第一章 Page 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: 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。 -------- 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。 -------- 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……” -------- 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。

第一章 Page 2 "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. “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。

第二章 Page 1 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!" 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？” -------- 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？” -------- 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？” -------- 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！”

第二章 Page 2 "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 . . .!" “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。” -------- 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……是啊……不过那一天清早我起来了，穿上我的破衣烂衫，举起双手向上天祈祷，然后去见伊万·阿凡纳西耶维奇大人。请问您认识伊万·阿凡纳西耶维奇大人吗？……不认识？这样一位道德高尚的人，您竟会不认识！心肠像蜡一样软……上帝面前的蜡；会像蜡一样融化！……听完我的话，他甚至掉下泪来。‘唉，’他说，‘马尔梅拉多夫，有一次你已经辜负了我的期望……我就再任用你一次吧，这完全由我个人负责，’他这么说，‘你可要记住，’他说，‘回去吧！’我吻了吻他脚上的灰尘，不过是在想象之中，因为他身为显贵，有治国的新思想、新文化，是不允许当真这么做的；我回到家里，刚一说出，我又被录用，又会领到薪俸了，天哪，那时候大家那个高兴劲儿啊……”

第二章 Page 3 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. 马尔梅拉多夫激动得很厉害，又住了声。这时从外面进来一群本来已经喝醉的醉汉，门口响起了一架租来的手摇风琴的声音和一个七岁孩子唱《小小农庄》①的颤抖的歌声。热闹起来了。老板和伙计都忙着招待进来的客人。马尔梅拉多夫却不理会那些进来的人，开始接着讲他的故事。看样子他虚弱得很，然而越是醉得厉害，就越爱说话。回忆起不久前顺利获得差事的情况，仿佛使他兴奋起来，连他脸上都发出了光彩。拉斯科利尼科夫注意听着。 -------- ①根据俄罗斯诗人阿·费·科利佐夫（一八○九——一八四二）的诗谱写的一首流行歌曲。 “我的先生，这是五个星期以前的事。不错……她们俩，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜和索涅奇卡刚一得知这一消息，天哪，简直就像进了天堂似的。从前我只有挨骂的份儿：像畜生一样躺着吧！现在呢：她们踮着脚尖走路，让孩子们安静下来：‘谢苗·扎哈雷奇办公累了，他在休息呢，嘘！’上班之前，让我喝咖啡，给我煮凝乳！弄来了真正的乳脂，您听到了吗！我真不明白，她们怎么能积攒下十一个卢布五十戈比，给我置备了一套挺不错的制服？一双靴子，细棉布的胸衣——都是最考究的，还有一套文官制服，所有这一切都是花十一个卢布五十戈比买来的，而且式样都好极了。