯燥无味，不是吗。您以为我很快活吗？不，我很忧郁：我不伤害别人，常常独自坐在一个角落里；有时三天也不跟人说话。可这个列斯莉赫是个骗子，我要告诉您，她心里打的是什么主意：等我觉得厌倦了，就会抛弃妻子，出走，我的妻子就会落到她的手里，她就可以利用她；当然是在我们这个阶层里，而且还要更高一些。她说，有个作父亲的，身体十分衰弱，是个退休的官吏，整天坐在安乐椅里，两年多没走动过一步。她说，还有个母亲，是位通情达理的太太，也就是妈妈。他们的儿子在外省什么地方任职，不帮助他们。女儿出嫁了，也不来看他们，他们这里还有两个年幼的侄子（自己的儿女还嫌不够），自己最小的小女儿还没念完中学，他们就让她退学了，再过一个月她才满十六岁，也就是说，再过一个月就可以让她出嫁了。就是嫁给我。我们上他们家去了；这多么可笑；我作了自我介绍：地主，鳏夫，出身于名门，有这样一些熟人，还有财产， ——我五十了，她还不满十六岁，可这又有什么关系呢？谁会注意这种事？嗯，很诱人，不是吗，哈，哈！您要是能看到我和爸爸、妈妈谈话的情形就好了！真该花钱买票，看看我这时候像什么样子。她出来了，行了个屈膝礼，嗯，您要知道，她还穿着件很短的连衫裙，是个含苞未放的花蕾，她脸红了，红得像一片朝霞（当然对她说过）。我不知道您对女人的容貌有什么看法，不过照我看，十六岁这个年龄，这双还是小姑娘的眼睛，这羞答答的胆怯和害羞的眼泪，——照我看，这胜过了美丽，何况她还像画上的美人儿那么漂亮呢。浅色的头发，鬈曲蓬松，梳成一小绺一小绺的，嘴唇丰满，鲜红，一双小脚——真美极了！嗯，我们认识了，我声明，家里有事急需处理，第二天，也就是前天，为我们祝福，给我们订了婚。从那以后，我一去，立刻就让她坐在我的膝上，不让她下来……嗯，她不时脸红，红得像朝霞，我不停地吻她；妈妈当然提醒她说，这是你丈夫，应该这样，总而言之，这实在是太好了！而现在这种情况，作未婚夫的情况，真的，也许比作丈夫的时候更好。这就是所谓lanatureetlavérité①了！我跟她谈过两次——这姑娘可一点儿也不傻；有时她那样偷偷地看我一眼，——甚至让我神魂颠倒。您要知道，她的小脸很像拉斐尔的圣母像。要知道，《西斯庭圣母像》上，圣母的神情是富于幻想的，像一个悲伤的狂热信徒的脸，这您注意了吗？嗯，这姑娘的脸就像这个样子。刚给我们订了婚，第二天我就送去价值一千五百卢布的礼物：一件钻石首饰，另一件是珍珠的，还有一个妇女用的银梳妆盒——有这么大，里面装着各式各样的东西，就连她那圣母似的小脸也变得绯红了。昨天我让她坐在我膝上，是啊，也许我太放肆了，——她满脸通红，突然流出泪来，可是不愿让人看出她心情激动，羞得无地自容。有一会儿大家都出去了，只剩下了我和她两个人，她突然搂住我的脖子（这是她第一次），用两只小手搂着我，吻我，发誓说，她要作我的百依百顺、忠诚、贤慧的妻子，一定会让我幸福，说她要献出自己的一生，献出自己一生中的每一分钟，牺牲自己的一切、一切，而作为回报，她只希望得到我的尊重，她说，此外我‘什么，什么也不需要，也不需要任何礼物！’您得同意，一个十六岁的小天使，由于少女的羞怯，脸上飞起两片红霞，眼里含着热情的泪花，你和她单独坐在一起，听着她这样坦白地说出自己心里的话，您得同意，这是相当诱人的。诱人，不是吗？不是值得吗，啊？嗯，值得，不是吗？喂……喂，请您听我说，……嗯，咱们一道去我的未婚妻那里……不过不是现在！……”
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①法文，“自然而且真挚”之意。
“总之，这种年龄和文化修养上的极大差异激起了您的情欲！难道您真的要这样结婚吗？”
“那又有什么呢？一定的。每个人都关心自己，谁最会欺骗自己，谁就能过得最快活。哈！哈！您干吗要装作一个道德高尚的人，请宽恕我吧，老弟，我是个有罪的人。嘿！嘿！
嘿！”
“可是您安置了卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜的孩子们……不过，您这样做是有原因的……现在我一切都明白了。”
“一般说，我喜欢孩子，很喜欢孩子，”斯维德里盖洛夫哈哈大笑起来。“我甚至可以给您讲一讲关于这方面的一件非常有趣的事，直到现在，这件事还没结束呢。我来到这里的头一天，就到这儿各种藏污纳垢的地方去了，嗯，阔别七年之后，我简直是急急忙忙地跑去的。您大概注意到了，我并不急于跟自己那伙人会面，并不急于去找从前的那些朋友和熟人。嗯，我尽可能拖延着不去找他们。您要知道，我在乡下，住在玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜那儿的时候，对这些神秘的地方和场所真是魂牵梦萦，思念得痛苦到了极点，而谁要是了解这些地方，就可以在那儿发现很多东西。见鬼！人们在酗酒，受过教育的青年人由于无所事事，沉湎于无法实现的幻想之中，而变得对一切都十分冷漠，曲解各种理论，自己也变得思想混乱，极不正常；不知从什么地方来了一批犹太人，他们都把钱积蓄起来，其余的人都在过着荒淫无耻的生活。从最初几个钟头，这座城市就让我闻到了熟悉的气息。我来到一个所谓跳舞晚会，——一个可怕的藏污纳垢的地方（而我喜欢的正是这种肮脏地方），嗯，当然啦，在跳康康舞①，在我年轻的时候还没有这种玩意儿。是啊，这就叫进步嘛。突然，我看到一个十二、三岁的小姑娘，穿得很漂亮，正在和一个舞艺超群的人跳舞；那个人站在她对面。墙边一把椅子上坐着她的母亲。嗯，您要知道，康康舞是种什么舞！小姑娘害羞了，脸涨得通红，终于感到自己受了侮辱，放声大哭起来。那个舞艺超群的人搂住她，旋转起来，在她面前表演种种舞姿，周围的人全都哈哈大笑，在这种时候，我喜欢你们这些观众，即使是康康舞的观众，大家都在哈哈大笑，高声叫喊：‘好哇，就应该这样！别带孩子来嘛！’哼，他们这样自己安慰自己是不是合理，我才不在乎呢，关我什么事！我立刻选中了一个座位，坐到那位母亲身旁，对她说，我也是从外地来的，说这儿这些人都多么粗野，说他们都分不清什么是真正的尊严，对别人也缺乏应有的尊重；我让她知道，我有很多钱；我请她们坐我的马车回家；送她们回家以后，我和她们认识了（她们住在向二房东租来的一间小屋里，刚来不久）。她们对我说，她和她女儿能跟我认识，感到非常荣幸；我还得知，她们一无所有，她们到这里来，是要在某机关里办一件什么事情；我表示愿意效劳，表示愿意给她们一些钱；我还得知，她们去参加那个晚会，是弄错了，还以为那里真的是教人跳舞呢；我表示愿意提供帮助，让这位年轻的姑娘学习法文和跳舞。她们十分高兴地接受了，认为这是很荣幸的，直到现在我还在跟她们来往……您要高兴的话，咱们一道去——不过不是现在。”
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①法国游艺场中的一种黄色舞蹈。
“别讲了，别讲您那些卑鄙、下流的笑话了，您这个道德败坏的、下流的色鬼！”
“席勒，我们的席勒，简直就是席勒：Oùva－t－ellelavertusenicher？①您知道吗，我要故意给您讲一些这样的事情，好听听您高声叫喊。真让人高兴！”
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①法文，“哪里没有善行”之意。据说这是法国著名喜剧作家莫里衷（一六二二——一六七三）的一句话。据说，有一次莫里哀给了一个乞丐一枚金币，乞丐以为他给错了，问他，他就是这样回答的。
“当然啦，难道这时候我自己不觉得自己好笑吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地低声说。
斯维德里盖洛夫放声哈哈大笑；最后叫来了菲利普，付了帐，站起身来。
“咽，是的，我喝醉了，assezcausé①！”他说，“真高兴啊！”
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①法文，“闲扯得够了”之意。
“那还用说，您还会不高兴，”拉斯科利尼科夫高声说，说着也站起来了，“对于一个老色鬼来说，讲这样的奇遇，——而且怀有这种荒谬绝伦的意图，——怎么会不高兴呢，而且还是在这样的情况下，讲给一个像我这样的人听……是够刺激的。”
“嗯，如果是这样，”斯维德里盖洛夫甚至有几分惊讶地回答，同时仔细打量着拉斯科利尼科夫，“如果是这样的话，那么您也是个相当厚颜无耻的人了。至少您是成为这种人的好材料。很多，很多东西您都能理解……嗯，很多事情也都能做呢。唉，不过，够了。由衷地感到遗憾，没能跟您多聊聊，可您是不会离开我的……不过请您稍等一会儿……”
斯维德里盖洛夫走出了小饭馆。拉斯科利尼科夫跟着他走了出去。然而斯维德里盖洛夫醉得并不十分厉害；酒劲儿只不过有一会儿工夫冲了上来，时间慢慢逝去，醉意也渐渐消失了。有一件什么事情，一件非常重要的事情让他十分挂心，他皱起了眉头。显然，他是因为等待着什么而焦急不安。最后这几分钟里，他对拉斯科利尼科夫的态度突然变了，而且越来越粗暴，越来超含讥带讽。这一切拉斯科利尼科夫都看出来了，他也感到不安了。他开始感到斯维德里盖洛夫十分可疑，决定跟着他。
他们走到了人行道上。
“您往右，我往左，或者，也可以相反，只不过——adieu，monplaisir①，愿我们愉快地再见！”
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①法文，“再见，我亲爱的”之意。
于是他往右，向干草广场走去。
Part 6 Chapter 5
Raskolnikov walked after him.
"What's this?" cried Svidrigailov turning round, "I thought I said . . ."
"It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now."
"What?"
Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their strength.
"From all your half tipsy stories," Raskolnikov observed harshly, "I am /positive/ that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this time. . . . You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing. I should like to make certain myself."
Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he wished to make certain.
"Upon my word! I'll call the police!"
"Call away!"
Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigailov's face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air.
"What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair, though I am devoured by curiosity. It's a fantastic affair. I've put it off till another time, but you're enough to rouse the dead. . . . Well, let us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to get some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab and go to spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?"
"I'm coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna, to say I'm sorry not to have been at the funeral."
"That's as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told her too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It produced an indescribable effect on her. That's why Sofya Semyonovna has been invited to call to-day at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time."
"No matter, I'll come all the same."
"As you like, it's nothing to me, but I won't come with you; here we are at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just because I have shown such delicacy and have not so far troubled you with questions . . . you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I don't mind betting it's that. Well, it teaches one to show delicacy!"
"And to listen at doors!"
"Ah, that's it, is it?" laughed Svidrigailov. "Yes, I should have been surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha! Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and were telling Sofya Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I am quite behind the times and can't understand. For goodness' sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!"
"You couldn't have heard anything. You're making it all up!"
"But I'm not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I'm talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If that's how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance: you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that one mustn't listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one's pleasure, you'd better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man! There may still be time. I'm speaking sincerely. Haven't you the money? I'll give you the fare."
"I'm not thinking of that at all," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.
"I understand (but don't put yourself out, don't discuss it if you don't want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over-- moral ones, aren't they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are nothing to you now, ha-ha! You'll say you are still a man and a citizen. If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It's no use taking up a job you are not fit for. Well, you'd better shoot yourself, or don't you want to?"
"You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you."
"What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see, that's the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don't you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won't be till late in the evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me, didn't you? Here we are. Madame Resslich's not at home. She is a woman who is always busy, an excellent woman I assure you. . . . She might have been of use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this five-per-cent bond out of the bureau--see what a lot I've got of them still--this one will be turned into cash to-day. I mustn't waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I'm going to the Islands. Would you like a lift? I'll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind, we'll put down the hood. . . ."
Svidrigailov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a word he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had only turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigailov get out not a hundred paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him away from Svidrigailov.
"To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!" he cried.
Raskolnikov's judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was something about Svidrigailov which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigailov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this.
When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him.
He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing her. Dounia had never met him like this in the street before and was struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether to call to him or not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigailov coming quickly from the direction of the Hay Market.
He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid Raskolnikov's seeing him. He had observed Dounia for some time and had been making signs to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak to her brother, but to come to him.
That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to Svidrigailov.
"Let us make haste away," Svidrigailov whispered to her, "I don't want Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting. I must tell you I've been sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up and I had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter to you and suspects something. It wasn't you who told him, of course, but if not you, who then?"
"Well, we've turned the corner now," Dounia interrupted, "and my brother won't see us. I have to tell you that I am going no further with you. Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street."
"In the first place, I can't say it in the street; secondly, you must hear Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers. . . . Oh well, if you won't agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very curious secret of your beloved brother's is entirely in my keeping."
Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigailov with searching eyes.
"What are you afraid of?" he observed quietly. "The town is not the country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you."
"Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?"
"No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain whether she is at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother to-day: she is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For the time I don't want to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken to you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it. That's the porter of our house--he knows me very well; you see, he's bowing; he sees I'm coming with a lady and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad of that if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse my putting things so coarsely. I haven't a flat to myself; Sofya Semyonovna's room is next to mine--she lodges in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?"
Svidrigailov's lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dounia did not notice this peculiar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened of him like a child and that he was so terrible to her.
"Though I know that you are not a man . . . of honour, I am not in the least afraid of you. Lead the way," she said with apparent composure, but her face was very pale.
Svidrigailov stopped at Sonia's room.
"Allow me to inquire whether she is at home. . . . She is not. How unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she's gone out, it can only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is dead. . . . I've been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sofya Semyonovna does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, to-day if you like. This is my flat. These are my two rooms. Madame Resslich, my landlady, has the next room. Now, look this way. I will show you my chief piece of evidence: this door from my bedroom leads into two perfectly empty rooms, which are to let. Here they are . . . You must look into them with some attention."
Svidrigailov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dounia was looking about her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the furniture or position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe, for instance, that Svidrigailov's flat was exactly between two sets of almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from the passage, but through the landlady's two almost empty rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom, Svidrigailov showed Dounia the two empty rooms that were to let. Dounia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what she was called to look upon, but Svidrigailov hastened to explain.
"Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it's locked. By the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it from my rooms so as to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the door is Sofya Semyonovna's table; she sat there talking to Rodion Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two hours each time--and of course I was able to learn something, what do you think?"
"You listened?"
"Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can't sit down here."
He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting-room and offered her a chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven feet from her, but probably there was the same glow in his eyes which had once frightened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of Svidrigailov's lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at least were at home, but pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had another trouble in her heart incomparably greater than fear for herself. She was in great distress.
"Here is your letter," she said, laying it on the table. "Can it be true what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by my brother. You hint at it too clearly; you daren't deny it now. I must tell you that I'd heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don't believe a word of it. It's a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story and why and how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to prove it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don't believe you! I don't believe you!"
Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour rushed to her face.
"If you didn't believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms? Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?"
"Don't torment me. Speak, speak!"
"There's no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought you would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not with you nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It's spirited of you, it proves you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch. But everything is divine in you. . . . About your brother, what am I to say to you? You've just seen him yourself. What did you think of him?"
"Surely that's not the only thing you are building on?"
"No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I've shown you where they sat. He made a full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister too, a pedlar woman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and various things. . . . He told all this, word for word, to Sofya Semyonovna, the only person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word or deed in the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don't be anxious, she won't betray him."
"It cannot be," muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for breath. "It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground. . . . It's a lie, a lie!"
"He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and things. It's true that by his own admission he made no use of the money or things, but hid them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he dared not make use of them."
"But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?" cried Dounia, and she jumped up from the chair. "Why, you know him, and you've seen him, can he be a thief?"
She seemed to be imploring Svidrigailov; she had entirely forgotten her fear.
"There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities, Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I've heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very likely he thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have believed it myself if I'd been told of it as you have, but I believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofya Semyonovna too, but she did not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at last."
"What . . . were the causes?"
"It's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here's . . . how shall I tell you?--A theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider that a single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It's galling too, of course, for a young man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole future would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sister's and mother's position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too. . . . I am not blaming him, please don't think it; besides, it's not my business. A special little theory came in too--a theory of a sort--dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It's all right as a theory, /une theorie comme une autre/. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated at wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He seems to have fancied that he was a genius too--that is, he was convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is still suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapable of boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of genius. And that's humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially. . . ."
"But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?"
"Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it was ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their ideas, Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land and exceedingly disposed to the fantastic, the chaotic. But it's a misfortune to be broad without a special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on this subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why, you used to reproach me with breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking at the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There are no sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class, Avdotya Romanovna. At the best someone will make them up somehow for himself out of books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the learned and all old fogeys, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man of society. You know my opinions in general, though. I never blame anyone. I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But we've talked of this more than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my opinions. . . . You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna."
"I know his theory. I read that article of his about men to whom all is permitted. Razumihin brought it to me."
"Mr. Razumihin? Your brother's article? In a magazine? Is there such an article? I didn't know. It must be interesting. But where are you going, Avdotya Romanovna?"
"I want to see Sofya Semyonovna," Dounia articulated faintly. "How do I go to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once. Perhaps she . . ."
Avdotya Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her.
"Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe not. She was to have been back at once, but if not, then she will not be in till quite late."
"Ah, then you are lying! I see . . . you were lying . . . lying all the time. . . . I don't believe you! I don't believe you!" cried Dounia, completely losing her head.
Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigailov made haste to give her.
"Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water. Drink a little. . . ."
He sprinkled some water over her. Dounia shuddered and came to herself.
"It has acted violently," Svidrigailov muttered to himself, frowning. "Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has friends. We will save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get a ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great man yet. Well, how are you? How do you feel?"
"Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go . . ."
"Where are you going?"
"To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in at that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock it?"
"We couldn't be shouting all over the flat on such a subject. I am far from jeering; it's simply that I'm sick of talking like this. But how can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already being watched; they are already on his track. You will simply be giving him away. Wait a little: I saw him and was talking to him just now. He can still be saved. Wait a bit, sit down; let us think it over together. I asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to consider it thoroughly. But do sit down!"
"How can you save him? Can he really be saved?"
Dounia sat down. Svidrigailov sat down beside her.
"It all depends on you, on you, on you alone," he begin with glowing eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for emotion.
Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over.
"You . . . one word from you, and he is saved. I . . . I'll save him. I have money and friends. I'll send him away at once. I'll get a passport, two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends . . . capable people. . . . If you like, I'll take a passport for you . . . for your mother. . . . What do you want with Razumihin? I love you too. . . . I love you beyond everything. . . . Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let me. . . . The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, 'do that,' and I'll do it. I'll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I'll do anything --anything! Don't, don't look at me like that. Do you know that you are killing me? . . ."
He was almost beginning to rave. . . . Something seemed suddenly to go to his head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to the door.
"Open it! Open it!" she called, shaking the door. "Open it! Is there no one there?"
Svidrigailov got up and came to himself. His still trembling lips slowly broke into an angry mocking smile.
"There is no one at home," he said quietly and emphatically. "The landlady has gone out, and it's waste of time to shout like that. You are only exciting yourself uselessly."
"Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!"
"I have lost the key and cannot find it."
"This is an outrage," cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She rushed to the furthest corner, where she made haste to barricade herself with a little table.
She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched every movement he made.
Svidrigailov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her. He was positively composed, at least in appearance, but his face was pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face.
"You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you may be sure I've taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The Kapernaumovs are far away--there are five locked rooms between. I am at least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear, besides. For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing actually to betray your brother? Besides, no one would believe you. How should a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing. It is very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotya Romanovna."
"Scoundrel!" whispered Dounia indignantly.
"As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general proposition. It's my personal conviction that you are perfectly right --violence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse even if . . . you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think about it. Your brother's and your mother's fate are in your hands. I will be your slave . . . all my life . . . I will wait here."
Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dounia. She had not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination. Besides, she knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigailov jumped up.
"Aha! So that's it, is it?" he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously. "Well, that completely alters the aspect of affairs. You've made things wonderfully easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it's my revolver, an old friend! And how I've hunted for it! The shooting lessons I've given you in the country have not been thrown away."
"It's not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed, wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I swear I'll kill you." She was frantic.
"But your brother? I ask from curiosity," said Svidrigailov, still standing where he was.
"Inform, if you want to! Don't stir! Don't come nearer! I'll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!" She held the revolver ready.
"Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?"
"You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison. . . . I know you went to get it . . . you had it in readiness. . . . It was your doing. . . . It must have been your doing. . . . Scoundrel!"
"Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake . . . you would have been the cause."
"You are lying! I hated you always, always. . . ."
"Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?"
"That's a lie," there was a flash of fury in Dounia's eyes, "that's a lie and a libel!"
"A lie? Well, if you like, it's a lie. I made it up. Women ought not to be reminded of such things," he smiled. "I know you will shoot, you pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away!"
Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and laughed softly.
"The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What's this? Blood?" he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just grazed the skin.
Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov not so much in terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what she was doing and what was going on.
"Well, you missed! Fire again, I'll wait," said Svidrigailov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. "If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize you before you cock again."
Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.
"Let me be," she cried in despair. "I swear I'll shoot again. I . . . I'll kill you."
"Well . . . at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don't . . . then." His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot again: it missed fire.
"You haven't loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge there. Get it ready, I'll wait."
He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia saw that he would sooner die than let her go. "And . . . now, of course she would kill him, at two paces!" Suddenly she flung away the revolver.
"She's dropped it!" said Svidrigailov with surprise, and he drew a deep breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart--perhaps not only the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which he could not himself have defined.
He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes. He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a sound.
"Let me go," Dounia implored. Svidrigailov shuddered. Her voice now was quite different.
"Then you don't love me?" he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.
"And . . . and you can't? Never?" he whispered in despair.
"Never!"
There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of Svidrigailov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it. Another moment passed.
"Here's the key."
He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.
"Take it! Make haste!"
He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the table to take the key.
"Make haste! Make haste!" repeated Svidrigailov, still without turning or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that "make haste."
Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X. Bridge.
Svidrigailov remained three minutes standing at the window. At last he slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his forehead. A strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand. He looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and washed his temple. The revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He thought a little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat and went out.
