第五章 This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov's low and narrow "cabin." With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this "cabin" by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov: "Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?" Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him. "Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?" This familiar "what do you want" seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again. "This is Raskolnikov," mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunter's case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back. Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said "This is Raskolnikov" he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated: "Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?" The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively: "Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?" But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time. "Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no information?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted. In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin's face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment. "I had presumed and calculated," he faltered, "that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago . . ." "I say, why are you standing in the doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly. "If you've something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here's a chair, thread your way in!" He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to "thread his way in." The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin. "No need to be nervous," the latter blurted out. "Rodya has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of Rodya's, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nursing him; so don't you take any notice of us, but go on with your business." "Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov. "N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse him." He yawned again. "He has been conscious a long time, since the morning," went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good- nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student. "Your mamma," began Luzhin. "Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly. "That's all right, go on." Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. "Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment . . ." "I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. "So you are the /fiance/? I know, and that's enough!" There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment's silence. Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of "fiance" so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed--a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the role of fiance. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor's and were all right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr Petrovitch's attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly upon his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser's, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before. But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities. "I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. "If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute." Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on: ". . . Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival." "Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly. "Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house." "That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin. "There are two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I've been there." "Yes, rooms . . ." "A disgusting place--filthy, stinking and, what's more, of doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It's cheap, though . . ." "I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself," Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. "However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time . . . I have already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev's house, too . . ." "Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something. "Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?" "Yes . . . no," Raskolnikov answered. "Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian. . . . A very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns new things from them." Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all. "How do you mean?" asked Razumihin. "In the most serious and essential matters," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted at the question. "You see, it's ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it's my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted . . ." "At what?" "Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality . . ." "That's true," Zossimov let drop. "Nonsense! There's no practicality." Razumihin flew at him. "Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting," he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, "and desire for good exists, though it's in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there's no practicality. Practicality goes well shod." "I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment. "Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It's my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious prejudice have been rooted up and turned into ridicule. . . . In a word, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing . . ." "He's learnt it by heart to show off!" Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly. "What?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no reply. "That's all true," Zossimov hastened to interpose. "Isn't it so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. "You must admit," he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness--he almost added "young man"--"that there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth . . ." "A commonplace." "No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, 'love thy neighbour,' what came of it?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with excessive haste. "It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it, 'Catch several hares and you won't catch one.' Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised in society--the more whole coats, so to say--the firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to pass my neighbour's getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it . . ." "Excuse me, I've very little wit myself," Razumihin cut in sharply, "and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I've grown so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don't blame you, that's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That's enough!" "Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive dignity. "Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too . . ." "Oh, my dear sir . . . how could I? . . . Come, that's enough," Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation. Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two. "I trust our acquaintance," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "may, upon your recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware, become closer . . . Above all, I hope for your return to health . . ." Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from his chair. "One of her customers must have killed her," Zossimov declared positively. "Not a doubt of it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there." "Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud. "Yes. What then?" "Nothing." "How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossimov. "Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves." "It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!" "That's just what it wasn't!" interposed Razumihin. "That's what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn't work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it's clear that it was only a chance that saved him--and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman's trunks, her rags--and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel!" "You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?" Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression and his vanity overcame his prudence. "Yes. You've heard of it?" "Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood." "Do you know the details?" "I can't say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case-- the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student's robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain. . . . And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society--for peasants don't pawn gold trinkets-- how are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?" "There are many economic changes," put in Zossimov. "How are we to explain it?" Razumihin caught him up. "It might be explained by our inveterate impracticality." "How do you mean?" "What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? 'Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.' I don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck,(*) and every man showed himself in his true colours." (*) The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. "But morality? And so to speak, principles . . ." "But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. "It's in accordance with your theory!" "In accordance with my theory?" "Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed . . ." "Upon my word!" cried Luzhin. "No, that's not so," put in Zossimov. Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. "There's a measure in all things," Luzhin went on superciliously. "Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose . . ." "And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, "is it true that you told your /fiancee/ . . . within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most . . . was that she was a beggar . . . because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?" "Upon my word," Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, "to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I . . . suspect who . . . in a word . . . this arrow . . . in a word, your mamma . . . She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking. . . . But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way"I tell you what," cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, "I tell you what." "What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds. "Why, if ever again . . . you dare to mention a single word . . . about my mother . . . I shall send you flying downstairs!" "What's the matter with you?" cried Razumihin. "So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let me tell you, sir," he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, "at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you . . . never after this . . ." "I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov. "So much the worse . . ." "Go to hell!" But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received. "How could you--how could you!" Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity. "Let me alone--let me alone all of you!" Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. "Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!" "Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin. "But we can't leave him like this!" "Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him. "It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated." "What's the matter with him?" "If only he could get some favourable shock, that's what would do it! At first he was better. . . . You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him. . . . I am very much afraid so; he must have!" "Perhaps it's that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness. . . ." "Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excited--that's the murder?" "Yes, yes," Razumihin agreed, "I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted." "Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I'll go and see him again. . . . There'll be no inflammation though." "Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya. . . ." Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered. "Won't you have some tea now?" she asked. "Later! I am sleepy! Leave me." He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out 这是一位年纪已经不轻的先生，拘谨古板，神态庄严，脸上的表情给人以谨小慎微、牢骚满腹的印象，他一进门，先站在门口，带着令人难受的、毫不掩饰的惊讶神色往四下里打量了一番，仿佛用目光在问：“我这是到了哪里了？”他怀疑地、甚至故意装作有点儿惊恐、甚至是受了侮辱的样子，环顾拉斯科利尼科夫这间狭小、低矮的“船舱”。他又带着同样惊讶的神情把目光转移到拉斯科利尼科夫身上，然后凝神注视着他，拉斯科利尼科夫没穿外衣，头发散乱，没洗过脸，躺在一张小得可怜的脏沙发上，也在拿眼睛盯着来人，细细打量他。随后他又同样慢条斯理地打量衣衫不整、没刮过脸、也没梳过头的拉祖米欣，拉祖米欣没有离开自己的座位，也大胆地用疑问的目光直瞅着他的眼睛。紧张的沉默持续了大约一分钟光景，最后，气氛发生了小小的变化，而这也是应该预料到的。根据某种、不过是相当明显的反应，进来的这位先生大概意识到，在这里，在这间“船舱”里，过分的威严姿态根本不起任何作用，于是他的态度变得稍微温和些了，尽管仍然有点儿严厉，却是彬彬有礼地、每一个音节都说得清清楚楚地问佐西莫夫： “这位就是罗季昂·罗曼内奇·拉斯科利尼科夫，大学生先生，或者以前是大学生？” 佐西莫夫慢慢地动了动，也许是会回答他的，如果不是他根本就没去问的拉祖米欣立刻抢先回答了他的话： “喏，他就躺在沙发上！您有什么事？” 这句不拘礼节的“您有什么事”可惹恼了这位古板的先生；他甚至差点儿没有转过脸去，面对着拉祖米欣，不过还是及时克制住了，随即赶快又向佐西莫夫回过头来。 “这就是拉斯科利尼科夫！”佐西莫夫朝病人点了点头，懒洋洋地说，然后打了个呵欠，不知怎的嘴张得特别大，而且这个张着嘴的姿势持续的时间也特别长。随后他从自己坎肩口袋里慢慢掏出一块很大的、凸起来的、带盖的金表，打开表看了看，又同样慢腾腾、懒洋洋地把表装回到口袋里。 拉斯科利尼科夫本人一直默默地仰面躺着，凝神注视着来客，虽说他这样看着他，并没有任何用意。现在他已经转过脸来，不再看墙纸上那朵奇异的小花了，他的脸看上去异常苍白，露出异乎寻常的痛苦神情，仿佛他刚刚经受了一次痛苦的手术，或者刚刚经受过一次严刑拷打。但是进来的这位先生渐渐地越来越引起他的注意，后来使他感到困惑，后来又引起他的怀疑，甚至似乎使他觉得害怕起来。当佐西莫夫指了指他，说：“这就是拉斯科利尼科夫”的时候，他突然十分迅速地、仿佛猛一下子欠起身来，坐到床上，几乎用挑衅的、然而是断断续续的微弱声音说： “对！我就是拉斯科利尼科夫！您要干什么？” 客人注意地看了看他，庄严地说： “彼得·彼特罗维奇·卢任。我深信，我的名字对您已经不是完全一无所闻了。” 但是拉斯科利尼科夫等待的完全是另一回事，脸上毫无表情、若有所思地瞅了瞅他，什么也没回答，好像彼得·彼特罗维奇这个名字他完全是头一次听到似的。 “怎么？难道您至今还未得到任何消息吗？”彼得·彼特罗维奇有点儿不快地问。 拉斯科利尼科夫对他的回答是慢慢倒到枕头上，双手垫在头底下，开始望着天花板。卢任的脸上露出烦恼的神情。佐西莫夫和拉祖米欣怀着更强烈的好奇心细细打量起他来，最后他显然发窘了。 “我推测，我估计，”他慢吞吞地说，“十多天前，甚至几乎是两星期前发出的信……” “喂，您为什么一直站在门口呢？”拉祖米欣突然打断了他的话，“既然您有话要说，那就请坐吧，不过你们两位，您和娜斯塔西娅都站在那儿未免太挤了。娜斯塔西尤什卡，让开点儿，让他进来！请进，这是椅子，请到这边来！挤进来吧！” 他把自己那把椅子从桌边挪开一些，在桌子和自己的膝盖之间腾出一块不大的空间，以稍有点儿局促的姿势坐在那儿，等着客人“挤进”这条夹缝里来。时机挑得刚好合适，使客人无论如何也不能拒绝，于是他急急忙忙、磕磕绊绊，挤进这块狭窄的空间。客人来到椅子边，坐下，怀疑地瞅了瞅拉祖米欣。 “不过，请您不要觉得难堪，拉祖米欣贸然地说，“罗佳生病已经四天多了，说了三天胡话，现在清醒了过来，甚至吃东西也有胃口了。那边坐着的是他的医生，刚给他作了检查，我是罗佳的同学，从前也是大学生，现在在照看他；所以请不要理会我们，也不要感到拘束，您要说什么，就接着往下说吧。” “谢谢你们。