第一天早上我下班回来，一看：卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜做了两道菜，汤和用洋姜作配料的腌牛肉，这样的菜，在这以前连想都没想过。她什么衣服都没有……也就是没有什么像样的衣服，这时却穿戴得他要去作客一样，而且这不是说她穿上了什么新衣服，而是没有衣服她也能打扮：她梳了头，衣领换了个干净的，戴上了一副袖套，瞧，简直像换了一个人，显得既年轻又漂亮。索涅奇卡，我亲爱的，只是拿钱接济我们，她说，如今我暂时不便经常来你们这儿了，除非是在黄昏时分，免得让人看见。您听到了吗，听到了吗？午饭后我回来睡午觉，您猜怎么着，瞧，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜耐不住了：一星期前刚跟女房东阿玛莉娅·费多罗芙娜大吵了一场，这时却请她来喝咖啡了。她们在一起坐了两个钟头，一直在低声说话儿，她说：‘谢苗·扎哈雷奇这会儿又有了差事，能领到薪俸了，他去见过大人，大人亲自出来接见，叫所有人都等着，却拉着谢苗·扎哈雷奇的手打他们面前经过，把他领进办公室去。’您听见了吗，听见了吗？‘我，当然啦，’他说，‘谢苗·扎哈雷奇，记得您的功劳，虽然您有这个轻率的弱点，不过既然您已经答应，而且您不在这儿，我的工作也不顺利，（您听到了，听到了！）那么，我希望，’他说，‘现在能够相信您的诺言。’也就是说，所有这些话，我要告诉您，都是她信口编造出来的，这倒不是由于轻率，自吹自擂！不，这一切她自己全部相信，她用自己的想象安慰自己，真的！我并不责备她；这件事我并不责备她！……六天以前，当我把第一次领到的薪水——二十三卢布四十戈比——全部拿回去的时候，她管我叫小宝贝儿。她说：‘你真是个小宝贝儿！’而且是只有我们俩在一起的时候，您明白吗？唉，我哪里是个值得赞美的人，又算个什么样的丈夫啊？不，她拧了拧我的面颊。‘你真是个小宝贝儿！’她说。” 马尔梅拉多夫住了声，想要笑一笑，可是他的下巴突然抖动起来。不过他忍住了。这个小酒馆，他那副穷愁潦倒的样子，在干草船上度过的五夜，还有这一什托夫酒，再加上对妻子和家庭的这种病态的爱，这一切使得听他说话的人感到困惑不解。拉斯科利尼科夫全神贯注地听着，但是感到很痛苦。他为到这里来觉得后悔了。 “先生，先生！”马尔梅拉多夫控制住自己，又提高声音说，“我的先生，也许您和别人一样，也认为这一切都很好笑吧，我只不过拿我家庭生活里这些微不足道的琐事来打搅您，可对我来说，这并不好笑！因为这一切我都能感觉得到……我一生中像在天堂里那样幸福的那一整天，还有那天整整一个晚上，我是在心驰神往的幻想中度过的：就是说，我幻想着怎样安排好这一切：给孩子们穿上新衣服，让她不再操心，让我的独生女儿从不幸的火坑回到家庭环境里来……还有很多，很多……这是可以的吧，先生。唉，我的先生（马尔梅拉多夫突然好像打了个哆嗦，抬起头来，直盯着听他说话的这个人），唉，可就在第二天，就在我幻想了这些事情以后（也就是说，是在整整五天五夜以前），傍晚，我就用巧妙的欺骗手段，像在夜里偷东西的小偷那样，偷了卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜箱子上的钥匙，把带回家来的薪水中还剩下的那些钱都拿走了，到底是多少，已经记不得了，就是这样，请您看看我吧，全拿走了！从家里出来已经第五天了，而那里在找我，差事也砸了，文官制服放在埃及桥旁的一家小酒馆里，用它换了这身衣服……什么都完了！” 马尔梅拉多夫拿拳头捶了捶自己的前额，咬紧了牙，一只胳膊肘使劲撑在桌子上，闭上了眼。可是过了一会儿，他的脸突然又变了样，用故意装出来的狡猾和厚颜无耻的神情朝拉斯科利尼科夫瞅了一眼，笑了起来，并且说： “今天我去过索尼娅那儿，跟她要钱买酒，解解宿醉！嘿，嘿，嘿！” “难道说她给了吗？”刚进来的人们那边有人喊了一声，喊过以后，放声哈哈大笑。 “这不是，这半什托夫酒就是用她的钱买的，”马尔梅拉多夫只对着拉斯科利尼科夫说。“她亲手拿出三十个戈比来，这是她仅有的最后一点儿钱，我亲眼看见的……她什么也没说，只默默地看了看我……尘世上没有这样的事，而是在那边……他们为人发愁，为人痛哭，可是不责备他们！不责备，可更让人难过，更让人痛心！……三十个戈比，对了。要知道，这会儿她自己也需要这些钱，不是吗？您认为呢？我亲爱的先生，不是吗？现在她需要保持整洁。要保持这种整洁，这种特殊的整洁，就要花钱，您明白吗？您明白吗？啊，她也得买化妆用的香膏啦什么的，不买不行啊；还要买上浆的裙子，那种时髦漂亮的皮鞋，这样在不得不过水洼的时候，才能把自己的小脚迈出去。