 
拉斯科利尼科夫跟在他的后面。
“这是怎么回事！”斯维德里盖洛夫回过头来，高声叫喊，“我好像说过了……”
“这就是说，现在我决不离开您。”
“什么——么？”
两人都站住了，两人彼此对看了约摸一分钟光景，仿佛在互相估量对方。
“从所有您那些半醉的醉话里，”拉斯科利尼科夫毫不客气、毫无顾忌地说，“我完全得出结论，您不仅没有放弃对我妹妹那些最卑鄙的打算，而且甚至比任何时候都更积极地策划着什么阴谋。我知道，今天早晨我妹妹收到了一封信。您一直坐立不安……即使您半路上找到一个妻子；但是这并不能说明您改了主意。我要亲自证实……”
拉斯科利尼科夫自己也未必能够确定，现在他到底要干什么，他想亲自证实的到底是什么事情。
“原来如此！您想叫我立刻喊警察吗？”
“喊吧！”
他们又面对面地站了约摸一分钟。最后斯维德里盖洛夫脸上的神情改变了。待他确信拉斯科利尼科夫不怕威胁以后，突然又装出一副最快活、最友好的样子。
“您真是！我故意不跟您谈您的事情，尽管我自然是好奇得要死。这件事是很离奇的。本想留到下次再说，可是，真的，就连死人，您也能把他给惹恼了……好，咱们一道走吧，不过我要事先声明：现在我只不过要回家去一下，拿点儿钱；然后锁上房门，叫辆出租马车，到群岛上去兜一晚上。您跟着我去干什么呢？”
“我暂时到你们那幢房子里去，不过不是去您那儿，而是去索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜那里，为我没去参加葬礼向她道声歉。”
“这随您的便，不过索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜不在家。她领着孩子们到一位太太那儿去了，是一位显贵的老太太，我很久以前的熟人，也是几座孤儿院的主管人。我把抚养卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜三个孩子的那笔钱都交给了她，此外还给孤儿院捐了些钱，这样一来，就使那位太太仿佛中了我的魔法，对我的请求她还能不答应吗；我还对她讲了索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的故事，把所有详情细节都毫不隐瞒地告诉了她。给她留下了无法形容的深刻印象。所以索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜接到邀请，请她今天直接去×旅馆，我的这位太太从别墅回来，暂时就住在那里。”
“没关系，我还是要去。”
“悉听尊便，不过我可不跟您一道去；这和我毫不相干！您瞧，我们已经到家了。我相信，您所以用怀疑的目光来看我，是因为我竟这么有礼貌，直到现在没向您打听过什么……您说，是不是呢？您明白我的意思吗？您觉得这有些异常；我敢打赌，准是这样！嗯，所以请您对我也要懂点儿礼貌。”
“可是您躲在门后偷听！”
“啊，您指的是这个！”斯维德里盖洛夫笑了起来，“是啊，谈了半天，如果您不提这件事，那我倒要觉得奇怪了。哈！哈！
我虽然多少知道一点儿那时候您……在那里……干的那件事，还有您亲自对索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜说了些什么，不过这到底是怎么回事？我也许是个完全落后于时代的人了，什么也弄不懂。看在上帝份上，请您给解释一下，亲爱的！请您用最新的原理开导开导我吧。”
“您什么也听不到的，您一直是在说谎！”
“我指的不是那个，不是那个（不过，我至少也听到了一点儿），不，我指的是，现在您总是在唉声叹气！席勒在您心中一刻不停地骚动着。瞧，现在又不许人躲在门后偷听了。既然如此，那就请您去报告长官吧，就说，如此这般，我发生了这么一件意外的事：在理论上出了个小小的差错。如果您确信不能躲在门后偷听，却可以随心所欲，用随手抓到的什么东西去杀死一个老太婆，那么您就赶快逃到美国去吧！逃跑吧，年轻人！也许还有时间。我说这话是十分真诚的。没有钱，是吗？我给您路费。”
“我根本就没这么想，”拉斯科利尼科夫厌恶地打断了他的话。
“我明白（不过，您不要让自己为难：如果您愿意，那就用不着多说）；我明白，您心里在考虑什么问题：道德问题，是吗？是作为一个公民的道德问题，作人的道德问题？您把这些都丢到一边去；现在您还考虑这些干什么？嘿！嘿！因为您毕竟还是一个公民和人吗？既然如此，那就不该乱闯；别去干不该由您来干的事。嗯，那您就拿支枪来，开枪自杀吧，怎么，还是不想自杀呢？”
“您好像是故意想惹我发火，只不过是为了让我马上离开您……”
“瞧，真是个怪人，不过我们已经到了，请上楼吧。您看到了吧，这就是索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的房门，您看，一个人也没有！不相信吗？您去问问卡佩尔纳乌莫夫；她常把钥匙交给他们。喏，这就是她本人，madamede①卡佩尔纳乌莫夫，啊？什么？（她有点儿耳聋）出去了？去哪儿了？瞧，现在您听到了吧？她不在家，也许到晚上天很晚的时候还回不来。好吧，现在去我家吧。您不是也想去我家吗？好，已经到我家了。Madame列斯莉赫不在家。这个女人总是到处奔忙，不过是个好人，请您相信……说不定您也会用得到她，如果您稍微通情达理一点儿的话。瞧，我从写字台里拿了这张五厘债券（瞧，我还有多少这种债券啊！），这一张今天要拿到银钱兑换商人那里去兑现。嗯，看到了吧？现在我用不着再浪费时间了。写字台上了锁，房门也锁上了，我们又来到了楼梯上。您要乐意的话，咱们就叫一辆出租马车！要知道，我要上群岛去。您要不要坐马车兜兜风？我要雇辆马车去叶拉金，怎么样？您不去吗？您不坚持到底吗？去兜一兜嘛，没关系。好像要下雨，没关系，咱们把车篷放下来就是……”
--------
①法文，“……的太太”之意。
斯维德里盖洛夫已经坐到了马车上。拉斯科利尼科夫考虑，他的怀疑至少在目前是不正确的。他一句话也没回答，转身又往干草广场那个方向走去。如果他在路上哪怕只回头看一次，那么他就会看到，斯维德里盖洛夫坐着马车还没走出一百步，就付了车钱，下车走到了人行道上。但是他已经什么也看不到了，他已经在拐角上转弯了。深深的厌恶心情使他离开了斯维德里盖洛夫。
“这个粗野的恶棍，这个淫荡的色鬼和下流东西能做什么呢，至少是目前，我料想他也做不出什么来！”他不由自主地高声说。真的，拉斯科利尼科夫的判断作得太匆忙，也太轻率了。环绕着斯维德里盖洛夫的一切之中都好像有某种东西，使他显得即使不是神秘，至少也有些奇怪。至于说这一切和他妹妹有什么关系，拉斯科利尼科夫仍然坚信，斯维德里盖洛夫是决不会让她安宁的。但是反复考虑所有这些事情，他实在是感到太苦恼和无法忍受了！
只剩了他一个人以后，和往常一样，走了二十来步，他又陷入沉思。上了桥，他在栏杆旁站住了，开始眺望河水。这时阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜正站着注视着他。
他在桥头就遇到了她，可是他没看清，从她身边走过去了。杜涅奇卡还从来没在街上看到他像这个样子，不由得吃了一惊。她站住了，不知道该不该叫他。突然她看到了从干草广场那边匆匆走近的斯维德里盖洛夫。
不过斯维德里盖洛夫好像是神秘而且小心翼翼地走近前来。他没上桥，在旁边人行道上站住了，并且竭力不让拉斯科利尼科夫看到他。他已经早就看到了杜尼娅，开始向她作手势。她好像觉得，他作手势，是叫她不要喊哥哥，不要惊动他，叫她到他那里去。
杜尼娅这样做了。她悄悄地从哥哥身边绕过去，来到斯维德里盖洛夫跟前。
“咱们快走，”斯维德里盖洛夫悄悄地对她说。“我不想让罗季昂•罗曼内奇知道我们会面。我预先告诉您，刚才我和他坐在离这儿不远的一家小饭馆里，他在那儿找到了我，我好容易才摆脱了他。不知为什么他知道了我给您的那封信，起了疑心。当然，不是您告诉他的吧？不过，如果不是您，那会是谁呢？”
“我们已经转了弯，”杜尼娅打断了他的话，“现在哥哥看不到我们了。我要对您说，我不再跟您往前走了。请您在这儿把一切都告诉我；什么话都可以在街上说。”
“第一，这些话无论如何也不能在街上说；第二，您应该听听索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜会说些什么；第三，我要让您看一些证据……嗯，最后，如果您不同意去我那里，我就拒绝作任何解释，立刻就走。同时请您不要忘记，您那位亲爱的哥哥有一个绝非寻常的秘密完全掌握在我的手里。”
杜尼娅犹豫不决地站住了，用锐利的目光盯着斯维德里盖洛夫。
“您怕什么！”他平静地说，“城市不比农村。就是在农村里，也是您对我造成的伤害比我对您造成的伤害更大，而这里……”
“事先告诉过索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜吗？”
“不，我一个字也没向她透露过，而且现在她是不是在家，我也并不完全有把握。不过，大概在家。她今天才安葬了她的继母：在这样的日子，是不会出去作客的。暂时我不想把这件事告诉任何人，就连告诉了您，都还有点儿后悔呢。这件事，只要稍有不慎，就等于告密。我就住在这儿，就住在这幢房子里，我们这就到了。这是我们这儿管院子的；他跟我很熟；瞧，他在跟我打招呼了；他看到我跟一位女士在一道走，当然已经看到您的脸了，这对您是有利的，既然您很害怕，而且怀疑我。我说得这么粗鲁，请您原谅。我住的房子是向二房东租来的。索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜就住在我隔壁，也是跟二房东租的房子。这一层楼都住满了房客。您干吗像个小孩子似的那么害怕？还是我当真那么可怕呢？”
斯维德里盖洛夫宽容地微笑着，脸上的表情显得很不自然；可是他已经没有笑的心情了。他的心在怦怦地狂跳，喘不过气来。他故意说得声音响一些，以掩饰他那越来越激动的心情；然而杜尼娅没能发觉他这种特殊的激动；他说，她像小孩子那样怕他，对她来说，他是那么可怕，——这些话激怒了她，简直把她气坏了。
“虽然我知道您是个……没有人格的人，可是我一点儿也不怕您。您在前面走吧，”她说，看上去神情镇静，可是脸色白得厉害。
斯维德里盖洛夫在索尼娅房门前站住了。
“让我问一下，她在不在家。不在。不巧！不过我知道，她很快就会回来。如果她出去，准是为了那些孤儿到一位太太那里去了。他们的母亲死了。我也帮着料理过丧事。如果再过十分钟索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜还不回来，那么我叫她去找您，如果您乐意，今天就去；瞧，这就是我的房子。这是我住的两间房间。我的房东，列斯莉赫太太住在隔壁。现在请看这里，我让您看看我的主要证据：我卧室的这扇门通往正在招租的两间空房子。就是这两间……这您可要仔细看看……”
斯维德里盖洛夫住着两间带家具的、相当宽敞的房间。杜涅奇卡怀疑地朝四下里仔细看了看，可是，无论是屋里的陈设，还是房屋的布局，都没发现有什么特殊的地方，虽然也可以看出，譬如说，斯维德里盖洛夫的房子不知怎么正好夹在两套没住人的房子中间。不是从走廊直接进入他的房间，而是要穿过房东那两间几乎空荡荡的房子。斯维德里盖洛夫打开卧室里一扇锁着的门，让杜涅奇卡看一套也是空着的、正在招租的房子。杜涅奇卡在门口站住了，弄不懂为什么请她看这套房子，斯维德里盖洛夫赶紧解释说：
“请您往这里看，看看这第二间大房子。请看看这扇门，门是锁着的。门边有一把椅子，两间屋里只有这么一把椅子。这是我从自己屋里搬来的，为的是坐着听比较舒服些。索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜的桌子就摆在门后，紧挨着这扇门；她就是坐在那儿和罗季昂•罗曼内奇说话儿的。而我，就坐在椅子上，在这儿偷听，一连听了两个晚上，每次都听了两个钟头，——当然啦，我是能够听到点儿什么的，您认为呢？”
“您偷听过？”
“是的，我偷听过；现在到我屋里去吧；这儿连个坐的地方都没有。”
他领着阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜回到他作客厅的第一间房间里，请她坐到椅子上。他自己坐在桌子的另一头，离她至少有一沙绳①远，但是他的眼里已经闪射出当时曾使杜涅奇卡感到那么害怕的欲火了。她颤栗了一下，又怀疑地朝四下里看了看。她表面上镇定的样子是装出来的；看来她不想让他看出，她怀疑他。然而斯维德里盖洛夫的房子夹在两套空房之间，显得十分僻静，这终于使她感到害怕了。她想问问，至少他的房东是不是在家，可是由于自尊，她没有问……何况她心里还有另一种痛苦，比为自己担心而感到的恐惧还要严重得多。她痛苦极了，简直无法忍受。
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①一沙绳等于二•一三四米。
“这就是您的信，”她把那封信放到桌子上，说：“您信上写的事情难道是可能的吗？您暗示，似乎我哥哥犯了罪。您的暗示太明显了，现在您总不敢否认吧。您要知道，在您给我写信以前，我就听到过这种愚蠢的谎言，可我连一个字都不相信。这是卑鄙而又可笑的怀疑。我知道这件事，而且知道它是怎样和为什么捏造出来的。您不可能有任何证据。您答应要让我看：那么您说吧！不过您事先就要明白，我不相信您的话！我不相信！……”
杜涅奇卡说得很快，很急，她的脸霎时间变得绯红。
“如果您不相信，那您怎么会冒险只身到我这里来呢？您为什么来？只是由于好奇吗？”
“请别折磨我了，您说呀，您说吧！”
“您是一位勇敢的姑娘，这没说的。真的，我还以为您会请拉祖米欣先生陪您来呢。可是他既没跟您一道来，也不在您周围，我的确看过：这是勇敢的，这么说，您是想保护罗季昂•罗曼内奇了。不过，您的一切都是神圣的……至于说到令兄，我能对您说什么呢？您刚刚亲眼看到他了。他怎么样？”
“您不会只是根据这一点吧？”
“不，不是根据这一点，而是以他自己的话来作根据的。他曾一连两个晚上来索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜这里。我已经让您看过，他们是坐在哪里的。他向她完全坦白了。他是凶手。他杀了那个放高利贷的老太婆，杀了那个官太太，他自己也曾经在她那儿抵押过东西；他还杀了她的妹妹，一个叫莉扎薇塔的女小贩，她在姐姐被杀害的时候，意外地闯了进去。他是用随身带去的斧头把她们两人杀死的。他杀死她们，是为了抢劫，而且也抢了些钱财；他拿走了一些钱和一些东西……他把这一切全都原原本本地告诉了索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，只有她一个人知道这个秘密，不过她没参与谋杀，也没给他出过主意，恰恰相反，她也像您现在一样十分害怕。请您放心，她不会出卖他。”
“这不可能！”杜涅奇卡喃喃地说，嘴唇白得毫无血色，感到喘不过气来，“不可能，没有任何原因，没有丝毫原因，没有任何理由……这是谎言！谎言！”
“他抢劫了，这就是全部原因。他拿了钱和东西。诚然，据他自己说，他既没用过那些钱，也没用过那些东西，而是把它们拿到一个什么地方，藏到石头底下了，现在还放在那儿。但这是因为他不敢用。”
“难道他会去偷，去抢，这可能吗？难道他会产生这样的念头？”杜尼娅惊呼，从椅子上霍地站了起来。“您不是知道，见过他吗？难道他会是个小偷？”
她仿佛是央求斯维德里盖洛夫；她把自己的恐惧完全忘了。
“阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，这儿情况极其错综复杂，千差万别。小偷偷东西，可是他心里明白，他是个坏蛋；可是我听说有一个高尚的人抢劫了邮车；不过谁知道他呢，也许他当真以为，他干的是一件正当的事！如果是旁人告诉我的，当然，我也会像您一样，根本不信。可是我相信自己的耳朵。就连原因，他都向索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜作了说明；可是起初她不相信自己的耳朵，但终于相信了眼睛，相信了自己的眼睛。因为是他亲自告诉她的。”
“那么是什么……原因呢？”
“说来话长，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。怎么跟您说呢，这也好像是一种理论，根据这种理论，我认为，譬如说，这就和这种说法是一样的：如果主要目的是好的，那么个别暴行也是可以允许的。干唯一一件坏事，完成一百件好事！一个有许多优点和过于自负的青年人知道，譬如说吧，只要他能有三千卢布，那么在他的生活目的中，整个前程和未来就都会完全不同，然而他却没有这三千卢布，对他来说，这当然也是会感到委屈的。再加上挨饿，住房窄小，衣衫褴褛，明确意识到自己的社会地位以及妹妹和母亲的处境太好①，因而愤愤不平。最严重的是虚荣心，自尊心和虚荣心，不过，谁知道他呢，也许他有崇高的志向……我并不是责备他，请您别那么想；而且这也不关我的事。这儿也有他自己的一个理论，——一种平平常常的理论，——根据这种理论，您要知道，人被分作普通材料和特殊人物，也就是说，对于他们，由于他们地位高，法律不是为他们制订的，恰恰相反，他们自己可以为其余的人，也就是那些普通材料、垃圾制订法律。还不错，一种平平常常的理论；unethéoriecommeuneautre②。拿破仑使他心驰神往，也就是说，使他心驰神往的其实是：许多天才的人对那唯一一件坏事根本不屑一顾，而是毫不犹豫地跨越过去。好像他也自以为是个天才的人，——也就是说，在某一段时间里相信是这样的。他曾经很痛苦，现在还在感到痛苦，因为他意识到，他能创造理论，却不能毫不犹豫地跨越过去，可见他不是个天才的人。对于一个有自尊心的年轻人来说，这可是有伤尊严的，特别是在我们这个时代……”
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①这是一句带有讽刺意味的反话。
②法文，“和任何别的理论一样”之意。
“可是良心的谴责呢？这么说，您否认他有任何道德观念？
难道他是一个这样的人？”
“唉，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，现在一切都混乱了，不过，也就是说，从来也没特别有条理过。一般说，俄罗斯人眼界都很开阔，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，他们的眼界就像他们的国土一样开阔，非常爱幻想，喜欢杂乱无章；然而只是眼界开阔，没有特殊才能，却是一种灾难。您记得吗，每天晚上晚饭以后，我和您两个人坐在花园里的露台上，曾多次交换过意见，谈论这一类问题和这个话题。正是为了这种开阔的眼界，您还责备过我呢。谁知道呢，也许就在我们谈论这一切的时候，他也正躺在这儿考虑自己的计划吧。阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，要知道，在我们知识界，没有什么特别神圣的传统：除非有人设法根据书本编造出来……或者从编年史里引伸出来。不过干这种事的多半是那些学者们，您要知道，就某一点来说，他们也都是些头脑简单的人，所以上流社会的人做这种事情甚至是有伤大雅的。不过，一般说，我的意见您都知道了；我绝不责备任何人。我是个不劳动的人，而且抱定这个宗旨，决不改变。关于这一点，我们已经谈过不止一次了。我甚至有幸以自己的意见引起您的兴趣……您的脸色很苍白，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜！”
“他这个理论我是知道的。我看过他在杂志上发表的一篇文章，谈到有一些人可以为所欲为……是拉祖米欣拿给我看的……”
“拉祖米欣先生吗？令兄的一篇文章？登在杂志上？有这样一篇文章吗？我可不知道。这想必很有意思！不过您要上哪儿去，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜？”
“我想见见索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，”杜涅奇卡用有气无力的声音说。“到她家去该怎么走？她也许已经回来了；我一定要立刻见到她。让她……”
阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜没能说完；她真的是气都喘不过来了。
“索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜要到夜里才会回来。我这样认为。
她应该很快就回来，如果回不来，那就要很迟才……”
“啊，那么你是说谎！我看得出来……你说过谎……你一直是说谎！……我不相信你的话！我不信！我不信！”杜涅奇卡当真是发狂地高声叫喊，完全惊慌失措了。
她几乎是晕倒在斯维德里盖洛夫急忙放到她身后的椅子上了。
“阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，您怎么了，您醒醒啊！喏，这是水。请您喝口水……”
他往她脸上洒了些水。杜涅奇卡颤栗了一下，醒过来了。
“十分有效！”斯维德里盖洛夫皱起眉头，含糊不清地喃喃自语。“阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜，请您放心！您要知道，他有几个朋友。我们会救他，会把他救出来。您希望我把他送到国外去吗？我有钱；三天内我就能弄到船票。至于说他杀了人，可是他还会做许多好事呢，那么这就可以赎罪了；请您放心好了。他还可以成为一个伟大的人呢。嗯，您怎么了？
您觉得身体怎么样？”
“恶毒的人！他还在嘲笑呢。让我走……”
“您去哪里？您往哪里去啊？”
“到他那里去。他在哪里？您知道吗？这道门为什么锁起来了？我们是从这道门进来的，现在却锁上了。您是什么时候把它锁上的？”
“可不能高声大喊，让所有房间里的人都听到我们在这里说的话。我根本没有嘲笑；只不过用这种语言说话，我已经感到厌烦了。您这副样子要上哪儿去！还是您想出卖他呢？您会逼得他发疯的，那么他就会去自首了。您要知道，已经在监视他了，已经发现了线索。您只会出卖了他。您先等一等：我刚才见到过他，跟他谈过；还可以救他。您等一等，再坐一会儿，我们一起想想办法。我请您来，就是为了和您单独谈谈这件事，好好考虑考虑。您请坐啊！”
“您能用什么办法救他？难道能救他吗？”
杜尼娅坐下了。斯维德里盖洛夫坐到她的身边。
“这一切都取决于您，取决于您，取决于您一个人，”他两眼闪闪发光，几乎是悄悄地低声说，前言不搭后语，由于激动，有些话甚至说不出来。
杜尼娅惊恐地躲开，离开他稍远一点儿。他也在浑身发抖。
“您……只要您一句话，他就得救了！我……我来救他。我有钱，也有朋友。我立刻送他走，我去弄护照，两张护照。一张是他的，另一张是我的。我有朋友；我有一些很能干的人……您愿意吗？我还要给您也弄一张护照……还有令堂的……您要拉祖米欣干什么？我也爱您……我无限爱您。让我吻一吻您衣服的边吧，让我吻一下吧，让我吻一下吧！我不能听到您的衣服窸窸窣窣的响声。您只要对我说：去做那件事，我就会去做！我什么都会去做。就连不可能的事我也能办得到。您信仰什么，我也会信仰什么。我什么，什么事情都会去做！请别看，请别这样看着我！您要知道，您这是在杀死我……”
他甚至胡言乱语起来。突然间他不知是怎么了，似乎头脑突然发昏了。杜尼娅跳起来，往门口跑去。
“开门！开门！”她隔着门高声叫喊，双手摇着房门，叫人来给她开门。“把门开开呀！难道一个人也没有吗？”
斯维德里盖洛夫站起来，清醒过来了。他那还在抖动着的嘴唇上慢慢地勉强露出了凶狠和讥讽的微笑。
“那里一个人也不在家，”他轻轻地、一字一顿地说，“女房东出去了，这样叫喊是白费力气：只不过徒然使自己激动。”
“钥匙呢？立刻把门开开，立刻，下流的东西！”
“我把钥匙弄丢了，找不到。”
“啊？那么这是强奸！”杜尼娅大喊一声，脸色白得像死人一样，冲到一个角落里，随手抓到一张小桌子，拖过去用它来掩护自己。她没有高声叫喊；不过用眼睛紧紧盯着那个折磨她的人，机警地注意他的每一个动作。斯维德里盖洛夫也没动地方，站在房屋另一头，她的对面。他甚至镇静下来了，至少从表面上看是这样。可他的脸色仍然白得吓人。嘲讽的微笑并没有从他脸上消失。
“您刚刚说‘强奸’，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。如果是强奸，那么您自己也可以考虑到，我已经采取了措施。索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜不在家；离卡佩尔纳乌莫夫家很远，隔着五间上了锁的房子。还有，我的力气至少比您大一倍，此外，我也不用害怕，因为以后您不能去控告我：您不会真的想出卖令兄吧？而且谁也不会相信您的话：嗯，一个姑娘家干吗要到一个单身男人的住房里去呢？所以，即使牺牲哥哥，还是什么都证明不了：强奸是很难证明的，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜。”
“卑鄙的家伙！”杜尼娅愤怒地低声说。
“不管您认为怎样，不过请您注意，我的话还只是作为一个建议。照我个人的看法，您是完全对的：强奸是卑鄙的事。我只不过想要说，您决不会受到良心的谴责，即使……即使您自愿照我建议的那样来搭救令兄。这就是说，您只不过是为环境所迫，嗯，还有，是屈服于暴力，如果非得用这个词儿不可的话。这一点请您考虑考虑吧；令兄和令堂的命运都掌握在您的手里。我愿作您的奴隶……作一辈子……我就在这儿等着……”
斯维德里盖洛夫坐到了沙发上，离杜尼娅大约八步远。他的决心是不可动摇的，对她来说，这一点已经是毫无疑问了。
何况她很了解他……
突然她从口袋里掏出一支手枪，扳起扳机，把拿着手枪的那只手放在小桌子上。斯维德里盖洛夫一下子跳了起来。
“啊哈！真没料到会是这样！”他惊讶地喊了一声，可是恶狠狠地冷笑着，“这样就使事情发生了根本变化！您自己使事情变得非常容易解决了，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜！这手枪您是打哪儿弄来的？不是拉祖米欣先生给您的吧？哎呀！这手枪是我的嘛！老相识了！当时我找它找得好苦哇！……在乡下我曾荣幸地教过您射击，看来并没白教啊！”
“不是你的手枪，是玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜的，是你杀害了她，凶手！她家里什么东西也不是你的。我一猜想到你这个人会干出什么事来，就把它拿过来了。你只要敢迈出一步，我发誓，我就要打死你！”
杜尼娅发狂了。她拿着手枪，作好了准备。
“嗯，那么哥哥呢？我这样问是出于好奇，”斯维德里盖洛夫问，仍然站在原地。
“你去告密吧，如果你想告密的话！不许动！别过来！我要开枪了！你毒死了妻子，这我知道，你就是凶手！……”
“您坚决相信，是我毒死了玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜？”
“是你！你自己向我暗示过；你对我说起过毒药……我知道，你坐车去买来的……你早准备好了……这一定是你……
坏蛋！”
“即使这是真的，那也是为了你……归根到底你是祸根。”
“你胡说！我一向，一向……恨你。”
“哎呀，阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜！看来您忘了，在您狂热地说教的时候，您已经对我有了好感，流露出了自己的感情，……我从您眼睛里看出来了；您记得吗，晚上，在月光下，还有一只夜莺在啼啭？”
“你说谎！（杜尼娅的眼睛里怒火闪烁），你说谎，造谣中伤的家伙！”
“我说谎？好吧，就算我说谎吧。我说了谎。对女人提起这些事情是不应该的。（他冷笑了一声。）我知道你会开枪，你这头美丽的小野兽。那你就开枪吧！”
杜尼娅举起了手枪，脸色白得像死人一样，下嘴唇颤抖着，也白得毫无血色，两只乌黑的大眼睛射出火一般的闪光，紧盯着他，下定了决心，估量着，只等他做出第一个动作。他还从来没看到过她像这样美丽。她举起手枪的时候，从她眼里射出的怒火似乎使他燃烧起来，他的心痛苦地揪紧了。他走出一步，枪声响了。子弹从他头发上擦过，打到了后面的墙上。他站住了，轻轻地笑了起来：
“让黄蜂给螫了一下！直接瞄准脑袋……这是什么？血！”他掏出手帕来擦血，从他右边的太阳穴上流下很细的一缕鲜血；大概子弹稍稍擦伤了头皮。杜尼娅放下手枪，望着斯维德里盖洛夫，与其说是感到恐惧，不如说是感到惊讶，大惑不解。她似乎自己也不明白，她做了什么，发生了什么事情！
“有什么呢，打偏了！再开一枪嘛，我等着，”斯维德里盖洛夫轻轻地
Part 6 Chapter 6
He spent that evening till ten o'clock going from one low haunt to another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain "villain and tyrant"
"began kissing Katia."