不过我的来访和谈话会不会惊动病人呢！”彼得·彼特罗维奇对佐西莫夫说。 “不一会，”佐西莫夫懒洋洋地说，“您甚至能为他排忧解闷，”说罢又打了个呵欠。 “噢，他早就清醒过来了，从早上就清醒了！”拉祖米欣接着说，他那不拘礼节的态度让人感到完全是一种真诚朴实的表现，所以彼得·彼特罗维奇思索了一下以后，鼓起勇气来了，也许这或多或少是因为这个衣衫褴褛、像个无赖的人自称是大学生的缘故。 “令堂……”卢任开口说。 “嗯哼！”拉祖米欣很响地哼了一声，卢任疑问地瞅了瞅他。 “没什么，我并没有什么意思；请说吧……” 卢任耸了耸肩。 “……我还在她们那里的时候，令堂就给您写信来了。来到这里，我故意等了几天，没来找您，想等到深信您一切都已知悉以后再来；但是现在使我惊奇的是……” “我知道，知道！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然用最不耐烦的懊恼语气说。“这就是您吗？未婚夫？哼，我知道！……够了！” 彼得·彼特罗维奇气坏了，不过什么也没说。他努力匆匆思索，想弄清这一切意味着什么。沉默持续了大约一分钟光景。 拉斯科利尼科夫回答他的时候，本已稍微转过脸来，面对着他了，这时突然又重新凝神注视，怀着某种特殊的好奇心细细打量起他来，仿佛刚才还没看清他这个人，或者似乎是卢任身上有什么新的东西使他吃了一惊：为了看清卢任，他甚至故意从枕头上稍稍欠起身来。真的，彼得·彼特罗维奇的全部外表的确好像有某种不同寻常的东西，让人感到惊奇，似乎足以证明，刚才那样无礼地管他叫“未婚夫”，并非毫无道理。第一，可以看得出来。而且甚至是太明显了：他急于加紧利用待在首都的这几天时间，把自己打扮打扮，美化一番，等待着未婚妻到来，不过这是完全无可非议，也是完全可以允许的。在这种情况下，甚至自以为，也许甚至是过分得意地自以为打扮得更加讨人喜欢了，这也是可以原谅的，因为彼得·彼特罗维奇是未婚夫嘛。他的全身衣服都新做的，而且都很好，也许只有一样不好：所有衣服都太新了，也过于明显地暴露了众所周知的目的。就连那顶漂亮、崭新的圆呢帽也说明了这个目的：彼得·彼特罗维奇对这顶呢帽尊敬得有点儿过分，把它拿在手里的那副小心谨慎的样子也太过火了。就连那副非常好看的、真正茹文①生产的雪青色手套也说明了同样的目的，单从这一点来看也足以说明问题了：他不是把手套戴在手上，而是只拿在手里，摆摆派头。彼得·彼特罗维奇衣服的颜色是明快的浅色，这种颜色多半适合年轻人穿着。他穿一件漂亮的浅咖啡色夏季西装上衣，一条轻而薄的浅色长裤，一件同样料子的坎肩和一件刚买来的、做工精细的衬衣，配一条带玫瑰色条纹的、轻柔的上等细麻纱领带，而最妙的是：这一切对彼得·彼特罗维奇甚至还挺合适。他容光焕发，甚至还有点儿好看，本来看上去就不像满四十五岁的样子。乌黑的络腮胡子像两个肉饼，遮住他的双颊，很讨人喜欢，密密地汇集在刮得发亮的下巴两边，显得十分漂亮。他的头发虽已稍有几茎银丝，却梳得光光滑滑，还请理发师给卷过，可是在这种情况下，就连他的头发也并不显得好笑，虽说卷过的头发通常总是会让人觉得可笑，因为这必然会使人的脸上出现去举行婚礼的德国人的神情。如果说这张相当漂亮而庄严的脸上当真有某种让人感到不快或使人反感的地方，那么这完全是由于别的原因。拉斯科利尼科夫毫不客气、仔仔细细地把卢任先生打量了一番，恶毒地笑了笑，又倒到枕头上，仍然去望天花板。 -------- ①茹文系比利时的一个城市。 但是卢任先生竭力克制着，好像决定暂时不理会这些古怪行为。 “发现您处于这样的状况，我感到非常、非常难过，”他想努力打破沉默，又开口说。“如果我知道您身体欠佳，我早就来了。不过，您要知道，事情太多！……加上还要在参政院里办理一件我的律师业务方面的事情。至于您可以猜得到的那些急于要办的事，我就不提了。我随时都在等待着您的，也就是说，等待令堂和令妹到来……” 拉斯科利尼科夫稍动了动，想说什么；他的脸上露出激动不安的神情。彼得·彼特罗维奇停顿下来，等着，但是因为什么也没听到，于是又接着说下去： “……随时等待着。给她们找了一处房子，先让她们暂时住着……” “在哪儿？”拉斯科利尼科夫虚弱无力地问。 “离这儿不太远，巴卡列耶夫的房子……” “这是在沃兹涅先斯基街，”拉祖米欣插嘴说，“那房子有两层，是家小旅馆；商人尤申开的；我去过。” “是的，是家小旅馆……” “那地方极其可怕、非常讨厌：又脏又臭，而且可疑；经常出事；鬼知道那儿住着些什么人！……为了一件丢脸的事，我去过那儿。不过，房租便宜。” “我当然没能了解这么多情况，因为我也是刚来到这里，”彼得·彼特罗维奇很爱面子地反驳说，“不过，是两间非常、非常干净的房间，因为这只是住很短的一段时间……我已经找到了一套正式的，也就是我们未来的住房，”他转过脸来，对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“目前正在装修；暂时我自己也是在这样的房间里挤一挤，离这儿只有几步路，是利佩韦赫泽尔太太的房子，住在我的一位年轻朋友安德烈·谢苗内奇·列别贾特尼科夫的房间里；就是他指点我，叫我去找巴卡列耶夫的房子……” “列别贾特尼科夫的？”拉斯科利尼科夫仿佛想起什么，慢慢地说。 “是的，安德烈·谢苗内奇·列别贾特尼科夫，在部里任职。您认识他？” “是的……不……”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。 “请原谅，因为您这样问，我才觉得您认识他。我曾经是他的监护人……是个很可爱的年轻人……对新思想很感兴趣……我很喜欢会见青年人：从他们那里可以知道，什么是新事物。”彼得·彼特罗维奇满怀希望地扫视了一下在座的人。 “这是指哪一方面呢？”拉祖米欣问。 “指最重要的，也可以说是最本质的东西，”彼得·彼特罗维奇赶快接着说，似乎这个问题使他感到高兴。“要知道，我已经十年没来彼得堡了。所有我们这些新事物、改革和新思想——所有这一切，我们在外省也接触到了；不过要想看得更清楚，什么都能看到，就必须到彼得堡来。嗯，我的想法就正是如此：观察我们年轻一代，最能有所发现，可以了解很多情况。说实在的：我很高兴……” “是什么让您高兴呢？” “您的问题提得很广泛。我可能弄错，不过，我似乎找到了一种更明确的观点，甚至可以说是一种批评的精神；一种更加务实的精神……” “这是对的，”佐西莫夫透过齿缝慢吞吞地说。 “你胡说，根本没有什么务实精神，”拉祖米欣抓住这句话不放。“要有务实精神，那可难得很，它不会从天上飞下来。几乎已经有两百年了，我们什么事情也不敢做……思想吗，大概是正在徘徊，”他对彼得·彼特罗维奇说，“善良的愿望也是有的，虽说是幼稚的；甚至也能发现正直的行为，尽管这儿出现了数不清的骗子，可务实精神嘛，还是没有！务实精神是罕见的。” “我不同意您的看法，”彼得·彼特罗维奇带着明显的十分高兴的神情反驳说，“当然啦，对某件事情入迷，出差错，这是有的，然而对这些应当采取宽容态度：对某件事情入迷，说明对这件事情怀有热情，也说明这件事情所处的外部环境是不正常的。如果说做得太少，那么是因为时间不够。至于方法，我就不谈了。照我个人看，也可以说，甚至是已经做了一些事情：一些有益的新思想得到传播，某些有益的新作品得以流传，取代了从前那些空想和浪漫主义的作品；文学作品有了更加成熟的特色；许多有害的偏见得以根除，受到了嘲笑……总之，我们已经一去不返地与过去一刀两断了，而这，照我看，已经是成就了……” “背得真熟！自我介绍，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说。 “什么？”彼得·彼特罗维奇没听清，于是问，可是没得到回答。 “这都是对的，”佐西莫夫赶快插了一句。 “不对吗？”彼得·彼特罗维奇愉快地看了看佐西莫夫，接着说。“您得承认，”他对拉祖米欣接着说，不过已经带点儿洋洋得意和占了上风的神气，差点儿没有加上一句：“年轻人，”“至少为了科学，为了追求经济学的真理……在这方面已经有了巨大成就，或者像现在人们所说的，有了进步。” “老生常谈！” “不，不是老主常谈！譬如说吧，在此以前，人们常对我说：‘你该去爱’，于是我就去爱了，结果怎样呢？”彼得·彼特罗维奇接着说，也许说得太匆忙了，“结果是我把一件长上衣撕作两半，和别人分着穿，于是我们两个都衣不蔽体，这就像俄罗斯谚语所说的：‘同时追几只兔子，一只也追不上’。科学告诉我们：要爱别人，首先要爱自己，因为世界上的一切都是以个人利益为基础的。你只爱自己，那么就会把自己的事情办好，你的长上衣也就能保持完整了。经济学的真理补充说，社会上私人的事办得越多，也可以这么说吧，完整的长上衣就越多，那么社会的基础也就越牢固，社会上也就能办好更多的公共事业。可见我仅仅为个人打算，只给自己买长上衣，恰恰是为大家着想，结果会使别人得到比撕破的长上衣更多的东西，而这已经不仅仅是来自个人的恩赐，而是得益于社会的普遍繁荣了①。见解很平常，但不幸的是，很久没能传到我们这里来，让狂热的激情和幻想给遮蔽起来了，不过要领会其中的道理，似乎并不需要有多少机智……” -------- ①英国经济学家、哲学家边塔姆（一七四八——一八三二）和他的信徒米利（一八○六——一八七三）的著作译成俄文后，当时俄国的报刊上正在广泛讨论他们的这种实用主义观点。 “对不起，我也并不机智，”拉祖米欣不客气地打断了他的话，“所以我们别再谈了。我这样说是有目的的，不然，所有这些废话和自我安慰，所有这些絮絮叨叨、没完没了的老生常谈，说来说去总是那么几句，三年来已经让我听腻烦了，真的，不但我自己，就是别人当着我的面说这些话，我都会脸红。您当然是急于炫耀自己学识渊博，这完全可以原谅，我并不责备您。现在我只想知道，你是什么人，因为，您要知道，近来有那么多各式各样的企业家要参加公共事业，而不管他接触到什么，都要曲解它，使之为自己的利益服务，结果把一切事业都搞得一塌糊涂。唉！够了！” “先生，”卢任先生怀着极其强烈的自尊感厌恶地说，“您是不是想要这样无礼地暗示，我也是……” “噢，请别这么想，请别这么想……我哪会呢！……唉，够了！”拉祖米欣毫不客气地打断了他，急遽地转过脸去，面对佐西莫夫，继续不久前的谈话。 彼得·彼特罗维奇显得相当聪明，立刻表示相信所作的解释。不过他决定，再过两分钟就走。 “现在我们已经开始认识了，我希望，”他对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“等您恢复健康以后，而且由于您已经知道的那些情况，我们的关系会更加密切……尤其希望您能早日康复……” 拉斯科利尼科夫连头都没转过来。彼得·彼特罗维奇从椅子上站起身来。 “一定是个抵押过东西的人杀死的！”佐西莫夫肯定地说。 “一定是个抵押东西的人！”拉祖米欣附和说。“波尔菲里没把自己的想法说出来，不过还是在审问那些抵押过东西的人……” “审问抵押过东西的人？”拉斯科利尼科夫高声问。 “是的，怎么呢？” “没什么。” “他是怎么找到他们的？”佐西莫夫问。 “有些是科赫说出来的；另一些人的名字写在包东西的纸上，还有一些，是听说这件事后，自己跑了去的……” “嘿，大概是个狡猾、老练的坏蛋！好大的胆子！多么坚决果断！” “问题就在这里了，根本不是！”拉祖米欣打断了他的话。 “正是这一点让你们大家全都迷惑不解，无法了解真实情况。我却认为，他既不狡猾，也不老练，大概这是头一次作案！如果认为这是经过精心策划的，凶手是个狡猾的老手，那将是不可思议的。如果认为凶手毫无经验，那就只有偶然的机会才使他得以侥幸逃脱，而偶然的机会不是会创造奇迹吗？也许，就连会碰到障碍，他都没预料到！他是怎么干的呢？——拿了几件值十卢布或二十卢布的东西，把它们塞满自己的口袋，在老太婆的箱子里那堆旧衣服里面乱翻了一通，——而在抽屉柜里，在上面一格抽屉的一个小匣子里，除了债券，人们还发现了一千五百卢布现金！他连抢劫都不会，只会杀人1第一次作案，我说，这是他第一次作案；发慌了！不是他老谋深算，而是靠偶然的机会侥幸脱身！” “这好像是说的不久前杀死一位老年官太太的那件凶杀案吧，”彼得·彼特罗维奇对着佐西莫夫插了一句嘴，他已经拿着帽子和手套站在那里了，但临走想再说几句卖弄聪明的话。看来他是想给人留下个好印象，虚荣心战胜了理智。 “是的。您听说了？” “那还用说，跟她是邻居嘛……” “详情细节您都了解吗？” “那倒不能说；不过使我感兴趣的却是另一个情况，可以说，是整个问题。最近四、五年来下层阶级中的犯罪日益增多，这我就不谈了；我也不谈到处不断发生的抢劫和纵火；对我来说，最奇怪的是，上层阶级中的犯罪也同样愈来愈多，可以说，与下层阶级中的犯罪是并行的。听说某处有一个从前上过大学的人在大道上抢劫邮车；另一个地方，一些属于上层社会的人制造假钞票；在莫斯科捕获了一伙伪造最近发行的有奖债券的罪犯，——主犯之一是个教世界通史的讲师；还有，国外有一位驻外使馆的秘书被人谋杀，是由于金钱和某种难以猜测的原因……如果现在这个放高利贷的老太婆是被一个社会地位较高的人杀害的，因为乡下人不会去抵押金器，那么，第一，该怎样来解释我们社会上那一部分文明人士的堕落呢？” “经济上的许多变化……”佐西莫夫回答。 “怎样解释吗？”拉祖米欣吹毛求疵地说。“正是因为我们根深蒂固地过于缺少务实精神，这就是解释。” “这是什么意思？” “在莫斯科，问您的那个讲师，为什么伪造有奖债券，他是这样回答的：‘大家用各种办法发财，所以我也急于发财。’原话我记不得了，不过意思就是：尽快发财，不劳而获！大家都习惯坐享其成，靠别人的思想生活，吃别人嚼过的东西。哼，最后审判的时刻一到，每个人都要前去受审：看你还靠什么发财……” “然而道德呢？也可以说，作人的原则……” “您在为什么操心啊？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然插嘴说。“这正是根据您的理论产生的结果！” “怎么是根据我的理论呢？” “把您刚才鼓吹的那一套引伸开去，结论就是：杀人是可以的……” “怎么会呢！”卢任高声喊道。 “不，不是这样！”佐西莫夫回答。 拉斯科利尼科夫躺在那儿，面色苍白，上嘴唇颤抖着，呼吸困难。 “一切都有个限度，”卢任高傲地接着说，“经济观念还不等于请你去杀人，假如认为……” “这是真的吗，您，”拉斯科利尼科夫又突然用气得发抖的声音打断了他的话，从他的声音里可以听出，侮辱卢任，他感到十分高兴，“这是真的吗，您曾经对您的未婚妻说……就在您向她求婚刚刚得到她同意的时候……您就对她说，您最高兴的是……她是个穷人……因为娶一个穷人家的女儿对您更为有利，以后您好控制她……可以责备她，说她受了您的恩惠，是吗……” “先生！”卢任面红耳赤，窘态毕露，恼恨而气忿地高声叫喊，“先生……竟这样歪曲我的意思！请您原谅，我必须说，传到您耳中的，或者不如说是故意让您知道的流言，毫无根据，我……我怀疑，有人……一句话……这枝冷箭……一句话，是令堂……我本来就觉得，尽管她有不少优点，可是她的想法里有某些狂热和浪漫主义的色彩……不过我还是万万没想到，她竟会以幻想来歪曲事实，这样来理解我，把事情想象成……而到底……到底……” “您知道吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫高声大喊，从枕头上欠起身来，目光炯炯，锐利逼人，直盯着他，“您知道吗？” “知道什么？”卢任住了口，脸上带着受到侮辱和挑衅的神情，等待着。沉默持续了几秒钟。 “就是，如果您再一次……您胆敢再提到……我母亲一个字……我就叫您滚出去！” “您怎么了！”拉祖米欣喊了一声。 “啊，原来是这样！”卢任脸色发白，咬住嘴唇。“先生，您听我说，”他一字一顿地说，竭力克制着，可还是气得喘不过气来，“还在不久前我刚一进来的时候，我就看出，您对我的态度是不友好的，可是我故意留下来，好对您能有更多的了解。对于一个有病的人和亲戚，很多事情我都可以原谅，但是现在……对您……我永远也不会原谅……” “我没有病！”拉斯科利尼科夫大声叫喊。 “那就更不会……” “滚，您给我见鬼去！” 但是卢任已经自己走了，没有把话说完，就又从桌子和椅子之间挤了出去；这一次拉祖米欣站了起来。让他过去。卢任谁也不看，甚至也没向佐西莫夫点个头，虽然后者早已向他点头示意，叫他别再打扰病人了；卢任走了出去，当他微微弯腰走出房门的时候，小心翼翼地把帽子举得齐肩膀那么高。就连他弯腰的姿势也仿佛表现出，他随身带走了多么严重的侮辱。 “能这样吗，能这样吗？”大惑不解的拉祖米欣摇着头说。 “别管我，你们都别管我！”拉斯科利尼科夫发狂似地叫喊。“你们到底肯让我安静一下不，你们这些折磨人的家伙！我不怕你们！现在我谁也不怕，谁也不怕！给我滚开！我想独自个儿待在这儿，独自个儿，独自个儿，独自个儿！” “咱们走吧，”佐西莫夫对拉祖米欣点点头，说。 “那怎么行，难道能这样丢下他不管吗？” “走吧！”佐西莫夫坚持地又说了一遍，说罢就走了出去。 拉祖米欣想了想，就跑出去追他了。 “如果我们不听他的话，那可能更糟，”佐西莫夫已经到了楼梯上，说。“不能激怒他……” “他怎么了？” “如果有什么有利的因素推动他一下就好了！刚才他精神还好……你听我说，他有什么心事！一件总也放不下、让他十分苦恼的心事……这一点我非常担心；准是这么回事！” “也许就是这位叫彼得·彼特罗维奇的先生吧！从谈话中可以听出，他要和他妹妹结婚，罗佳生病以前接到过一封信，信里提到了这件事……” “是啊；见鬼，他偏偏现在来了；也许会把事情完全弄糟了。你发觉没有，他对一切都漠不关心，对什么都避而不答，只除了一件事，这件事总是会使他失去自制：就是这件凶杀案……” “对，对！”拉祖米欣附和说，“我不但发觉，而且非常注意！他很关心，也很害怕。这是因为，就在他生病的那天有人吓唬过他，在警察局长的办公室里；他昏过去了。” “今天晚上你把这件事跟我详细谈谈，以后我再告诉你一件事。他让我很感兴趣，很感兴趣！半小时后我再去看他…… 不过发炎是不会的……” “谢谢你！这段时间里，我在帕申卡那儿等着，通过娜斯塔西娅照料他……” 只剩下拉斯科利尼科夫一个人了，他急不可耐、满腹忧虑地看看娜斯塔西娅；但她还拖延着不走。 “现在要喝茶吗？”她问。 “以后再喝！我想睡觉！别管我……” 他痉挛地转身面对墙壁；娜斯塔西娅走了出去。

第六章
But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again and began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in them. "To-day, to-day," he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment's thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, blowing up the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street.
It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: "that all /this/ must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he /would not go on living like that/." How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination.
From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on," and both moved on to the next shop.
"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what I mean?--and the street lamps shine through it . . ."
"I don't know. . . . Excuse me . . ." muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street.
Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler's shop.
"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"
"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.
"What's his name?"
"What he was christened."
"Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"
The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.
"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!"
"Is that a tavern at the top there?"
"Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-room and you'll find princesses there too. . . . La-la!"
Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V.
He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so.
Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating- houses; women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes.
He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below. . . . someone could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement.
"Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing,"
trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that.
"Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?"
"Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive--the only one of the group.
"Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her.
She smiled, much pleased at the compliment.
"You're very nice looking yourself," she said.
"Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have you just come out of a hospital?"
"They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are."
"Go along with you!"
"I'll go, sweetie!"
And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on.
"I say, sir," the girl shouted after him.
"What is it?"
She hesitated.
"I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice young man!"
Raskolnikov gave her what came first--fifteen copecks.
"Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!"
"What's your name?"
"Ask for Duclida."
"Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame. . . ."
Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature! . . . And vile is he who calls him vile for that," he added a moment later.
He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. "What if it is?" he thought.
"Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter.
"Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days, and I'll give you something."
"Yes, sir, here's to-day's. No vodka?"
The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them.
"Oh, damn . . . these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . another fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. . . . Ah, here it is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk.
"What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. "Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?"
Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile.
"I know you have," he answered. "I've heard it. You looked for my sock. . . . And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanovna's--you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand--it was quite clear, wasn't it?"
"What a hot head he is!"
"The explosive one?"
"No, your friend Razumihin."
"You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?"
"We've just been . . . having a drink together. . . . You talk about pouring it into me!"
"By way of a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I am not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman. . . ."
"How do you know about it?"
"Perhaps I know more about it than you do."
"How strange you are. . . . I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out."
"Oh, do I seem strange to you?"
"Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?"
"Yes."
"There's a lot about the fires."
"No, I am not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am not reading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. "But confess now, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?"
"I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question? Why do you keep on . . . ?"
"Listen, you are a man of culture and education?"
"I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with some dignity.
"Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings-- you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended.
"Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are still delirious."
"I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?"
"Yes, curious."
"Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?"
"Well, what is it?"
"You prick up your ears?"
"How do you mean--'prick up my ears'?"
"I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you . . . no, better 'I confess' . . . No, that's not right either; 'I make a deposition and you take it.' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching. . . ." he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I was searching--and came here on purpose to do it--for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman," he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while.
"What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. "That's no business of mine! What of it?"
"The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not heeding Zametov's explanation, "about whom you were talking in the police-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?"
"What do you mean? Understand . . . what?" Zametov brought out, almost alarmed.
Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh!
"You are either mad, or . . ." began Zametov, and he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind.
"Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!"
"Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it's all nonsense!"
Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for some time.
"Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold," said Zametov.