这种整洁意味着什么，您明白吗，先生，您明白吗？唉，可我，她的亲爹，却把这三十戈比拿去买酒喝了！我正在喝呢！已经喝光了！……嗯，谁会怜悯我这样的人？什么？现在您可怜我吗，先生，还是不可怜呢？你说呀，先生，可怜还是不可怜？嘿，嘿，嘿，嘿！” 他本想斟酒，可是酒已经没了。装半什托夫的酒壶已经空了。 “干吗要可怜你呀？”又来到他们身边的老板喊了一声。 一阵哄堂大笑，甚至还听到有骂人的声音。正在听的和并没听的人都在哄笑，叫骂，就这样，大家都只瞅着退职的官吏一个人。 “可怜！干吗要可怜我呀！”马尔梅拉多夫突然大喊一声，情绪十分激昂，朝前伸着一只手站了起来，仿佛他就只等着这些话似的。“干吗要可怜呢，你说？是的！我没什么好可怜的！该把我钉到十字架上，钉到十字架上，而不是怜悯！可是，钉死我吧，法官，钉死我吧，钉死以后，再可怜吧！到那时我会自己走到你跟前去，去受死刑，因为我不是渴望快乐，而是渴望悲痛和眼泪！……卖酒的，你是不是认为，你这半什托夫酒我喝着是甜的？悲痛，我在酒壶底寻找的是悲痛，悲痛和眼泪，我尝到了，也找到了；而怜悯我们的，是那个怜悯所有的人、了解一切人、而且了解一切的人，他是唯一的，他也是法官。在那一天，他会走来，问：‘那个女儿在那里呢，为了凶恶和害肺病的后母，为了别人年幼的孩子，她出卖了自己，那个女儿在哪里呢？尘世上她的父亲是个很不体面的酒鬼，她不仅不畏惧他的兽行，反而对他表示怜悯？’并且说：‘你来！我已经赦免过你一次了……赦免过你一次了……现在你的许多罪都赦免了，因为你的爱多……’①他一定会赦免我的索尼娅，一定会赦免她，我就知道，一定会赦免的……不久前我在她那儿的时候，这一点我心里就感觉到了！……所有的人他都要审判，并赦免他们，不论是心地善良的，还是凶恶的，聪明的，还是温顺的……等到审判完他们，他就会对我们说：‘你们，’他会说，‘你们也来吧！喝酒的来吧，懦弱的来吧，无耻的来吧！’于是我们大家都毫不羞愧地走出来。站在那里。于是他就说：‘你们都是猪猡！作兽相，受兽的印记②；但你们也来吧！’聪明智慧的和有理智的人都会说：‘上帝啊！你为什么接受这些人？’他会说：‘聪明智慧的人们，我所以接受他们，有理智的人们，我所以接受他们，是因为这些人中没有一个认为自己配得上受这样的对待……’于是他把自己的手伸给我们，我们都伏在地上……痛哭流涕……一切我们都会明白的！到那时候我们就一切都明白了……所有的人都会明白……卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜……连她也会明白的……上帝啊，愿你的天国降临！” -------- ①见《新约全书·路加福音》第八章四十七节。原文是：“所以我告诉你，他许多的罪都赦免了，因为他的爱多……”作者引用时，稍作了一些改动。 ②见《新约全书·启示录》第十三章十四、十六节。 他又坐到长凳上，看上去疲惫不堪，极端虚弱，他谁也不看，仿佛忘记了周围的人，深深地陷入沉思。他的话使人产生了某种印象；有一会儿鸦雀无声，但不久又听到了和先前一样的笑声和辱骂声： “他在大发议论呢！” “他胡说八道！” “小官僚！” 以及许多诸如此类的话。 “咱们走吧，先生，”马尔梅拉多夫突然抬起头来，对拉斯科利尼科夫说，请您送我回去……科泽尔的房子，在院子里。该……去见卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜了……” 拉斯科利尼科夫已经早就想走了；他自己就打算送他回去。马尔梅拉多夫的两条腿与他说话的那股劲头比起来要虚弱得多，他把全身的重量都靠到年轻人身上。只需走两三百步。离家越近，这个酒鬼越感到惊慌和恐惧。 “我现在怕的不是卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，”他忐忑不安、含含糊糊地说，“也不是怕她揪头发。头发算得了什么！……头发不值一提！这是我说的！要是揪头发，那甚至倒好过些，我怕的不是那个……我……怕的是她的眼睛……不错……是眼睛……她脸上的红晕我也怕……还有——我还怕她的呼吸……你看到过得这种病的人是怎么呼吸的吗……在感情激动的时候？孩子们的哭声我也害怕……因为，要是索尼娅不养活他们……那我真不知道会怎样！真不知道！可挨打我倒不怕……你要知道，先生，这样的殴打不仅不会让我感到痛苦，反倒会让我觉得快活……因为不这么着，我自己就受不了。打倒好些。让她打吧，让她出口气吧……这样倒好些……瞧，就是这幢房子。科泽尔的房子。他是个钳工，德国人，挺有钱……请领我进去！”