Svidrigailov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky three- year-old pine-tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a "Vauxhall," which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken but exceedingly depressed German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent. Svidrigailov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem troublesome. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of the garden. It was about six o'clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than anything.
It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over the sky about ten o'clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five.
Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.
She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She was giving them tea. She received Svidrigailov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror.
Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen.
"I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna," said Svidrigailov, "and as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to you, you need not tell me." (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) "Those people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them I've put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had better take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take them! Well now, that's settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to the value of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for yourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on living in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no need for it now."
"I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my stepmother," said Sonia hurriedly, "and if I've said so little . . . please don't consider . . ."
"That's enough! that's enough!"
"But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you, but I don't need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don't think me ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money. . . ."
"It's for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don't waste words over it. I haven't time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitch has two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia." (Sonia looked wildly at him, and started.) "Don't be uneasy, I know all about it from himself and I am not a gossip; I won't tell anyone. It was good advice when you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much better for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him. That's so, isn't it? And if so, you'll need money. You'll need it for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what's owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna's debt and not yours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can't get through the world like that. If you are ever questioned about me--to-morrow or the day after you will be asked--don't say anything about my coming to see you now and don't show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well, now good- bye." (He got up.) "My greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you'd better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin's keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do. He's not a bad fellow. Take it to him to-morrow or . . . when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully."
Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigailov. She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she did not dare and did not know how to begin.
"How can you . . . how can you be going now, in such rain?"
"Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Good- bye, Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use to others. By the way . . . tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him. Tell him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov sends his greetings. Be sure to."
He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague apprehension.
It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigailov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigailov had probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit father was wheeled in to see Svidrigailov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain something--for instance, when Svidrigailov would like to have the wedding--she would begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street. On other occasions this had of course been very impressive, but this time Arkady Ivanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed, to begin with, that she had already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared.
Svidrigailov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought her fifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present from him, as he had long been intending to make her this trifling present before their wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose in pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all went off very well; even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret, the inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigailov got up, laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their doubts, concluding that Svidrigailov was a great man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great wealth--there was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of high society didn't think of what was said of them and didn't stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that Fedosya, the cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so on and so on. They sat up whispering till two o'clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful.
Svidrigailov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately that there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large, and its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter, scanning Svidrigailov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly.
"Is there tea?" asked Svidrigailov.
"Yes, sir."
"What else is there?"
"Veal, vodka, savouries."
"Bring me tea and veal."
"And you want nothing else?" he asked with apparent surprise.
"Nothing, nothing."
The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.
"It must be a nice place," thought Svidrigailov. "How was it I didn't know it? I expect I look as if I came from a cafe chantant and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stay here?"
He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room so low-pitched that Svidrigailov could only just stand up in it; it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain- stained chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general colour--yellow--could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic but just under the stairs.
Svidrigailov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.
Svidrigailov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can't. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigailov turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed.
The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him again whether he didn't want anything more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigailov made haste to drink a glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. "It would have been better to be well for the occasion," he thought with a smile. The room was close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his imagination on something. "It must be a garden under the window," he thought. "There's a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one a horrid feeling." He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. "I never have liked water," he thought, "even in a landscape," and he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea: "Surely now all these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I've become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place . . . for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations! . . . By the way, why haven't I put out the candle?" he blew it out. "They've gone to bed next door," he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. "Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it's dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won't come!"
He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin's keeping. "I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He's gone through a good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he's got over his nonsense. But now he's /too/ eager for life. These young men are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please himself, it's nothing to do with me."
He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia's image rose before him, and a shudder ran over him. "No, I must give up all that now," he thought, rousing himself. "I must think of something else. It's queer and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly desired to avenge myself even, and that's a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper-- that's a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too-- Damnation! But--who knows?--perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow. . . ."
He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia's image rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his heart . . .
"Aie! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!"
He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started. "Ugh! hang it! I believe it's a mouse," he thought, "that's the veal I left on the table." He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing. He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up.
The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling under the window. "How disgusting," he thought with annoyance.
He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. "It's better not to sleep at all," he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday--Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere--at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself--were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigailov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled. . . .
Svidrigailov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too, probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigailov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. "Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing," he thought. "By morning it will be swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is it now?" And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.
"Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I'll go out at once straight to the park. I'll choose a great bush there drenched with rain, so that as soon as one's shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one's head."
He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle, into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. "It's the best minute; I couldn't choose a better."
He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of Svidrigailov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child's face was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. "How can she have come here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night." He began questioning her. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby language, something about "mammy" and that "mammy would beat her," and about some cup that she had "bwoken." The child chattered on without stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her mother's and was so frightened that she had run away the evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank into dreary musing again.
"What folly to trouble myself," he decided suddenly with an oppressive feeling of annoyance. "What idiocy!" In vexation he took up the candle to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away. "Damn the child!" he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. "It's a flush of fever," thought Svidrigailov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him. . . . There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. "What, at five years old?" Svidrigailov muttered in genuine horror. "What does it mean?" And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms. . . . "Accursed child!" Svidrigailov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.
He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows.
"I've had nightmare all night!" He got up angrily, feeling utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up, put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it. At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he was in the street.
A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigailov walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the bush. . . . He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the left. "Bah!" he shouted, "here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway. . . ."
He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier's coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigailov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigailov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word.
"What do you want here?" he said, without moving or changing his position.
"Nothing, brother, good morning," answered Svidrigailov.
"This isn't the place."
"I am going to foreign parts, brother."
"To foreign parts?"
"To America."
"America."
Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.
"I say, this is not the place for such jokes!"
"Why shouldn't it be the place?"
"Because it isn't."
"Well, brother, I don't mind that. It's a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America."
He put the revolver to his right temple.
"You can't do it here, it's not the place," cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.
Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.
 
整整这一晚上，直到十点，他是在各个小饭馆和那些藏污纳垢的地方度过的，从这个地方出来，又到另一个地方去。在某处找到了卡佳，她又在唱另一首低级流行歌曲，歌中唱的是某个“下流坯和暴君”，
开始吻卡佳。
斯维德里盖洛夫请卡佳喝酒，也请一个背手摇风琴的流浪乐师、歌手们、跑堂的、还有两个司书喝酒。他所以要和这两个司书打交道，说实在的，是因为他们两个鼻子都是歪的：一个歪到右边，另一个歪到左边，这使斯维德里盖洛夫觉得十分惊奇。他们还带着他到一个游乐园去，他给他们买了门票。这个游乐园里有一棵树龄已有三年的、细小的枞树，还有三个灌木丛。此外，还建造了一家“饭店”，其实是个小酒馆，不过在那里也可以喝茶，而且还摆着几张绿色的小桌和几把椅子。有一些蹩脚歌手在合唱，还有一个喝得醉醺醺的、从慕尼黑来的德国人，好像是个小丑，虽然他鼻子是红的，可不知为什么神情却异常沮丧，他和那些歌手的表演都是为客人们助兴的。那两个司书和另一些司书发生争吵，就要打起来了。他们推选斯维德里盖洛夫作裁判，给他们评评理。斯维德里盖洛夫已经给他们评了差不多一刻钟了，可是他们大嚷大叫，简直无法弄清是怎么回事。最确切无疑的是，他们当中有一个偷了东西，甚至就在这儿卖给了一个偶然碰到的犹太人；可是卖掉以后，却不愿把赃款分给自己的同伴。原来那件给卖掉的东西是这家“饭店”的一把茶匙。“饭店”里发现茶匙不见了，寻找起来，于是事情变得麻烦了。斯维德里盖洛夫赔了茶匙，站起来，走出了游乐园。已经十点左右了。整个这段时间里他自己连一滴酒也没喝过，只是在“饭店”里要了一杯茶，而且就连这也多半是为了遵守人家的规矩。然而这天晚上又闷又热，天阴沉沉的。快到十点的时候，可怕的乌云从四面八方涌来；一声雷鸣，大雨倾盆，犹如瀑布。雨水不是一滴一滴地落下来，而是像一条条激流倾注到地面。在不停地打闪，每次闪光持续的时间正好可以从一数到五。他浑身湿透，回到家里，锁上房门，开开自己写字台上的抽屉，把所有的钱都取出来，还撕掉了两三张纸。然后他把钱装进衣袋，本想换件大衣，但是朝窗外望了望，留心听了听雷声和雨声，心想，算了，于是拿起帽子，没有锁门，就走了出去。他径直去找索尼娅。她在家。
她不是一个人；卡佩尔纳乌莫夫的四个小孩子团团地围着她。索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜正在喂他们喝茶。她默默地、恭恭敬敬地迎接斯维德里盖洛夫，惊讶地看了看他那件湿透的大衣，可是一句话也没说。孩子们立刻异常惊恐地跑掉了。
斯维德里盖洛夫坐到桌边，让索尼娅坐到他身旁。她羞怯地准备好听他说话。
“索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，我说不定要去美国了，”斯维德里盖洛夫说，“因为这大概是我最后一次跟您见面了，所以我要来作个安排。嗯，今天您见到这位太太了吗？我知道她对您说些什么，用不着重述了。（索尼娅动了动，而且脸红了。）这种人的性格是大家都知道的。至于您的妹妹和弟弟，他们的确都给安置好了，我送给他们每个人的钱也都交给了有关方面，交到可靠的人手里，拿到了收据。不过，这些收据还是您拿去保存吧，以防万一。给，请您收下！嗯，现在这件事算办完了。这是三张五厘债券，一共三千卢布。这笔钱请您收下，是给您的，这是我们两人之间的事情，不要让任何人知道，也不管以后您会听到些什么。这些钱您是需要的，因为，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，照以前那样生活下去，很不好，而且也完全没有必要了。”
“我深受您的大恩大德，还有孤儿们和已经去世的继母都受了您的恩惠，”索尼娅急忙说，“如果说，到现在我很少向您表示感谢，那么……请您别以为……”
“嗳，够了，够了。”
“不过这些钱，阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇，我非常感谢您，可是现在我不需要这些钱了。我一个人，总可以养活自己，说不要以为我忘恩负义：既然您这样乐善好施，那么这些钱……”
“给您，给您，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，请您收下，别再多说了，因为我甚至没有时间了。可您需要钱。罗季昂•罗曼诺维奇有两条路：要么对准额头开枪自杀，要么走弗拉基米尔①那条路。（索尼娅古怪地看了看他，浑身发抖了。）您别担心，我什么都知道，听他自己说的，我可不是个说话不谨慎的人；我绝不会告诉任何人。那时候您劝他去自首，这是对的。这对他要有益得多。嗯，如果要走弗拉基米尔这条路，——他去，您也会跟他去，不是吗？是这样吧？是这样吧？好吧，如果是这样，那么就是说，钱是需要的。为了他，需要钱，您明白吗？我把钱送给您，也就等于送给他。何况您还答应过阿玛莉娅•伊万诺芙娜，要还清欠她的钱；我听说了。索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，您怎么这样轻率地承担了这样一笔债务？是卡捷琳娜•伊万诺芙娜，而不是您欠了这个德国女人的债，那么您就不该理睬她。在这个世界上，这样是没法活下去的。嗯，如果什么时候有人问您，——明天或者后天，——向您问起我或者有关我的事情（会有人来问您的），那么我现在到您这儿来的事，千万不要提起，决不要把钱拿给任何人，也决不要对任何人说，我曾经送给您钱。好，现在再见吧。（他从椅子上站了起来。）请问候罗季昂•罗曼内奇。顺带说一声：暂时您可以把钱托拉祖米欣先生代为保管。您认识拉祖米欣先生吗？当然是认识的。这是个还不错的小伙子。明天就把钱送到他那里去，或者……到时候再说。在那以前要好好保藏起来。”
--------
①流放到西伯利亚去服苦役的犯人都要走经过弗拉基米尔的那条道路。
索尼娅也从椅子上很快站起来，惊恐地瞅着他。她很想说点儿什么，问问他，可是在最初几分钟里她不敢说，也不知道该怎样说。
“您怎么……您怎么，现在下着那么大的雨，您就要走吗？”
“嗯，要去美国，还怕下雨，嘿！嘿！别了，亲爱的，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜！您要活下去，长久活下去，您会有益于别人的。顺带说一声……请您对拉祖米欣先生说，我请您代我向他致意。您就这样对他说：阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇•斯维德里盖洛夫向您致意。一定要对他说。”
他走了，只剩下了索尼娅一个人，她惊讶、恐惧，心情沉重而又感到疑惑，可又说不清究竟是疑惑什么。
原来随后，这天晚上十一点多钟的时候，他又进行了一次反常和出人意料的访问。雨一直还在下个不停。十一点二十分，他浑身湿透，走进了瓦西利耶夫斯基岛第三干线马雷大街上他未婚妻父母家那所狭小的住宅。他好容易才敲开了门，起初他的到来引起了极大的惊慌和不安；不过只要愿意，阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇是一个举止态度很有魅力的人，所以未婚妻深明事理的父母最初的猜测（虽说他们的猜测是很敏锐的）立刻自然而然地消失了——他们本以为阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇准是在这以前已经喝得酩酊大醉，因而失去了自制。未婚妻的那位富有同情心而且深明事理的母亲把虚弱无力、坐在安乐椅里的父亲推到阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇跟前，像往常一样，立刻提出一些她其实并不关心的问题。（这个女人从来不直截了当地提问题，总是先面带微笑，搓着手，随后，如果一定需要知道什么，譬如说，阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇愿意订在哪一天举行婚礼，那么她就会提出一些最有趣、而且几乎是渴望得到回答的问题，询问有关巴黎的种种事情和那里的宫廷生活，只是在这以后才照例谈到瓦西利耶夫斯基岛的第三干线上来。）在旁的时候，这种谈话方式当然会让人十分尊敬，然而这一次阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇不知为什么却显得特别没有耐心，并坚决要求会见未婚妻，尽管一开始就已经告诉过他，未婚妻已经睡了。当然，未婚妻还是出来了，阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇直截了当地对她说，由于一个很重要的情况，他必须暂时离开彼得堡，所以给她送来了一万五千银卢布票面不同的纸币，请她收下这笔钱，作为他送给她的礼物，因为他早就打算在结婚之前把这一点儿钱送给她了。当然，这样的解释丝毫也没能说明，这礼物与立刻动身运行，与一定要冒雨在深更半夜来送礼物有什么特殊的逻辑联系，然而事情却十分顺利地对付过去了。就连必不可免的“哎哟”和“啊呀”，刨根究底的询问和惊讶，不知为什么也突然异乎寻常地既有节制，又有分寸；然而对他的感谢却是最热烈的，那位最有理智的母亲甚至感激涕零，令人留下深刻的印象。阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇站起来，笑了，吻了吻未婚妻，拍了拍她的小脸蛋儿，肯定地说，他不久就会回来，他注意到，她的眼睛里虽然流露出孩子的好奇神情，但同时也好像向他提出一个十分严肃的、无声的问题，他想了想，再次吻了吻她，心里立刻真诚地感到遗憾，因为他的礼物立刻就会给锁起来，由这位最懂道理的母亲来保管了。他走了，丢下了这些心情异常兴奋的人。然而富有同情心的母亲立刻低声匆匆地解答了几个最重要的疑问，确切地说，就是认为阿尔卡季•伊万诺维奇是个大人物，是个有作为的人，有很多关系，是个大富翁，——天知道他头脑里有些什么想法，忽然想要出门，立刻就走，忽然想要送钱，立刻就把钱送给别人，所以，用不着大惊小怪。当然，他浑身湿透，这很奇怪，不过，譬如说吧，英国人比这更怪，而且这些上流社会的人都不在乎人家怎么议论他们，也不拘礼节。也许他甚至是故意这样做，好让人看看，他谁也不怕。而主要的是，这件事无论对什么人一个字也不能说，因为天知道这会产生什么后果，钱嘛，得赶紧锁起来，而且当然啦，菲多西娅一直待在厨房里，这可是最好也不过了，主要的是，绝对，绝对，绝对不要把这件事告诉这个诡计多端的列斯莉赫，等等，等等。他们坐在那里悄悄地议论着，一直谈到两点钟。不过，未婚妻早就去睡觉了，她感到惊讶，又有点儿忧郁。
然而斯维德里盖洛夫正好在半夜过了×桥，往彼得堡那个方向走去。雨停了，风却在呼啸。他冷得发抖了，有一会儿工夫，他怀着一种特殊的好奇心，甚至是疑问地望了望小涅瓦河里黑魆魆的河水。但是他很快就觉得，站在河边冷得很；他转身往×大街走去。他已经在长得好像没有尽头的×大街上大踏步地走了很久，几乎走了半个钟头，黑暗中，不止一次在那条用木块铺成的路面上绊倒，可他还是怀着好奇心不停地在大街右侧寻找着什么。不久前有一次他从附近路过，在这儿某处，已经是大街的尽头，看到过一家木结构的旅馆，不过相当宽敞，旅馆的名称，就他所记得的，好像是叫阿德里安诺波利。他的推断是正确的，在这样荒凉的地方，这家旅馆是个相当显眼的目标，就是在黑夜里，也不可能找不到它。这是一座已经发黑的、很长的木头房子，尽管已经很晚了，房子里仍然灯火通明，看得出里面还相当热闹。他走了进去，在走廊上碰到一个穿得破破烂烂的人，他问那个人有没有房间。那人打量了一下斯维德里盖洛夫，精神振作起来，立刻把他领到很远的一间房间里，这间房子又闷又狭小，缩在走廊尽头一个角落里，就在楼梯底下。但是没有别的房间；全都客满了。那个穿得破破烂烂的人疑问地望着他。
“有茶吗？”斯维德里盖洛夫问。
“这个可以。”
“还有什么吗？”
“小牛肉，伏特加，冷盘。”
“给拿小牛肉和茶来。”
“不再需要什么别的了吗？”那个穿得破破烂烂的人甚至有点儿困惑莫解地问。