"What! Tea? Oh, yes. . . ." Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea.
"There have been a great many of these crimes lately," said Zametov. "Only the other day I read in the /Moscow News/ that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets!"
"Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you consider them criminals?" he added, smiling.
"Of course they are criminals."
"They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object--what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes-- what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change the notes either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth thousand--he was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?"
"That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that's quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can't stand things."
"Can't stand that?"
"Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it's their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to do it. Would you?"
Raskolnikov had an intense desire again "to put his tongue out." Shivers kept running down his spine.
"I should do it quite differently," Raskolnikov began. "This is how I would change the notes: I'd count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I'd set to the second thousand; I'd count that half-way through and then hold some fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again--to see whether it was a good one. 'I am afraid,' I would say, 'a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a false note,' and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, 'No, excuse me,' I would say, 'I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.' And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, 'Change them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back, 'No, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation. That's how I'd do it."
"Foo! what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home--that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle--but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn't stand it. That was clear from the . . ."
Raskolnikov seemed offended.
"Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov.
"Well, they will catch him."
"Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You've a tough job! A great point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child can mislead you."
"The fact is they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?"
Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov.
"You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave in that case, too?" he asked with displeasure.
"I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks.
"Very much?"
"Very much!"
"All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov's, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. "This is what I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone--there would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There'd be no trace."
"You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out.
"And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly and--realised what he had done.
Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile.
"But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him.
"Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?"
"Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried hastily.
"I've caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe less than ever?"
"Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?"
"You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there," he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?"
"Thirty copecks," the latter replied, running up.
"And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You've cross-examined my landlady, I'll be bound. . . . Well, that's enough! /Assez cause!/ Till we meet again!"
He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed.
Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.
"Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead," he decided.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.
"So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice--"you ran away from your bed! And here I've been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?"
"It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly.
"Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot! . . . What have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!"
"Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
"Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do with you directly? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!"
"Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm-- "can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who . . . curses them, who feels them a burden in fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough to-day that you were torturing me, that I was . . . sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because it's continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God's sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!"
He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had been with Luzhin.
Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop.
"Well, go to hell then," he said gently and thoughtfully. "Stay," he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you've any little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in that! There isn't a sign of independent life in you! You are made of spermaceti ointment and you've lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don't believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!" he cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement--"hear me out! You know I'm having a house-warming this evening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle there--I just ran in--to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation . . . you see, Rodya, I recognise you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool!--and if you weren't a fool you'd come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there's no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one . . . a cup of tea, company. . . . Or you could lie on the sofa--any way you would be with us. . . . Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?"
"No."
"R-rubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patience. "How do you know? You can't answer for yourself! You don't know anything about it. . . . Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards. . . . One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember, Potchinkov's house on the third storey. . . ."
"Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence."
"Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. . . ."
"I shall not come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov turned and walked away.
"I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you if you don't! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?"
"Yes."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes."
"Talked to him?"
"Yes."
"What about? Confound you, don't tell me then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!"
Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs.
"Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He talked sensibly but yet . . . I am a fool! As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid of." He struck his finger on his forehead. "What if . . . how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself. . . . Ach, what a blunder! I can't." And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Cristal to question Zametov.
Raskolnikov walked straight to X---- Bridge, stood in the middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him.
"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!"
"A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her: she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing.
"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the same woman's voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her--and here she's in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see yonder. . . ."
The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone mentioned the police station. . . . Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. "No, that's loathsome . . . water . . . it's not good enough," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will come of it," he added, "no use to wait. What about the police office . . . ? And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o'clock. . . ." He turned his back to the railing and looked about him.
"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out "to make an end of it all." Complete apathy had succeeded to it.
"Well, it's a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. "Anyway I'll make an end, for I want to. . . . But is it a way out? What does it matter! There'll be the square yard of space--ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah . . . damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don't care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one's head."
To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute's thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of /the/ house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since /that/ evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. "That wasn't so then," he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. "It's shut up and the door newly painted. So it's to let." Then the third storey and the fourth. "Here!" He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov's coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened.
"She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very early, all dressed up. 'Why are you preening and prinking?' says I. 'I am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way of going on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!"
"And what is a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority.
"A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the female. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies' fluffles, they're beyond anything you can fancy."