第二章 Page 4 "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." 他们从院子里进去，上了四楼。越上去楼梯越暗。已经差不多十一点了，虽说在这个季节彼得堡没有真正的黑夜①，可是楼梯上边还是很暗。 -------- ①夏天彼得堡是“白夜”季节。 最上面一道楼梯尽头，一扇熏黑了的小门敞着。一个蜡烛头照亮了十来步长的一间极其简陋的小屋；从楼梯平台上就能看到整个屋里的情况。东西丢得到处都是，乱糟糟的，孩子们穿的各种破衣服更是如此。后半间房子前挂着一条破床单。大概床就摆在床单后面。屋里只有两把椅子和一张破烂不堪的漆布面的沙发，沙发前摆着一张厨房里用的旧松木桌子，没上过漆，上面也没铺任何东西。桌边一个铁烛台上点着一段快要燃尽的脂油蜡烛头。看来马尔梅拉多夫是住在一间单独的房间里，而不是住在半间屋里，不过他这间房间是条通道。通往里面几间像笼子般的小房间的门半开着，那些小房间是由阿玛莉娅·利佩韦赫泽尔的一套住房分隔成的。那里人声嘈杂，喊声尖锐刺耳。人们在哈哈大笑。大概正在打牌和喝茶。有时会从里面飞出几句不堪入耳的话来。 拉斯科利尼科夫立刻就认出了卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜。这是一个瘦得可怕的女人，相当高，身材苗条匀称，还有一头美丽的深褐色头发，面颊当真红艳艳的。她双手紧按着胸口，嘴唇干裂，呼吸时快时慢，若断若续，正在自己那间不大的屋子里踱来踱去。她两眼闪闪发光，好像寒热发作，但目光锐利而又呆板，将要燃尽的蜡烛头最后的微光在她脸上轻轻抖动着，烛光中这张神情激动不安、害肺病的脸，使人产生一种痛苦的印象。拉斯科利尼科夫觉得，她好像只有三十来岁，当真与马尔梅拉多夫并不相配……她既没听到、也没发觉进来的人；大概她正想得出神，所以既听不到，也看不见。屋里又闷又热，可是她没有开窗；从楼梯上飘进一股臭气，但通楼梯的门却没关上；一阵阵抽香烟的烟，犹如波浪一般，穿过没关好的房门，从里面屋里冲了进来，她在咳嗽，可是没有把房门掩上。只有五、六岁的、最小的女儿蜷缩着身子，头埋在沙发上，半躺半坐地睡在地板上。一个比她大一岁的小男孩，浑身发抖，正在墙角落里哭泣。大概他刚挨过打。八、九岁的大女儿个子挺高，瘦骨嶙嶙，穿一件千疮百孔的破衬衣，裸露的双肩上披着一件德拉德达姆呢的旧斗篷，大概这件斗篷是两年前给她缝的，因为现在已经达不到她的膝盖了；她正站在墙角落里小弟弟的身边，用自己干瘦得像火柴棒样细长的手臂搂着他的脖子。她大概是在哄他，正对着他悄悄地说着什么，千方百计让他别再哭起来，同时用自己那双老大老大的黑眼睛恐惧地注视着母亲，在她那瘦削、惊恐的小脸上，那双眼睛好像显得更大了。马尔梅拉多夫没有进屋，就在房门口跪下来，却把拉斯科利尼科夫推到了前面。那女人看到一个陌生人，刹时间清醒过来，心不在焉地站在他的面前，仿佛在猜测：他进来干什么？但她大概立刻就想到，他是要到另外那些房间里去，因为他们的这一间是个通道。想到这一点，她已经不再注意他，于是走到通往楼梯平台的门前，想要把门关上，这时看到了跪在门坎上的丈夫，突然大喊一声： “啊！”她气得发狂，大声叫嚷，“回来了！囚犯！恶棍！……钱呢？你口袋里有什么，让我看看！衣服也不是原来那一身了！你的衣服呢？钱呢？说啊！……” 说着，她冲上来搜他身上。马尔梅拉多夫立刻听话而顺从地张开双臂，让她搜他的口袋时更方便些。钱连一戈比也没有。 “钱呢？”她大声嚷嚷。“噢，天哪，莫非他都喝光了吗！箱子里还有整整十二个卢布呢！……”突然她发疯似地揪住他的头发，把他拖进屋里。马尔梅拉多夫顺从地跟在后面跪着往里爬，好让她拖起来省点儿力气。 “这也让我觉得快乐！我并不感到这是痛苦，而是享—乐，先—生，”他大声叫喊，因为给揪着头发，他全身摇摇晃晃，甚至额头在地板上碰了一下。在地板上睡觉的孩子醒了，大哭起来。墙角落里的小男孩忍不住浑身发抖，吓得要命，几乎是歇斯底里地高声叫喊，扑到姐姐怀里。大女儿仿佛从噩梦中惊醒，全身簌簌发抖，好似一片树叶。 “全喝光了！全都买酒喝了，都喝光了！”可怜的女人绝望地叫喊，“衣服也不是那一件了！他们都在挨饿，都在挨饿呀！（她搓着双手，指指孩子们）。噢，该死的生活！可你们，你们不害臊吗，”她突然骂拉斯科利尼科夫，“从酒馆里来的！ 你跟他一道喝酒了？你也跟他一道喝过！滚！” 年轻人一言不发，急忙走了出去。这时通里间的房门突然大敞四开，有几个好奇的人从门里往外张望。伸出一些戴小圆便帽的脑袋，一个个厚颜无耻，嘻皮笑脸，有的嘴里叼着香烟，有的含着烟斗。可以看到有些人身穿睡衣，敞着怀，有人穿着夏天穿的内衣，很不成体统，有人手里还拿着牌。给揪着头发的马尔梅拉多夫大声叫喊，说他觉得这是享乐的时候，他们笑得特别开心。他们甚至走进屋来；最后听到一声吓人的尖叫：这是阿玛莉娅·利佩韦赫泽尔挤到了前面，想按照她自己的意志来整顿秩序，吓唬这个可怜的女人，以带侮辱性的命令口吻叫她明天就搬走，而这样威胁她已经是第一百次了。拉斯科利尼科夫临走时伸手到衣袋里，随手抓出一把铜币，——这是他在小酒店里换开一个卢布找回的零钱——悄悄地放到了窗口。后来，已经到了楼梯上，他又改了主意，想要回转去。 “唉，我这是干了件多傻的蠢事，”他想，“他们这里有索尼娅呢，而我自己却需要钱。”但是考虑到把钱拿回来已经不可能了，而且即使能拿回来，他反正也不会去拿，于是挥了挥手，回自己的住所去了。“索尼娅也要买化妆用的香膏，不是吗，”在街上走着的时候，他继续想，并且挖苦地冷笑了一声，“要保持这种整洁就得花钱……嗯哼！看来索尼娅今天也未必会弄到钱，不是吗，因为猎珍贵的野兽……开采金矿……同样都担风险……所以，如果没有我这些钱，他们明天就得喝西北风了……唉，可怜的索尼娅！然而他们竟能挖出一口多好的矿井！而且在开采！不是吗，是在开采嘛！而且也习惯了。哭过一阵子，也就习惯了。人——这种卑鄙的东西，什么都会习惯的！” 他陷入沉思。 “唉，如果我想得不对呢，”他突然不由自主地提高声音说，“如果，总的来说，整个人种，全人类，当真不是卑鄙的东西，那么就意味着，其他一切全都是偏见，只不过是心造的恐惧，任何障碍都不存在，而那也就理应如此了！……