“什么也不要了，什么也不要了！”
那个穿得破破烂烂的人大失所望地走了。
“想必是个好地方，”斯维德里盖洛夫想，“我怎么不知道呢。大概，我这副样子也像是从哪儿的夜酒店里出来的，路上已经出过什么事了。不过我真想知道，经常住在这里，在这里过夜的是些什么人？”
他点着了蜡烛，更仔细地看了看这间房间。这间小屋竟是那么矮小，斯维德里盖洛夫站在里面几乎直不起腰，屋里只有一扇小窗子；床很脏，一张油漆过的普通桌子和一把椅子差不多占据了全部空间。看样子墙壁好像是用木板钉成的，墙纸又旧又脏，上面已经积满灰尘，许多地方都撕破了，它们的颜色（黄的）还可以猜得出来，可是花纹已经完全无法辨认了。和通常顶楼里的情况一样，墙和天花板有一部分是倾斜的，不过这儿的斜面上边就是楼梯。斯维德里盖洛夫放下蜡烛，坐到床上，陷入沉思。然而隔壁一间小屋里说个不停的、奇怪的喃喃低语，有时竟会提高声调，几乎像在叫喊，这终于引起了他的注意。从他一进来，这低语声就没停止过。他侧耳倾听：有人在骂另一个人，几乎是哭着责备他，不过听到的只是一个人的声音。斯维德里盖洛夫站起来，用一只手遮住蜡烛，墙上一条裂缝里立刻透出灯光；他走近前去，开始张望。在比他这一间稍大一点儿的那间房间里住着两个人。其中一个没穿常礼服，有一头异常卷曲的鬈发，红通通的脸，神情十分激动，站在屋里，姿势活像个演说家，叉开两腿，以保持平衡，用一只手捶着自己的胸膛，激昂慷慨地责备另一个人，说他是个叫化子，说他连个一官半职都没捞到，说，是他把他从泥坑里拉出来的，什么时候想赶他走，就可以赶他走，还说，这一切只有上帝知道。那个受责备的朋友坐在椅子上，看样子像一个很想打喷嚏、可又怎么也打不出来的人。他偶尔用浑浊的羊眼睛看看那个演说家，但显然一点儿也不明白，他在说些什么，甚至也未必听到了什么。桌子上的蜡烛快要燃尽了，桌上还摆着一个几乎空了的、装伏特加的细颈玻璃瓶，几只酒杯，一些面包，几只玻璃杯，几根黄瓜和一只茶早已喝光了的茶杯。斯维德里盖洛夫留心看了看这个场景，就漠不关心地离开那条缝隙，又坐到了床上。
那个穿得破破烂烂的人拿着茶和小牛肉回来了，忍不住又问了一次：“还需要什么吗？”听到的又是否定的回答，于是就走了。斯维德里盖洛夫急忙喝茶，想暖一暖身子，喝了一玻璃杯，肉却一口也没吃，因为完全没有胃口。他大概发起烧来了。他脱下大衣，短外衣，裹着被子，躺到了床上。他感到遗憾：“这一次最好还是别生病”，他想，并且冷笑了一声。屋里很闷，烛光暗淡，外面风声呼啸，老鼠不知在哪个角落里啃什么，而且整个房间里好像有一股老鼠味和什么皮革的气味。他躺着，仿佛在做梦：思绪万千，此起彼伏。似乎他很想让思想停留在某一件事情上。“窗外大概是个什么花园吧，”他想，“树在簌簌地响；我多么不喜欢夜里风狂雨暴，黑暗中传来树木簌簌的响声，这是一种让人很不舒服的感觉！”他想起不久前经过彼特罗夫公园的时候，甚至一想到这种声音，就觉得讨厌。这时他也想起了×桥和小涅瓦河，于是又像不久前站在河边的时候那样，似乎觉得身上发冷了。
“我一生中从来就不喜欢水，即使是在风景如画的地方，”他想，突然又为一个奇怪的想法冷笑了一声：“似乎，这些美学和舒适之类的问题，现在应该都无所谓了，可正是在这时候，却变得特别爱挑剔了，就像一头在类似的情况下……一定要给自己挑个地方的野兽。刚才我真该回彼特罗夫公园去！大概是觉得那里太暗，也觉得冷吧，嘿！嘿！几乎是需要感到惬意呢！……可是，我为什么不把蜡烛熄掉？（他熄掉了蜡烛。）隔壁已经睡了，”他想，因为刚才看到的那条缝隙里已经看不到灯光了。“唉，玛尔法•彼特罗芙娜，要是现在您来该多好，天又黑，地方也挺合适，而且正是时候。可现在您偏偏不来……”
不知为什么他突然想起，不久前，就在他要实行诱骗杜涅奇卡的计划之前一小时，他曾向拉斯科利尼科夫建议，把她托付给拉祖米欣，请他来保护她。“真的，当时我说这话，正像拉斯科利尼科夫所猜想的那样，多半是为了满足我自己的愿望——故意挑衅。不过这个拉斯科利尼科夫真是个机灵鬼！他饱经忧患。随着时间的推移，等到他不再胡思乱想，变聪明了以后，准会成为一个很机灵的人，可是现在他却太想活下去了！就这一点来说，这种人是卑鄙的。哼，去他的吧，随他的便，与我什么相干。”
他一直睡不着。渐渐地，杜涅奇卡不久前的形象出现在他的面前，突然，他打了个寒颤。“不，现在应该丢掉这个念头了，”他清醒过来，这样想，“应该想想别的。奇怪而且可笑：我从来也没深深怀恨过什么人，甚至从来也没特别想要进行报复，不是吗，这可是个坏兆头，坏兆头！我也不喜欢与人争论，不发脾气——这也是坏兆头！刚才我向她许下了多少诺言啊，呸，见鬼！大概，她会设法让我明白过来的……”他又不作声了，而且咬紧了牙：杜涅奇卡的形象又在他面前出现了，和她第一次开枪的时候一模一样，那时她吓得要命，放下了手枪，面无人色，望着他，所以两次他都可以抓住她，她却不会举起手来自卫，如果不是他提醒她的话。他想起，在那一瞬间，他似乎可怜起她来，似乎他的心揪紧了……“唉，见鬼！又是这些念头，这一切都应该丢掉，丢掉！……”
他已经昏昏欲睡：寒热病的颤栗停止了；突然好像有个什么东西在被子下面，从他手臂上和腿上跑了过去。他打了个哆嗦：“呸，见鬼，这好像是只老鼠！”他想， “这盘小牛肉我还摆在桌子上……”他真不想掀开被子，起来，让自己冻僵，可是突然又有个什么让人很讨厌的东西从他腿上很快跑了过去；他撩开被子，点着了蜡烛。他打着寒颤，俯身仔细看了看床上，什么也没有；他抖了抖被子，突然有一只老鼠跳到了床单上。他急忙去抓它；可是老鼠并不跳下床去逃走，却在床上东窜西窜，从他指缝间溜跑，从他手上跑过去，突然一下子钻到了枕头底下；他扔掉了枕头，但是转瞬间感觉到有个什么东西跳进他的怀里，从他身上很快跑过去，已经跑到背上，钻到衬衫底下去了。他急剧地打了个寒颤，醒了。屋里很暗，他像刚才一样，裹在被子里，躺在床上，窗外风声哀号。“真讨厌！”他烦恼地想。
他起来，背对着窗户，坐到床边。“最好根本别睡，”他拿定了主意。可是窗边有一股冷气和潮气；他没站起来，拉过被子，裹到身上。他没有点上蜡烛。他什么也不想，而且也不愿想；然而幻想却一个接着一个出现，一个个思想的片断，没头，没尾，互不连贯，稍纵即逝，一闪而过。他似睡非睡。是寒冷，还是黑暗，是潮湿，还是在窗外呼啸和摇撼着树木的风，这一切都在他心中激起对幻想强烈的爱好和渴望，——可是浮现在眼前的却总是花。他想象出一片迷人的景色；是阳光明媚的一天，天很暖和，几乎是炎热的，是个节日——圣灵降临节①。一座英国式豪华精致的乡村住宅，四周花坛里鲜花盛开，花香袭人，住宅周围是一垅垅菜畦；蔓生植物爬满门廊，台阶上摆满一排排玫瑰；一道明亮、凉爽的楼梯，上面铺着豪华的地毯，两边摆满栽种着奇花异卉的中国花盆。他特别注意摆在窗口的那些盛着水的花瓶，一束束洁白、娇嫩的水仙插在花瓶里，碧绿、肥壮的长茎上垂下一朵朵白花，花香浓郁。他甚至不想离开它们，但是他上楼去了，走进一个宽敞高大的大厅，这儿也到处都是鲜花：窗旁，通往凉台的门敞着，门边到处是花。地板上撒满刚刚割下的芳草，窗子都敞着，凉爽的微风送进清新的空气，窗外鸟鸣嘤嘤，大厅中央，几张铺着洁白缎子台布的桌子上停放着一口棺材。这口棺材包着那不勒斯白绸，边上镶着厚厚的白色皱边。用鲜花编成的花带从四面环绕着棺材。一个小姑娘躺在棺材里的鲜花中间，她穿一件透花白纱连衫裙，一双好似用大理石雕成的手叠放在胸前。但她那披散开的头发，那淡黄色的头发，却是湿的；头上戴着一顶玫瑰花冠。她那神情严峻、已经僵化的脸的侧面也好像是用大理石雕成的，但是她那惨白的嘴唇上的微笑却充满失去了稚气的无限悲哀，而且带有沉痛的抱怨的神情。斯维德里盖洛夫认识这个小姑娘；这口棺材旁既没有圣像，也没点蜡烛，也听不到祈祷的声音。这个小姑娘是自杀——投水自尽的。她只有十四岁，但这已经是一颗破碎了的心，这颗心因受侮辱而毁了自己，这样的侮辱吓坏了这颗幼小、稚嫩的童心，使它感到震惊，不应遭受的耻辱玷污了她那天使般纯洁的心灵，迫使她从胸中冲出最后一声绝望的呼喊，但是长夜漫漫，黑暗无边，虽已开始解冻，却还潮湿寒冷，而且狂风怒吼，这一声遭受无耻凌辱的呼喊并没有被人听见……
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①在复活节后的第五十天。
斯维德里盖洛夫醒了，从床上起来，大步走到窗前。他摸索着找到了插销，打开窗子。风猛吹进他这间狭小的斗室，仿佛往他脸上和仅有一件衬衫遮盖着的胸脯上贴了一层冷冰冰的霜花。窗外大概真的像个花园，看来也是个游乐园；大概白天这里也有歌手唱歌，也给人往小桌子上送茶。现在水珠却从树上和灌木丛上飞进窗里，很暗，就像在地窖里似的，所以勉强才能分辨出某些标志着什么物体的黑点。斯维德里盖洛夫弯下腰，用胳膊肘撑在窗台上，已经目不转睛地对着这片黑暗望了五分钟了。黑暗的夜色中传来一声炮响，接着又是一声。
“啊，号炮响了，河水暴涨了①”，他想，“到早晨水就会涌进低洼的地方，涌到街上，淹没地下室和地窖，地下室里的老鼠都会浮出水面，人们也将在风雨中咒骂着，浑身湿透，把自己的一些破烂儿拖到上面几层去……现在几点了？”他刚一这样想，附近什么地方的挂钟仿佛竭力匆匆忙忙地滴答滴答地响着，打了三响。“哎哟，再过一个钟头就要天亮了！还等什么呢？立刻就走，一直去彼特罗夫公园：在那儿什么地方挑一个大灌木丛，叫雨淋透的灌木丛，只要用肩膀稍微碰一碰，就会有千百万水珠浇到头上……”他离开窗子，把它关上，点着了蜡烛，穿上短上衣、大衣，戴上帽子，手持蜡烛，走到走廊上，想找到那个不知睡在什么地方一间小屋里、一堆堆废物和蜡烛头之间的穿得破破烂烂的人，把房钱交给他，然后从旅馆里出去。“这是最好的时间，再也挑不到更好的时间了！”
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①一八六五年六月二十九日到三十日的夜里，彼得堡下了暴雨，河水猛涨，曾鸣炮报警。海军部大厦的尖顶上白天挂了信号旗，夜里挂上了灯笼。
他在狭长的走廊上走了很久，一个人也找不到，已经想要高声呼喊了，突然在一个黑暗的角落里，一个旧橱和门之间看到一个奇怪的东西，好像还是活的。他手持蜡烛，弯下腰去，看到一个孩子——一个五岁左右的小姑娘，不会更大了，她身上的那件小连衫裙已经湿透了，像一块擦地板的抹布，她浑身发抖，还在哭泣。看到斯维德里盖洛夫，她似乎并不害怕，却用她那双乌黑的大眼睛看着他，目光中流露出迟钝的惊讶神情，间或抽泣几声，这就像所有孩子一样，他们哭了很久，可是已经住了声，甚至已经不再伤心了，却还会偶尔突然呜咽一声。小姑娘的脸苍白而憔悴；她冻僵了，不过“她是怎么来到这里的？这么说，她是躲在这里，一宿没睡了。”他开始询问她。小姑娘突然变得活跃了，用孩子的语言很快地含糊不清地说了起来。她说到“妈妈”，说是“妈妈打”她，还说有只什么碗叫她给“打泼（破）了”。小姑娘说个不停；从她说的这些话里勉强可以猜出，这是个没人疼爱的孩子，她的母亲大概就是这家旅馆里的厨娘，经常喝得烂醉，把她毒打了一顿，还吓唬她；小姑娘打破了妈妈的一只碗，吓坏了，还在晚上就逃了出来；她大概在院子里什么地方躲了好久，一直淋着雨，最后偷偷地溜到这里，藏在大橱后面，在这个角落里坐了整整一夜，一直在哭，由于潮湿、黑暗和害怕，浑身颤抖，为了这一切，现在她准又要挨一顿打。他把她抱起来，回到自己的房间里，让她坐在床上，给她脱去衣服。她赤脚穿着的那双破鞋子湿淋淋的，仿佛整夜都站在水洼里。给她脱掉衣服以后，他把她放到床上，给她盖上被子，连头都裹到被子里。她立刻睡着了。做完这一切以后，他又忧郁地沉思起来。
“瞧，又想多管闲事了！”最后他突然想，心里有一种痛苦和气愤的感觉。多么荒唐！”他烦恼地拿起蜡烛，无论如何也要找到那个穿得破破烂烂的人，赶快离开这儿。“哎呀，小姑娘！”他心中暗暗地咒骂着想，已经在开门了，可是又回来再看看那个小姑娘，看她是不是还在睡，睡得怎么样？他小心翼翼地把被子稍微掀开一点儿，小姑娘睡得很熟，很香。她盖着被子，暖和过来了，苍白的面颊上已经泛起红晕。可是奇怪：这红晕看上去仿佛比通常孩子们脸上的红晕更加鲜艳、浓郁。 “这是发烧的红晕，”斯维德里盖洛夫想，这好像是酒后的红晕，就好像给她喝了满满的一杯酒。鲜红的嘴唇仿佛在燃烧，在冒热气，不过这是怎么回事？他突然觉得，她那长长的黑睫毛仿佛在抖动，在眨巴着，好像抬起来了，一只狡猾、锐利、不像小孩子的眼睛从睫毛底下向外偷偷张望，在递眼色，似乎小姑娘并没睡着，而是假装睡着了。是的，果真是这样：她的嘴唇张开，微微一笑；嘴角微微抖动，仿佛还在忍着。不过，瞧，她已经再也忍不住了；这已经是名副其实的笑，明显的笑了；这张完全不像小孩子的脸上露出某种无耻的、挑逗的神情；这是淫荡，这是风流女人的面孔，是法国妓女的无耻的脸。瞧，那双眼睛已经毫不掩饰地睁开了，用火热的、无耻的目光打量着他，呼唤他，而且在笑……在这笑容里，在这双眼睛里，在这孩子的脸上这些下流无耻的表情里，含有某种丑恶和带有侮辱性的东西。“怎么！一个五岁的孩子！”斯维德里盖洛夫喃喃地说，他真的吓坏了，“这……这是怎么回事？”可是她已经把红艳艳的小脸完全转过来，面对着他，伸出双手……“啊，该死的！”斯维德里盖洛夫惊恐地大喊一声，对着她举起手来……可是就在这时候他醒了。
他仍然睡在那张床上，还是那样裹在被子里；蜡烛没有点着，窗子上已经发白，天完全亮了。
“整夜都在做恶梦！”他气愤地欠起身来，觉得浑身无力；骨头酸痛。外面大雾弥漫，什么也无法看清。已经快六点了：他睡过了头！他起来，穿上还在湿的短外衣和大衣。他在衣袋里摸到了那支手枪，掏出来，摆正了底火；然后坐下，从口袋里掏出一本笔记本，在最惹人注意的卷头页上写了几行大字。写完又看了一遍，把胳膊肘支在桌子上，陷入沉思。手枪和笔记本就放在那儿，就在胳膊肘旁。几只醒来的苍蝇在桌子上那盘没有吃过的小牛肉上慢慢地爬。他盯着它们看了好久，最后用那只空着的手去捉一只苍蝇。他捉了很久，弄得疲惫不堪，可是怎么也捉不到。最后发觉自己在干这种可笑的事，清醒过来，颤栗了一下，站起身，毅然走出了房门。
一分钟后，他已经来到了街上。
乳白色的浓雾笼罩在城市上空。斯维德里盖洛夫在用木块铺成的又滑又脏的马路上往小涅瓦河那个方向走去。他仿佛看到了一夜之间涨高了的小涅瓦河里的河水，仿佛看到了彼特罗夫岛、湿漉漉的小路、湿淋淋的草、湿淋淋的树和灌木丛，最后仿佛看到了那丛灌木……他遗憾地去看一排房子，为的是想点儿什么别的。大街上既没碰到一个行人，也没遇到一辆马车。那些关着百叶窗、颜色鲜黄的小木屋看上去凄凉而且肮脏。寒气和潮气透入他的全身，他觉得身上发冷了。有时他碰到一些小铺和菜店的招牌，每块招牌他都仔细看了一遍。木块铺的路面已经到了尽头。他已经来到一幢很大的石头房子旁边。一条身上很脏、冷得发抖的小狗，夹着尾巴从他面前跑着横穿过马路。一个穿着军大衣、烂醉如泥的醉鬼脸朝下横卧在人行道上。他朝这个醉鬼看了一眼，又往前走去。在他左边隐约露出一个高高的了望台。“噢！”他想，“就是这个地方嘛，干吗要到彼特罗夫公园去？至少有个正式的证人……”这个新想法几乎使他冷笑了一声，于是他转弯到×大街上去了。那幢有了望台的大房子就在这里。房子的大门关着，门边站着一个个子不高的人，肩膀靠在门上，他身上裹着一件士兵穿的灰大衣，头戴一顶阿喀琉斯①式的铜盔。他用睡眼惺忪的目光朝正在走近的斯维德里盖洛夫冷冷地瞟了一眼。他脸上露出那种永远感到不满的悲哀神情，犹太民族所有人的脸上无一例外都阴郁地带着这副神情。有那么一会工夫，他们俩，斯维德里盖洛夫和“阿喀琉斯”，都在默默地打量着对方。最后，“阿喀琉斯”觉得不大对头：这个人并没喝醉，可是站在离他三步远的地方，凝神注视着他，什么话也不说。
--------
①阿喀琉斯是荷马的史诗《伊里亚特》中最伟大的英雄。此处“阿喀琉斯式的铜盔”指消防队员的铜盔。
“您为什么，您要在这儿干什么？”他说，仍然一直一动不动，没有改变自己的姿势。
“啊，不干什么，老弟，您好！”斯维德里盖洛夫回答。
“这儿不是你要找的地方。”
“老弟，我要到外国去了。”
“到外国去？”
“去美国。”
“去美国？”
斯维德里盖洛夫掏出手枪，扳起板机。“阿喀琉斯”扬起了眉毛。
“您要干什么，这玩意儿，这里可不是干这种事的地方！”

Part 6 Chapter 7
The same day, about seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother's and sister's lodging--the lodging in Bakaleyev's house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back: his decision was taken.
"Besides, it doesn't matter, they still know nothing," he thought, "and they are used to thinking of me as eccentric."
He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a night's rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a decision.
He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room.
"Here you are!" she began, faltering with joy. "Don't be angry with me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I've got into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I've been like that ever since your father's death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are."
"I was in the rain yesterday, mother. . . ." Raskolnikov began.
"No, no," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, "you thought I was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don't be anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I've learned the ways here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I've made up my mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching; so it's not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy . . . ? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: 'There, foolish one,' I thought, 'that's what he is busy about; that's the solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him.' I read it, my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but that's only natural--how should I?"
"Show me, mother."
Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger.
"But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leading--if not the leading man--in the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don't know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it--what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines--the first time poems (I've got the manuscript and will show you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that they should be taken--they weren't! I was breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don't care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters. . . ."
"Dounia's not at home, mother?"
"No, Rodya. I often don't see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofitch comes to see me, it's so good of him, and he always talks about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don't say that Dounia is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me . . . but I don't know what it will all lead to. You've made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I'll tell her: 'Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all this time?' You mustn't spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can, but if you can't, it doesn't matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you've come now to comfort your mother, I see that."
Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
"Here I am again! Don't mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting here?" she cried, jumping up. "There is coffee and I don't offer you any. Ah, that's the selfishness of old age. I'll get it at once!"
"Mother, don't trouble, I am going at once. I haven't come for that. Please listen to me."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.
"Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are told about me, will you always love me as you do now?" he asked suddenly from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weighing them.
"Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn't believe anyone, I should refuse to listen."
"I've come to assure you that I've always loved you and I am glad that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out," he went on with the same impulse. "I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn't care about you, was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you. . . . Well, that's enough: I thought I must do this and begin with this. . . ."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently.
"I don't know what is wrong with you, Rodya," she said at last. "I've been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that's why you are miserable. I've foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I caught something, but I couldn't make it out. I felt all the morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You are going away somewhere?"
"Yes."
"That's what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly--and Sofya Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her as a daughter even . . . Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together. But . . . where . . . are you going?"
"Good-bye, mother."
"What, to-day?" she cried, as though losing him for ever.
"I can't stay, I must go now. . . ."
"And can't I come with you?"
"No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will reach Him."
"Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That's right, that's right. Oh, God, what are we doing?"
Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet and both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him this time. For some days she had realised that something awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had come for him.
"Rodya, my darling, my first born," she said sobbing, "now you are just as when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and kiss me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I've been crying lately, it's that my mother's heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away to-day?"
"No!"
"You'll come again?"
"Yes . . . I'll come."
"Rodya, don't be angry, I don't dare to question you. I know I mustn't. Only say two words to me--is it far where you are going?"
"Very far."
"What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?"
"What God sends . . . only pray for me." Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked with terror.
"Enough, mother," said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come.
"Not for ever, it's not yet for ever? You'll come, you'll come to-morrow?"
"I will, I will, good-bye." He tore himself away at last.
It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him intently. "Can anyone have come to see me?" he wondered. He had a disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dounia. She was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew.
"Am I to come in or go away?" he asked uncertainly.
"I've been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come there."
Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair.
"I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this moment to be able to control myself."
He glanced at her mistrustfully.
"Where were you all night?"
"I don't remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I wanted to end it all there, but . . . I couldn't make up my mind," he whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again.
"Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!"
Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
"I haven't faith, but I have just been weeping in mother's arms; I haven't faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don't know how it is, Dounia, I don't understand it."
"Have you been at mother's? Have you told her?" cried Dounia, horror- stricken. "Surely you haven't done that?"
"No, I didn't tell her . . . in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don't know why I did go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia."
"A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong till now I'd better not be afraid of disgrace," he said, hurrying on. "It's pride, Dounia."
"Pride, Rodya."
There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud.
"You don't think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?" he asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.
"Oh, Rodya, hush!" cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.
"It's late, it's time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I don't know why I am going to give myself up."
Big tears fell down her cheeks.
"You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?"
"You doubted it?"
She threw her arms round him.
"Aren't you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering?" she cried, holding him close and kissing him.
"Crime? What crime?" he cried in sudden fury. "That I killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of use to no one! . . . Killing her was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? 'A crime! a crime!' Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It's simply because I am contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too for my advantage, as that . . . Porfiry . . . suggested!"
"Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood?" cried Dounia in despair.
"Which all men shed," he put in almost frantically, "which flows and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness, for the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it has failed. . . . (Everything seems stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison. . . . But I . . . I couldn't carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that's what's the matter! And yet I won't look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I'm trapped."
"But that's not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?"
"Ah, it's not picturesque, not aesthetically attractive! I fail to understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honourable. The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence. I've never, never recognised this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I've never, never been stronger and more convinced than now."
The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dounia's eyes and he saw such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had, anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the cause . . .
"Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty). Good-bye! We won't dispute. It's time, high time to go. Don't follow me, I beseech you, I have somewhere else to go. . . . But you go at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to! It's my last request of you. Don't leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that she is not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with her! Razumihin will be with you. I've been talking to him. . . . Don't cry about me: I'll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won't disgrace you, you will see; I'll still show. . . . Now good-bye for the present," he concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange expression in Dounia's eyes at his last words and promises. "Why are you crying? Don't cry, don't cry: we are not parting for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I'd forgotten!"
He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady's daughter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to Dounia.
"I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her," he said thoughtfully. "To her heart I confided much of what has since been so hideously realised. Don't be uneasy," he returned to Dounia, "she was as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in two," he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. "Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What's the object of these senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!"
At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner abruptly.
"I am wicked, I see that," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. "But why are they so fond of me if I don't deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had never loved anyone! /Nothing of all this would have happened./ But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a criminal? Yes, that's it, that's it, that's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they'd be wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!"
He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately--humbled by conviction. And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question since the previous evening, but still he went.