"There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger cried enthusiastically, "except father and mother, there's everything!"
"Except them, there's everything to be found, my boy," the elder declared sententiously.
Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance.
"What do you want?" he asked suddenly.
Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction.
"Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
"I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round."
"It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the porter."
"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no blood?"
"What blood?"
"Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there."
"But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy.
"Who am I?"
"Yes."
"You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you."
The workmen looked at him in amazement.
"It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up," said the elder workman.
"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway.
At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers- by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them.
"What do you want?" asked one of the porters.
"Have you been to the police office?"
"I've just been there. What do you want?"
"Is it open?"
"Of course."
"Is the assistant there?"
"He was there for a time. What do you want?"
Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought.
"He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward.
"Which flat?"
"Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he. 'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.' And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us."
The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed.
"Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could.
"I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street.
"Why have you been to the flat?"
"To look at it."
"What is there to look at?"
"Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked in abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones:
"Come along."
"Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going into /that/, what's in his mind, eh?"
"He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered the workman.
"But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest--"Why are you hanging about?"
"You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly.
"How funk it? Why are you hanging about?"
"He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman.
"Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. "Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!"
And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked away.
"Strange man!" observed the workman.
"There are strange folks about nowadays," said the woman.
"You should have taken him to the police station all the same," said the man in the long coat.
"Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you won't get rid of him. . . . We know the sort!"
"Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him alone. . . . All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage. . . . A light gleamed in the middle of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and knew that it would all soon be over.

但是她刚一出去，他立刻就起来了，用门钩扣上房门，解开拉祖米欣不久前拿来、又重新包起来的那包衣服，动手穿了起来。怪事：似乎他突然变得十分镇静了；既不像不久前那样精神错乱，胡言乱语，也不像最近这段时间那样失魂落魄，惊恐万分。这是一种奇怪的、突然到来的镇静的最初瞬间。他的动作毫无差错，目的明确，表现出他有某种坚定的意图。“今天，就在今天！……”他喃喃地自言自语。不过他明白，他还很虚弱，但极度的精神紧张，使他变得镇静和下定决心的精神紧张，给了他力量和自信；不过他希望不至于跌倒在街上。他全身都换上了新衣服，看了看放在桌子上的钱，想了想，把钱都装进了衣袋。一共是二十五卢布。他又拿了那几个五戈比的铜币，那是拉祖米欣拿去买衣服的十个卢布找回的零钱。然后他轻轻取下门钩，从屋里出来，走下楼梯，朝大敞着的厨房门里面张了一眼：娜斯塔西娅背对着他站着，弯下腰，正在吹女房东的茶炊。她什么也没听到。而且谁能想到他会出去呢？不一会儿，他已经到了街上。
已经八点钟了，红日西沉。仍然那么闷热；然而他还是贪婪地吸了一口这恶臭难闻、尘土飞扬、被城市污染了的空气。他的头微微眩晕起来；他那双发红的眼睛里和白中透黄，十分消瘦的脸上，却显示出某种奇怪的旺盛精力。他不知道，也没想过要到哪里去；他只知道一点：“这一切必须在今天结束，一下子结束它，立刻；否则他决不回家，因为他不愿这样活下去。”怎么结束？用什么办法结束？他一点儿也不知道，也不愿去想它。他驱除了这个想法，这个想法在折磨他。他只是感觉到，而且知道，必须让一切都发生变化，不是这样变，就是那样变，“不管怎么变都行”，他怀着绝望的、执拗的自信和决心反复说。
由于以前养成的习惯，他顺着从前散步时通常走的那条路径直往干草广场走去。还不到干草广场，在一家小铺门前，马路上站着一个身背手摇风琴的黑发年轻流浪乐师，正在摇着一首十分动人的抒情歌曲。他是为站在他前面人行道上的一个姑娘伴奏，她约摸有十四、五岁，打扮得像一位小姐，穿一条钟式裙，肩上披着披肩，戴着手套，头上戴一顶插着火红色羽毛的草帽；这些东西都破旧了。她用街头卖唱的声音演唱那首抒情歌曲，声音发抖，然而相当悦耳和富有感染力，期待着小铺子里会有人丢给她两个戈比。拉斯科利尼科夫停下来，站在两三个听众身边，听了一会儿，掏出一枚五戈比的铜币，放到姑娘的手里。她正唱到最动人的高音上，突然停住不唱了，歌声猝然中断，她用尖锐的声音向摇琴的乐师喊了一声“够了！”于是两人慢慢往前、往另一家小铺子走去。
“您爱听街头卖唱吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然问一个和他一起站在摇手摇风琴的乐师身旁的过路行人，那人已不算年轻了，看样子像是个游手好闲的人。那人奇怪地看了他一眼，吃了一惊。“我爱听，”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说，不过看他的神情，却仿佛根本不是在谈街头卖唱，“在寒冷、阴暗、潮湿的秋天晚上，一定要在潮湿的晚上，行人的脸色都白得发青，面带病容，这时候我爱听在手摇风琴伴奏下唱歌；或者是在没有风，潮湿的雪直接从天上飘落的时候，那就更好了，您明白吗？透过雪花，煤气路灯①闪闪烁烁……”
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①十九世纪六十年代彼得堡市中心区装上了煤气路灯，其余地区是煤油路灯。
“我不明白……对不起……”那位先生含糊不清地说，拉斯科利尼科夫的问题和奇怪的神情吓坏了他，他走到马路对面去了。
拉斯科利尼科夫一直朝前走，来到干草广场的一个拐角上，那天跟莉扎薇塔谈话的那个小市民和他老婆就是在这儿摆摊做生意的；但是这会儿他们不在这儿。认出这个地方以后，他站住了，往四下里看了看，问一个正在面粉店门口打呵欠、身穿红衬衣的年轻小伙子：
“不是有个市民在这个拐角上做生意吗，跟一个女人，跟他老婆一起，不是吗？”
“各式各样的人都在做生意，”小伙子傲慢地打量着拉斯科利尼科夫，回答说。
“他叫什么名字？”
“受洗礼的时候给他取了个什么名字，就叫什么名字。”
“你是不是扎拉斯基人？哪个省的？”
小伙子又瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫。
“大人，我们那儿不是省，是县，我兄弟出门去了，我待在家里，所以我不知道……清您原谅，大人，多多包涵。”
“上面是个小饭馆吗？”
“是个小饭馆，有弹子台；还有漂亮女人……好极了！”
拉斯科利尼科夫穿过广场。那边拐角上密密麻麻站着一群人，全都是乡下人。他挤进人最多的地方，看看那些人的脸。不知为什么，他很想跟所有人说话儿。但是乡下人都不答理他，大家都东一伙西一簇地挤在一起，互相小声交谈着，乱哄哄的，不知在谈什么。他站了一会儿，想了想，就往右转弯，在人行道上朝B大街那个方向走去。过了广场，他走进了一条小胡同……
以前他也常经过这条很短的小胡同，胡同拐一个弯，从广场通往花园街。最近一段时间，每当他心里烦闷的时候，总是很想到这一带来溜达溜达，“好让心里更加烦闷”。现在他进了这条胡同，什么也不去想。这儿有一幢大房子，整幢房子里都是小酒馆和其他饮食店；从这些酒馆、饭店里不断跑出一些穿得像去“邻居家串门儿”的女人——不包头巾，只穿一件连衫裙。她们在人行道上两三个地方，主要是在底层入口处旁，成群地挤在一起，从入口走下两级台阶，就可以进入各种娱乐场所。这时从其中一个娱乐场所里正传出一阵阵喧闹声，在街上都听得清清楚楚：吉他声丁丁东东，有人在唱歌，笑语喧哗，十分快活。一大群女人挤在门口；有的坐在台阶上，另一些坐在人行道上，还有一些站在那里闲扯。旁边有个喝醉了的士兵，嘴里叼着支香烟，高声骂着街，在马路上闲荡，看来是想去什么地方，可是到底要去哪里，却想不起来了。一个衣衫褴褛的人正和另一个衣衫褴褛的人对骂，一个烂醉如泥的醉汉横躺在街道上。拉斯科利尼科夫在那一大群女人身旁站了下来。她们用嘶哑的声音交谈着；她们都穿着印花布连衫裙和山羊皮的皮鞋，都没包头巾。有一些已经四十多岁了，不过也有十六、七岁的，几乎个个的眼睛都被打伤了。
不知为什么，下边的歌声和喧闹声引起了他的注意……可以听到，那里，在一阵阵哈哈大笑和尖叫声中，在尖细的假噪唱出的雄壮歌曲和吉他的伴奏下，有人正用鞋后跟打着拍子，拼命跳舞。他全神贯注、阴郁而若有所思地听着，在门口弯下腰来，从人行道上好奇地往穿堂里面张望。
你呀，我漂亮的岗警呀，
你别无缘无故地打我呀！——
歌手尖细的歌声婉转动人。拉斯科利尼科夫很想听清唱的是什么歌，似乎全部问题都在于此了。
“是不是要进去呢？”他想。“他们在哈哈大笑。因为喝醉了。怎么，我要不要也喝它个一醉方休呢？”
“不进去吗，亲爱的老爷？”女人中有一个用相当响亮、还没有完全嘶哑的声音问。她还年轻，甚至不难看，——是这群女人中唯一的一个。
“瞧，你真漂亮啊！”他稍稍直起腰来，看了看她，回答说。
她嫣然一笑；她很爱听恭维话。
“您也挺漂亮啊，”她说。
“您多瘦啊！”另一个女人声音低沉地说，“刚从医院出来吗？”
“好像都是将军的女儿，不过都是翘鼻子！”突然一个微带醉意的乡下人走过来，插嘴说，他穿一件厚呢上衣，敞着怀，丑脸上带着狡猾的笑容。“瞧，好快活啊！”
“既然来了，就进去吧！”
“是要进去！很高兴进去！”
他跌跌撞撞地下去了。
拉斯科利尼科夫又往前走去。
“喂，老爷！”那女人在后面喊了一声。
“什么事？”
她感到不好意思了。
“亲爱的老爷，我永远高兴陪您玩几个钟头，可这会儿不知怎的在您面前却鼓不起勇气来。可爱的先生，请给我六个戈比，买杯酒喝！”
拉斯科利尼科夫随手掏出几个铜币：三枚五戈比的铜币。
“啊，您这位老爷心肠多好啊！”
“您叫什么？”
“您就问杜克莉达吧。”
“不，怎么能这样呢，”突然那群女人里有一个对着杜克莉达摇摇头，说。“我真不知道，怎么能这样跟人家要钱！要是我的话，我会臊得找个地缝钻进去……”
拉斯科利尼科夫好奇地望望那个说话的女人。这是个有麻子的女人，三十来岁，脸上给打得青一块紫一块的，上嘴唇也有点肿了。她安详而又严肃地说，责备杜克莉达。
“我是在哪儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫边往前走，边想，“我是在哪儿看到过，一个被判处死刑的人，在临刑前一小时说过，或者是想过，如果他必须在高高的悬崖绝壁上活着，而且是在仅能立足的那么狭窄的一小块地方站着，——四周却是万丈深渊，一片汪洋，永久的黑暗，永久的孤独，永不停息的狂风暴雨，——而且要终生站在这块只有一俄尺见方的地方，站一千年，永远站在那里，——他也宁愿这样活着，而不愿马上去死！①只要能活着，活着，活着！不管怎样活着，——只要活着就好！……多么正确的真理！人是卑鄙的！谁要是为此把人叫作卑鄙的东西，那么他也是卑鄙的，”过了一会儿，他又补上一句。
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①见雨果的《巴黎圣母院》。这里不是引用原文。
他走到了另一条街上。“噢，‘水晶宫’！不久前拉祖米欣谈到过‘水晶宫’。不过我到底想干什么？对了，看报！……
佐西莫夫说，在报上看到过……”
“有报纸吗？”他走进一家宽敞的、甚至颇为整洁的饭店，问道，这家饭店有好几间房间，不过相当空。有两三个顾客在喝茶，稍远一点儿的一间屋里坐着一伙人，一共有四个，在喝香槟，拉斯科利尼科夫觉得，好像扎苗托夫也在他们中间。
不过，从远处看，看不清楚。
“管他去！”他想。
“要伏特加吗？”跑堂的问。
“给来杯茶。你再给我拿几份报纸来，旧的，从五天前一直到今天的，都要，我给你几个酒钱。”
“知道了。这是今天的报纸。要伏特加吗？”
旧报纸和茶都拿来了。拉斯科利尼科夫坐下，翻着找起来：“伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——阿茨蒂克人——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔——巴尔托拉——马西莫——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔①……呸，见鬼！啊，这儿是新闻：一个女人摔下楼梯——一市民因酗酒丧生——沙区发生火灾——彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾②——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——马西莫……哦，在这里了……”
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①拉斯科利尼科夫看的是报纸上的广告。伊兹列尔是彼得堡郊外“矿泉”花园的主人，当时城里人都喜欢去“矿家”花园散步。一八六五年有两个侏儒到达彼得堡，一个叫马西莫，一个叫巴尔托拉，据说他们是墨西哥一个已经绝灭的土著民族阿茨蒂克人的后裔。当时报纸上广泛报道了这两个侏儒到达彼得堡的消息。
②彼得堡区与市中心区之间隔着涅瓦河。十九世纪六十年代那里都是木头房子，一八六五年夏季炎热，那里经常发生火灾。
他终于找到了他要找的，于是看起来了；一行行的字在他眼中跳动，然而他还是看完了所有“消息”，并贪婪地在以后几期报纸上寻找最新的补充报道。他翻报纸的时候，由于焦急慌乱，手在发抖。突然有人坐到他这张桌子这儿来，坐到了他的身边。他一看，是扎苗托夫，就是那个扎苗托夫，还是那个样子，戴着好几个镶宝石的戒指，挂看表链，搽过油的乌黑的鬈发梳成分头，穿一件很考究的坎肩，常礼服却穿旧了，衬衫也不是新的。他心情愉快，甚至是十分愉快而又温和地微笑着。因为喝了香槟，他那黝黑的脸稍有点儿红晕。
“怎么！您在这儿？”他困惑不解地说，那说话的语气，就好像他们是老相识似的，“昨天拉祖米欣还对我说，您一直昏迷不醒。这真奇怪！要知道，我去过您那儿……”
拉斯科利尼科夫知道他准会过来。他把报纸放到一边，转过脸来，面对着扎苗托夫。他嘴唇上挂着冷笑，在这冷笑中流露出一种前所未有的、恼怒的不耐烦神情。
“这我知道，知道您去过，”他回答，“听说过。您找过一只袜子……您知道吗，拉祖米欣非常喜欢您，他说，您和他一道到拉维扎·伊万诺芙娜那儿去过，谈起她的时候，您竭力向火药桶中尉使眼色，可他就是不明白您的意思，您记得吗？怎么会不明白呢——事情是明摆着的……不是吗？”
“他可真是个爱惹事生非的人！”
“火药桶吗？”
“不，您的朋友，拉祖米欣……”
“您过得挺不错啊，扎苗托夫先生；到最快活的地方来，不用花钱！刚才是谁给您斟的香槟？”
“我们……喝了两杯……又给斟上了吗？！”
“这是酬劳嘛！您拥有一切呀！”拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。
“没关系，心地善良的孩子，没关系！”他拍了拍扎苗托夫的肩膀，又补上一句，“我可不是故意惹您生气，‘而是因为我们要好，闹着玩儿’，老太婆的那个案子里，您那个工人用拳头捶米季卡的时候，也是这么说的。”
“可您是怎么知道的？”
“我嘛，也许比您知道得还多。”
“您这人真有点儿怪……大概，还病得很厉害。您不该出来……”
“您觉得我怪吗？”
“是的。怎么，您在看报？”
“是在看报。”
“有许多关于火灾的消息。”
“不，我不是在看火灾的消息，”这时他神秘地看了看扎苗托夫；嘲讽的微笑使他的嘴唇变了形。“不，我不是看火灾的消息，”他对扎苗托夫眨眨眼，接着说。“您承认吧，可爱的青年人，您很想知道我在看什么消息，是吧？”
“根本不想知道；我只不过这么问问。难道不能问吗？您怎么总是……”
“喂，您是个受过教育、有文化的人，是吧？”
“我读过中学六年级，”扎苗托夫神情有点儿庄重地说。
“六年级！唉，你呀，我的小宝贝儿！梳着分头，戴着镶宝石的戒指——是个有钱的人！嘿，一个多可爱的小孩子呀！”这时拉斯科利尼科夫对着扎苗托夫的脸神经质地狂笑起来。扎苗托夫急忙躲开了，倒不是因为觉得受了侮辱，而是大吃一惊。
“嘿，您多怪啊！”扎苗托夫神情十分严肃地又说了一遍。
“我觉得，您一直还在说胡话。”
“我说胡话？你胡扯，小宝贝儿！……那么，我很怪吗？
您觉得我很有意思，是吗？有点儿异常？”
“有点儿异常。”
“是不是谈谈，我在看什么，找什么？瞧，我叫他们拿来了这么多报纸！可疑，是吗？”
“好，您请说吧。”
“耳朵竖起来了吗？”
“竖起来，这是什么意思？”
“等以后再告诉您，竖起来是什么意思，而现在，我最亲爱的朋友，我向您声明……不，最好是：‘供认’……不，这也不对：‘我招供，您审问’——这就对了！那么我招供，我看的是，我关心的是……我找的是……我寻找的是……”拉斯科利尼科夫眯缝起眼来，等待着，“我寻找的是——而且就是为此才到这儿来的——谋杀那个老太婆、那个官太太的消息，”最后，他几乎把自己的脸紧凑到扎苗托夫的脸上，低声耳语似地说。扎苗托夫凝神注视着他，一动不动，也没把自己的脸躲开。后来扎苗托夫觉得，最奇怪的是，他们之间的沉默足足持续了一分钟，足足有一分钟，他们俩就这样互相对视着。
“您看这些消息，那又怎样呢？”扎苗托夫困惑不解而且不耐烦地高声说。“这关我什么事！这是什么意思？”
“就是那个老太婆，”拉斯科利尼科夫还是那样悄悄地接下去说，对扎苗托夫的高声叫喊丝毫不动声色，“就是那个老太婆，您记得吗，你们在办公室里谈论起她来的时候，我昏倒了。怎么，现在您明白了吗？”
“这是什么意思？什么……‘您明白了吗’？”扎苗托夫几乎是惊慌地问。
拉斯科利尼科夫神情呆板而又严肃的脸霎时间起了变化，突然又像刚才那样神经质地狂笑起来，似乎他已完全不能控制自己了。他顿时想起不久前的那一瞬间，异常清晰地感觉到当时的情景：他手持斧头站在门后，门钩在跳动，他们在门外破口大骂，要破门而入，他却突然想对他们高声大喊，和他们对骂，向他们伸舌头，逗弄他们，嘲笑他们，哈哈大笑，哈哈大笑，哈哈大笑！
“您不是疯子，就是……”扎苗托夫脱口而出，但立刻住了嘴，仿佛有个突然在他脑子里一闪而过的想法使他吃一惊。
“就是？‘就是’什么？嗯，是什么？喂，请说啊！”
“没什么！”扎苗托夫气呼呼地说，“全都是胡说八道！”
两人都默默不语。在一阵突然爆发的狂笑之后，拉斯科利尼科夫又突然陷入沉思，变得忧郁起来。他用胳膊肘撑在桌子上，一只手托着头。似乎他把扎苗托夫完全忘了。沉默持续了相当久。
“您怎么不喝茶呢？茶要凉了，”扎苗托夫说。
“啊？什么？茶？……好吧……”拉斯科利尼科夫从杯子里喝了一口茶，把一小块面包放进嘴里，突然看了看扎苗托夫，好像想起了一切，仿佛一下子精神振作起来：他的脸上又恢复了一开始时那种嘲讽的神情。他在继续喝茶。