第三章 Page 1 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. 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 -------- 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。 -------- 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。

第三章 Page 2 "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. 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。” -------- 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。

第四章 Page 1 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!" 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！…… -------- 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！…… -------- 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！”

第四章 Page 2 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. 他突然清醒过来，站住了。 -------- 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？” -------- 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。

第四章 Page 3 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. 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？……” -------- 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。 -------- 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。

第五章 Page 1 "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. “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。 -------- 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。

第五章 Page 2 "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. “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。

第六章 Page 1 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. 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。

第六章 Page 2 "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. 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！” -------- 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。

第七章
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。”

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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……

第二部第一章 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。 -------- 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，你这个不可救药的下流货！” 拉斯科利尼科夫惊奇地望着让人这么无礼痛骂的胖太太，连他手里的纸也掉了；然而不久他就猜到了其中的奥妙，对这件事甚至感到太满意了。他高兴地听着，甚至想要哈哈大笑，哈哈大笑，哈哈大笑……他的全部神经好像都在跳动。 “伊利亚·彼特罗维奇！”办事员不安地说，但是马上住了口，想等待时机，因为根据他的经验，要制止这个大发雷霆的中尉，只能用强制的办法。 至于那个胖太太，起初她倒是让雷电交加似的大骂吓得簌簌发抖；可是，怪事：对她骂得越多越凶，她的神情却变得越来越亲切，她对那个可怕的中尉也笑得越来越迷人了。她迈着小碎步在原地转动着，不停地行屈膝礼，急不可耐地等待允许她插嘴的机会，而且终于等到了。 “我那儿没有什么吵闹，也没打架，大尉先生，”她突然很快地说个不停，好似许多豌豆撒落下来，虽然俄语说得还流利，可是带着很重的德国口音，“什么，什么丢人的丑事也没有，他们来的时候都已经喝醉了，我把这事全都告诉您，大尉先生，我没有错……我的家是高尚的，大尉先生，对人的态度也是高尚的，大尉先生，我总是，我自己总是不希望发生任何吵闹打架的事。可他们来的时候就完全醉了，后来又要了三瓶，后来有一个抬起脚来，用脚弹钢琴，在一个高尚的家庭里，这太不像话了，他把钢琴加茨①弄坏了，这完全，完全没有风度，我说。可是他抓起一个酒瓶，用酒瓶从背后打人，逢人就打。我赶紧去叫管院子的，卡尔来了，他抓住卡尔，打他的眼睛，把亨利埃特的眼睛也打了，还打了我五记耳光。在一个高尚的家庭里这太不礼貌了，大尉先生，我就叫喊起来。他打开冲着运河的窗户，对着窗户像头小猪样尖叫；这真丢人哪。