 
就在那一天，不过已经是晚上六点多钟的时候，拉斯科利尼科夫来到了母亲和妹妹的住处，——就是拉祖米欣给她们找的、巴卡列耶夫房子里的那套房间。楼梯直接通到街上。拉斯科利尼科夫来到门口，一直还在逡巡不前，仿佛犹豫不决：是进去呢，还是不进去？不过他无论如何也不能回去；他的决心已经下定了。“何况她们反正还什么也不知道，”他想，“已经习惯把我看作一个怪人了……”他的衣服十分可怕：淋了一夜雨，衣服全都脏了，破了，很不像样了。由于疲倦，下雨，体力消耗殆尽，再加上差不多一昼夜的内心斗争，他的脸几乎变得十分难看。整整这一夜天知道他是独自在哪儿度过的。不过至少他已经拿定了主意。
他敲了敲门；给他开门的是母亲。杜涅奇卡不在家。就连女仆，那时也不在家里。起初普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜又惊又喜，一句话也说不出来，随后抓住他的一只手，把他拉进屋里。
“啊，你到底来了！”她高兴得讷讷地说。“你别生我的气，罗佳，你看我竟这么傻，流着泪来迎接你：我这是笑，不是哭。你以为我哭了吗？我这是高兴，可我就是有这么个傻习惯：动不动就流泪。从你父亲死后，不论遇到什么事，我就总是哭。你坐啊，亲爱的，你准是累了，我看得出来。哎哟，你弄得多么脏啊。”
“昨天我淋了雨，妈妈……”拉斯科利尼科夫开始说。
“啊，不，不！”普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜打断了他的话，高声惊呼，“你以为，我这就要照女人的老习惯问长问短吗，你放心好了。我明白了，什么都明白了，现在我已经学会照这儿的人那样行事了，真的，我自己也看出，这儿的人聪明些。我已经一下子彻底得出结论：我哪能懂得你的想法，怎么能要求你给我解释呢？也许，天知道你头脑里在考虑什么事情，有些什么计划，或者是产生了什么想法；我却老是催促你，问你：你在想什么！我真是……唉，上帝啊！我干吗老是毫无意义地问这问那呢……你瞧，罗佳，你在杂志上发表的那篇文章，我已经看过三遍了，德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇给我拿来的。我一看到，就啊了一声；我心想，我真是个傻瓜，瞧他在干什么啊，这就是谜底！说不定那时候他脑子里有了新的想法；他正在思考这些想法，我却折磨他，打搅他。我在看，我的孩子，当然我有很多地方看不懂；不过应该如此：我哪能懂呢？”
“让我看看，妈妈。”
拉斯科利尼科夫拿起报纸①，浏览了一下自己的那篇文章，不管这和他的处境与心情是多么矛盾，但他还是和所有作者第一次看到自己的作品发表时一样，心里有一种奇怪的、苦中有甜的感觉，更何况他才只有二十三岁呢。这种感觉只持续了极短暂的一会儿工夫。才看了几行，他就皱起眉头，可怕的忧愁揪紧了他的心。最近几个月来的内心斗争，一下子全都想起来了。他厌恶而懊恼地把那篇文章扔到了桌子上。
“不过，罗佳，不管我多么傻，可我还是能够作出判断，你很快就会成为第一流的人物，即使还不是我们学术界的头号人物。他们竟敢以为你疯了！哈——哈—— 哈！你不知道——他们都这么认为！唉，这些卑微的、微不足道的人啊，他们哪会懂得，聪明人像什么样子！就连杜涅奇卡也几乎相信了——你看！你的亡父给杂志投过两次稿——起初寄了一首诗去（笔记本我还保存着呢，什么时候拿给你看看），后来又寄去一篇中篇小说（我自己要求他让我来抄写），我们俩都祈祷上帝，希望能够采用，——可是没有采用！罗佳，六、七天前，我看到你的衣服，看到你是怎么生活的，吃的是什么，穿的是什么，我心里难过极了。可现在明白，这我又是傻了，因为只要你愿意，现在就能靠自己的智慧和天才立刻获得一切。这就是说，暂时你还不想这么做，现在你正在从事一些重要得多的工作……”
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①前面说是“杂志”。
“杜尼娅不在家吗，妈妈？”
“不在，罗佳。家里经常见不到她，老是把我一个人丢在家里。德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇，我要谢谢他，他常来看我，陪我坐一会儿，总是谈你的情况。他爱你，尊敬你，我的孩子。至于你妹妹，我倒不是说她很不尊敬我。我可没有抱怨。她有她的性格，我有我的性格；她已经有了她自己的秘密；唉，可对于你们，我什么秘密也没有。当然啦，我坚决相信，杜尼娅聪明过人，此外，她爱我，也爱你……不过我不知道，这一切会带来什么结果。罗佳，现在你来了，让我感到非常幸福，她却出去散步了；等她回来，我告诉她：你不在家的时候，你哥哥来过了，你刚刚去哪儿了？罗佳，你可不要太顺着我：你能来就来，不能来，也没办法，我可以等着。因为我还是会知道，你是爱我的，对我来说，这也就够了。我会看你的文章，从大家那里听到你的消息，有时你自己也会来看看我，还要怎么样呢？现在你不是来安慰母亲了吗？这我明白……”
这时普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜突然哭了。
“我又哭了！别管我这个傻瓜！哎呀，上帝啊，我怎么光坐着啊，”她喊了一声，很快站起来，“有咖啡呀，我竟不给你喝咖啡！瞧，这就是老太婆的自私自利。我这就去拿，这就去拿来！”
“妈妈，你别去弄了，我这就要走了。我不是为喝咖啡来的。请您听我说。”
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜走到他跟前。
“妈妈，不管会出什么事，不管您听到关于我的什么消息，也不管别人对您怎样谈论我，您会不会还像现在这样爱我？”他突然十分激动地问，仿佛没仔细考虑自己的话，也没斟酌过所用的词句。
“罗佳，罗佳，你怎么了？你怎么能问这样的话！谁会对我谈论你呢？而且我也不会相信任何人的话，不管谁来，我都要把他赶出去。”
“我来是要请您相信，我一向爱您，现在我很高兴，因为只有我们两个人，杜涅奇卡不在家，我甚至也为此感到高兴，”他还是那样激动地接着说下去，“我来坦率地告诉您，尽管您会遭到不幸，不过您还是应该知道，现在您的儿子爱您胜过爱他自己，您以前认为我冷酷无情，我不爱您，这全都不是事实。我永远也不会不爱您……好，够了；我觉得，应该这样做，就这样开始……”
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜默默地拥抱了他，把他紧紧搂在胸前，轻轻地哭了。
“罗佳，我不知道你是怎么了，”最后她说，“这些时候我一直以为，你只不过是对我们感到厌烦了，现在，根据一切情况来看，我明白，你是准备经受一场极大的灾难，所以你在发愁。这一点我早就预见到了，罗佳。原谅我谈起这件事来；我一直在想着这件事，每天夜里都睡不着。昨天夜里你妹妹躺在床上，也一夜都在说胡话，一直在想着你。我用心听着，听到了一些话，可是什么也听不懂。整整一早上，我一直像是要赴刑场一样，坐立不安，等待着什么，预感到会出事，瞧，这不是等到了！罗佳，罗佳，你要去哪里？你是要上什么地方去吗？”
“是的。”
“我就这么想嘛！我也能跟你一道去，如果你需要的话。还有杜尼娅；她爱你，她非常爱你，还有索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，让她也跟我们一道去，如果需要的话；你要知道，我甚至乐意收她做我的女儿。德米特里•普罗科菲伊奇会帮助我们一道做好准备……不过……你到底……要上哪儿去？”
“别了，妈妈。”
“怎么！今天就走！”她高声惊呼，好像会永远失去他。
“我不能，我该走了，我非常需要……”
“连我也不能跟你一起去吗？”
“不，请您跪下，为我向上帝祈祷吧。也许您的祈祷上帝会听得到的。”
“让我给你画个十字，为你祝福！对了，就这样，就是这样。噢，天哪，我们这是在做什么啊！”
是的，他觉得高兴，非常高兴，因为家里没有别人，只有他和母亲两个人。在这些可怕的日子里，他好像头一次变得心软了。他俯身跪倒在她面前，吻她的脚，母子俩抱头痛哭。这一次她并不觉得惊讶，也不详细询问他了。她早已明白，儿子发生了某种可怕的事，现在，对他来说，可怕的时刻到了。
“罗佳，我亲爱的，你是我的头生子，”她哭着说，“现在你又像小时候那样来到我跟前，像那时候那样拥抱我，吻我了；还在我和你父亲一起过穷日子的时候，单是有你和我们在一起，就使我们感到宽慰了，等到我安葬了你父亲，我和你曾经有多少次像现在这样互相拥抱着，坐在坟前痛哭啊。我早就在哭了，这是因为母亲的心早就预感到了这场灾难。那天晚上我第一次看到你，你记得吗，我们刚一来到这里的那天，我一看到你的目光，就猜到了，当时我的心猛然颤动了一下，今天一给你开门，朝你看了一眼，唉，我就想，看来，决定命运的时刻到了。罗佳，罗佳，你不是马上就走，是吗？”
“不是。”
“你还会来吗？”
“是的……会来。”
“罗佳，你别生气，我也不敢问你。我知道，我不敢问，不过你只要对我说一声，你要去的地方远吗？”
“很远。”
“去那里做什么，有什么工作，关系你的前途，还是怎么呢？”
“听天由命吧……只不过请您为我祈祷……”
拉斯科利尼科夫向门口走去，但是她一把抓住了他，用绝望的目光瞅着他的眼睛。她的脸吓得变了样。
“够了，妈妈，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，他竟忽然想要到这里来，对此他深感后悔。
“不是永别吧？还不是永别，不是吗？你还会来的，明天你还要来，不是吗？”
“我来，我来，别了。”
他终于挣脱了。
晚上空气清新，温暖，明亮；还从早晨起，天就已经晴了。拉斯科利尼科夫往自己的住处走去；他走得很快。他希望在日落前把一切全都结束。在那时以前他不希望遇到任何人。上楼去自己住的房子的时候，他发觉，娜斯塔西娅丢下了茶炊，凝神注视着他，一直目送着他上楼去。“不是我屋里有人吧？”他想。他怀着厌恶的心情，仿佛看到了波尔菲里。但是走到自己的房间，推开房门，他却看到了杜涅奇卡。她独自坐在屋里，陷入沉思，看来，早已在等着他了。他在门口站住了。她惊恐地从沙发上站起来，笔直地站在他面前。她的目光一动不动地凝望着他，露出恐惧和无限悲哀的神情。单看这目光，他立刻明白，她已经什么都知道了。
“我该进去呢，还是走开？”他疑虑地问。
“我在索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜家坐了整整一天，我们俩都在等着你。我们以为，你一定会到那里去。”
拉斯科利尼科夫走进屋里，疲惫不堪地坐到椅子上。
“我有点儿虚弱，杜尼娅；已经很累了；可我希望至少在这个时候能够完全控制住自己。”
他怀疑地瞅了她一眼。
“这一夜你是在哪里度过的？”
“记不清了；你要知道，妹妹，我想彻底解决，好多次从涅瓦河附近走过；这我记得。我想在那儿结束生命，可是……
我下不了决心……”他喃喃地说，又怀疑地看看杜尼娅。
“谢天谢地！我们担心的就正是这一点，我和索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜！这么说，你对生活还有信心：谢天谢地，谢天谢地！”
拉斯科利尼科夫痛苦地笑了笑。
“我没有信心了，可是刚刚和母亲抱头痛哭了一场，我没有信心，可是我请求她为我祈祷。天晓得这是怎么回事，杜涅奇卡，我什么也不明白。”
“你去过母亲那里？你也告诉她了？”杜尼娅惊恐地高声说。“难道你决心告诉她了？”
“不，我没说……没用语言说；不过有很多事情她都明白了。夜里她听到你在说胡话。我相信，有一半她已经明白了。我去那里，也许做得不对。就连为什么要去，我也不知道。我是个卑鄙的人，杜尼娅。”
“卑鄙的人，可是情愿去受苦！你会去的，不是吗？”
“我去。这就去。是的，为了逃避这种耻辱，我也曾想投河自尽，杜尼娅，可是已经站在河边的时候，我想，既然在此以前我自认为是坚强的，那么现在就也不要骇怕耻辱，”他抢先说。“这是自尊心吗，杜尼娅？”
“是自尊心，罗佳。”
他那双黯然无神的眼睛仿佛突然一亮；他还有自尊心，他似乎为此感到高兴了。
“妹妹，你不认为，我只不过是看到水觉得害怕了吗？”他问，看着她的脸，怪难看地笑了笑。
“噢，罗佳，够了！”杜尼娅痛苦地高声说。
有两分钟光景，谁都没有说话。他坐着，垂下头，眼睛看着地下；杜涅奇卡站在桌子的另一头，痛苦地看着他，突然他站了起来：
“晚了，该走了。我这就去自首。不过我不知道，我为什么要去自首。”
大滴大滴的泪珠顺着她的面颊流了下来。
“你哭了，妹妹，你能和我握握手吗？”
“连这你也怀疑吗？”
她紧紧拥抱了他。
“你去受苦，难道不是已经把你的一半罪行洗刷掉了吗？”
她高声呼喊，紧紧拥抱他，吻他。
“罪行？什么罪行？”他突然出乎意外地发疯似地高声叫喊，“我杀了一个可恶的、极端有害的虱子，杀了一个谁也不需要的、放高利贷的老太婆，杀了一个吸穷人血的老太婆，杀了她，四十桩罪行都可以得到宽恕，这也叫犯罪？我不认为这是罪行，也不想洗刷它。为什么四面八方，大家都跟我纠缠不休，提醒我说：‘罪行，罪行！’现在我才清清楚楚看出，我的意志薄弱是多么荒谬，正是现在，在我决心要去承受这一不必要的耻辱的时候，这才明白过来！只不过是由于卑鄙和无能，我才作出了这样的决定，也许还为了这个……波尔菲里表示愿意提供的好处！……”
“哥哥，哥哥，你这是说的什么话！要知道，你杀了人，让人流了血呀！”杜尼娅绝望地叫喊。
“大家都在杀人，让人流血，”他几乎发狂似地接着话茬说，“全世界都在流血，从前也一直在流血，血像瀑布样奔腾直泻，像香槟样汩汩地流淌，为此才在卡皮托利丘上给他加冕①，后来还把他叫作人类的恩人！你只要较为留心看一看，就会看得清清楚楚！我想为人们造福，我要做千万件好事来弥补这一件蠢事，这甚至不是蠢事，只不过是笨事，因为这个想法完全不像现在已经失败了的时候看起来那么蠢……（失败了的时候，什么事情看起来都是愚蠢的！）我做这件蠢事，只不过是想让自己获得独立自主的地位，迈出第一步，弄到钱，然后就可以用无比的好处来改正一切……可是我，我连第一步都不能坚持，因为我是个卑鄙的人！这就是问题所在！可我还是不会用你们的观点来看问题：如果我成功的话，就会给我戴上桂冠，现在我却落入了圈套！”
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①卡皮托利丘，在罗马，丘上建有宫殿，古罗马时，此丘起过堡垒的作用。这里指曾在卡皮托利丘上为获得军团指挥官称号的尤里•凯撒（纪元前一○○——纪元前四四）加冕。
“可是这不是那么回事，完全不是那么回事，你这是说的什么话！”
“啊！不是那种方式，从美学角度来看，方式不那么优美！哼，我根本不懂：为什么用炸弹杀人，正面围攻，是更值得尊敬的方式？对美学的畏惧就是无能为力的最初征兆！……我还从来，从来没有比现在更清楚地意识到这一点，而且比以往任何时候都更不理解我的罪行！我还从来，从来也没像现在这样坚强，深信不疑！……”
一阵红潮甚至涌上他那苍白和神情疲惫的脸。但是说完最后这几句情绪激昂的话，他的目光无意中碰到了杜尼娅的眼睛，从她的眼神里，他看出她为他感到多么痛苦，不由得清醒了过来。他感到，他毕竟使这两个可怜的女人变得那样不幸。她们的痛苦毕竟是他造成的……
“杜尼娅，亲爱的！如果我有罪，请你原谅我（虽说我是不能原谅的，如果我有罪的话）。别了！我们不要争论了！时候到了，是该走了。你别跟着我，我求求你，我还得去……现在你去吧，立刻去坐到母亲身边。我恳求你这样做！这是我对你，最后的、也是最大的请求。永远也别离开她，我使她为我担忧，她未必能经受得住这样的忧愁：她会愁死，或者会发疯。你要和她在一起！拉祖米欣会陪伴着你们；我跟他说过……不要为我哭泣：我要努力做一个既勇敢而又正直的人，终生如此，尽管我是个杀人凶手。说不定有朝一日你会听到我的名字。我决不会给你们丢脸，你瞧着吧；我还要让人看到……现在暂时再见了，”他赶紧结束了自己的话，在他说最后几句话并许下诺言的时候，又看到杜尼娅眼里有一种奇怪的神情。“你这样痛哭做什么？别哭，别哭了；我们并不是永别，不是吗！……啊，对了！等等，我忘了！……”
他走到桌边，拿起一本尘封的厚书，把它打开，取出夹在书中的一幅小小的肖像，肖像是用水彩颜料画在象牙上的。这是房东女儿的肖像，她就是那个想进修道院的古怪的姑娘，也就是死于热病的、他以前的未婚妻。他对着这张富于表情的病态的脸细细端详了一会儿，把它交给了杜涅奇卡。
“关于这件事，我和她商量过很多次了，只跟她一个人商量过，”他沉思地说，“后来如此荒谬地成为现实的这一切，有很多我都告诉过她。你别担心，”他对杜尼娅说，“她也和你一样，不同意我的看法，我很高兴她已不在人世了。主要的，主要的是，现在一切都将走上新的轨道，一切都将突然改变，仿佛折作两半，”他突然高声说，重又陷入烦恼之中，“一切的一切都会发生变化，可我对此是不是已经作好了准备？我自己是不是希望这样？据说，我需要经受这样的锻炼！干吗，干吗需要这些毫无意义的锻炼？这些锻炼有什么用处，服完二十年苦役以后，苦难和愚蠢的劳役会把我压垮，身体会衰弱得像一个老人，到那时我会比现在更有觉悟吗，到那时候我还活着干什么？现在我为什么同意这样活着？噢，今天早晨，黎明时分，我站在涅瓦河边的时候，就已经知道，我是个卑鄙的人了！”
他们两人终于出来了。杜尼娅心情沉重，可是她爱他！她走了，可是走了五十来步，回过头来，再一次望了望他。还可以看得到他。不过，走到拐角上，他也回过头来；他们的目光最后一次碰到了一起；可是他发觉她在望着他，于是不耐烦地、甚至是恼怒地挥了挥手，叫她走，自己也急遽地拐了个弯走了。
“我太狠心了，这我明白，”他暗自想，过了一会儿，他为自己恼怒地向杜尼娅挥手感到羞愧了。“不过她们为什么这样爱我呢，既然我不配让她们爱！啊，如果我孑然一身，谁也不爱我，我永远也不爱任何人，那该多好！那就不会有这一切了！真想知道，难道在这未来的十五年到二十年里，我的心会变得那么温顺，我会恭恭敬敬地向人诉苦，开口闭口自称强盗吗？是的，正是这样，正是这样！正是为此，他们现在才要流放我，他们需要的就是这个……瞧，他们一个个在街上匆匆来来往往，而就其天性来说，他们个个都是卑鄙的家伙，都是强盗；甚至更糟——都是白痴！如果不流放我，他们准会义愤填膺，气得发狂！噢，我是多么恨他们啊，恨他们所有的人！”
他陷入沉思，在想：“要经过一个什么样的过程，才能终于使他在他们大家面前俯首贴耳，不再考虑什么，深信理应如此！那又怎样呢，为什么不呢？当然应该这样。难道二十年不断的压迫不会完全达到这样的目的吗？水滴石穿。而在这以后，为什么，为什么还要活着，既然我知道，一切都一定是这样，完全像书本上写的那样，而不会是另一个样子，那我现在为什么要去自首呢！”
从昨晚起，他也许已经成百次向自己提出这一问题了，可他还是去了。
Part 6 Chapter 8
When he went into Sonia's room, it was already getting dark. All day Sonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been waiting with her. She had come to her that morning, remembering Svidrigailov's words that Sonia knew. We will not describe the conversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became. Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interview, that her brother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it; she would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dounia did not ask, but she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia almost with reverence and at first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was almost on the point of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at Dounia. Dounia's gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively and respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's room had remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.
Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her brother's room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come there first. When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread of his committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent the day trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both were less anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigailov had said to her the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives--Siberia or . . . Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.
"Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to make him live?" she thought at last in despair.
Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to feel sure of his death--he walked into the room.
She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned pale.
"Yes," said Raskolnikov, smiling. "I have come for your cross, Sonia. It was you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightened now it's come to that?"
Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid meeting her eyes.
"You see, Sonia, I've decided that it will be better so. There is one fact. . . . But it's a long story and there's no need to discuss it. But do you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish faces will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid questions, which I shall have to answer--they'll point their fingers at me. . . . Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I'd rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprise him, what a sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I've become too irritable of late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my sister just now, because she turned to take a last look at me. It's a brutal state to be in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are the crosses?"
He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or concentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.
Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck.
"It's the symbol of my taking up the cross," he laughed. "As though I had not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant one; the copper one, that is Lizaveta's--you will wear yourself, show me! So she had it on . . . at that moment? I remember two things like these too, a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old woman's neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I ought to put on now. . . . But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what matters; I'm somehow forgetful. . . . You see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so that you might know . . . that's all-- that's all I came for. But I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I am going to prison and you'll have your wish. Well, what are you crying for? You too? Don't. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!"
But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. "Why is she grieving too?" he thought to himself. "What am I to her? Why does she weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She'll be my nurse."
"Cross yourself, say at least one prayer," Sonia begged in a timid broken voice.
"Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely. . . ."
But he wanted to say something quite different.
He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put it over her head. It was the green /drap de dames/ shawl of which Marmeladov had spoken, "the family shawl." Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it, but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he was certainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia meant to go with him.
"What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I'll go alone," he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved towards the door. "What's the use of going in procession?" he muttered going out.
Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt surged in his heart.
"Was it right, was it right, all this?" he thought again as he went down the stairs. "Couldn't he stop and retract it all . . . and not go?"
But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn't ask himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he had not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then.
"Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her--on business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was /going/; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her away just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I've sunk! No, I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!"
He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it went to the Hay Market.
He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. "In another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember this!" slipped into his mind. "Look at this sign! How shall I read those letters then? It's written here 'Campany,' that's a thing to remember, that letter /a/, and to look at it again in a month--how shall I look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then? . . . How trivial it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be interesting . . . in its way . . . (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how people shove! that fat man--a German he must be--who pushed against me, does he know whom he pushed? There's a peasant woman with a baby, begging. It's curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I might give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here's a five copeck piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here . . . take it, my good woman!"
"God bless you," the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.
He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would have given anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he would not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd, stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where he was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him body and mind.
He suddenly recalled Sonia's words, "Go to the cross-roads, bow down to the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say aloud to the whole world, 'I am a murderer.'" He trembled, remembering that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially of the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot. . . .
He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and bowed down a second time.
"He's boozed," a youth near him observed.
There was a roar of laughter.
"He's going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his children and his country. He's bowing down to all the world and kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its pavement," added a workman who was a little drunk.
"Quite a young man, too!" observed a third.
"And a gentleman," someone observed soberly.
"There's no knowing who's a gentleman and who isn't nowadays."
These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, "I am a murderer," which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips, died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking round, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a glimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt that it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he saw, standing fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding from him behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt and knew once for all that Sonia was with him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart . . . but he was just reaching the fatal place.
He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the third storey. "I shall be some time going up," he thought. He felt as though the fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of time left for consideration.
Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and the same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been here since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to collect himself, so as to enter /like a man/. "But why? what for?" he wondered, reflecting. "If I must drink the cup what difference does it make? The more revolting the better." He imagined for an instant the figure of the "explosive lieutenant," Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually going to him? Couldn't he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Couldn't he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch's lodgings? At least then it would be done privately. . . . No, no! To the "explosive lieutenant"! If he must drink it, drink it off at once.
Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office. There were very few people in it this time--only a house porter and a peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked into the next room. "Perhaps I still need not speak," passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform was settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.
"No one in?" Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.
"Whom do you want?"
"A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the Russian . . . how does it go on in the fairy tale . . . I've forgotten! 'At your service!'" a familiar voice cried suddenly.
Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had just come in from the third room. "It is the hand of fate," thought Raskolnikov. "Why is he here?"
"You've come to see us? What about?" cried Ilya Petrovitch. He was obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle exhilarated. "If it's on business you are rather early.(*) It's only a chance that I am here . . . however I'll do what I can. I must admit, I . . . what is it, what is it? Excuse me. . . ."
(*) Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the police office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for coming too late.--TRANSLATOR.
"Raskolnikov."
"Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn't imagine I'd forgotten? Don't think I am like that . . . Rodion Ro--Ro--Rodionovitch, that's it, isn't it?"
"Rodion Romanovitch."
"Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. I made many inquiries about you. I assure you I've been genuinely grieved since that . . . since I behaved like that . . . it was explained to me afterwards that you were a literary man . . . and a learned one too . . . and so to say the first steps . . . Mercy on us! What literary or scientific man does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and I have the greatest respect for literature, in my wife it's a genuine passion! Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all the rest can be gained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat--well, what does a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but what's under the hat, what the hat covers, I can't buy that! I was even meaning to come and apologise to you, but thought maybe you'd . . . But I am forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want really? I hear your family have come?"