“如今发生了不少这种欺诈案件，”扎苗托夫说。“不久前我在《莫斯科新闻》上看到一条消息，莫斯科捕获了一伙制造伪币的罪犯。是一个集团。他们伪造债券。”
“哦，这已经是很久以前的事了！我还在一个月以前就看到了，”拉斯科利尼科夫平静地回答。“这么说，照您看，这是些骗子了？”他冷笑着补上一句。
“怎么不是骗子呢？”
“这些人吗？是孩子，布兰别克①，而不是骗子！有整整五十个人为了这个目的结成了一伙！难道能这样吗？有三个就已经太多了，而且还得互相信任，对别人比对自己还要相信！只要有一个喝醉了，说漏了嘴，那就全都完了！布兰别克！雇了些靠不住的人在各个银行办事处兑换债券：这种事情能随便碰到个人就让他去干吗？好，即使这些布兰别克成功了，即使每人都换了一百万卢布，那么以后呢？一辈子怎么办？每个人这一辈子都得取决于别人是不是会走漏风声！这样还不如上吊，倒还干脆！他们却连兑换都不会：有一个才在办事处里兑换了五千卢布，手就发抖了。点完了四千，还有一千，不点就收下了，相信不会有错，只想揣到口袋里，赶快逃走。于是就引起了怀疑。因为有一个傻瓜，一切全都毁了！难道能这么干吗？”
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①法文blanc－bec的音译，“乳臭未干的孩子”，“黄口孺子”之意。
“双手发抖吗？”扎苗托夫随声附和说，“不，这是可能的。不，这我完全相信，完全相信这是可能的。有时是会经受不住。”
“经受不住？”
“您会经受得住？不，我可受不了！为了一百卢布赏金去干这么可怕的事情！拿着假债券去——去哪里？——去银行办事处，而那里的人识别债券，都是经验丰富的老手，——
不，我准会心慌意乱。您却不会发慌吗？”
拉斯科利尼科夫突然又很想“伸出舌头来”。一阵阵寒颤掠过他的背脊。
“要是我，就不会这么干，”他从老远谈起。“要是我，我就这样去兑换：最先拿到的那一千卢布，要翻来覆去点四遍，每张钞票都要仔仔细细看了又看，然后再去点另外那一千；先从头点起，点到一半，抽出一张五十卢布的票子，对着亮处看看，再把它翻转来，又对着亮处看看，——是不是假的呢？‘我，’就说：‘我不放心：我有个女亲戚，前两天就是因为收下了一张假钞票，白丢了二十五卢布’；还要编个故事，叙说一遍。待到开始点第三叠一千的时候，——不，对不起：我好像觉得，在那第二叠一千里，点到七百的时候，数得不对，我有怀疑，于是丢下这第三叠一千，又去点第二叠，——五千卢布都是这样点法。等到都点完了，又从第五叠和第二叠里各抽出一张钞票来，对着亮处看了又看，又觉得可疑，‘请给换一张’，——折腾得那个办事员疲惫不堪，不知道怎样才能把我打发走！等到终于都点清了，走出去了，却又把门打开——啊，不，对不起，我又回转来，问个什么问题，要求得到解释，——要叫我，就这么干！”
“嘿”，您说了些多么可怕的话！”扎苗托夫笑着说。“不过这只是说说而已，真的干起来，您准会出差错。我跟您说，照我看，干这种事，别说是您我，就连经验丰富的亡命之徒也不能担保万无一失。用不着到远处去找，眼前就有现成的例子：我们地区里有个老太婆让人给杀害了。看来是个玩命的家伙，大白天，不顾一切危险，豁出命来干，只是靠奇迹才能侥幸逃脱，——可他的手还是发抖了：没能偷走所有财物，没能经受住；从案情就可以看出……”
拉斯科利尼科夫仿佛受到了侮辱。
“可以看出！那么请您去抓住他吧，现在就去！”他高声叫喊，幸灾乐祸地激扎苗托夫。
有什么呢，会抓到的。”
“谁去抓？您吗？您抓到他吗？您会累得筋疲力尽！你们所指望的最重要的一点，是这个人会不会大手大脚地花钱，不是吗？本来没有钱，这时突然大手大脚地挥霍起来，——怎么会不是他呢？那么，就这一点来说，你们准会上这个小孩子的当，如果他想这么干的话！”
“问题就在这里了，他们总是这么干的，”扎苗托夫回答，“他们豁出命来，狡猾地杀了人，后来马上就在酒馆里落入法网。就是在他们大手大脚挥霍的时候捕获他们。不是所有人都像您这样狡猾。您当然不会进酒馆了，不是吗？”
拉斯科利尼科夫皱起眉头，凝神瞅了瞅扎苗托夫。
“看来您是得寸进尺，很想知道，在这种情况下我会怎么干了？”他很不高兴地问。
“倒是很想知道，”扎苗托夫坚决而认真地回答。不知怎的他的语气和目光都变得太认真了。
“很想吗？”
“很想。”
“好吧。我会这样做，”拉斯科利尼科夫开始说，又突然把自己的脸凑近扎苗托夫的脸，又凝神注视着他，又是那样低声耳语，以致扎苗托夫这一次甚至颤抖了一下。“要叫我，就会这么办：我会拿了钱和东西，一离开那儿，哪里也不去，立刻就会去找一个荒凉僻静的地方，那儿只有一道围墙，几乎一个人也没有；——找一个菜园或者这一类的地方。事先我就会看中那个地方，这个院子里有块一普特或者一普特半重的大石头，就在一个角落上，围墙旁边，也许从盖那幢房子的时候起就放在那儿了；我会搬开这块石头，——石头底下一定有一个坑，——我会把所有这些东西和钱都放进这个坑里。把东西放进去以后，我会再把石头推回去，放得跟原来一个样，再用脚把土踩实，然后走开。一年，两年，三年，我都不会去取它，——哼，您去找吧！钱虽然有过，可是全花光了！”
“您是个疯子，”扎苗托夫不知为什么也几乎是低声悄悄地说，而且不知为什么突然从拉斯科利尼科夫身边挪开一些。拉斯科利尼科夫两眼炯炯发光；面色白得可怕；他的上嘴唇抖动了一下，轻轻跳动起来。他尽量俯身凑近扎苗托夫，嘴唇微微翕动起来，可是什么话也没说；这样持续了约摸半分钟的样子；他知道自己在做什么，可是不能控制自己。一句可怕的话，就像那时候门上的门钩一样，在他嘴里一个劲儿地跳动着：眼看就要冲出来了；眼看就要约束不住，眼看就要脱口而出了！
“如果老太婆和莉扎薇塔是我杀的，那又怎样呢？”他突然说，又立刻醒悟了。
扎苗托夫古怪地看了他一眼，脸色白得像桌布一样。他笑了笑，他的脸变得很不自然。
“难道这可能吗？”他用勉强可以听到的声音说。
拉斯科利尼科夫恶狠狠地瞅了他一眼。
“您承认吧，您相信了？是吧？不是吗？”
“根本不信！现在比任何时候更不相信！”扎苗托夫急忙说。
“终于落网了！小麻雀给捉住了。既然现在‘比任何时候更不相信’，可见以前您相信过，不是吗？”
“根本不是！”扎苗托夫大声叫嚷，显然发窘了。“您就是为了让我上当受骗，故意吓唬我吗？”
“这么说您不相信吗？那时候我从办公室出去以后，你们背着我讲了些什么？我昏倒以后，火药桶中尉干吗要盘问我？喂，你过来，”他对跑堂的喊了一声，同时站起来，拿起帽子，“多少钱？”
“一共三十戈比，”跑堂的一边跑过来，一边回答。
“再给二十戈比小费。瞧，多少钱啊！”他把那只拿着钞票的、发抖的手伸到扎苗托夫面前，“红的和蓝的①，一共二十五卢布。打哪儿弄来的？哪儿来的这身新衣服？因为您是知道的，我曾经连一个戈比也没有！大概已经问过女房东了……好，够了！Assezcausé！②再见……最愉快的再见！……”
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①红的是十卢布一张的钞票，蓝的是五卢布一张的。
②法文，“闲扯得够了”之意。
他走了出去，由于一种奇怪的歇斯底里的感觉，他浑身都在发抖，在这种奇怪的感觉里同时还有一部分抑制不住的高兴，——不过他神情阴郁，十分疲倦。他的脸扭歪了，好像刚发过什么病似的。他更疲倦了。他曾经恢复了精力，现在精力突然衰退了，随着他受到第一次刺激，随着第一次感到气愤，随着这种气愤的感觉逐渐消失，他的精力也迅速衰退了。
只剩下扎苗托夫一个人以后，他又在那个地方沉思默想地坐了许久。拉斯科利尼科夫无意中完全改变了他对这件凶杀案的某一点的想法，并最终确定了自己的意见。
“伊利亚·彼特罗维奇是个笨蛋！”最后他断定。
拉斯科利尼科夫刚打开到街上去的门，突然就在台阶上迎面撞到了正走进来的拉祖米欣。两个人甚至只隔一步远，却谁也没看到谁，所以几乎撞了个头碰头。他们彼此用目光打量着对方，对看了一会儿。拉祖米欣惊讶极了，但是突然，一股怒火，一股真正的怒火在他眼里可怕地闪闪发光。
“哈，原来你在这儿！”他扯着嗓子大喊。“从床上下来，跑了！我到处找他，连沙发底下都找过了！顶楼上也去过了！为了你，我差点儿没把娜斯塔西娅痛打一顿……可是瞧，他在哪里！罗季卡！这是什么意思？把实话全说出来！你说老实话！听见了吗！”
“这意思就是，你们全都让我烦死了，我想独自个儿待一会儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫安详地回答。
“独自个几？在你还不能走路，脸还白得像麻布一样，呼吸还很困难的时候！傻瓜！……你在‘水晶宫’干什么了？立刻说出来！”
“让我走！”拉斯科利尼科夫说，想从他身旁过去。这可把拉祖米欣惹火了：他紧紧抓住了他的肩膀。
“让你走？你竟敢说：‘让我走’？你知道现在我要把你怎么样吗？我要一把抱住你，把你捆起来，夹在腋下把你弄回家去，锁起来！”
“你听我说，拉祖米欣，”拉斯科利尼科夫轻轻地，看来完全平静地说，“难道你看不出我不愿领你的情吗？何苦偏要施恩于……根本不领情的人？对你的关心，他觉得根本无法忍受，对这样的人，你何苦偏要关怀备至？在我刚开始发病的时候，你为什么要找到我？说不定我倒很高兴死呢？难道今天我对你说得还不清楚吗：你是在折磨我，你让我……烦死了！你当真愿意折磨人吗？请你相信，你这样做的确严重妨碍我恢复健康，因为这是在不断地惹我生气。为了不惹我生气，佐西莫夫刚才不是已经走了吗。看在上帝份上，请你也别管我了！最后，请问你有什么权力强制我，不让我自由行动？难道你看不出，我现在说话，神智是完全清醒的吗？我求求你，请你教导我，用什么办法才能让你不再和我纠缠，不再为我做什么好事？就算我忘恩负义，就算我行为卑鄙吧，不过请你们大家都不要管我，看在上帝份上，请你们都别管我！
别管我！别管我！”
他一开始说话是平心静气的，事先就感到把满腔恶毒的怨气发泄出来的那种快乐，可是到末了，却气得发狂，上气不接下气，跟不久前和卢任说话时一样了。
拉祖米欣站了一会儿，想了想，放开了他的手。
“你滚，见鬼去吧！”他轻轻地说，几乎是陷入沉思。“等等！”拉斯科利尼科夫正要走，他又突然吼叫起来，“你听我说。我要告诉你，所有你们这些人，没有一个不是只会空谈和吹牛的家伙！只要你们一遇上点儿不顺心的事，就像下蛋的母鸡一样，唠唠叨叨，嘀咕个没完！就连嘀咕起来，也是剽窃别人的词句。在你们身上看不到一丁点儿独立生活的影子！你们都是用鲸蜡膏做成的，血管里流的不是血，而是乳浆！你们当中的人，我一个也不相信！在任何情况下，首先引人注目的就是，你们似乎都不像人！等——一——等！”看到拉斯科利尼科夫又要走，他加倍狂怒地大喊一声，“你给我听完！你知道，为庆贺我迁入新居，今天有人来我家聚会，也许现在已经来了，我让舅舅留在家里招待客人，——我刚刚跑回去一趟。那么，如果你不是傻瓜，不是惹人讨厌的傻瓜，不是愚蠢透顶的傻瓜，不是和大家格格不入的怪物……你要知道，罗佳，我承认，你是个聪明小伙子，可你是个傻瓜！——那么，如果你不是傻瓜，今天你还是上我那儿去，坐一个晚上，总比白白地磨破鞋底要好一些。既然你已经出来了，那就一定得去！我给你弄把软绵绵的扶手椅来，房东那里有……喝杯茶，和朋友们聚会聚会……啊，不，我要让你躺到沙发上，——那样也还是跟我们在一起……佐西莫夫也要去。你去吗？”
“不去。”
“你—胡—说！”拉祖米欣忍不住高声吼叫了起来，“你怎么知道不去？你不能对自己的行为负责！而且对这种事，你什么也不懂……我像这样跟人吵架，吵得谁也不理谁，已经有上千次了，可后来又和好如初……感到惭愧了，就又去找人家！那么你记住，波钦科夫的房子，三楼……”
“为了得到施恩于人的快乐，您大概肯让人揍您一顿吧，拉祖米欣先生。”
“揍谁？揍我！只要有人胆敢这么想一想，我就拧掉他的鼻子！波钦科夫的房子，四十七号，官员巴布什金的住宅里……”
“我不去，拉祖米欣！”拉斯科利尼科夫转身走了。
“我打赌，你一定会来！”拉祖米欣对着他的背影叫喊。
“不然你……不然我就不把你看作我的朋友！等等，喂！扎苗托夫在那儿吗？”
“在那儿。”
“你见到了？”
“见到了。”
“说话了？”
“说话了。”
“谈些什么？唉，去你的吧，请别说了。波钦科夫的房子，四十七号，巴布什金的住所，别忘了！”
拉斯科利尼科夫走到花园街，在街角拐了个弯。拉祖米欣沉思了一会儿，望着他的背影。最后他挥了挥手，走进屋去，但是在楼梯当中又站住了。
“见鬼！”他几乎是出声地继续想，“他说话倒是有理智的，可好像……要知道，我也是个傻瓜！难道疯子说话就没有理智吗？我好像觉得，佐西莫夫担心的就是这一点！”他用一根手指敲了敲前额。“嗯，如果……唉，现在怎么能让他一个人走呢？大概会淹死的……唉，我错了！不行！”于是他跑回去追赶拉斯科利尼科夫，但是连他的影子都看不见了。他啐了一口，快步回到“水晶宫”去，赶快去问扎苗托夫。
拉斯科利尼科夫径直走上×桥，站到桥当中的栏杆旁边，用两个胳膊肘撑在栏杆上，举目远眺。和拉祖米欣分手后，他已虚弱到这种程度，好容易才来到这儿，他想在什么地方坐下来，或者就躺到街上。他俯身对着河水，无意识地望着落日最后一抹粉红色的反光，望着在愈来愈浓的暮色中逐渐变暗的一排房屋，望着左岸沿河大街某处顶楼上远方的一个小窗户，有一瞬间落日的余晖突然照射到小窗子上，于是它闪闪烁烁，好似在火焰中一般，他还望着运河里渐渐变黑的河水，好像在细细端详它。最后，一些红色的圆圈儿在他眼里旋转起来，房屋似乎在动，行人、沿河大街、马车——这一切都在四周旋转，跳起舞来。突然他颤抖了一下，也许是一个奇怪的、怪模怪样的幻象才使他没有再一次昏倒。他感觉到，有人站到了他身旁，就站在他右边，紧挨着他；他看了一眼——看到一个身材高高的妇女，头上包着头巾，椭圆形的脸又黄又瘦，深深凹陷下去的眼睛微微发红。她直瞅着他，但显然什么也没看见，也没看出有人站在那里。突然她用右手撑着栏杆，抬起右脚，跨过栅栏，然后又把左脚跨过去，纵身跳进运河。肮脏的河水向四面让开，转瞬间就吞没了这个牺牲品，但是一分钟后那个投水的女人又浮了上来，随着奔流的河水悄无声息地往下游漂去，头和脚都没入水中，背脊朝上，已经弄乱了的、鼓胀起来的裙子，像个枕头样露在水里。
“有个女人投河了！有个女人投河了！”几十个声音在喊；人们跑了过来，两岸都挤满了人，桥上，拉斯科利尼科夫周围聚集了一大群人，从后面推他，挤他。
“天哪，这是我们的阿芙罗西尼尤什卡呀！”不远的地方传来一个女人的哭喊声。“天哪，救命啊！好心的人们，把她拉上来呀！”
“船！弄条小船来！”人群中在喊。
但是船已经不需要了：一个警察顺着斜坡的台阶跑到河边，脱掉大衣和靴子，跳下水去。没费多大事：河水已经把溺水者冲到离斜坡只有两步远的地方，他用右手抓住她的衣服，左手抓住他的一个同事伸给他的长竿，投水的女人立刻给拉了上来。把她放到了斜坡的花岗石板上。她很快苏醒过来了，欠起身，坐起来，一连打了几个喷嚏，鼻子里呼哧呼哧地响，毫无意义地用双手在湿淋淋的裙子上乱擦了一阵。她什么话也不说。
“她醉得不省人事了，天哪，醉得不省人事了，”还是那个女人的声音哭着说，她已经站在阿芙罗西尼尤什卡身边了，“前两天她也想上吊来看，从绳子上把她给救下来了。这会儿我正上小铺里去买东西，留下个小姑娘看着她，——瞧，又出了这种罪过的事！是个普通平民，天哪，我们的一个普通老百姓，就住在附近，从边上数起第二所房子里，就在那儿……”
人们渐渐散了，两个警察还在照看着投水的女人，有人喊了一声，提到了警察局……拉斯科利尼科夫怀着一种奇怪的漠不关心的心情，冷漠地看着这一切。他感到厌恶了。“不，讨厌……水……不值得，”他喃喃地自言自语。“不会有任何结果，”他补上一句。“没什么好等了。这是什么，警察局……扎苗托夫为什么不在办公室？九点多办公室还在办公……”他转身背对着栏杆，朝四周看了看。
“那么怎么样呢！走吧！”他坚决地说，于是从桥上下来，往警察局那个方向走去。他的心空虚，麻木。他什么也不愿想。就连烦恼也消失了，刚刚他从家里出来，打算“结束一切！”的时候，曾经精力充沛，现在精力已经消失得无影无踪。
取而代之的是冷漠。
“有什么呢？这也是一条出路！”他在沿河大街上悄悄地、无精打采地走着，心里在想。“我还是要去结束掉，因为我希望结束……不过，这是出路吗？反正一样！一俄尺的空间是会有的，——嘿！不过，是个什么结局啊！难道是结局吗？我去告诉他们，还是不说呢？哎……见鬼！再说，我也累了：赶快在什么地方躺下，或者坐下吧！最丢人的是，太愚蠢了。对这我也不在乎。呸，有些多么愚蠢的想法钻进我脑子里来了……”
去警察局，得一直走，在第二个转弯处往左拐：离这儿只有几步路了。但是走到第一个转弯处，他站住了，想了想，拐进一条小胡同，绕道走，穿过两条衔，——也许是毫无目的，可也许是为了拖延时间，赢得时间，哪怕再拖延一分钟也好。他走路时，眼睛看着地下。突然仿佛有人对着他耳朵悄悄说了句什么。他抬起头来，看到自己正站在那幢房子前，就站在大门旁边。从那天晚上起他就再没来过这儿，也没经过这儿。
一种无法抗拒、也无法解释的愿望吸引了他。他走进那幢房子，穿过门洞，然后进了右手的第一个入口，顺着那道熟悉的楼梯上四楼去。又窄又陡的楼梯很暗。他在每一个楼梯平台上都站下来，好奇地往四下里看看。第一层楼的平台上，窗子上的窗框完全拆下来了。“那时还没拆掉”，他想。瞧，已经到了二楼尼科拉什卡和米季卡在那儿干活的那套房间：“门锁着；门重新油漆过了；这么说，要出租了。”瞧，这是三楼……这是四楼……“这儿！”他感到困惑不解：这套住房的门大敞着，里面有人，可以听到说话的声音；这他无论如何也没料到。稍犹豫了一会儿，他走上最后几级楼梯，走进屋里。
这套房子也重新装修过了；里面有几个工人；这似乎使他吃了一惊。不知为什么，他想象，他将要看到的一切都会和他离开时一模一样，也许，就连那两具尸体也仍然倒在那儿的地板上。而现在却是：空徒四壁，什么家具也没有；真有点儿奇怪！他走到窗前，坐到窗台上。
一共只有两个工人，两个都是年轻小伙子，一个年纪大些，另一个年轻得多。他们正在往墙上糊带淡紫色小花的白色新墙纸，以取代以前那些已经又旧又破的黄色墙纸。拉斯科利尼科夫不知为什么很不喜欢把墙纸换掉；他怀着敌意看着这些新墙纸，仿佛因为一切都变得面目全非而感到惋惜。
两个工人显然是耽误了些时间，现在正匆匆卷起墙纸，准备回家。拉斯科利尼科夫的出现几乎没引起他们的注意。他们正在谈论着什么。拉斯科利尼科夫双手交叉，坐在那儿侧耳倾听。
“她大清早就来找我，”那个年纪大些的对那个年轻的说，“一大早就来了，打扮得好漂亮啊。我说：‘你干吗在我面前装腔作势，’我说，‘你在我面前扭来扭去作什么？’‘我想，’她说，‘季特·瓦西利耶维奇，我希望从今以后完全听你的。’瞧，原来是这么回事！嘿，她打扮得那个漂亮啊：完全是时装杂志上的样子，简直就像杂志上的画片儿！”
“叔叔，这时装杂志是什么？”那个年轻的问。他显然是在向“叔叔”讨教。
“时装杂志嘛，这就是，我的老弟，这么一些图画，彩色的，每星期六都邮寄给这儿的裁缝，从外国寄来的，上面教人怎样穿才时髦，有男人的，同样也有女人的。就是说，是图画。男人多半画成穿着腰部打褶的大衣，女人嘛，老弟，那上面画的，都是给女人做衣服时做样子的，别提多好看了！”
“在这个彼得堡，什么东西没有啊！”那个年轻的心驰神往地高声叫嚷，“除了圣母，什么都有！”
“除了这，我的老弟，什么都有，”那个年纪大些的教导似地结束了这场谈话。
拉斯科利尼科夫站起来，往另一间屋里走去，从前，箱子、床和抽屉柜都摆在那间屋里；屋里没有家具了，他觉得这间房间非常小。墙纸还是原来的；墙角落里，墙纸上清晰地显示出原来供圣像的神龛的痕迹。他往四下里看了看，又回到窗前。年纪较大的工人斜着眼睛盯着他。
“您有什么事？”他突然问拉斯科利尼科夫。
拉斯科利尼科夫没有回答，却站起来，走进穿堂，拉了一下门铃。还是那个门铃，还是同样的白铁皮的响声！他又拉了一次，第三次；他留神听了听，记起了一切。他越来越清晰、越来越逼真地想起了从前那痛苦、可怕、说不清是一种什么感觉的心情，铃声每响一下，他就打一个寒颤，可是他却觉得越来越高兴了。
“您要干什么？您是什么人？”一个工人走到他跟前，大声问。拉斯科利尼科夫又走进房门。
“我想租房子，”他说，“来看看。”
“没有人夜里来租房子；再说，您该跟管院子的一道来。”
“地板冲洗过了；要油漆吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说。
“血没有了？”
“什么血？”
“老太婆和她妹妹都被人杀害了。这儿曾经有一大摊血。”
“你到底是什么人？”工人不安地大声问。
“我吗？”
“是的。”
“你想知道吗？……咱们到警察局去，我在那里告诉你。”
两个工人都莫明其妙地瞅了瞅他。
“我们该走了，已经迟了。咱们走，阿廖什卡。得把门锁上，”那个年纪较大的工人说。
“好，咱们走吧！”拉斯科利尼科夫漠然地回答，说罢最先走了出去，慢慢下楼去了。“喂，管院子的！”走到大门口，他喊了一声。
有好几个人站在房子的入口处，在看过路的行人；站在那儿的是两个管院子的，一个妇女，一个穿长袍的小市民，另外还有几个人。拉斯科利尼科夫径直朝他们走去。
“您有什么事？”两个管院子的当中有一个问。
“你到警察局去过吗？”
“刚刚去过。您有什么事？”
“那里有人吗？”
“有。”
“副局长也在那里？”
“那时候在。您有什么事？”
拉斯科利尼科夫没回答，站在他们旁边，陷入沉思。
“他来看房子，”那个年纪大一些的工人走近前来，说。
“什么房子？”
“就是我们在那里干活的那套房子。他说：‘为什么把血冲洗掉了？’他说：‘这里发生过凶杀案，可我来租这套房子。’还动手去拉门铃，差点儿没拉断了。他还说，‘咱们到警察局去，在那里我会把什么都说出来。’纠缠不休。”
管院子的皱起眉头，疑惑地上上下下打量拉斯科利尼科夫。
“您是什么人？”他语气更加严厉地问。
“我是罗季昂·罗曼内奇·拉斯科利尼科夫，以前是大学生，住在希利的房子里，就在这儿的一条小胡同里，离这儿不远，十四号房间。你去问问管院子的……他认识我。”拉斯科利尼科夫说话的时候，神情有点儿懒洋洋地，若有所思，他没有转过脸去，一直凝神注视着渐渐暗下来的街道。
“您为什么到那套房子里去？”
“去看看。”
“那里有什么好看的？”
“把他抓起来，送到警察局去吧？”那个小市民突然插进来说，可是马上就住了声。
拉斯科利尼科夫回头斜着眼睛瞅瞅他，把他细细打量了一下，还是那么轻轻地、懒洋洋地说：
“咱们走吧。”
“带他走！”小市民鼓起勇气接住话茬说。“他为什么老是想着那件事，是不是心里有鬼，啊？”
“他是不是喝醉了，只有上帝知道，”那个工人嘟嘟囔囔地说。
“您有什么事？”管院子的又高声叫嚷，他当真发火了。
“你干吗纠缠不休？”
“您怕去警察局？”拉斯科利尼科夫讥讽地对他说。
“怕什么？你干吗纠缠不休？”
“无赖！”那个女人喊了一声。
“跟他扯什么，”另一个管院子的大声囔，这是个身材魁梧的汉子，穿一件厚呢上衣，敞着怀，腰带上挂着一串钥匙。
“滚！……当真是个无赖……滚！”
他一把抓住拉斯科利尼科夫的肩膀，猛一下子把他推到了街上。拉斯科利尼科夫几乎跌了个倒栽葱，但是没有倒下去，他挺直了身子，默默地望了望那些看热闹的，于是往前走去。
“这人真怪，”那个工人说。
“如今人都变得古怪了，”那个女人说。
“还是该把他送到警察局去，”那个小市民加上一句。
“不用理他，”那个身材魁梧的管院子的人毅然决然地说。
“完全是个无赖！看得出来，他就是要找碴儿，你一理他，就摆脱不了了……我们知道这种人！”
“那么，去，还是不去？”拉斯科利尼科夫想，一边在十字路口马路当中站下来，朝四下里望望，仿佛在等待什么人说出最后一句具有决定意义的话。可是哪里都没有反应：一切都像他脚下的石头一样死气沉沉，寂静无声，只是对于他一个人来说，是死气沉沉的，只是对于他一个人……突然，远处人声嘈杂，离他二百步远，街道尽头，可以看到，在愈来愈浓的黑暗中有一群人，他听到了谈话声，呼喊声……人群中停着一辆马车……微弱的灯光在街道中闪闪烁烁。“这是怎么回事？”拉斯科利尼科夫往右一拐，朝人群那里走去。他仿佛要抓住一切可以利用的机会，想到这里，不禁冷笑一声，因为关于去警察局的事，大概已经作出了决定，他清醒地知道，一切立刻就要结束了。

第七章
An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle. . . . A mass of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and kept repeating:
"What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!"
Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured.
"Merciful heaven!" wailed the coachman, "what more could I do? If I'd been driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Everyone could see I was going along just like everybody else. A drunken man can't walk straight, we all know. . . . I saw him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy. . . . The horses are young and ready to take fright . . . they started, he screamed . . . that made them worse. That's how it happened!"
"That's just how it was," a voice in the crowd confirmed.
"He shouted, that's true, he shouted three times," another voice declared.
"Three times it was, we all heard it," shouted a third.
But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name.
Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man's face. He recognised him.
"I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing to the front. "It's a government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel's house. . . . Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?" He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in violent agitation.
The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at once.
"Just here, three houses away," he said eagerly, "the house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter. . . . It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay! At least he will be looked after at home . . . they will help him at once. But he'll die before you get him to the hospital." He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman's hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people volunteered to help.
Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov's head and showing the way.
"This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round! I'll pay, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered.
Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him --heels together and toes turned out.
He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever.
"You wouldn't believe, you can't imagine, Polenka," she said, walking about the room, "what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa's house and how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that everyone who came to see him said, 'We look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch, as our governor!' When I . . . when . . ." she coughed violently, "oh, cursed life," she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast, "when I . . . when at the last ball . . . at the marshal's . . . Princess Bezzemelny saw me--who gave me the blessing when your father and I were married, Polenka--she asked at once 'Isn't that the pretty girl who danced the shawl dance at the breaking-up?' (You must mend that tear, you must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or to-morrow--cough, cough, cough--he will make the hole bigger," she articulated with effort.) "Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from Petersburg then . . . he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him that my heart had long been another's. That other was your father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry. . . . Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the stockings! Lida," said she to the youngest one, "you must manage without your chemise to-night . . . and lay your stockings out with it . . . I'll wash them together. . . . How is it that drunken vagabond doesn't come in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish- clout, he has torn it to rags! I'd do it all together, so as not to have to work two nights running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What's this?" she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men, who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. "What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!"
"Where are we to put him?" asked the policeman, looking round when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in.
"On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way," Raskolnikov showed him.
"Run over in the road! Drunk!" someone shouted in the passage.
Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and clutched at her, trembling all over.
Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna.
"For God's sake be calm, don't be frightened!" he said, speaking quickly, "he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don't be frightened, he will come to, I told them bring him here . . . I've been here already, you remember? He will come to; I'll pay!"
"He's done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she rushed to her husband.
Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man's head a pillow, which no one had thought of and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her.
Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one.
"I've sent for a doctor," he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, "don't be uneasy, I'll pay. Haven't you water? . . . and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as you can. . . . He is injured, but not killed, believe me. . . . We shall see what the doctor says!"
Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, in readiness for washing her children's and husband's linen that night. This washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov's request, but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood off Marmeladov's face.
Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began to realise that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation.
"Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run to Sonia, make haste. If you don't find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and that she is to come here at once . . . when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on the shawl."
街道当中停着一辆十分考究、显然是老爷们坐的四轮马车，车上套着两匹灰色的烈马；车上没有乘客，车夫也已经从自己座位上下来，站在一旁；有人拉住马的笼头。四周挤了一大群人，站在最前面的是几个警察。其中一个警察提着盏点亮的提灯，弯着腰，用提灯照着马路上车轮旁边的什么东西。大家都在谈论，叫喊，叹息；车夫似乎感到困惑不解，不时重复说：
“真倒楣！上帝啊，真倒楣啊！”
拉斯科利尼科夫尽可能挤进人群，终于看到了那个引起骚乱和好奇的对象。地上躺着一个刚刚被马踩伤的人，看来已经失去知觉，那人穿得很差，但衣服却是“高贵的”，浑身是血。脸上、头上鲜血直淌；脸给踩坏了，皮肤撕破了，已经完全变了样，看得出来，踩得不轻。
“天哪！”车夫数数落落地哭着说，“这可叫人怎么提防啊！要是我把车赶得飞快，要么是没喊他，那还可以怪我，可是我赶得不慌不忙，不快不慢。大家都看到的：别人怎样赶，我也怎样赶。喝醉的人不能点蜡烛——这大家都知道！……我看到他穿马路的时候摇摇晃晃，差点儿没有跌倒，——我对他喊了一声，又喊了一声，再喊一声，还勒住了马；他却径直倒到了马蹄底下！是他故意的吗，要么是他已经喝得烂醉了……马还小，容易受惊，——它们猛一拉，他大喊一声——
它们更害怕了……这样一来，就闯了祸。”
“事情就是这样！”人群中有人高声作证。
“他是喊过，这是实话，向他喊了三次，”另一个声音响应。
“的确是喊了三次，大家都听到的，”第三个大声嚷。
不过车夫并不十分沮丧和惊恐。看得出来，马车属于一个有钱有势的主人，而他正在什么地方等着马车；警察当然要考虑到这个情况，设法顺利解决这次车祸。目前要做的是，把受伤的人送到警察分局，然后再送进医院去。谁也不知道他的名字。
这时拉斯科利尼科夫挤了进来，变下腰，凑得更近一些。
突然灯光照亮了这个不幸的人的脸；他认出了他。
“我认识他，我认识！”他完全挤上前去，高声大喊，“这是位官员，退职的，九等文官，马尔梅拉多夫！他就住在这儿附近，住在科泽尔的房子里……赶快去请医生！我付钱，这就是！”他从口袋里掏出钱来，给一个警察看。他异常激动不安。
有人认出了被踩伤的人，警察对此十分满意。拉斯科利尼科夫说出了自己的名字，把自己的地址告诉了他们，并且竭力劝说警察赶快把失去知觉的马尔梅拉多夫抬回家去，他那样尽心竭力，就像给踩伤的是他的亲爹一样。
“就在这儿，过去三幢房子，”他急急忙忙地说，“科泽尔的房子，一个很有钱的德国人的房子……刚刚他大概是喝醉了，要回家去。我认识他……他是个酒鬼……他的家就在那里，有妻子，几个孩子，还有个女儿。一时半会儿还送不进医院，可这儿，这幢房子里大概有个医生！我付钱，我付钱！……到底有自己人照料，马上就会进行急救，不然，不等送到医院，他就会死了……”
他甚至已经不让人看到，悄悄地把钱塞到警察手里；其实事情很明显，这样做是合情合理的，无论如何可以就近采取措施，进行急救。把受伤的人抬起来，抬走了；有人自愿帮忙。科泽尔的房子离这儿只有三十来步远。拉斯科利尼科夫跟在后面，小心翼翼地扶着他的头，给人们指路。
“这边。往这边走！上楼梯的时候得头朝上抬着；转弯……
对了！我付钱，我谢谢大家，”他含糊不清地说。
卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跟往常一样，一空下来，立刻双臂交叉紧紧抱在胸前，在自己那间小屋里踱来踱去，从窗前走到炉子前，然后再走回去，自言自语，不断地咳嗽。最近她越来越经常和自己的大女儿、十岁的波莲卡谈话，说得越来越多，尽管有很多事情波莲卡还听不懂，可是她倒很懂得母亲需要什么，因此总是用自己那双聪明的大眼睛注视着母亲，竭力装作什么都懂的样子。这一次波莲卡正在给一整天都觉得不舒服的小弟弟脱衣服，让他躺下睡觉。小男孩等着给他换衬衣，换下来的衬衣要在夜里洗掉，他默默地坐在椅子上，神情严肃，一动不动地伸直两条小腿，脚后跟紧紧并拢，脚尖往两边分开。他在听妈妈和姐姐说话儿，撅着小嘴，瞪着眼睛，一动不动，完全像一个乖孩子临睡前坐着让人给脱衣服时通常应有的样子。一个比他还小的小姑娘，穿得完全破破烂烂，正站在屏风旁，等着给她脱衣服。通楼梯的房门开着，这样可以多少吹散从别的房间里像波浪般涌来的烟草的烟雾，烟味呛得那个可怜的、害肺病的女人不停地咳嗽，咳得很久很久，痛苦不堪。这一个星期以来，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜似乎变得更瘦，双颊上的红晕也比以前更鲜艳了。
“你不会相信，你也无法想象，波莲卡，”她一边在屋里走，一边说，“在我爸爸家里的时候，我们过的是多么快乐、多么阔绰的生活，这个酒鬼害得我好苦，也害了你们大家！我爸爸是位五等文官①，已经差不多是省长了；他只差一步就可以当省长了，所以大家都来拜访他，说：‘伊万·米哈依洛维奇，我们已经把您看作是我们的省长了。’当我……咳，咳！当我……咳——咳——咳……噢，该死的生活！”她大声叫喊，双手抓住胸口，想把痰吐出来，“当我，……唉，在最后一次舞会上……在首席贵族的官邸里……别兹泽梅利娜娅公爵夫人看到了我，——后来，我嫁给你爸爸的时候，波莉娅，公爵夫人曾为我祝福，——立刻就问：‘这是不是在毕业典礼上跳披巾舞的那个可爱的姑娘？’……（破了的地方得缝起来；你去拿针来，照我教你的那样，这就把它补好，要不，明天……咳！明天……咳——咳——咳！……会破得更大！”她拼命用力喊出来）……“那时候宫廷侍从谢戈利斯基公爵刚从彼得堡来，……跟我跳了马祖卡舞，第二天就想来向我求婚：可是我婉言谢绝了，说，我的心早已属于别人。这个别人就是你的父亲，波莉娅；我爸爸非常生气，……水准备好了吗？好，把衬衫拿来；袜子呢？……莉达，”她对小女儿说，“这一夜你就不穿衬衣睡吧；随便睡一夜……把袜子也放到旁边……一道洗……这个流浪汉怎么还不回来，醉鬼！他把衬衫都穿得像块抹布了，全撕破了……最好一道洗掉，省得一连两夜都得受罪！上帝呀！咳——咳——咳——咳！又咳了！这是怎么回事！”她大声叫喊，朝站在穿堂里的人群望了望，望了望不知抬着什么挤进她屋里来的那些人。“这是什么？抬的是什么？上帝呀！”
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①五等文官可以作副省长。
“放到哪儿？”把浑身血污、失去知觉的马尔梅拉多夫抬进屋里以后，一个警察问，说着朝四下里看了看。
“放到沙发上！就放到沙发上，头放在这儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫指指沙发。
“在街上给轧伤了！醉鬼！”穿堂里有人叫喊。
卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜站在那里，脸色煞白，呼吸困难。孩子们都吓坏了。小莉多奇卡大喊一声，扑到波莲卡身上，抱住她，浑身索索发抖。
把马尔梅拉多夫放到沙发上以后，拉斯科利尼科夫跑到卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跟前：
“看在上帝份上，请您放心，不要惊慌！”他说得又急又快，“他穿马路，让马车轧伤了，您别着急，他会醒过来的，我叫他们抬到这儿来……我来过你们家，您记得吗……他会醒过来的，我付钱！”
“他达到目的了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜绝望地大喊一声，扑到丈夫身边。
拉斯科利尼科夫很快就发觉，这个女人不是那种会立刻昏倒的女人。一转眼的工夫，这个惨遭不幸的人头底下就出现了一个枕头——这是无论谁还都没想到的；卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜动手给他脱掉外衣，察看伤口，忙碌着，并没有惊慌失措，她忘记了自己，咬紧发抖的嘴唇，压制着就要从胸中冲出来的叫喊。
这时拉斯科利尼科夫劝说一个人赶快去请医生。原来医生就住在附近，只隔着一幢房子。
“我叫人请医生去了，”他对卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜反复说，“请别着急，我来付钱。有水吗？……给我条餐巾，毛巾也行，随便什么都行，快点儿；还不知道他伤势怎么样……他只是受了伤，没有被轧死，请您相信……看医主会怎么说吧！”
卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跑到窗前；那里，墙角落里一把压坏的椅子上有一大瓦盆水，是准备夜里给孩子们和丈夫洗衣服的。夜里洗衣服，都是卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜亲自动手，至少一星期洗两次，有时洗得更勤，因为已经弄到这种地步，换洗的内衣已经几乎根本没有了，全家每人只有一件内衣，而对于不干净，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜却是无法容忍的。她宁愿等大家都睡了以后，自己来干这件力不胜任的活儿，累得要死，为的是到早晨能在拉在屋里的绳上把湿内衣晾干，让大家都穿上干净内衣，而不愿看到家里脏得要命。她应拉斯科利尼科夫的要求，端起那盆水，想要端过来递给他，可是差点儿没有连盆一起摔倒。不过拉斯科利尼科夫已经找到一条毛巾，用水把它浸湿，动手给马尔梅拉多夫擦净血迹斑斑的脸。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜站在那儿，痛苦地喘着气，双手紧紧捂着胸口。她自己也需要救护了。拉斯科利尼科夫开始明白，他劝人们把受伤的人抬到这儿来，也许做得并不好。
那个警察也困惑地站着。
“波莉娅！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜喊了一声，“快跑去找索尼娅。要是她不在家，反正一样，你就对邻居说，父亲叫马给踩伤了，叫她立刻到这儿来……一回家就来。快点儿，波莉娅！给，包上头巾！”
“拼命跑！”小男孩突然从椅子上喊了一声，说罢又恢复了原来的姿势，笔直地坐在椅子上，一声不响，瞪着眼睛，脚后跟并拢①，脚尖朝两边分开。
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①原文是“脚后跟朝前”。但前面曾说，他是并拢脚后跟。并拢脚后跟似乎比较合理。
这时屋里挤满了人，真的是连针都插不进去。警察都走了，只有一个暂时还留在那儿，竭力把从楼梯上挤进来的人又赶回到楼梯上去。可是利佩韦赫泽尔太太的所有房客几乎都从里屋里跑了出来，起初还只是挤在门口，后来却成群地涌进屋里来。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜气坏了。
“至少得让人安安静静地死吧！”她对着那群人叫喊，“你们倒有戏看了！还叼着香烟呢！咳——咳——咳！请再戴着帽子进来吧！……还真有个人戴着帽子呢……出去！至少也该尊敬死人的遗体啊！”
"Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread out.
Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn't have dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lippevechsel's lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a fury.
"You might let him die in peace, at least," she shouted at the crowd, "is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well keep your hats on. . . . And there is one in his hat! . . . Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!"
Her cough choked her--but her reproaches were not without result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and compassion.
Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying that they'd no business to make a disturbance here.