怎么能对着窗户，冲着街上像头小猪样尖叫呢？呸——呸——呸！卡尔从背后抓住他的燕尾服，把他从窗口拖开了，这时，这倒是真的，大尉先生，把他的泽因·罗克②撕破了。于是他大喊大叫，说曼·穆斯③赔他十五卢布。大尉先生，我自己给了他五个卢布，赔他的泽因·罗克。这是个不高尚的客人，大尉先生，总是惹事生非！他说，我要盖德留克特④长篇讽刺文章骂您，因为我在所有报纸上都能写文章骂您。” -------- ①德文ganz的音译，“完全”之意。 ②德文Sein　Rock的音译，他的“燕尾服”之意。 ③德文man　mus的音译，“人们应该”之意。 ④德文drücken的音译，“付印”之意。 “这么说，他是个作家？” “不错，大尉先生，在一个高尚的家庭里，大尉先生，这是个多么不高尚的客人啊……” “嗳——嗳——嗳！够了！我已经跟你说过，说过，我不是跟你说过吗……” “伊利亚·彼特罗维奇！”办事员又意味深长地说。中尉迅速看了他一眼；办事员轻轻点了点头。 “……对你说过，最尊敬的拉维扎·伊万诺芙娜，我这是最后一次警告你，这可是最后一次，”中尉接着说。“如果你那里，在你那个高尚的家庭里哪怕再发生一次吵闹打架的事，我就要，用一种高雅的说法，追究你本人的责任。听到了吗？ 这么说，那个文学家，那个作家，因为后襟给撕破了，在‘高尚的家庭里’拿走了五个卢布，是吗？哼，去他妈的，这些作家！”他向拉斯科利尼科夫投来轻蔑的一瞥。“前天在一家小饭馆里也发生过这么一件事：吃了饭，不想给钱；‘我，’他说，‘为此要写篇文章讽刺你们’。上星期轮船上也有这么一个，用最下流的话骂一个五等文官受人尊敬的眷属，骂他的夫人和女儿。前两天还有一个让人从糖果点心店里给轰了出去。瞧，作家，文学家，大学生，还有什么喉舌……他们这号人都是什么德性！呸！你回去吧！我会亲自去你那里看看……到那时你可得当心！听到了吗！” 露意扎·伊万诺芙娜急忙殷勤地对着四面八方行屈膝礼，边行礼，边后退，一直退到门口；但是在门口，她的屁股撞了一个仪表堂堂的警官，他面部神情坦率，开朗，充满朝气，留着十分漂亮、浓密的淡黄色络腮胡子。这就是分局局长尼科季姆·福米奇。露意扎·伊万诺芙娜连忙深深地行了个屈膝礼，膝盖几乎碰到地板上，于是迈着小碎步，仿佛跳跃着跑出了办公室。 “又是雷声隆隆，雷电交加，又刮起了旋风，飓风！”尼科季姆·福米奇亲切而友好地对伊利亚·彼特罗维奇说，“又大动肝火，大发雷霆了！还在楼梯上我就听见了。” “是啊，怎么呢！”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇以高贵的气度漫不经心地说（他甚至不是说怎么呢，不知怎的，说成了：‘是啊—咋么——呢！’），一边说，一边拿着些公文向另一张桌子走去，每走一步都神气活现地扭动着肩膀，迈哪边的脚，肩膀就往哪边歪，“喏，请看，作家先生，也就是大学生，就是说，从前是大学生，不肯还钱，立了借据，也不搬走，人家不断控告他，他却对我当着他的面抽烟表示不满！自己的行为下—流—卑鄙，可是瞧，请您瞧瞧他吧：现在他这副模样儿多讨人喜欢！” “贫穷不是罪恶，朋友，这又有什么呢！大家都知道，他脾气暴躁，受不了别人的气。大概他让您受了什么委屈，您忍不住了，”尼科季姆·福米奇客气地对拉斯科利尼科夫转过脸去，继续往下说，“不过您这就不对了：我告诉您，他是个极—其—高尚的人，不过脾气暴躁，是个火药桶！冒起火来，发一通脾气，脾气发完了——也就没事了！全都过去了！归根到底，他有一颗金子样的心！在团里大家给他取了个绰号，管他叫：‘火药桶中尉’……” “而且是个多好的—团—啊！”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇高声说，局长的话满足了他的自尊心，使他感到愉快，十分满意，不过他一直还在生气。 拉斯科利尼科夫突然想对他们大家说几句让人非常愉快的话。 “得了吧，大尉，”他突然对着尼科季姆·福米奇毫不拘束地说，“请您设身处地为我想一想……如果我有什么不尊重他的地方，我甚至打算请求他原谅。我是个有病的穷大学生，贫穷压垮（他就是这么说的：‘压垮’）了我。我以前是大学生，现在我连生活都无法维持，不过我会得到钱的……×省有我的母亲和妹妹……她们会给我寄钱来，我……一定会把钱还清。我的房东是个好心肠的女人，不过因为我丢掉了教书的工作，三个多月没缴房租，她气坏了，连午饭也不给我送来了……而且我完全弄不明白，这是张什么借据！现在她凭这张借据向我讨债，可是我怎么还她呢，请您想想看吧！……” “这可不是我们的事……”办事员又插嘴说…… “对不起，对不起，我完全同意您的意见，不过也请允许我解释一下，”拉斯科利尼科夫又接住话茬说，不是对着办事员，而是一直对着尼科季姆·福米奇，不过也竭力试图对着伊利亚·彼特罗维奇，尽管后者固执地装出一副在翻寻公文的样子，而且轻蔑地不理睬他，“请允许我解释一下，我住在她那儿将近三年了，从外省一来到这里就住在她那儿，早先……早先……不过，为什么我不承认呢，一开始我答应过，要娶她的女儿，只是口头上答应的，并没有约束力……这是个小姑娘……不过，我甚至也喜欢她，……虽说我并不爱她……总而言之，年轻嘛，也就是，我是想说，当时女房东肯让我赊帐，让我赊了不少帐，在某种程度上我过的就是这样的生活……我很轻率……” “先生，根本没要求您谈这些隐私，再说也没有时间，”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇粗暴地、得意洋洋地打断了他，但是拉斯科利尼科夫性急地不让他再说下去，尽管他自己突然感到说话十分吃力。 “可是对不起，请允许我，或多或少，把话说完……是怎么回事……我也……虽然，说这些是多余的，我同意您的意见，——可是一年前这个姑娘害伤寒死了，我仍然是那儿的房客，而女房东自从搬进现在这套住房，就对我说……而且是很友好地说，……她完全相信我……不过我是不是愿意给她立一张一百十五卢布的借据呢，她认为我一共欠了她这么多钱。请等一等：她正是这么说的，说是只要我给她立这么一张借据，她就又会赊帐给我，赊多少都可以，而且任何时候，无论什么时候她也——这是她亲口说的，——不会利用这张借据，直到我自己还清欠她的钱……可是瞧，现在，正当我丢掉了教书的工作，没有饭吃的时候，她却来告状讨债了……现在叫我说什么呢？” “这都是些令人感动的细节，先生，与我们毫不相干，”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇粗暴无礼地打断了他的话，“您必须作出书面答复和保证，至于您怎么恋爱以及所有这些悲剧性的故事，跟我们毫无关系”。 “唉，你真是……残酷无情……”尼科季姆·福米奇含糊不清地说，说着坐到桌边，也开始签署公文。不知怎的他感到惭愧了。 “请写吧，”办事员对拉斯科利尼科夫说。 “写什么？”他不知怎的特别粗暴地问。 “我说，您写。” 拉斯科利尼科夫觉得，在他作了这番自白之后，办事员对他更不客气，更瞧不起他了，——不过真是怪事，——他自己突然对别人的意见，不管是谁的意见，都毫不在乎了，而这一转变不知怎的是在一刹那、在一分钟里发生的。如果他肯稍微想一想的话，他当然会感到奇怪：一分钟前他怎么能和他们那样说话，甚至硬要用自己的感情去打动他们？而且打哪儿来的这些感情？恰恰相反，如果这会儿这屋里突然坐满了他最好的朋友，而不是这两位局长大人，看来他也找不到一句知心的话和他们谈心，他的心已经麻木到了何种程度。他心里突然出现了一种悲观情绪，而这是由于痛苦的极端孤独以及与世隔绝的结果，他意识到了这一点。不是因为他在伊利亚·彼特罗维奇面前倾诉衷肠，也不是因为中尉洋洋得意，赢得了对他的胜利，不是这些卑鄙的行为使他心里突然这么难过。噢，他自己的卑鄙行为、这些傲慢和自尊、还有中尉、德国女人、讨债、办公室，以及其他等等，现在这一切与他有什么关系！即使此时向他宣判，要把他活活烧死，他也会毫不在意，甚至未必会留心听完对他的判决。他心里发生了某种对他来说完全陌生、突如其来、从未有过的新变化。倒不是说他已经理解了，不过他清清楚楚感觉到，以全身心感觉到，他不仅不能像不久前那样感情用事，而且也不会以任何方式向警察分局里的这些人申诉了，即使这全都是他的亲兄弟姐妹，而不是什么中尉警官，甚至无论他的生活情况怎样，他也无须向他们吐露自己内心的感情；在这一分钟以前，他还从未体验过类似的奇怪而可怕的感觉。而且让人最痛苦的是，这与其说是认识或理解，不如说仅仅是一种感觉；是一种直觉，在此之前他生活中体验过的一切感觉中最痛苦的一种感觉。 办事员开始向他口授此类案件通常书面答复的格式，就是，我无力偿还欠款，答应将于某日（随便什么时候）归还，不会离开本市，不会变卖财产或将财产赠予他人，等等。 “啊，您不能写了，笔都快从您手里掉下来了，”办事员好奇地打量着拉斯科利尼科夫，说。“您有病？” “是的……头晕……请您说下去！” “完了；请签字。” 办事员拿走书面答复，办别人的事去了。 拉斯科利尼科夫把笔还给人家，但是没有站起来，走出去，却把两个胳膊肘撑在桌子上，双手紧紧抱住了头。仿佛有人在往他头顶上钉钉子。他突然产生了一个奇怪的想法：立刻站起来，到尼科季姆·福米奇跟前去，把昨天的事全都告诉他，直到最后一个细节都不遗漏，然后和他一起去自己的住处，把藏在墙角落那个窟窿里的东西指给他看。这个想法是如此强烈，他已经站起来，要去这么做了。“是不是再考虑一下，哪怕再考虑一分钟呢？”这样的想法忽然掠过他的脑海。 “不，最好别考虑，从肩上卸下这副重担吧！”但是他突然一动不动地站住了：尼科季姆·福米奇正在激动地和伊利亚·彼特罗维奇说话，这样的一些话飞到了他的耳边： “这不可能，两人都要释放。第一，一切都自相矛盾；您想想看，如果这是他们干的，他们干吗要去叫管院子的？自己告发自己吗？还是想耍花招呢？不，那可就太狡猾了！最后还有，大学生佩斯特里亚科夫进去的那个时候，两个管院子的和一个妇女都在大门口看到了他：他和三个朋友一道走着，到了大门口才和他们分手，还当着朋友们的面向管院子的打听过住址。他要是怀着这样的意图前来，会打听她的住址吗？而科赫，去老太婆那里以前，他在底下一个银匠那儿坐了半个钟头，整整八点差一刻才从他那儿上楼去找老太婆。 现在请您想想看……” “不过，请问，他们怎么会这么自相矛盾呢：他们肯定地说，他们敲过门，门是扣着的，可是三分钟以后，和管院子的一道上去，却发现门是开着的？” “问题就在这里了：凶手一定是把门钩扣上，坐在里面；要不是科赫干了件蠢事，也去找管院子的，准会当场抓住凶手。而他正是在这个当口下楼，设法从他们身边溜走的。科赫用双手画着十字，说：‘我要留在那里的话，他准会冲出来，用斧子把我也砍死’。他要去作俄罗斯式的祈祷呢，嘿—嘿！……” “谁也没看见凶手吗？” “哪里看得见呢？那幢房子简直像诺亚方舟，”坐在自己座位上留神听着的办事员插了一句。 “事情是很清楚的，事情是很清楚的！”尼科季姆·福米奇激动地反复说。 “不，事情很不清楚，”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇像作结论似地说。 拉斯科利尼科夫拿起自己的帽子，往门口走去，可是他没能走到门口…… 当他清醒过来的时候，看到自己坐在一把椅子上，有个人从右边扶着他，左边站着另一个人，这人拿着一个黄色玻璃杯，杯里装满黄色的水，尼科季姆·福米奇站在他面前，凝神注视着他；他从椅子上站了起来。 “您怎么，病了吗？”尼科季姆·福米奇语气相当生硬地问。 “他签名的时候，几乎连笔都拿不住了，”办事员说着坐到自己位子上，又去看公文。 “您早就病了吗？”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇从自己座位上大声问，他在翻阅公文。病人晕倒的时候，他当然也来观看过，不过等病人清醒过来，他就立刻走开了。 “从昨天起……”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地回答。 “昨天您出来过吗？” “出来过。” “已经病了？” “病了。” “几点钟出来的？” “晚上七点多。” “去哪里呢，请问？” “上街。” “简短，明了。” 拉斯科利尼科夫回答时语气生硬，说话简短，脸色像纸一样白，在伊利亚·彼特罗维奇的目光注视下，他那双布满血丝的黑眼睛并没有低垂下去。 “他几乎都站不住了，可你……”尼科季姆·福米奇说。 “没—关—系！”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇不知怎的用一种很特殊的语气说。尼科季姆·福米奇本想再补上几句，可是望了望也在凝神注视着他的办事员，就没再说什么。突然大家都不说话了。真怪。 “嗯，好吧，”伊利亚·彼特罗维奇结束了谈话，“我们不留您了。” 拉斯科利尼科夫出去了。他还能清清楚楚听到，他一出来，屋里突然立刻热烈地谈论起来，其中听得最清楚的是尼科季姆·福米奇发问的声音……在街上他完全清醒了过来。 “搜查，搜查，马上就要去搜查了！”他匆匆赶回家去，暗自反复思索，“这些强盗！怀疑我了！”不久前的恐惧又控制了他，从头到脚控制了他的全身。