"Yes, my mother and sister."
"I've even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sister--a highly cultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot with you. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting fit--that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your lodging on account of your family's arriving?"
"No, I only looked in . . . I came to ask . . . I thought that I should find Zametov here."
"Oh, yes! Of course, you've made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov is not here. Yes, we've lost Zametov. He's not been here since yesterday . . . he quarrelled with everyone on leaving . . . in the rudest way. He is a feather-headed youngster, that's all; one might have expected something from him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men. He wanted to go in for some examination, but it's only to talk and boast about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it's a very different matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Your career is an intellectual one and you won't be deterred by failure. For you, one may say, all the attractions of life /nihil est/--you are an ascetic, a monk, a hermit! . . . A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned research--that's where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself. . . . Have you read Livingstone's Travels?"
"No."
"Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know, and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What sort of days are they? I ask you. But we thought . . . you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me openly, openly!"
"N-no . . ."
"Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to yourself! Official duty is one thing but . . . you are thinking I meant to say /friendship/ is quite another? No, you're wrong! It's not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and of love for the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always bound to feel myself a man and a citizen. . . . You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house of bad reputation, over a glass of champagne . . . that's all your Zametov is good for! While I'm perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have rank, consequence, a post! I am married and have children, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education . . . Then these midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous."
Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words of Ilya Petrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were for the most part a stream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. He looked at him inquiringly, not knowing how it would end.
"I mean those crop-headed wenches," the talkative Ilya Petrovitch continued. "Midwives is my name for them. I think it a very satisfactory one, ha-ha! They go to the Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, am I to send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!" Ilya Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. "It's an immoderate zeal for education, but once you're educated, that's enough. Why abuse it? Why insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how common they are, you can't fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill themselves, boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, what was the name of that gentleman who shot himself?"
"Svidrigailov," someone answered from the other room with drowsy listlessness.
Raskolnikov started.
"Svidrigailov! Svidrigailov has shot himself!" he cried.
"What, do you know Svidrigailov?"
"Yes . . . I knew him. . . . He hadn't been here long."
"Yes, that's so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shocking way. . . . He left in his notebook a few words: that he dies in full possession of his faculties and that no one is to blame for his death. He had money, they say. How did you come to know him?"
"I . . . was acquainted . . . my sister was governess in his family."
"Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had no suspicion?"
"I saw him yesterday . . . he . . . was drinking wine; I knew nothing."
Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling him.
"You've turned pale again. It's so stuffy here . . ."
"Yes, I must go," muttered Raskolnikov. "Excuse my troubling you. . . ."
"Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It's a pleasure to see you and I am glad to say so."
Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.
"I only wanted . . . I came to see Zametov."
"I understand, I understand, and it's a pleasure to see you."
"I . . . am very glad . . . good-bye," Raskolnikov smiled.
He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror- stricken. She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips worked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned and went back to the police office.
Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among some papers. Before him stood the same peasant who had pushed by on the stairs.
"Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind? What's the matter?"
Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly nearer. He walked right to the table, leaned his hand on it, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent sounds were audible.
"You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!"
Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the face of Ilya Petrovitch, which expressed unpleasant surprise. Both looked at one another for a minute and waited. Water was brought.
"It was I . . ." began Raskolnikov.
"Drink some water."
Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly, but distinctly said:
"/It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them./"
Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all sides.
Raskolnikov repeated his statement.
 
他走进索尼娅的住处的时候，已经是暮色苍茫，天快黑了。整整一天，索尼娅一直在异常焦急不安地等着他。她和杜尼娅一起在等着他。杜尼娅想起斯维德里盖洛夫昨天说的话：索尼娅“知道这件事”，从一清早就到她这儿来了。两个女人谈了些什么，以及她们怎样流泪，怎样成了朋友，我们就不详谈了。杜尼娅从这次会晤中至少得到了一点儿安慰：哥哥不会是孤单单的独自一人，因为他来找过她，找过索尼娅，首先向她坦白了自己的事情；当他需要有一个人支持他的时候，他找到了她；不管命运让他去哪里，她都一定会跟着他。杜尼娅并没问过，不过知道，一定会是这样。她甚至怀着尊敬的心情看着索尼娅，起初，杜尼娅对她的这种尊敬心情几乎使索尼娅发窘了。索尼娅甚至差点儿没哭出来：恰恰相反，她认为自己连对杜尼娅看一眼都不配。自从她和杜尼娅在拉斯科利尼科夫那里第一次见面，杜尼娅那样恳切和尊敬地对她行礼，杜尼娅优美的形象就作为她一生中所见到的最完美和不可企及的幻影，永远深深留在了她的心中。
杜涅奇卡终于等得失去耐心，于是离开索尼娅，到她哥哥的住处去等他了，她总觉得，他会先回住处去。只剩下索尼娅独自一人之后，一想到他也许当真会自杀，她立刻感到害怕了，为此心里痛苦不堪。杜尼娅担心的也是这一点。但是一天来她们俩总是争先恐后地举出种种理由互相说服对方，让对方相信，这决不可能，而且当她们在一起的时候，两人都觉得比较放心些。现在，两人刚一分手，无论是这一个，还是另一个，心里都只是想着这一点。索尼娅想起，昨天斯维德里盖洛夫对她说，拉斯科利尼科夫有两条路——弗拉基米尔，或者是……何况她知道，他虚荣，傲慢自大，有很强的自尊心，而且不信上帝。“难道仅仅由于怯懦和怕死，就能使他活下去吗？”最后她绝望地想。这时太阳已经西沉。她愁眉不展地站在窗前，凝望着窗外，但是从这面窗子望出去，只能看到邻家一堵没有粉刷过的墙壁。最后，当她完全相信，这个不幸的人准是已经死了的时候，他走进了她的房间。
一声惊喜的呼喊从她胸中冲了出来。但是凝神注视了一下他的脸，她突然脸色变得惨白。
“嗯，是的！”拉斯科利尼科夫冷笑着说，“我是来拿你的十字架的，索尼娅。是你让我到十字路口去；怎么，等到真的要去了，现在你却害怕了吗？”
索尼娅惊愕地瞅着他。她觉得这种语气很怪；不由得打了个寒颤，可是稍过了一会儿，她猜到，这种语气和这些话都是假的。他和她说话的时候，不知为什么眼睛望着角落里，仿佛避免正视她的脸。
“你要知道，索尼娅，我考虑过了，大概这样会好些。这儿有一个情况……唉，说来话长，而且也没什么好说的。你知道吗，是什么惹得我发火？使我感到恼怒的是，所有这些愚蠢、凶狠的嘴脸立刻就会围住我，瞪着眼睛直瞅着我，向我提出他们那些愚蠢的问题，对这些问题都得回答，他们还会伸出手指来指着我……呸！你要知道，我不去波尔菲里那里；他让我厌烦了。我最好还是去找我的朋友火药桶中尉，让他大吃一惊，就某一点来说，我也会给他留下深刻的印象。应该冷静一点儿；最近这段时间我肝火太旺了。你相信吗，刚才我几乎用拳头吓唬我妹妹，就只因为她回过头来看了我最后一眼。这种行为是可恶的！唉，我变成什么样了？好吧，十字架呢？”
他仿佛惘然若失。他甚至不能在一个地方站上一分钟，对什么东西都不能集中注意力；他思绪紊乱，百感交集，语无伦次；双手微微发抖。
索尼娅默默地从抽屉里拿出两个十字架，一个柏木的和一个铜的，自己画了个十字，也给他画了个十字，把那个柏木的十字架给他佩戴在胸前。
“就是说，这是我背十字架的象征，嘿！嘿！好像到目前为止我受的苦还太少似的！柏木的，也就是普通老百姓的；铜的——这是莉扎薇塔的，你自己佩戴着，—— 让我看看好吗？在那时候……这个十字架戴在她身上吗？我知道两个也像这样的十字架，一个银的和一个小圣像。那时候我把它们扔到老太婆的胸前了。那两个十字架现在刚好可以用得上，真的，我该戴那两个……不过，我一直在胡说八道，把正事都忘了；我有点儿心不在焉！……你要知道，索尼娅，我来，其实是为了预先通知你，让你知道……好，就是这些……我只不过是为这件事才来的。（嗯哼，不过，我想再多说几句。）你不是自己希望我去吗，瞧，现在我就要去坐牢，你的愿望就要实现了；你哭什么呢？你也哭吗？别哭了，够了；唉，这一切让我多么难过啊！”
然而，他还是动了感情；看着她，他的心揪紧了。“这一个，这一个为什么哭呢？”他暗自想，“我是她的什么人？她为什么哭，为什么也像母亲或杜尼娅那样为我准备一切？她将要作我的保姆啊！”
“你画个十字，哪怕祈祷一次也好，”索尼娅用发抖的、怯生生的声音请求他。
“啊，好吧，你要我画多少次都行！而且是真心诚意的，索尼娅，真心诚意的……”
不过他想说的却是旁的。
他画了好几次十字。索尼娅拿起自己的头巾，披在头上。这是一块德拉德达姆呢的绿色头巾，大概就是马尔梅拉多夫当时提起过的那块“全家公用的”头巾。这个想法在拉斯科利尼科夫的头脑里忽然一闪，不过他没问。真的，他自己已经开始感觉到，他非常心不在焉，不知为什么毫无道理地心烦意乱。这使他感到害怕。索尼娅想和他一道去，这使他突然吃了一惊。
“你怎么了！你去哪里？你留下来，你留下来！我一个人去，”他胆怯而恼怒地喊了一声，几乎是气愤地往门口走去。
“干吗要有人跟着！”他临出去的时候又含糊不清地说。
索尼娅站在了房屋中间。他甚至没有和她告别，他已经把她给忘了；他心中突然出现了一个起来反抗的、尖刻的疑问。
“是这样吗，这一切真的是这样吗？”下楼的时候，他又想，“难道不能再等一等，设法挽救一切……不要去吗？”
可他还是去了。他突然完全意识到，用不着再向自己提出问题了。来到街上以后，他想起，没跟索尼娅告别，她站在房屋中间，披着那块绿色的头巾，由于他那一声叫喊，吓得她连动都不敢动了，于是他停下来，稍站了一下。可是就在这一瞬间，突然有一个想法使他恍然明白过来，——仿佛这个想法一直在等待时机，要让他大吃一惊似的。
“喂，刚才我是为什么，为了什么来找她？我对她说：有事；到底有什么事？根本没有什么事！向她宣布，我要去；那又怎样呢？好重要的事情！我是不是爱她呢？不爱，不是吗，不爱？刚才我不是像赶走一条狗一样，把她赶开了吗。我真的是需要她的十字架吗？噢，我堕落到了多么卑鄙的程度！不，我需要的是她的眼泪，我需要看到她那惊恐的神情，需要看看她是多么伤心，多么痛苦！需要至少抓住个什么机会，需要拖延时间，需要看看她！而我竟敢对自己抱着这么大的希望，对自己存有这么多幻想，我是个叫化子，我是个微不足道的人，我是个卑鄙的人，卑鄙的人！”
他顺着运河的沿岸街走着，离他要去的地方已经不远了。但是走到桥边，他站住了，突然转弯上了桥，往干草广场那边走去。
他贪婪地向左右观看，神情紧张地细细端详每样东西，可是无论看什么都不能集中注意力；一切都从他眼前悄悄地溜走了。“再过一个星期，再过一个月，就要把我关在囚车里，从这座桥上经过，押解到什么地方去，到那时候我会怎样看这条运河呢，——要是能记住它就好了？”这个想法在他头脑里忽然一闪。“瞧这块招牌，到那时候我会怎样来看这些字母呢？这上面写的是‘股份公司’，嗯，我要记住这个a，记住a这个字母，过一个月以后再来看它，看这个a：到那时候我会怎样来看它呢？到那时候会有什么感觉，会想什么呢？……天哪，这一切想必是多么平凡，现在我……关心的这一切想必是多么微不足道！当然啦，从某一点来看……这一切想必是很有意思的……（哈——哈——哈！我在想什么啊！）我变成个小孩子了，我自己在跟自己吹牛；我为什么要让自己感到难为情呢？呸，多么拥挤啊！瞧这个胖子，大概是个德国人，——他推了我一下：哼，他知道，他推的是什么人吗？一个抱着小孩的女人在乞讨，她以为我比她幸福，这可真有意思。给她几个钱，解解闷，怎么样呢。哈，口袋儿里还有五个戈比，这是哪儿来的？给，给……拿着吧，老大娘！”
“上帝保佑你！”听到了那个女乞丐凄惨的声音。
他走进干草广场。他不高兴、很不乐意碰到人，可是却往人更多的地方走去。他情愿付出一切代价，只要能让他只剩下独自一人；可是他又觉得，连一分钟也不可能只有他独自一个人。有个醉鬼在人群中胡闹：他一直想要跳舞，可总是摔倒。人们围住了他。拉斯科利尼科夫挤进人群里，对着那个醉鬼看了好几分钟，突然短促地、断断续续地哈哈大笑起来。稍过了一会儿，他已经把那个醉鬼忘了，甚至看不见他了，尽管还在看着他。他终于走开了，甚至记不得自己是在什么地方；可是等他走到广场中心，突然一阵感情冲动，有一种心情一下子控制了他，控制了他的整个身心。
他突然想起了索尼娅的话：“你去到十字路口，给人们躬身施礼，吻吻大地，因为你对大地也犯了罪，然后对着全世界大声说：‘我是杀人凶手！’”想起这些话，他不由得浑身发抖了。在这一段时间里，特别是最后几个钟头里，他心中感觉到的那种走投无路的苦恼和担心已经压垮了他，使他的精神崩溃了，所以他情不自禁，急欲抓住这个机会，来体验一下这种纯洁、充实、前所未有的感受。这感情突然爆发，涌上他的心头：心中好似迸发出一颗火星，突然熊熊燃烧起来，烧遍了他的全身。他的心立刻软了，泪如泉涌。他站在那里，突然伏倒在地上……
他跪倒在广场中央，在地上磕头，怀着喜悦和幸福的心情吻了吻这肮脏的土地。他站起来，又跪下去磕头。
“瞧，他喝醉了！”他身旁有个小伙子说。
突然听到一阵笑声。
“他这是要去耶路撒冷啊，朋友们，在跟孩子们，跟祖国告别，向全世界磕头，在吻京城圣彼得堡和它的土地呢，”一个喝醉的小市民补充说。
“小伙子还年轻嘛！”第三个插了一句。
“还是个高贵的人呢！”有人声音庄重地说。
“如今可分不清谁高贵，谁不高贵。”
所有这些反应和谈话制止了拉斯科利尼科夫，本来“我杀了人”这句话也许就要脱口而出了，这时却突然咽了回去。然而他镇静地忍受住了这些叫喊，并没有左顾右盼，径直穿过一条胡同，往警察分局那个方向走去。路上好像有个幻影在他眼前忽然一闪，但是他并不觉得惊奇；他已经预感到，必然会是这样。他在干草广场上第二次跪下来的时候，扭过头去往左边一看，在离他五十步远的地方看到了索尼娅。她躲在广场上一座板棚后面，不让他看见，这么说，在他踏上这悲痛的行程时，一路上她一直伴随着他！这时拉斯科利尼科夫感觉到，而且彻底明白了，不管命运会让他到什么地方去，现在索尼娅将永远跟着他，哪怕去海角天涯。他的心碎了……
然而他已经来到了决定今后命运的地方……
他相当勇敢地走进了院子。得到三楼上去。“还得上楼，暂时还有时间，”他想。总之，他觉得，到决定命运的那个时刻还远着呢，还有很多时间，很多事情还可以重新考虑一下。
那道螺旋形的楼梯上还是那样丢满了垃圾和蛋壳，那些住房的门还是那样大敞着，又是那些厨房，从厨房里还是那样冒出一股股油烟和臭气。从那天以后，拉斯科利尼科夫没再来过这里。他的腿麻木了，发软了，可是还在往上走。他站下来，停了一会儿，好歇口气，整理一下衣服，这样，进去的时候才会像个人样儿。“可这是为什么？为了什么？”他意识到自己是在做什么以后，突然想。“既然得喝干这杯苦酒，那不反正一样吗？越脏越好。”就在这一瞬间，伊利亚•彼特罗维奇•火药桶中尉的形象在他的想象中突然一闪。“难道真的要去找他吗？不能去找别人？不能去找尼科季姆•福米奇吗？是不是立刻回去，到分局长家里去找他本人呢？至少可以私下里解决……不，不！去找火药桶，火药桶！要喝，那就一下子全都喝下去……”
他浑身发冷，几乎控制不住自己，打开了办公室的门。这一次办公室里的人寥寥无几，里面站着一个管院子的，还有一个平民。警卫都没从隔板后面往外看一眼。拉斯科利尼科夫走进后面一间屋里去了。“也许还可以不说，”这个想法在他头脑里闪了一下。这儿有个穿普通常礼服的司书，坐在一张写字台前，正在抄写什么。角落里还坐着一个司书。扎苗托夫不在。尼科季姆•福米奇当然也不在。
“谁也不在吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫问那个坐在写字台前的司书。
“您找谁？”
“啊——啊——啊！真是闻所未闻，见所未见，可是俄罗斯精神……童话里是怎么说来的……我忘了！您——好！”突然有个熟悉的声音喊道。
拉斯科利尼科夫打了个哆嗦。站在他面前的是火药桶中尉；他突然从第三个房间里走了出来。“这真是命运，”拉斯科利尼科夫想，“他为什么在这儿呢？”
“来找我们的？有什么事吗？”伊利亚•彼特罗维奇高声说，（看来他心情好极了，甚至有点儿兴奋。）“如果有事，那您来得早了些。我是偶然在这儿的……不过，我能帮忙。我跟您说实在的……您贵姓？贵姓？对不起……”
“拉斯科利尼科夫。”
“啊，对：拉斯科利尼科夫！难道您认为我会忘了！请您不要把我看作这样的人……罗季昂•罗……罗……罗季昂内奇，好像是这样吧？”
“罗季昂•罗曼内奇。”
“对，对——对，罗季昂•罗曼内奇，罗季昂•罗曼内奇！我正要找您谈谈呢。我甚至打听过好多次了。我，跟您说实在的，当时我们那样对待您，从那以后我真心诚意地感到难过……后来人家告诉我，我才知道，您是位年轻作家，甚至是一位学者……而且，可以这么说吧，已经迈出了最初几步……噢，上帝啊！有哪个作家和学者一开始不做出一些异想天开的事情来呢！我和内人——我们俩都尊重文学，内人更是热爱文学！……热爱文学和艺术！一个人只要是高尚的，那么其余的一切都可以靠才能、知识、理智和天才来获得！帽子——譬如说吧，帽子是什么呢？帽子就像薄饼，我可以在齐梅尔曼的帽店里买到它；可是帽子底下保藏着的东西和用帽子掩盖着的东西，我就买不到了！……我，说实在的，甚至想去找您解释解释，可是想，您也许……不过，我还没问：
您是不是真的有什么事？据说，您家里的人来了？”
“是的，母亲和妹妹。”
“我甚至有幸遇到过令妹，是一位很有教养、十分漂亮的姑娘。说实在的，当时我对您过于急躁，我很遗憾。意料不到的事嘛！因为您晕倒了，当时我就用某种眼光来看您，——可是后来这件事彻底弄清楚了！残暴和盲目的狂热！您的愤慨，我是理解的。也许，是因为家里人来了，您要搬家？”
“不，我只不过是……我是顺便来问问……我以为，我可以在这儿找到扎苗托夫。”
“啊，对了！你们成了朋友了；我听说了。嗯，扎苗托夫不在我们这儿，——您碰不到他了。是啊，亚历山大•格里戈里耶维奇离开我们这儿了！从昨天起就不在了，调走了……临调走的时候，甚至跟所有的人都大吵了一场……甚至那么不懂礼貌……他只不过是个轻浮的小孩子；本来他很有前途；是啊，您瞧，他们，我们这些卓越的青年人可真怪！他想要参加什么考试，可是只会在我们这儿说空话，吹牛，考试就这么吹了。这可不像，譬如说吧，您，或者拉祖米欣先生，您的朋友！您是搞学术的，失败不会使您迷失方向！在您看来，人生所有这些诱人的玩意儿，可以说——nihilest①，您是个禁欲主义者，僧侣，隐士！……对您来说，书本，夹在耳朵后边的笔，学术研究，——这才是您心灵翱翔的地方！我自己也多多少少……请问您看过利文斯通的笔记吗②？”
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①拉丁文，意为“什么也不是，等于零。”
②大卫•利文斯通（一八一三——一八七三），英国著名旅行家，非洲考察者。这里可能是指他的《赞比西河游记》（一八六五）。
“没有。”
“我看过了。不过现在到处都有很多虚无主义者；嗯，这是可以理解的；这是什么样的时代啊，我请问您？不过，我和您……我们，不是吗，当然，我们可不是虚无主义者！请您坦率地回答，开诚布公地！”
“不—不是……”
“不，您听我说，您跟我可要开诚布公，您别不好意思，就像自己跟自己一样嘛！公务是一回事，……是另一回事……您以为，我是想说友谊吗，不，您没猜对！不是友谊，而是公民和人的感情，人道的感情，对上帝的爱的那种感情。履行公务的时候，我可以是个官方人员，可是我应该永远感到自己是一个公民，是一个人，而且意识到……您刚刚谈到了扎苗托夫。扎苗托夫，他在一家妓院里喝了一杯香槟或者是顿河葡萄酒，于是就照法国人的方式，大闹了一场，出尽了丑，——瞧，这就是您的扎苗托夫！而我，也许可以说，我极端忠诚，有崇高的感情，此外，我还有地位，我有官衔，担任一定的职务！我有妻室儿女。我在履行公民和人的义务，可是，请问，他是个什么人？我是把您看作一位受过教育、品格高尚的人。还有这些接生婆，也到处都是，多得要命①。”
拉斯科利尼科夫疑问地扬起了眉毛。显然，伊利亚•彼特罗维奇是刚刚离开桌边，他的话滔滔不绝，可是空空洞洞，听起来大半好像是些没有任何意义的响声。不过其中有一部分，拉斯科利尼科夫还是勉强听懂了；他疑问地望着他，不知道这一切会怎样收场。
“我说的是这些剪短头发的少女②，”爱说话的伊利亚•彼特罗维奇接下去说，“我给她们取了个绰号，管她们叫接生婆，而且认为，这个绰号十分贴切。嘿！嘿！她们拼命钻进医学院，学习解剖学；嗯，请问，要是我病了，我会去请个少女来治病吗？嘿！嘿！”
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①火药桶中尉蔑视地把“助产士”叫作“接生婆”。保守派的报刊通常都这样攻击女权运动者。十九世纪六十年代，俄国妇女只能从事两种职业：助产士和教师。
②指医学院的女学生，她们都剪短发。这些女学生毕业后都只能作助产士。
伊利亚•彼特罗维奇哈哈大笑，对自己这些俏皮话感到非常满意。
“就算这是对于受教育的过分的渴望吧；可是受了教育，也就够了。为什么要滥用呢？为什么要像那个坏蛋扎苗托夫那样，侮辱高贵的人们呢？请问，他为什么要侮辱我？还有这些自杀，出了多少起这样的事啊，——您简直无法想象。都是这样，花完了最后一点儿钱，于是就自杀了。小姑娘，男孩子，老年人……这不是，今天早晨就接到报告，有一位不久前才来到这儿的先生自杀了。尼尔•帕夫雷奇，尼尔•帕夫雷奇！刚才报告的那位绅士，在彼得堡区开枪自杀的那位绅士，他叫什么？”
“斯维德里盖洛夫，”另一间屋里有人声音嘶哑、语气冷淡地回答。
拉斯科利尼科夫不由得颤栗了一下。
“斯维德里盖洛夫！斯维德里盖洛夫开枪自杀了！”他高声惊呼。
“怎么！您认识斯维德里盖洛夫？”
“是的……我认识……他是不久前才来的……”
“是啊，是不久前来的，妻子死了，是个放荡不羁的人，突然开枪自杀了，而且那么丢脸，简直无法想象……在他自己的笔记本里留下了几句话，说他是在神智清醒的情况下自杀的，请不要把他的死归罪于任何人。据说，这个人有钱。请问您是怎么认识他的？”
“我……认识他……舍妹在他家里作过家庭教师……”
“噢，噢，噢……这么说，您可以跟我们谈谈他的情况了。
您怕也没料到吧？”
“我昨天见过他……他……喝了酒……我什么也不知道。”
拉斯科利尼科夫觉得，好像有个什么东西落到了他的身上，压住了他。
“您脸色好像又发白了。我们这儿空气污浊……”
“是的，我该走了，”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地说，“请原谅，我打搅了……”
“噢，您说哪里话，请常来！非常欢迎您来，我很高兴这样说……”
伊利亚•彼特罗维奇甚至伸过手来。
“我只不过想……我要去找扎苗托夫……”
“我明白，我明白，您让我非常高兴。”
“我……很高兴……再见……”拉斯科利尼科夫微笑着说。
他出去了，他摇摇晃晃。他头晕。他感觉不出，自己是不是还在站着。他用右手扶着墙，开始下楼。他好像觉得，迎面来了个管院子的人，手里拿着户口簿，撞了他一下，上楼往办公室去了；还好像觉得，下面一层楼上有条小狗在狂吠，有个女人把一根擀面杖朝它扔了过去，而且高声惊叫起来。他下了楼，来到了院子里。索尼娅就站在院子里离门口不远的地方，面无人色，脸色白得可怕，神情古怪地，非常古怪地看了看他。他在她面前站住了。她脸上露出某种痛苦的、极为悲痛和绝望的神情。她双手一拍。他的嘴角上勉强露出很难看的、茫然不知所措的微笑。他站了一会儿，冷笑一声，转身上楼，又走进了办公室。
伊利亚•彼特罗维奇已经坐下来，不知在一堆公文里翻寻着什么。刚才上楼来撞了拉斯科利尼科夫一下的那个管院子的人站在他的面前。
“啊——啊——啊？您又来了！忘了什么东西吗？……不过您怎么了？”
拉斯科利尼科夫嘴唇发白，目光呆滞，轻轻地向他走去，走到桌前，用一只手撑在桌子上，想要说什么，可是说不出来；只能听到一些毫不连贯的声音。
“您不舒服，拿椅子来！这里，请坐到椅子上，请坐！拿水来！”
拉斯科利尼科夫坐到了椅子上，但是目不转睛地盯着露出非常不愉快的惊讶神情的伊利亚•彼特罗维奇的脸。他们两人互相对看了约摸一分钟光景，两人都在等着。水端来了。
“这是我……”拉斯科利尼科夫开始说。
“您喝水。”
拉斯科利尼科夫用一只手把水推开，轻轻地，一字一顿，然而清清楚楚地说：
“这是我在那时候用斧头杀了那个老太婆——那个官太太，还杀了她的妹妹莉扎薇塔，抢了东西。”
伊利亚•彼特罗维奇惊讶得张大了嘴。人们从四面八方跑了过来。
拉斯科利尼科夫把自己的口供又说了一遍……
……
Epilogue 1
Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of the administrative centres of Russia; in the town there is a fortress, in the fortress there is a prison. In the prison the second-class convict Rodion Raskolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a year and a half has passed since his crime.