"No business to die!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German.
"Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands, "your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!"
"Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying," Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might "remember her place" and even now could not deny herself this satisfaction). "Amalia Ludwigovna . . ."
"I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna."
"You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's laughing behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of 'they are at it again' was in fact audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall be informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew me as a girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often been a benefactor to him. Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and protectors, whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pride, knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna . . ."
All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes.
"My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding," she said in despair. "We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can," she cried to him.
Marmeladov recognised her.
"A priest," he articulated huskily.
Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame and exclaimed in despair:
"Oh, cursed life!"
"A priest," the dying man said again after a moment's silence.
"They've gone for him," Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, he obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier but not for long.
Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes.
"A-ah," he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something.
"What now?" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
"Barefoot, barefoot!" he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet.
"Be silent," Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, "you know why she is barefooted."
"Thank God, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved.
The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man's chest. It was gashed, crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking yellowish-black bruise--a cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road.
"It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness," the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov.
"What do you think of him?" he asked.
"He will die immediately."
"Is there really no hope?"
"Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp. . . . His head is badly injured, too . . . Hm . . . I could bleed him if you like, but . . . it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes."
"Better bleed him then."
"If you like. . . . But I warn you it will be perfectly useless."
At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained.
All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy's shirt, and managed to cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene.
At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said, "She's coming, I met her in the street." Her mother made her kneel beside her.
Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death and despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door.
The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving.
"What am I to do with these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones.
"God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour," the priest began.
"Ach! He is merciful, but not to us."
"That's a sin, a sin, madam," observed the priest, shaking his head.
"And isn't that a sin?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man.
"Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings."
"You don't understand!" cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand. "And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he's dying! One less to keep!"
咳嗽憋得她喘不过气来，不过她的叫喊倒发生了作用。显然，他们对卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜甚至有点儿害怕了；那些房客都怀着一种打心眼儿里感到满意的奇怪心情，一个跟一个地挤回门口去了；有人突然遇到不幸的时候，就是在他最亲近的亲人中，也毫无例外地会发觉这种奇怪的心情，尽管他们对亲人的不幸真心实意地感到惋惜，并深表同情。
不过从门外传来的谈话声中提到了医院，还说，不该把这儿搅得不得安宁，完全无此必要。
“不该让人死！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜高声叫嚷，已经跑过去，打开房门，想要把他们痛骂一顿，却在门口撞到了利佩韦赫泽尔太太，她刚刚听说这件不幸的事，立刻跑来整顿秩序。这是一个非常喜欢吵架、最会胡搅蛮缠的德国女人。
“哎呀，我的天哪！”她双手一拍，“您的酒鬼丈夫叫马给踩死了。应该把他送到医院去。我是房东！”
“阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜！请您回想一下您说的活，”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜高傲地说（她和女房东说话，总是用高傲的语气，好让她“记住自己的地位”，就连现在也不能放弃让自己得到这种快乐的机会），“阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜……”
“我一劳容易（永逸）地告诉您，您永远别敢再叫我阿玛莉·柳德维戈芙娜了，我是阿玛莉—伊万！”
“您不是阿玛莉—伊万，而是阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜，因为我不是您那些下流无耻、惯于拍马逢迎的人，我可不是像列别贾特尼科夫先生那样的人，瞧，现在他正在门外笑呢（门外真的传来了笑声和叫喊声：‘吵起来了！’），所以我要永远管您叫阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜，虽说我根本弄不懂，您为什么不喜欢这个名字。您自己看到了，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇出了什么事；他快死了。请您立刻把这道门关上，别让任何人到这里来。至少也要让人安安静静地死！不然的话，请您相信，明天总督大人就会知道您的行为。还在我作姑娘的时候，公爵大人就认识我，而且对谢苗·扎哈罗维奇印象很深，还帮过他好多次忙呢。大家都知道，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇有很多朋友和靠山，不过因为他觉得自己有这个倒楣的弱点，出于高尚的自尊心，自己不再去找他们了，可是现在（她指指拉斯科利尼科夫）有一位慷慨的年轻人在帮助我们，他有钱，而且交际很广，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇从小就认识他，请您相信，阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜……”
这些话都说得非常快，而且越说越快，但是一阵咳嗽一下子打断了卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜动人的雄辩。这时那个快要咽气的人醒过来了，呻吟起来，她赶紧跑到了他的身边。受伤的人睁开眼睛，还没认出、也不明白，弯着腰站在他面前的是什么人，于是仔细瞅着拉斯科利尼科夫。他呼吸困难，深深地吸气，间隔很长时间；嘴角上流出鲜血；前额上冒出冷汗。他没认出拉斯科利尼科夫，眼珠不安地转动起来。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜看着他，目光悲哀而严厉，泪珠止不住从眼里流淌出来。
“我的天哪！他的整个胸膛全都给轧伤了！血，血！”她绝望地说。“得把他上身的内衣全脱下来！你稍微侧转身去，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇，如果你还能动的话，”她对他大声喊。
马尔梅拉多夫认出了她。
“叫神甫来！”他声音嘶哑地说。
卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜走到窗前，前额靠在窗框上，绝望地高声大喊：
“噢，该死的生活！”
“叫神甫来！”沉默了一会儿以后，快咽气的人又说。
“去——了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜对着他大声喊；他听了她的叫喊，不作声了。他用怯生生而又忧郁的目光寻找她；她又回到他跟前来，站在床头旁，他稍微安静了些，可是时间不长。不久他的眼睛停留在小莉多奇卡（他最宠爱的小女儿）身上，她躲在墙角落里，像发病一样，浑身簌簌发抖，用她那孩子式的惊讶的目光凝神注视着他。
“啊……啊……”他焦急地指指她。他想要说什么。
“还想说什么？”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜高声叫喊。
“她光着脚！脚光着呢！”他含糊不清地说，同时用好似疯人的目光望着小姑娘光着的小脚。
“别—说—了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜气愤地叫喊，“你自己知道，她的脚为什么光着！”
“谢天谢地，医生来了！”高兴起来的拉斯科利尼科夫高声说。
医生进来了，是个衣着整洁的小老头儿，德国人，他带着怀疑的神情朝四下里望了望，走到受伤的人跟前，按了按脉，又仔细摸摸他的头，在卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜的帮助下，解开浸透鲜血的衬衣，让受伤的人胸部裸露出来。整个胸部全都血肉模糊，没有一点完好的地方；右侧的几根肋骨断了。左侧，正好在心脏的部位，有老大一块最让人担心的、黑中透黄的伤痕，这是马蹄猛踩下去造成的重伤。医生皱起眉头。那个警察对他说，被轧伤的人给卷到了车轮底下，在马路上滚动着，给拖了三十来步远。
“奇怪，他怎么还会醒过来呢，”医生悄悄地对拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“您说什么？”后者问。
“这就要死了。”
“难道没有任何希望了？”
“一点儿也没有！只剩最后一口气了……况且头部伤势那么重……嗯哼。也许可以放血……不过……这也没有用。五分钟或者十分钟以后，必死无疑。”
“那么您最好还是给放血吧！”
“好吧……不过我预先告诉您，这完全无济于事。”
这时又听到一阵脚步声，穿堂里的人群让开了，一个头发斑白的小老头儿——拿着圣餐①的神甫出现在门口。还在街上的时候，警察就去请他了。医生立刻把座位让给他，并且意味深长地和他交换了一下眼色。拉斯科利尼科夫请求医生至少再稍等一会儿。医生耸耸肩，留了下来。
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①面包和葡萄酒，象征耶稣的肉体和血液。
大家都往后退开了。忏悔持续的时间很短。就要咽气的人未必十分清楚这是在做什么；他只能发出一些断断续续、含糊不清的声音。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜抱起莉多奇卡，把小男孩从椅子上拉下来，走到墙角落里，炉子跟前，跪下来，让两个孩子跪在她前面。小姑娘只是簌簌地发抖，小男孩却用裸露着的膝盖跪在地下，不慌不忙地抬起一只小手，从肩到腰画着十字，磕头时前额都碰到地上，看来，这使他得到某种特殊的乐趣。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜咬住嘴唇，强忍着眼泪；她也在祈祷，偶尔拉拉孩子身上的衬衫，把它拉正，一边仍然跪着祈祷，一边从抽屉柜上拿过一块三角头巾，披到小姑娘裸露得太多的肩膀上。这时里屋的房门又被那些好奇的人打开了。穿堂里看热闹的人越来越拥挤，这幢楼上的房客全都挤在那里，不过他们都没有跨进这间房子的门坎。只有一段蜡烛头照耀着这个场面。
这时跑去叫姐姐的波莲卡穿过人群，从穿堂里迅速挤了进来。她进来了，由于急急奔跑，还在气喘吁吁，她摘下头巾，用眼睛寻找母亲，走到她跟前说：“姐姐来了！在街上遇到了她！”母亲让她也跪在自己身边。一个姑娘悄无声息、怯生生地从人群中挤了过来，她突然出现在这间屋里，出现在贫困、破衣烂衫、死亡和绝望之中，让人感到奇怪。她穿的也是褴褛的衣服；她的衣服都很便宜，不过像街头妓女那样打扮得颇为入时，合乎在她们那个特殊社会里形成的趣味和规矩，而且带有明显、可耻的露骨的目的。索尼娅在穿堂门口站住了，没有跨进门坎，好像不好意思地看着屋里，似乎什么也没看明白，而且忘记了她穿的那件几经转手倒卖、她才买到手、可是在这里却有伤大雅的彩色绸衣，绸衣后面的下摆长得出奇，让人觉得好笑，忘记了那条十分宽大、堵住了房门的钟式裙，忘记了脚上的那双浅色皮鞋，忘记了夜里并不需要、可她还是带着的那把奥姆布列尔①，也忘记了那顶插着根鲜艳的火红色羽毛、滑稽可笑的圆草帽。从这顶轻浮地歪戴着的帽子底下露出一张瘦削、苍白、惊恐的小脸，嘴张着，两只眼睛吓得呆呆地一动不动。索尼娅个子不高，有十七、八岁了，人很瘦，不过是个相当好看的淡黄色头发的姑娘，有一双十分漂亮的淡蓝色眼睛。她凝神注视着床，注视着神甫；由于赶了一阵路，她也气喘吁吁的。最后，人群中一阵窃窃私语以及有人说的几句话，大概都飞进了她的耳朵里。她低下头，一步跨过门坎，到了屋里，不过仍然站在门口。
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①法文ombrelle，“小伞”之意。
忏悔和授圣餐的仪式都结束了。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜又走到丈夫床前。神甫后退几步，走的时候对卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜说了几句临别赠言和安慰她的话。
“叫我怎么安置这些孩子呢？”她指着孩子们，很不客气而又气愤地打断了他。
“上帝是仁慈的；信赖至高无上的上帝的帮助吧，”神甫说。
“哼！仁慈的，可是不管我们！”
“这是罪过，罪过，夫人，”神甫摇着头说。
“可这不是罪过吗？”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜指着奄奄一息的丈夫，高声叫喊。
“也许，那些无意中给你们造成不幸的人同意给予补偿，至少会赔偿你们失去的收入……”
“您不理解我的意思！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜挥了挥手，愤怒地叫嚷。“为什么赔偿？因为是他，这个醉鬼，自己钻到马蹄底下去的！什么收入？他没有收入，只有痛苦。因为他，这个酒鬼，把什么都喝光了。他经常偷走我们的东西，拿到小酒馆去，把自己的一生，还有我的一生，全都在小酒馆里毁掉了！他要死了，真是谢天谢地！损失会少些了！”
“临终的时刻应当宽恕，这却是罪过，夫人，这样的感情是极大的罪过！”
卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜在受伤的丈夫身边忙乱地照料他，给他喝水，擦掉他头上的汗和血，摆正枕头，虽然忙个不停，有时还抽空转过脸去，和神甫说几句话。现在她却几乎是发疯似地突然向神甫扑来。
“唉，神甫！空话，这只不过是些空话！宽恕！要是他没给轧着，今天又是喝得醉醺醺的回来，他身上只有一件衬衣，已经穿得又旧又破，他倒可以倒头就睡，我却得直到天亮洗个不停，洗他的破衣烂衫，洗孩子们的衣服，然后在窗外晾干，天蒙蒙亮，我还得坐下来缝缝补补，——这就是我的一夜！……为什么还要宽恕呢？我本来就已经宽恕了！”
一阵从胸膛里咳出来的、可怕的咳嗽打断她的话。她咳出一口痰来，吐在手绢儿上，拿给神甫看，同时痛苦地用另一只手紧紧按着胸口。手绢儿上全都是血……
"You must forgive in the hour of death, that's a sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin."
Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him almost in a frenzy.
"Ah, father! That's words and only words! Forgive! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he'd have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children's and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I should have been darning them. That's how I spend my nights! . . . What's the use of talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!"
A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing.
Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him:
"Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!" And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia.
Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a corner.
"Who's that? Who's that?" he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing, and trying to sit up.
"Lie down! Lie do-own!" cried Katerina Ivanovna.
With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering.
"Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without moving. He died in her arms.
"He's got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband's dead body. "Well, what's to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can I give them to-morrow to eat?"
Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna.
"Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your husband told me all his life and circumstances. . . . Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends. . . . Allow me now . . . to do something . . . to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I think--and if that can be of any assistance to you, then . . . I . . . in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again . . . I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow. . . . Good-bye!"
And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly.
"Ah, is that you?" he asked him.
"He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have been, all as it should have been. Don't worry the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible . . . you are a kind-hearted man, I know . . ." he added with a smile, looking straight in his face.
"But you are spattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.
"Yes . . . I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.
He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling "Wait! wait!"
He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child's thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give.
"Tell me, what is your name? . . . and where do you live?" she said hurriedly in a breathless voice.
He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not have said why.
"Who sent you?"
"Sister Sonia sent me," answered the girl, smiling still more brightly.
"I knew it was sister Sonia sent you."
"Mamma sent me, too . . . when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up, too, and said 'Run fast, Polenka.'"
"Do you love sister Sonia?"
"I love her more than anyone," Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver.
"And will you love me?"
By way of answer he saw the little girl's face approaching him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him.
"I am sorry for father," she said a moment later, raising her tear- stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. "It's nothing but misfortunes now," she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people.
"Did your father love you?"
"He loved Lida most," she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like grown-up people, "he loved her because she is little and because she is ill, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture, too," she added with dignity. "And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French, for it's time my education began."
"And do you know your prayers?"
"Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the 'Ave Maria' and then another prayer: 'Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonia,' and then another, 'Lord, forgive and bless our second father.' For our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do pray for the other as well."
"Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. 'And Thy servant Rodion,' nothing more."
"I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more.
Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in.
"Enough," he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. "I've done with fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven't I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her--and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for the reign of reason and light . . . and of will, and of strength . . . and now we will see! We will try our strength!" he added defiantly, as though challenging some power of darkness. "And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space!
"I am very weak at this moment, but . . . I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov's house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were not close by . . . let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction, too--no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength--that's what they don't know," he added proudly and self-confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every moment. What was it had happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, 'could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old woman.' Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of that.
"But I did ask her to remember 'Thy servant Rodion' in her prayers," the idea struck him. "Well, that was . . . in case of emergency," he added and laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits.
He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at Potchinkov's and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin's room was fairly large; the company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the landlady's servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up from the landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it.
