His
bitterness
grew
more
and
more
intense,
and
if
he
had
happened
to
meet Mr. Luzhin
at
the
moment,
he
might
have
murdered
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. Svidrigaďlov
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
Svidrigaďlovs
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.
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
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
Svidrigaďlov!
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.