第二章 "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！” -------- 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。 -------- 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？” -------- 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。 -------- 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。

第三章 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。 -------- 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？” -------- 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。” -------- 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。 -------- 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？” -------- 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，而帕申卡和房租，这些你都不用担心；我说过了，可以尽量赊帐。现在，老兄，让我们来给你换换内衣，要不，也许这会儿病魔正躲在你衬衣里呢……” -------- ①沙尔美是彼得堡一家著名的裁缝店。 “别管我！我不想换！”拉斯科利尼科夫挥挥手，厌恶地听着拉祖米欣紧张、又像开玩笑似地报那些买衣服的帐…… “老兄，这可不行；我是为了什么东奔西跑，把靴底都磨破了！”拉祖米欣坚持说。“娜斯塔西尤什卡，别不好意思，请您帮帮忙，对了，就这样！”尽管拉斯科利尼科夫在抗拒，拉祖米欣还是给他换好了内衣。拉斯科利尼科夫倒到床头上，有两分钟一言不发。 “这么久了，他们还不走！”他想。“这些东西是用什么钱买的？” 最后，他瞅着墙壁，问。 “什么钱？真有你的！你自己的钱嘛。不久前办事处里派人来过，瓦赫鲁申派来的，妈妈给你寄了钱来；连这也忘了？” “现在想起来了……”拉斯科利尼科夫忧郁地沉思了许久，然后说。拉祖米欣皱起眉头，不安地细细打量着他。 门开了，走进一个身材高大、体格健壮的人来，看他的样子，拉斯科利尼科夫好像也已经有点儿认识他了。 “佐西莫夫！终于来了！”拉祖米欣高兴起来，大声叫喊。

第四章 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。” -------- 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……’” 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。” -------- 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……’” 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。” -------- 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……’” -------- 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。” -------- 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！” -------- 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。