There had been little difficulty about his trial. The criminal adhered exactly, firmly, and clearly to his statement. He did not confuse nor misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in his own interest, nor omit the smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murder, the secret of /the pledge/ (the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which was found in the murdered woman's hand. He described minutely how he had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta's murder; described how Koch and, after him, the student knocked, and repeated all they had said to one another; how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Nikolay and Dmitri shouting; how he had hidden in the empty flat and afterwards gone home. He ended by indicating the stone in the yard off the Voznesensky Prospect under which the purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were very much struck, among other things, by the fact that he had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, without making use of them, and that, what was more, he did not now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how many there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse and did not even know how much was in it seemed incredible. There turned out to be in the purse three hundred and seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From being so long under the stone, some of the most valuable notes lying uppermost had suffered from the damp. They were a long while trying to discover why the accused man should tell a lie about this, when about everything else he had made a truthful and straightforward confession. Finally some of the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so didn't know what was in it when he hid it under the stone. But they immediately drew the deduction that the crime could only have been committed through temporary mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without object or the pursuit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal cases. Moreover Raskolnikov's hypochondriacal condition was proved by many witnesses, by Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his landlady and her servant. All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that there was another element in the case.
To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question as to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt repentance. All this was almost coarse. . . .
The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected, perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself, but had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration. There could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition of the criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what he had stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his abnormal mental condition at the time of the crime. Incidentally the murder of Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the confession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and fanaticism, and when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word) --all this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the prisoner's favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university he had helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on supporting him for six months, and when this student died, leaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral when he died. Raskolnikov's landlady bore witness, too, that when they had lived in another house at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued two little children from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This was investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts made an impression in his favour.
And in the end the criminal was, in consideration of extenuating circumstances, condemned to penal servitude in the second class for a term of eight years only.
At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov's mother fell ill. Dounia and Razumihin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg during the trial. Razumihin chose a town on the railway not far from Petersburg, so as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time to see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna's illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied by a partial derangement of her intellect.
When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had found her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening Razumihin and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother's questions about Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother's benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia on a business commission, which would bring him in the end money and reputation.
But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own version of her son's sudden departure; she told them with tears how he had come to say good-bye to her, hinting that she alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that Rodya had many very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary for him to be in hiding. As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when certain sinister influences could be removed. She assured Razumihin that her son would be one day a great statesman, that his article and brilliant literary talent proved it. This article she was continually reading, she even read it aloud, almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked where Rodya was, though the subject was obviously avoided by the others, which might have been enough to awaken her suspicions.
They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's strange silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance, complain of getting no letters from him, though in previous years she had only lived on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of great uneasiness to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that her mother suspected that there was something terrible in her son's fate and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still more awful. In any case, Dounia saw clearly that her mother was not in full possession of her faculties.
It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave such a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her without mentioning where Rodya was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood lasted for a long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard to deceive her and came to the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely silent on certain points; but it became more and more evident that the poor mother suspected something terrible. Dounia remembered her brother's telling her that her mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the night after her interview with Svidrigailov and before the fatal day of the confession: had not she made out something from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of gloomy silence and tears would be succeeded by a period of hysterical animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of her son, of her hopes of his future. . . . Her fancies were sometimes very strange. They humoured her, pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps that they were pretending), but she still went on talking.
Five months after Raskolnikov's confession, he was sentenced. Razumihin and Sonia saw him in prison as often as it was possible. At last the moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that the separation should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in his youthful ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four years, and saving up a certain sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every natural resource and in need of workers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the town where Rodya was and all together would begin a new life. They all wept at parting.
Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a great deal about his mother and was constantly anxious about her. He worried so much about her that it alarmed Dounia. When he heard about his mother's illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly reserved all the time. With the help of the money left to her by Svidrigailov, Sonia had long ago made her preparations to follow the party of convicts in which he was despatched to Siberia. Not a word passed between Raskolnikov and her on the subject, but both knew it would be so. At the final leave-taking he smiled strangely at his sister's and Razumihin's fervent anticipations of their happy future together when he should come out of prison. He predicted that their mother's illness would soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at last set off.
Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch and Zossimov were invited however. During all this period Razumihin wore an air of resolute determination. Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans and indeed she could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare strength of will. Among other things he began attending university lectures again in order to take his degree. They were continually making plans for the future; both counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Till then they rested their hopes on Sonia.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her blessing to Dounia's marriage with Razumihin; but after the marriage she became even more melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father and how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two little children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited Pulcheria Alexandrovna's disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was continually talking about them, even entering into conversation with strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In public conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener, she would begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped the student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on! Dounia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there was the risk of someone's recalling Raskolnikov's name and speaking of the recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother of the two children her son had saved and insisted on going to see her.
At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home, that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that they must expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his coming, began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in joyful day-dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever. She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she dropped words which showed that she knew a great deal more about her son's terrible fate than they had supposed.
For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother's death, though a regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to the Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At first they found Sonia's letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for from these letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate brother's life. Sonia's letters were full of the most matter-of-fact detail, the simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov's surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no conjecture as to the future, no description of her feelings. Instead of any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the simple facts--that is, his own words, an exact account of his health, what he asked for at their interviews, what commission he gave her and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The picture of their unhappy brother stood out at last with great clearness and precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was given but facts.
But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news, especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off from everyone--he took a very direct and simple view of his new life; that he understood his position, expected nothing better for the time, had no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his position) and scarcely seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he had known before. She wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirking or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent about food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been glad to accept some money from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a rug under him and was unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply from inattention and indifference.
Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits, had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to talk and rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a habit and almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when she was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he was brought for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to see him at work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the sheds on the banks of the Irtish.
About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and, as there was scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his task was lightened and so on.
At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone, that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of the hospital.
 
西伯利亚。一条宽阔、荒凉的河，河岸上矗立着一座城市①，这是俄罗斯的行政中心之一；城市里有一座要塞，要塞里面有座监狱。第二类流刑犯②罗季昂•拉斯科利尼科夫已经在这座监狱里给关了九个月。从他犯罪的那天起，差不多已经过了一年半了。
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①指额尔齐斯河畔的鄂木斯克。
②根据一八四五年颁布的俄国刑法典，被流放到西伯利亚服苦役的犯人分为三类：第一类在矿场劳动；第二类修建要塞、堡垒；第三类在工厂劳动，主要是在军工厂和熬盐的工场里。陀思妥耶夫斯基曾作为第二类流刑犯人，给关在鄂木斯克监狱里。
他这件案子的审讯过程没遇到多大困难。犯人坚决、确切、明白无误地坚持自己的口供，没有把案情搞乱，没有避重就轻，没有歪曲事实，也没有忘记一个最小的细节。他毫无遗漏地供述了谋杀的整个过程：他解释了在被害的老太婆手里发现的那件抵押品的秘密（一块有金属薄片的小木板）；详细供述了他是怎样从死者身上拿到了钥匙，描绘了那些钥匙的形状，描绘了那个小箱子，以及箱子里装着些什么；甚至列举了其中的几件东西；说明了杀害莉扎薇塔之谜；供述了科赫来敲门的情况，他来了以后，怎样又来了一个大学生，转述了他们两人谈话的全部内容；后来，他，犯人，是怎么跑下楼去，以及听到米科尔卡和米季卡尖叫的情况；他又是怎样藏进那套空房子里，怎样回家的，最后指出，那块石头是在沃兹涅先斯基大街上一个院子里，就在大门附近；在那块石头底下果然找到了东西和钱袋。总之，案情十分清楚。然而侦查员和法官们都对这一点感到惊讶：他把钱袋和东西都藏到了石头底下，而没有动用过；使他们更为惊讶的是：他不仅记不清他亲手偷来的东西究竟是些什么，就连究竟有几件，也搞不清楚。至于他连一次也没打开过钱袋，甚至不知道里面到底有多少钱，说实在的，这更好像是不可思议的了（钱袋里有三百十七个银卢布和三个二十戈比的钱币；因为长期藏在石头底下，最上面的几张票面最大的钞票已经破损得非常厉害了）。花了好长时间竭力想要弄清：既然被告对其他所有情况都老老实实自愿供认了，为什么独独在这一点上说谎？最后，某些人（特别是一些心理学家）甚至认为这是可能的，认为他的确没有看过钱袋，所以不知道里面有多少钱，还没弄清里面有什么，就这样把它拿去藏到石头底下了，但是由此立刻又得出结论，所以会犯这桩罪，一定是由于一时精神错乱，可以说是患了杀人狂和抢劫狂，而没有更进一步的目的和谋财的意图。正好赶上这时有一种关于一时精神错乱的、最新的时髦理论，在我们这个时代往往竭力用这个理论来解释某些罪犯的心理。加以许多证人都证明，拉斯科利尼科夫长期以来就有忧郁症的症状，并且作了详细说明，这些证人中有佐西莫夫医生，他以前的同学，女房东和一个女仆。这一切有充分根据促使得出这样的结论：拉斯科利尼科夫不完全像一般的杀人犯、强盗和抢劫犯，这儿准是有什么别的原因。使坚持这种意见的人感到极为遗憾的是，犯人本人几乎并不试图为自己辩护；对于最后几个问题：究竟是什么促使他杀人，是什么促使他抢劫，他的回答十分明确，话说得很粗鲁，然而符合实际，他说，这一切的原因是他境况恶劣，贫困，无依无靠，他期望在被害者那里至少能弄到三千卢布，指望靠这笔钱来保障他的生活，使他在初入社会的时候能够站稳脚跟。他决定杀人，是由于他轻率和缺乏毅力的性格，贫困和失意更促使他下了杀人的决心。对于这个问题：究竟是什么促使他来自首的，他直率地回答说，由于真诚地悔罪。这些话几乎都说得很粗鲁……
然而，就所犯的罪行来说，判决比所能期待的还要宽大，而且也许这正是因为犯人不仅不想为自己辩护，反而甚至似乎想夸大自己罪行的缘故。这一案件的所有奇怪和特殊的情况都被考虑到了。犯人犯罪时的病态心理和贫困境况都是丝毫不容置疑的。他没有动用抢劫来的财物，被认为，一部分是由于他萌发了悔悟之念，一部分是由于犯罪的时候，他的精神不完全正常。无意中杀死莉扎薇塔，这一情况甚至成为一个例证，使如下的假设更为可信：一个人杀了两个人，而同时却忘记了，房门还在开着！最后还有，正当一个精神沮丧的狂热信徒（尼古拉）自称有罪，以虚假的供词把案情弄得异常混乱的时候，此外，对真正的罪犯不仅没有掌握确凿的罪证，而且甚至几乎没有产生怀疑（波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇完全信守了自己的诺言），正是在这个时候，犯人前来自首了。这一切最终促使对被告从轻判刑。
此外，完全意料不到地又出现了另外一些对被告十分有利的情况。以前的大学生拉祖米欣不知从哪里找到了这样一些材料，而且提出证据：犯人拉斯科利尼科夫在大学里读书的时候，曾经用自己仅有的一点儿钱帮助一个害肺病的穷苦同学，维持他的生活几乎长达半年之久。那个同学死后，拉斯科利尼科夫又去照顾亡友（他几乎从十三岁起就靠自己的劳动赡养自己的父亲）仍然活着的、年迈体弱的父亲，最后还让这位老人住进了医院，老人死后，又为他安葬。所有这些材料对决定拉斯科利尼科夫的命运起了某些有利的作用。拉斯科利尼科夫以前的女房东，他已经病故的未婚妻的母亲，寡妇扎尔尼岑娜也作证说，他们还住在五角场附近另一幢房子里的时候，有一次夜里失火，拉斯科利尼科夫从一套已经着火的房子里救出了两个小孩子，因为救人，他自己被火烧伤了。对这一事实作了详细调查，许多证人都完全证实了这一情况。总之，结果是，考虑到犯人是投案自首以及某些可以减刑的情况，犯人被判服第二类苦役，刑期只有八年。
还在审讯一开始的时候，拉斯科利尼科夫的母亲就病了。杜尼娅和拉祖米欣认为，可以在开庭期间让她离开彼得堡。拉祖米欣挑了一个沿铁路线、离彼得堡也很近的城市。这样可以经常留心审讯的情况，同时又能尽可能经常与阿芙多季娅•罗曼诺芙娜见面。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜的病是一种奇怪的精神病，同时还有类似精神错乱的某种迹象，即使不是完全精神错乱，至少是有一部分。杜尼娅最后一次见到哥哥，回来以后，发觉母亲已经完全病倒了，她在发烧，在说胡话。就在这天晚上，她和拉祖米欣商量好，母亲问起哥哥来，他们该怎样回答，甚至和他一起为母亲编造了一套谎话，说是拉斯科利尼科夫受私人委托，到一个很远的地方，到俄国边疆去办一件事情去了，这项任务最终将会使他获得金钱和声誉。但是使他们深感惊讶的是：无论是当时，还是以后，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜都从未问起过这方面的事。恰恰相反，原来对于儿子突然远行，她自己早已有自己的解释；她流着泪述说，他是怎样来和她告别的；同时她还暗示，只有她一个人知道许多非常重要的秘密，暗示罗佳有许多很有势力的敌人，因此他甚至必须躲藏起来。至于说到他的前途，她也认为，只要敌视他的某些情况消失了，那么他的前途无疑将是光明的；她让拉祖米欣相信，随着时间的推移，她的儿子甚至会成为国家的栋梁，他的那篇文章和他杰出的文学天才就是明显的证据。她在不断地看那篇文章，有时甚至念出声来，几乎连睡觉的时候也拿着那篇文章，可是罗佳现在到底在什么地方，她却几乎从来也不问起，尽管看得出来，当着她的面，大家都避而不谈这个问题，——而单单是这一点，就足以引起她的怀疑了。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜对某些问题始终保持缄默，这一奇怪的现象终于使他们感到担心了。譬如说吧，她甚至从不抱怨他不来信，而从前，住在故乡县城里的时候，她唯一的精神寄托，就是希望和盼望着快点儿接到心爱的罗佳的信。现在她不再等信，这实在是太无法解释了，因此使杜尼娅十分担忧；她心里产生了这样的想法：大概母亲是预感到儿子发生了什么可怕的事，所以她不敢问，以免知道更可怕的事情。无论如何，杜尼娅已经清清楚楚看出，普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜精神不大正常。
不过有两次她自己把话题转到了罗佳身上，以致回答她的时候，不可能不提到罗佳现在究竟在什么地方；他们迫不得已的回答当然不能使她满意，而且让她感到怀疑，这时她就突然变得非常伤心，忧愁，沉默寡言，这样一直持续很长时间。杜尼娅终于明白了，说谎和编造谎言是很难的，于是得出最后结论：对有些事情最好绝口不谈；不过可怜的母亲已经怀疑，准是发生了什么可怕的事情，这一点已经是越来越明显了。同时杜尼娅也想起了哥哥的话，在决定命运的头一天夜里，也就是在她和斯维德里盖洛夫发生了那一幕以后的那天夜里，母亲曾经听到过她在梦中呓语，那时母亲是不是听清了什么呢？往往，一连几天，甚至几个星期，母亲一直闷闷不乐，心情忧郁，一句话也不说，只是默默地流泪，可是在这之后，不知怎的，病人会歇斯底里地活跃起来，突然大声说话，几乎不住口地谈她的儿子，谈自己的希望和未来……她的幻想有时十分奇怪。他们安慰她，附和她（也许她自己看得很清楚，他们是在随声附和她，只不过是在安慰她），可她还是说个不停……
犯人自首以后过了五个月，判决下来了。只要一有可能，拉祖米欣就到狱中探望他。索尼娅也是一样。离别的时刻终于到了；杜尼娅对哥哥发誓说，这次离别不会是永诀；拉祖米欣也这么说。在拉祖米欣年轻、狂热的头脑里坚定不移地确定了这样一个计划：在三、四年内，尽可能至少为未来打下基础，至少攒一些钱，迁居到西伯利亚去，那里土地肥沃，资源丰富，缺少的是工人、创业的人和资本；他要到那里罗佳将要去的那个城市定居，……大家在一起开始新的生活。分别的时候大家都哭了。最后几天拉斯科利尼科夫陷入沉思，详细询问母亲的情况，经常为她感到担心。甚至为她感到十分痛苦，这使杜尼娅很不放心。得知母亲病态心情的详细情况以后，他的神情变得十分忧郁。不知为什么，这段时间里他特别不喜欢和索尼娅说话。索尼娅用斯维德里盖洛夫留给她的那笔钱，早已准备好了行装，打算跟随拉斯科利尼科夫也在其内的那批犯人一同上路。关于这一点，在她和拉斯科利尼科夫之间从来连一个字也没提起过；然而他们俩都知道，事情一定会是这样。临别时，妹妹和拉祖米欣都热烈地让他相信，等他服刑期满回来以后，他们的未来一定会十分幸福，对他们这些热情的话，他只是奇怪地笑了笑，并且预感到母亲的病情不久就会带来不幸的后果。他和索尼娅终于出发了。
两个月以后，杜涅奇卡和拉祖米欣结婚了。婚礼没有欢乐的气氛，而且冷冷清清。不过应邀前来的客人中有波尔菲里•彼特罗维奇和佐西莫夫。最近一个时期，拉祖米欣的神情像一个下定了决心的人。杜尼娅盲目地相信，他一定会实现自己的打算，而且也不能不相信：看得出来，这个人有钢铁般的意志。顺便说说，他又到大学去上课了，以便能够读完大学。他们俩不断地制订未来的计划；两人都对五年后迁居到西伯利亚抱有坚定的希望。在那以前，他们把一切希望都寄托在索尼娅身上……
普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜很高兴地为女儿和拉祖米欣结婚祝福；可是举行过婚礼以后，她却似乎变得更加愁闷，更加忧虑了。为了让她高兴，拉祖米欣顺带讲给她听，罗佳曾经帮助过一个大学生和他年迈体弱的父亲，还讲了罗佳去年为了救两个小孩子的性命，自己给烧伤了，甚至还害了一场病。这两个消息使普莉赫里娅• 亚历山德罗芙娜本来就已经不正常的精神几乎达到了异常兴奋的状态。她不断地谈起这两件事，在街上也逢人就说（尽管杜尼娅经常伴随着她）。在公共马车上，在小铺里，只要能找到一个肯听她说话的人，她立刻就跟大家谈她的儿子，谈他的那篇文章，谈他怎样帮助那个大学生，怎样在失火的时候为了救人让火给烧伤，等等。杜涅奇卡甚至都不知道该怎样才能阻止她。这种异常兴奋的病态心情是危险的，此外，如果有人记起不久前审理的那件案子，因而想起拉斯科利尼科夫这个姓，谈论起来的话，那可就糟了。普莉赫里娅•亚历山德罗芙娜甚至打听到了那两个在火灾中给救出来的小孩子的母亲的地址。一定要去拜访她。最后她的不安达到了极点。有时她会突然放声大哭起来，经常生病，发烧，说胡话。有一天一清早，她直截了当地说，她计算着，罗佳不久就该回来了，说是她记得，他和她分手的时候曾经说过，正是过九个月以后，就该等着他回来。她把家里的一切都收拾了一下，准备迎接他，动手装饰打算给他住的那间房子（她自己住的那一间），把家具擦得干干净净，洗掉旧窗帘，换上新窗帘，等等。杜尼娅非常担心，可是什么也不说，甚至帮着她布置房子，来迎接哥哥。在不断的幻想、欢乐的梦中流着眼泪度过了令人忧虑不安的一天以后，当天夜里她病了，第二天早晨已经发起烧来，神智不清了。热病发作了。两个星期以后她死了。在她昏迷的时候，突然说了几句话，根据这些话可以得出结论，她一直怀疑儿子遭到了可怕的命运，她的猜疑甚至比他们所认为的要严重得多。
拉斯科利尼科夫很长时间都不知道母亲去世的消息，尽管从他在西伯利亚一安顿下来，就与彼得堡有书信来往了。通信关系是通过索尼娅建立起来的，索尼娅每月按时往彼得堡寄信，信写给拉祖米欣，也每月按时收到从彼得堡来的回信。起初杜尼娅和拉祖米欣觉得，索尼娅的信有点儿枯燥，不能令人满意；但最后两人都认为，不可能比她写得更好了，因为从这些信里，对他们不幸的哥哥的命运毕竟得出了一个全面、正确的概念。索尼娅在信上写的都是日常生活的真实情况，最简单明了地描写出了拉斯科利尼科夫苦役生活的全部情况。信上既没有谈她自己的希望，也没有对未来的推测，更没有叙述她自己的感情。她没有试图说明他的心情，或一般地说明他的内心生活，她的信上只有一些事实，也就是他自己说过的话，详细说明他的健康状况，以及和他见面的时候他有什么愿望，要求她做什么，托她办什么事情，等等。所有这一切都写得非常详细。不幸的哥哥的形象终于跃然纸上，给描写得十分确切而又清晰；这儿不会有什么差错，因为一切都是可靠的事实。
但是杜尼娅和她丈夫从这些消息中看不出有多少可以高兴的事情，尤其是在一开始的时候。索尼娅不断地告诉他们，他经常神情阴郁，不爱说话，每次她把接到的信中的消息告诉他的时候，他甚至几乎一点儿也不感兴趣；说是他有时问起母亲；而当她看出，他已经预料到事情的真相，终于告诉他，母亲已经去世的时候，使她感到惊讶的是，就连母亲去世的消息也似乎没有对他产生强烈的影响，至少她觉得，从表面来看是这样的。她顺带告诉他们，尽管看上去他总是陷入沉思，独自想得出神，仿佛与世隔绝，不和人来往，可是他对自己新生活的态度却很坦率，实事求是；她说，他很清楚自己的处境，并不期待最近会有什么改善，也不存任何不切实际的希望（处在他的情况下，自然是这样了），虽然他所处的新环境与以前的环境很少有相似之处，但他对周围的一切几乎从不感到惊讶。她说，他的健康状况是可以令人满意的。他去干活，既不逃避，也不硬要多做。伙食好坏，他几乎不感兴趣，但是，除了星期天和节日，平日的伙食简直令人难以下咽，所以他终于乐意接受她，索尼娅，给他的钱，好每天能自己烧点儿茶喝；至于其余的一切，他请她不要操心，让她相信，对他的一切关心只会使他感到苦恼。随后索尼娅写道，在监狱中，他和大家住在一间牢房里，他们的牢房她没看到过，不过她断定，里面很挤，不像样，也不卫生；她说，他睡在铺板上，只铺一条毛毡，别的什么东西他也不想置备。但是他过着这样恶劣和贫困的生活，完全不是按照什么偏执的计划或者是有什么意图，而只不过是由于对自己的命运漠不关心以及表面上的冷漠态度。索尼娅坦率地写道，他，特别是最初，对她去探望他不仅不感兴趣，甚至几乎是怨恨她，不爱说话，甚至粗暴地对待她，但这些会面终于使他习惯了，甚至几乎变成了他的要求，有一次她生了好几天病，没能去探望他，他甚至非常想念她。每逢节日，她都和他在监狱大门口或警卫室里见面，有时他给叫到警卫室去和她会见几分钟；平日他要去干活，她就到他干活的地方去看他，或者在工场，或者在砖厂里，或者在额尔齐斯河畔的板棚里。关于她自己，索尼娅告诉他们，在城里她甚至已经有了几个熟人和保护人；她说，她在做裁缝，因为城市里几乎没有做时装的女裁缝，所以，在许多家庭里，她甚至成为一个必不可少的人了；不过她没有提到，由于她的关系，拉斯科利尼科夫也得到了长官的照顾，让他去干比较轻的活，等等。最后，传来这样一个消息（杜尼娅甚至发觉，在她最近的几封来信里，流露出某种特别焦虑和担心的情绪），说他躲避所有的人，说监狱里的苦役犯人都不喜欢他；说他一连几天一句话也不说，脸色变得十分苍白。突然，在最近一封来信里，索尼娅写道，他病了，病情十分严重，躺在医院的囚犯病房里……
Epilogue 2
He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not the hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships! he was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to him--the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple /blunder/ which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to "the idiocy" of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.
Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing--that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.
And if only fate would have sent him repentance--burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime.
At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison. But now in prison, /in freedom/, he thought over and criticised all his actions again and by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque as they had seemed at the fatal time.
"In what way," he asked himself, "was my theory stupider than others that have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has only to look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so . . . strange. Oh, sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you halt half-way!"
"Why does my action strike them as so horrible?" he said to himself. "Is it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law . . . and that's enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded and so /they were right/, and I didn't, and so I had no right to have taken that step."
It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.
He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigailov overcome it, although he was afraid of death?
In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that, at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his convictions. He didn't understand that that consciousness might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future resurrection.
He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples.
In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were just as contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone; they even began to hate him at last--why, he could not tell. Men who had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime.
"You're a gentleman," they used to say. "You shouldn't hack about with an axe; that's not a gentleman's work."
The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.
"You're an infidel! You don't believe in God," they shouted. "You ought to be killed."
He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently; his eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in intervening between him and his assailant, or there would have been bloodshed.
There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so fond of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met them, sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet everybody knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow /him/, knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia. She would write and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of the prisoners who visited the town, at their instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. "Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you are our dear, good little mother," coarse branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even came to her for help in their illnesses.
He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and their voices.
Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long. The second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and it was difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the ward.
One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and moved away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out.
He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.
Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o'clock, he went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads' tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into day-dreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.
How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and that at last the moment had come. . . .
They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.
They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while she--she only lived in his life.
On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn't everything now bound to be changed?
He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face. But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were all, /all/ the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.
Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it.
He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: "Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least. . . ."
She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy--and so unexpectedly happy--that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, /only/ seven years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering.
But that is the beginning of a new story--the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.
 
他早就已经生病了；但使他垮下来的不是苦役生活的恐怖，不是做苦工，不是这里的伙食，不是剃光头，也不是用布头缝制的囚衣：噢！所有这些苦难和折磨对他来说算得了什么！恰恰相反，对做苦工，他甚至感到高兴：干活使身体疲惫不堪，他至少可以安安静静地睡上几个钟头。至于伙食——这没有一点儿肉屑、却漂浮着蟑螂的菜汤，对他来说又算得了什么？他从前作大学生的时候，常常连这样的饭都吃不上。他的衣服是暖和的，对他现在的生活方式也挺合适。他甚至没有感觉到身上戴着镣铐。剃光头和穿着用两种不同料子做的短上衣①，使他感到可耻吗？可是在谁的面前觉得可耻呢？在索尼娅面前吗？索尼娅怕他，在她面前他会感到羞愧吗？
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①第二类苦役犯人穿灰、黑两色的短上衣，背上缝一块黄色的方布。
那么是为什么呢？就连在索尼娅面前，他也感到羞愧，因此他用轻蔑和粗暴的态度来对待她，使她感到痛苦不堪。但他感到羞愧，并不是因为剃了光头和戴着镣铐：他的自尊心受到了严重的伤害；使他病倒的是他那受到伤害的自尊心。噢，如果他能自认为有罪，他会感到多么幸福啊！那时他将会忍受一切，就连羞耻和屈辱也能忍受。但是他以求全责备的目光检查了自己的所作所为，他那顽强不屈的良心却没能在自己过去的行为中发现任何特别可怕的罪行，也许只除了人人都可能发生的极平常的失算。他所以感到可耻，正是因为他，拉斯科利尼科夫，由于偶然的命运的判决，竟这样偶然、这样毫无希望、这样冷漠、这样糊里糊涂地毁了，如果他想多少安慰自己，那就得听天由命，逆来顺受，对某种判决的“荒谬”表示屈服。
目前只有空洞和毫无意义的忧虑，将来只有一无所获的、不断的牺牲，——这就是他在这个世界上面临的命运。八年后他只不过三十二岁，还可以重新开始生活，这又有什么意义呢！他为什么要活着？有什么打算？竭力追求的是什么？为了生存而活着吗？可是以前他就甘愿为思想、为希望、甚至为幻想成千次献出自己的生命了。他一向认为，单单生存是不够的；他总是希望生命有更大的意义。也许只是由于他抱有希望，当时他才自认为是一个比别人享有更多权利的人吧。
如果命运赐给他悔过之心就好了——沉痛的悔恨会使他心碎，夺走他的睡眠。由于悔恨而感到的可怕的痛苦会使他神思恍惚，产生自缢和投河的念头！噢，如果能够这样，他将会感到多么高兴啊！痛苦和眼泪——这也是生活嘛。然而对自己的罪行，他并无悔过之意。
要是他能至少对自己的愚蠢感到愤慨也好，就像以前他曾对自己那些很不像话、愚蠢透顶的行为感到愤恨一样，正是那些愚蠢行为导致他锒铛入狱的。可是现在，他已在狱中，空闲的时候，他重新反复考虑、衡量以前自己的所作所为，却完全不认为这些行为像他以前，在决定命运的时刻所认为的那样愚蠢和不像话了。
“有哪一点，有哪一点，”他想，“我的思想比开天辟地以来这个世界上大量产生而又相互矛盾的思想和理论更愚蠢呢？只要以完全独立、全面、摆脱世俗观念的观点来看问题，那么我的思想当然就根本不是那么……奇怪了。唉，对一切持否定态度的人和那些一钱不值的哲人们，你们为什么半途而废啊！”
“从哪一点来看，他们觉得我的行为是那么不像话呢？”他自言自语。“是因为我的行为残暴吗？残暴这个词儿是什么意思？我问心无愧。当然，犯了刑事罪；当然，违反了法律条文的字面意义，而且流了血，好，那就为了法律条文的字面意义砍掉我的脑袋吧……这也就够了！当然啦，如果这样的话，那么就连许多人类的恩人，不是那些继承权力的人，而是自己攫取权力的人，在他们刚刚迈出最初几步的时候，也都应该处以极刑了。但是那些人经受住了最初的考验，所以他们是无罪的，我却没能经受住，可见我没有允许自己走这一步的权利。”
仅仅在这一点上，他承认自己是有罪的：他没能经受住考验，他去自首了。
这个想法也让他感到痛苦：当时他为什么没有自杀？为什么当时他曾站在河边，却宁愿去自首？难道活命的愿望是一种如此强大的力量，以致难以克服吗？怕死的斯维德里盖洛夫不是克服了吗？
他常常向自己提出这个问题，而且不能理解，当时，他站在河边的时候，也许已经预感到自己和自己的信念是十分虚伪的了。他不理解，这种预感可能就是他生活中未来转变的预兆，就是他将来获得新生、以新的观点来看待人生的预兆。
他宁愿认为这仅仅是本能的一种迟钝的沉重负担，他无法摆脱这副重担，而且仍然不能跨越过去（由于意志薄弱和渺小）。他看看和他一同服苦役的那些同伴，不由得感到惊讶：他们也是多么爱生活，多么珍惜生活啊！他好像觉得，他们正是在监狱里，比他们自由的时候更爱、更珍惜、也更重视生活。他们当中有一些人，譬如说，那些流浪汉，什么样的痛苦和残酷的折磨没有经受过啊！一道阳光，一座郁郁葱葱的森林，无人知道的密林深处一股冰凉的泉水，对于他们来说难道会有那么重大的意义？这泉水还是两年多以前发现的，难道一个流浪汉会像梦想会见情人那样，梦想着再看到这股泉水？他会梦见它，梦见它周围绿草如茵，一只小鸟儿在灌木丛中鸣啭吗？他继续细心观察，看到了一些更难解释的事例。
在监狱里，在他周围这些人们中间，当然有很多事情是他没注意到的，而且他也根本不想注意。不知为什么，他总是眼睛望着地下：周围的一切他看了就感到极端厌恶，难以忍受。但后来有很多事情开始使他感到惊奇了，于是他有点儿不由自主地注意到了以前想都没想到过的事情。一般说，使他最为惊讶的是，在他和所有这些人之间隔着一个无法逾越的可怕的深渊。似乎他和他们是不同民族的人。他和他们互不信任，互相怀有敌意。他知道而且了解这种隔阂的主要原因；但是以前他从不认为，这些原因真的是那么深刻和严重。监狱里也有一些波兰籍的流放犯，都是政治犯。那些波兰人简直把这儿所有人都看作没有知识的粗人和农民，高傲地瞧不起他们；拉斯科利尼科夫却不能这样看待他们：他清清楚楚看出，这些没有知识的粗人在许多方面都比这些波兰人聪明得多。这儿也有些俄罗斯人——一个军官和两个神学校的毕业生，——他们也很瞧不起这些人；拉斯科利尼科夫也明显地看出了他们的错误。
他本人也是大家都不喜欢的，大家都躲着他。最后甚至憎恨他了——为什么呢？他不知道原因何在。大家都瞧不起他，嘲笑他，就连那些罪行比他严重得多的人也嘲笑他所犯的罪。
“你是老爷！”他们对他说。“你能拿斧头吗；这根本不是老爷干的事。”
大斋期①的第二周，轮到他和同一牢房的犯人去斋戒②。
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①复活节前的斋期，一共持续六个星期。
②按教堂规定的时间素食。祈祷，准备去忏悔和领圣餐。
他和其他人一道去教堂祈祷。他自己也不知是为了什么，——有一次发生了争吵；大家一下子全都起来疯狂地攻击他。
“你是个不信神的人！你不信上帝！”他们对他吼叫。“真该宰了你。”
他从来也没跟他们谈过上帝和宗教，他们却要把他当作一个不信神的人，杀死他；他不作声，也不反驳他们。有一个苦役犯人狂怒地朝他扑了过来；拉斯科利尼科夫沉着地、默默地等着他：他的眉毛动都不动，脸上的肌肉也没抖动过一下。一个押送他们的卫兵及时把他们隔开了——不然准会发生流血事件。
对他来说，还有一个问题也没解决：为什么他们大家都那么喜欢索尼娅？她并不巴结他们；他们难得碰到她，有时只是在大家干活的时候，她到那里去，只待一会儿，是为了去看他。然而大家都已经认识她了，知道她是跟着他来的，知道她怎样生活，住在哪里。她没给过他们钱，也没为他们特别效过力。只有一次，在圣诞节，她给监狱里的犯人们送来了馅饼和白面包。但是渐渐地在他们和索尼娅之间建立起了某些更为密切的关系：她代他们给他们的亲属写信，替他们把信送到邮局去。他们的亲属到城里来的时候，都根据他们的介绍，把带给他们的东西，甚至金钱交给索尼娅。他们的妻子或情人都认识她，常到她那里去。每当她到他们干活的地方去看拉斯科利尼科夫，或者在路上遇到一批去干活的犯人的时候，犯人们都摘下帽子，向她问好：“妈妈，索菲娅•谢苗诺芙娜，你是我们的母亲，温柔的、最可爱的母亲！”这些粗野的、脸上刺了字①的苦役犯人对这个瘦小的女人说。她总是微笑着鞠躬还礼，大家都喜欢她对他们微笑。他们甚至喜欢她走路的姿态，总是回过头来目送着她，看她走路的样子，并且赞美她；甚至为了她是那么瘦小而赞美她，甚至不知道该赞美她什么才好。他们生了病，甚至去找她给他们治病。
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①沙俄时期，被判处苦役的犯人要在额上和脸上刺上“KAT”（苦役犯的缩写）三个字母。贵族和妇女免于刺字。
斋期的最后几天和复活节的那一个星期，他都躺在医院里。病渐渐痊愈的时候，他记起了还在发烧和昏迷不醒的时候作的那些梦。病中他梦见，全世界注定要在一场闻所未闻、见所未见的、可怕的瘟疫中毁灭，这场瘟疫是从亚洲腹地蔓延到欧洲来的。所有人都必死无疑，只有很少几个才智超群的人得以幸免。发现了一种新的旋毛虫，一种能侵入人体的微生物。不过这些微生物是有智慧、有意志的精灵。身体里有了这种微生物的人立刻会变得像鬼魂附体一样，变成疯子。可是人们还从来，从来没有像这些病人那样自以为聪明过人，而且坚信真理。对于自己所作的决定、科学结论、自己的道德观念和信仰还从来没像现在这样坚信不疑。一批批村庄、一座座城市，全体人民都传染上了这种瘟疫，都发疯了。大家都惶惶不安，互不了解，每个人都认为，只有他一个人掌握了真理，看着别人都感到痛苦不堪，捶胸顿足，放声大哭，十分痛心。大家都不知道该审判谁，该如何审判，对于什么是恶，什么是善，都无法取得一致意见。都不知道该认为什么人有罪，该为什么人辩护。他们怀着失去理性的仇恨，互相残杀。他们各自调集了大批军队，向对方发动进攻，但是在行军途中，这些军队却自相残杀起来，队伍混乱了，战士们互相攻击，互相砍、杀，人在咬人，人在吃人。一座座城市里整天鸣钟报警：召集所有的人，可是谁也不知道，是谁，又是为什么召集他们，然而大家都感到惊慌不安。大家都丢下了日常工作。因为每个人都提出自己的观点，提出自己的改良计划，而不能取得一致意见，农业荒废了。有些地方，人们聚集到一起，同意去做什么事情，发誓决不分离，但是话音未落，却立刻干起与自己刚才的建议完全相反的事情来：大家互相指责，斗殴，残杀。开始发生火灾，饥荒。所有人和一切事物都毁了。瘟疫在发展，继续到处蔓延。全世界只有几个人能够得救，这是一些心灵纯洁、才智超群的人，他们负有繁衍新人种和创造新生活的使命，他们将使大地焕然一新，彻底净化，然而谁也没在任何地方看到过这些人，谁也没听到过他们说的话和他们的声音。
使拉斯科利尼科夫异常苦恼的是：这毫无意义的梦呓竟在他的记忆里唤起如此悲哀和痛苦的感情，热病发作时梦中的印象竟这样长久地萦回不去。已经是复活节后的第二周；天气暖和，天空晴朗，春天到了；囚犯病房里的窗户打开了（窗上装了铁栅，窗外有哨兵巡逻）。在他生病期间，索尼娅只能在病房里探望了他两次；每次都得请求批准，而这是很困难的。但是她经常到医院的院子里来，站到窗前，特别是在傍晚，有时只是为了在院子里稍站一会儿，至少可以从远处望望病房里的窗户。有一天傍晚，已经差不多完全恢复健康的拉斯科利尼科夫睡着了；醒来后，他无意中走到窗前，突然在远处，在医院大门附近看到了索尼娅。她站在那儿，好像在等待着什么。这时仿佛有个什么东西猛一下子刺穿了他的心；他颤栗了一下，赶快离开了窗边。第二天索尼娅没有来，第三天也没来；他发觉，自己在焦急不安地等着她。他终于出院了。回到监狱，他从囚犯们那里得知，索尼娅病了，睡在家里，哪里也不去。
他非常担心，托人去探望她。不久他得知，她的病并不危险。索尼娅也得知，他十分想念她，关心她，于是托人给他带去一张用铅笔写的条子，告诉他，她的病好多了，她只不过着了凉，有点儿感冒，她很快、很快就会到他干活的地方去和他见面。他看这张条子的时候，心在剧烈而痛苦地狂跳。
又是晴朗而暖和的一天。大清早六点钟的时候，他到河岸上去干活了，那儿的一座板棚里砌了一座烧建筑用石膏的焙烧炉，也是在那儿把石膏捣碎。去那儿干活的只有三个人。有一个囚犯和押送犯人的卫兵一道到要塞领工具去了；另一个犯人动手准备劈柴，把柴堆到焙烧炉里。拉斯科利尼科夫从板棚里出来，来到河边，坐到堆放在板棚旁的原木上，开始眺望那条宽阔、荒凉的河流。从高高的河岸上望去，四周一大片广袤的土地都呈现在眼前。从遥远的对岸隐隐约约传来了歌声。那里，洒满阳光、一望无际的草原上，游牧民族的帐篷宛如一个个黑点，依稀可辨。那里是自由的天地，那里住着与这里的人全然不同的另一些人，那里的时间似乎停止了，仿佛亚伯拉罕①的时代和他的畜群还没有成为过去。拉斯科利尼科夫坐在河边，目不转睛地凝神眺望着；他渐渐陷入幻想和想象中；他什么也没想，但是某种忧虑却使他心情激动不安，使他感到痛苦。
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①据《圣经》上说：古犹太人的族长亚伯拉罕大约生于纪元前二○○○年。
突然索尼娅在他身边出现了。她悄无声息地来到了他这里，坐到他的旁边。时间还很早，清晨的寒气还没有减弱。她穿一件寒伧的旧大衣，头上包着绿色的头巾。她脸上还带着病容，十分消瘦，面色苍白。她亲切而高兴地对他微微一笑，却像往常一样，怯生生地向他伸过手来。
她把自己的手伸给他的时候总是怯生生地，有时甚至根本不把手伸给他，似乎害怕他会把她的手推开。他好像总是怀着厌恶的心情和她握手，见到她时总是好像感到遗憾，有时，在她来看他的这段时间里，他执拗地默默不语。有时她很怕他，经常是怀着十分悲痛的心情回去。但是现在他们的手没有分开；他匆匆看了她一眼，什么也没说，垂下眼睛望着地下。只有他们两个人，谁也没看到他们。这时候押送犯人的卫兵把脸转过去了。
这是怎么发生的，他自己也不知道，但是好像不知有什么突然把他举起来，丢到了她的脚下。他哭了，抱住了她的双膝。最初一瞬间她大吃一惊，吓得面无人色。她跳了起来，浑身发抖，望着他。但立刻，就在这一刹那，她什么都明白了。她的眼睛闪闪发光，露出无限幸福的神情；她明白了，她已经毫不怀疑，他爱她，无限地热爱她，这个时刻终于到了……
他们想要说话，可是谁也说不出来。他们都热泪盈眶。他们俩都面色苍白，两人都很瘦；但是在这两张仍然带有病容的、苍白的脸上已经闪烁着获得新生的未来的曙光。爱情使他们获得了新生，这一个人的心包含有另一颗心的无穷无尽的生活源泉。
他们决定等待和忍耐。他们还得等待七年；而在那个时候到来之前，还有多少难以忍受的痛苦和无穷无尽的幸福啊！然而他获得了新生，他也知道这一点，已经获得新生的他以全身心充分感觉到了这一点，而她——她只是为了使他活下去而活着！
那天晚上，牢房的门已经锁上以后，拉斯科利尼科夫躺在床板上想着她。这天他甚至好像觉得，似乎所有苦役犯人，他以前的那些敌人，已经用另一种眼光来看他了。他甚至主动跟他们说起话来，他们也亲切地回答他。现在他回想起这一切，不过，不是应该如此吗；难道现在不是一切都应该改变了吗？
他在想着她。他回想起，以前他经常折磨她，让她伤心；回想起她那苍白、消瘦的脸，但是这些回忆现在几乎并不使他感到痛苦；他知道，现在他会用多么无限的爱来补偿她所受的一切痛苦。
而且这一切究竟是什么呢，一切痛苦都已经过去了！现在，在最初的感情冲动中，一切，就连他犯的罪，就连判决和流放，他都觉得好像是某种身外的、奇怪的、甚至仿佛不是他亲身经历的事情。不过这天晚上他不能长久和固定地去想某一件事，不能把思想集中到某一件事情上去；而且现在他也并未有意识地作出任何决定；他只是有这样的一些感觉。生活取代了雄辩，思想意识里应该形成完全不同的另一种东西。
他枕头底下有一本福音书。他无意识地把它拿了出来。这本书是她的，就是她给他读拉撒路复活的那一本。刚开始服苦役的时候，他以为她会用宗教来折磨他，会和他谈福音书上的故事，把书硬塞给他。然而使他极为惊讶的是，她连一次也没跟他谈起这件事，连一次也没提出要给他福音书。在他生病前不久，他自己向她要这本书，她默默地给他把书带来了。直到现在他还没有翻开过这本书。
现在他也没有把书翻开，不过有个想法在他脑子里突然一闪：“难道现在她的信仰不能成为我的信仰吗？至少她的感情，她的愿望……”
整整这一天，她心里也很激动，夜里甚至又生病了。但是她觉得那么幸福，几乎对自己的幸福感到害怕。七年，只不过七年！在他们的幸福刚一开始的时候，有时他们俩都愿意把这七年看作七天。他甚至不知道，他不可能不付出代价就获得新的生活，还必须为新生活付出昂贵的代价，必须在以后为它建立丰功伟绩……
不过一个新的故事已经开始，这是一个人逐渐获得新生的故事，是一个人逐渐洗心革面、从一个世界进入另一个世界的故事，是他逐渐熟悉迄今为止还不知道的、新的现实的故事。这可以构成一部新小说的题材，——不过我们现在的这部小说已经结束了。