神甫低下头，什么话也没说。
马尔梅拉多夫已经在咽最后一口气了；他目不转睛地瞅着又俯身看着他的卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜的脸。他一直想要对她说句什么话；他努力转动着舌头，含糊不清地说出几个字来，但是卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜懂得他是请求她宽恕，立刻用命令的口吻对他大声喊道：
“别——说——话！用不着！……我知道你想说的是什么！”受伤的人不作声了；但这时他那毫无目的东张西望的目光落到了门上，他看到了索尼娅……
“这是谁？这是谁？”他突然声音嘶哑、上气不接下气地说，神色惊慌不安，眼睛恐惧地望着门口，女儿就站在那里，他竭力想欠起身来。
“躺下！躺一下！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜大声喊。
可是他以不寻常的力量用一只手撑着身子。他古怪地、一动不动呆呆地望着女儿，看了好一会工夫，好像没认出她来。他还连一次也没看到她穿着这样的衣服。突然他认出了她，认出了这个受尽侮辱、悲痛万分、打扮得十分漂亮、却羞愧得无地自容的女儿，她正温顺地等着轮到自己和垂死的父亲诀别。她的脸上露出无限痛苦的神情。
“索尼娅！女儿！原谅我！”他大声喊，想要把手伸给她，可是失去了支撑点，咕咚一声从沙发上摔下去，脸朝下跌到了地上；大家赶紧跑过去把他抬起来，放到沙发上，可是他已经气息奄奄，与这个世界告别了。索尼娅有气无力地喊了一声，跑上前去，抱住了他，就这样抱着他一动不动。他死在了她的怀里。
“他达到目的了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜看到丈夫的尸体，大声说，“唉，现在怎么办呢？我拿什么来安葬他！拿什么，明天拿什么来给他们吃啊？”
拉斯科利尼科夫走到卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跟前。
“卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，”他对她说，“上星期，您这位现在已经去世的丈夫把他的生活状况和所有情况全都告诉了我……请您相信，他谈到您的时候，怀着十分热烈的感情和敬意。在那天晚上我知道了他对你们大家是多么忠诚，而对您，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，他更是特别尊敬，特别爱您，尽管他有这个不幸的嗜好，从那天晚上起，我们就成了朋友……现在请允许我……聊尽绵薄……作为对我亡友的一点心意。这里是……二十卢布，似乎，——如果这能对你们多少有点儿帮助，那么……我……总之我还会来的，——我一定来……我说不定明天就来……再见！”
他迅速走出屋去，赶快挤出人丛，来到了楼梯上；但在人丛中突然碰到了尼科季姆·福米奇，他得知发生了不幸的事，想来亲自处理。从在办公室里发生了那件事情以后，他们还没见过面，可是尼科季姆·福米奇立刻认出了他。
“啊，是您吗？”他问拉斯科利尼科夫。
“他死了，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。“医生来过，神甫也来过了，一切都办妥了。请别过分惊动那个可怜的女人了，她本来就有肺病。请设法让她振作起来，如果您做得到的话……因为您是个好心人，我是知道的……”他直瞅着他的眼睛，冷笑着补上一句。
“可是您身上怎么沾上了血迹，”尼科季姆·福米奇说，在灯光下，他看到拉斯科利尼科夫的坎肩上有好几块鲜红的血迹。
“是啊，沾上了血……我浑身是血！”拉斯科利尼科夫说，他的神态有些特别，说罢微微一笑，点了点头，就下楼去了。
他轻轻地走下楼去，不慌不忙，身上在发烧，但是他并没意识到；他心里充满了一种从未体验过的感觉，仿佛突然涌来一股无限强大的生命力，心里已经无法容纳了。这就像一个被判处死刑的人出乎意外地突然获得赦免时的感觉一样。下楼下了一半的时候，回家去的神甫赶上了他；拉斯科利尼科夫默默地让神甫走到前面去，默默地和他互相点头致意。但是已经在下最后几磴楼梯的时候，他突然听到身后有匆匆的脚步声。有人在追赶他。这是波莲卡；她跑着来追他，还在喊他：“喂！喂！”
他朝她转过身来。她跑下最后一道楼梯，在他跟前站住了，站在比他高一磴的楼梯上。暗淡的灯光从院子里照到这里。拉斯科利尼科夫看清了小姑娘瘦削然而可爱的小脸，这小脸向他微笑着，带着小孩子特有的愉快神情瞅着他。她跑来是负有使命的，看来，她自己也很喜欢完成这项使命。
“喂，您叫什么？……还有，您住在哪儿？”她匆忙地问，还在气喘吁吁的。
他把双手放在她的肩上，面带幸福的神情瞅着她。他看着她，觉得那么高兴，——他自己也不知是为什么。
“谁叫您来的？”
“索尼娅姐姐叫我来的，”小姑娘回答，笑得更愉快了。
“我就知道，是索尼娅姐姐叫您来的。”
“妈妈也叫我来。索尼娅姐姐叫我来的时候，妈妈也走过来，说：“快跑，波莲卡！”
“您喜欢索尼娅姐姐吗？”
“我最喜欢的就是她！”波莲卡语气特别坚定地说，她的笑容突然变得严肃了。
“您会喜欢我吗？”
他没有听到回答，却看到小姑娘的小脸向他凑了过来，她那丰满的小嘴唇天真地伸过来，要来吻他。突然，她那瘦得像火柴棒样的两条胳膊紧紧搂住了他，头靠到他的肩上，小姑娘轻轻地哭了，脸越来越紧地贴在他的身上。
“我可怜爸爸！”稍过了一会儿，她说，同时抬起挂满泪珠的小脸，用双手擦去眼泪，“现在老是发生这种不幸的事，”她突然又加上一句，神情特别庄重，每当小孩子突然想要像“大人”那样说话的时候，总是竭力装出一副这样的神情。
“爸爸喜欢您吗？”
“他最喜欢莉多奇卡，”她十分严肃地接着说，一点儿也不笑，已经完全是像大人那样说话了，“他喜欢她，是因为她小，还因为她有病，总是给她带糖果来，他教我们念书，教过我语法和神学，”她庄重地补充说，“妈妈什么也没说，不过我们知道，她喜欢他教我们，爸爸也知道她喜欢，可妈妈想让他教我学法语，因为我已经该受教育了。”
“您会祈祷吗？”
“噢，那还用说，我们都会！早就会了；因为我已经大了，经常自己默默地祈祷，科利亚和莉多奇卡跟妈妈一起大声祈祷；先念‘圣母’，接着祷告：‘上帝啊，求你宽恕索尼娅姐姐，保佑她’，接下来还有：‘上帝啊，求你宽恕和保佑我们的那一个爸爸’，因为我们从前的那个爸爸死了，这一个，是我们的另一个爸爸，我们也为那个爸爸祈祷。”
“波莲卡，我叫罗季昂；以后什么时候请您也为我祈祷：
‘还有你的仆人罗季昂’——旁的什么也不用说。”
“今后我一辈子都为您祈祷，”小姑娘热情地说，突然又笑起来，扑到他身上，又紧紧抱住了他。
拉斯科利尼科夫把自己的名字和地址都告诉了她，答应明天一定来。由于他对她这么好，小姑娘十分高兴地走了。他来到街上的时候，已经十点多了。五分钟后他站在桥上，正好又站在不久前那个女人投河的地方。
“够了！”他毅然决然、十分激动地说，“滚开吧，幻影，滚开吧，心造的恐惧，滚开吧，幽灵！……生活是存在的！难道我现在不是在活着吗？我的生活还没有和老太婆一同死去！愿她在天国安息，——够了，老大娘，该安息了！现在是理智和光明的世界……也是意志和力量统治一切的时代……现在咱们瞧吧！现在咱们来较量较量吧！”他傲慢地加上一句，仿佛是对着某种黑暗的力量说话，向它提出挑战。“而我已经同意在一俄尺见方的空间生活了！”
“……这时我很虚弱，不过……好像病全好了。不久前我出来的时候就知道病会好的。真巧，波钦科夫的房子离这儿只有几步路。即使不只几步路，我也一定要去找拉祖米欣……这次打的赌就让他赢了吧！……让他也开开心，——没关系，让他开心好了！……力量，需要力量：没有力量，什么也得不到；而力量得用力量来获得，这一点他们可不知道，”他自豪而又自信地补上一句，勉强拖着两条腿走下桥去。他心中的自豪和自信每分钟都在增长；又过了一分钟，他已经变成和以前完全不同的另一个人。然而究竟出了什么特殊的事情，是什么使他发生了这么大的变化？连他自己也不知道；他似乎抓住了一根稻草，突然觉得，他“还能活下去，生活还是存在的，他的生活并没有和老太婆一同死去”。也许他得出这一结论未免过于匆忙了，然而这一点他没有想到。
“可是我曾请求她也为仆人罗季昂祈祷，”这个想法突然在他脑子里一闪而过，“啊，这是……以防万一！”他补充说，又立刻感到自己的行为幼稚，于是笑了起来，他的心情异常好。
他很容易就找到了拉祖米欣的住处；波钦科夫的房子里，大家已经知道这位新房客了，管院子的立刻告诉他该怎么走。才上了一半楼梯，就能听到一大群人吵吵嚷嚷和很热闹的谈话声音了。冲着楼梯的房门大敞着；可以听到一阵阵叫喊和争论的声音。拉祖米欣的房间相当大，有十五个人聚集在那里。拉斯科利尼科夫在前室里站住了。这儿，隔板后面，房东的两个女仆正在生两个大茶炊，在一瓶瓶的酒以及大大小小盛着馅饼和下酒菜的盘子、碟子旁边忙碌着，这些东西都是从房东的厨房里拿来的。拉斯科利尼科夫派她们去叫拉祖米欣。拉祖米欣兴高采烈地跑了出来。一眼就可以看出，他已经喝得很多了，尽管拉祖米欣几乎从来不会喝得酩酊大醉，但是这一次却可以看出，他已有几分醉意。
“你听我说，”拉斯科利尼科夫连忙说，“我来，只是为了向你说一声，这次打赌你赢了，当真是谁也不知道他会发生什么事。我不能进去了：我这么虚弱，马上就会跌倒的。因此，我要说声：你好，再见了！明天你去我那里……”
“你听我说，我送你回家去！既然你自己说，你很虚弱……”
“客人们呢？刚刚朝这儿张望的那个头发鬈曲的人是谁？”
“这一个吗？鬼知道他是谁！大概是舅舅的熟人，可也许是自己来的……我让舅舅招待他们；他是个非常可爱的人；可惜你不能这就跟他认识一下了。不过，去他们的！现在他们哪里还会想到我啊，再说我也需要出去透透气，所以，老兄，你来得正好；再过两分钟，我就要跟人打架了，真的！突然胡说八道起来……你无法想象，人竟会这样胡言乱语！不过，怎么会想象不到呢？难道我们自己不胡扯吗？唉，让他们胡扯去吧：现在扯过了，以后就不扯了……你稍坐一下，我去把佐西莫夫叫出来。”
佐西莫夫甚至是迫不及待地向拉斯科利尼科夫跑了过来；可以看出，他怀有某种特殊的好奇心；不久他脸上的神情就变得开朗了。
"Listen," Raskolnikov hastened to say, "I've only just come to tell you you've won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to him. I can't come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so good evening and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow."
"Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak yourself, you must . . ."
"And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out?"
"He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle's, I expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited . . . I'll leave uncle with them, he is an invaluable person, pity I can't introduce you to him now. But confound them all now! They won't notice me, and I need a little fresh air, for you've come just in the nick of time--another two minutes and I should have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff . . . you simply can't imagine what men will say! Though why shouldn't you imagine? Don't we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them . . . that's the way to learn not to! . . . Wait a minute, I'll fetch Zossimov."
Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special interest in him; soon his face brightened.
"You must go to bed at once," he pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could, "and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago . . . a powder."
"Two, if you like," answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once.
"It's a good thing you are taking him home," observed Zossimov to Razumihin--"we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he's not at all amiss--a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn . . ."
"Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?" Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. "I won't tell you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he's got a notion in his head that you are . . . mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the first place, you've three times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad, you needn't care a hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what's brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation to-day with Zametov."
"Zametov told you all about it?"
"Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov. . . . Well, the fact is, Rodya . . . the point is . . . I am a little drunk now. . . . But that's . . . no matter . . . the point is that this idea . . . you understand? was just being hatched in their brains . . . you understand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble's burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the time-- that's between ourselves, brother; please don't let out a hint that you know of it; I've noticed he is a ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna's. But to-day, to-day it's all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that . . ."
Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too freely.
"I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint," said Raskolnikov.
"No need to explain that! And it wasn't the paint only: the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't believe! 'I am not worth his little finger,' he says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de Cristal, that was too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly--put out your tongue at him: 'There now, what do you make of it?' It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it's what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn't there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your acquaintance . . ."
"Ah! . . . he too . . . but why did they put me down as mad?"
"Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother. . . . What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it's clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances . . . and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness . . . I am a little drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own . . . I tell you, he's mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him . . ."
For half a minute both were silent.
"Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly: I've just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died . . . I gave them all my money . . . and besides I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same . . . in fact I saw someone else there . . . with a flame-coloured feather . . . but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me . . . we shall be at the stairs directly . . ."
"What's the matter? What's the matter with you?" Razumihin asked anxiously.
"I am a little giddy, but that's not the point, I am so sad, so sad . . . like a woman. Look, what's that? Look, look!"
"What is it?"
"Don't you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack . . ."
They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the landlady's door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov's garret.
"Queer! Nastasya, perhaps," observed Razumihin.
"She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago, but . . . I don't care! Good-bye!"
"What do you mean? I am coming with you, we'll come in together!"
"I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!"
"What's the matter with you, Rodya?"
"Nothing . . . come along . . . you shall be witness."
They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "Ah, I've upset him with my chatter!" he muttered to himself.
When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.
"What is it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.
His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his "running away" to-day, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! "Good Heavens, what had become of him?" Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a half.
A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov's entrance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting.
Anxiety, cries of horror, moans . . . Razumihin who was standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the sofa.
"It's nothing, nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister--"it's only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is all right again!"
And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that "he is all right again." The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during his illness, by this "very competent young man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia.
“立刻睡觉，”他尽可能给病人检查了一下，作出决定，“夜里要吃一包药。您吃吗？我不久前配的……一包药粉。”
“两包也行，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。
他立刻吃了药。
“你亲自送他回去，这太好了，”佐西莫夫对拉祖米欣说，“明天怎么样，咱们到明天再看，今天却甚至很不错：比不久前有了明显的好转。活到老，学到老呀……”
“你知道咱们出来的时候，刚刚佐西莫夫悄悄地跟我说了些什么吗？”他们刚刚走到街上，拉祖米欣就贸然说。“我，老兄，我把什么都直截了当地告诉你，因为他们都是傻瓜。佐西莫夫叫我在路上跟你随便聊聊，也让你随便谈谈，然后把我们的谈话都告诉他，因为他有个想法……认为你……是疯子，或者差不多是个疯子。你自己想想看吧！第一，你比他聪明两倍，第二，如果你不是疯子，那么他脑子里有这种荒唐想法，你根本就不会在乎，第三，这个胖家伙本行是外科医生，现在却对精神病发生了浓厚的兴趣，今天你和扎苗托夫的那场谈话使他确信，他对你的看法是正确的。”
“扎苗托夫把我们的谈话全告诉你了？”
“全告诉了我，他做得太对了。现在我已经摸清了全部底细，扎苗托夫也明白了……啊，对了，总而言之，罗佳，……问题在于……我现在有点儿醉了……不过这没关系……问题在于，这个想法……你明白吗？当真在他们头脑里冒出来了……你明白吗？也就是说，他们谁也不敢大声说出这个想法，因为这是荒唐透顶的，特别是在他们抓到这个油漆工以后，这一切全都不攻自破，永远破产了。为什么他们都是傻瓜呢？当时我把扎苗托夫揍了一顿，只是稍微揍了一下，——这只是我们之间私下里说说，老兄；请你千万别说出去，就连暗示都不行，千万别让人知道，你知道这件事；我发觉，他很爱面子；这是在拉维扎家里的事，不是今天，今天事情全都明白了。主要是这个伊利亚·彼特罗维奇！当时他利用了你在办公室里昏倒的机会，后来他自己也感到惭愧了；因为我知道……”
拉斯科利尼科夫贪婪地听着。拉祖米欣酒后说漏了嘴。
“我当时昏倒是因为闷热和那股油漆味，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“这还用得着解释吗！而且不单是因为油漆味：你发烧整整一个月了；佐西莫夫可以证明！不过现在这个小孩子是多么失望，你简直无法想象！他说：‘我抵不上这个人的一个小指头！’就是说，抵不上你的一个小指头。有时，老兄，有时他心肠也是好的。不过这个教训，今天在‘水晶宫’里对他的这个教训，这真是再好也不过了！要知道，一开头你可把他吓坏了，吓得他直发抖！你几乎使他又对这荒唐透顶的想法深信不疑，后来，突然，——向他伸出舌头，那意思就是说：‘给，怎么，你胜利了吗！’妙极了！现在他给击败了，羞愧得无地自容！你真是个能手，真的，对他们，就得这样。唉，可惜我不在场！现在他在等着你，很想见到你。波尔菲里也想跟你认识认识……”
“可是……这个人也……可是他们为什么把我当作疯子？”
“我的意思是，并不是把你当成疯子。我，老兄，似乎我跟你扯得太多了……你要知道，不久前，他感到惊讶的是，你只对这一点感兴趣；现在清楚了，你为什么会感兴趣；了解了一切情况……当时这让你多么生气，而且和病纠缠在一起……我，老兄，稍有点儿醉了，不过鬼知道他心里有什么想法……我跟你说：他对精神病发生了浓厚兴趣。不过你别在乎……”
有半分钟光景，两人都没有说话。
“你听我说，拉祖米欣，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，“我要坦率地告诉你，我刚去过一个死人家里，有个官员死了……我把我的钱全给了他们……除此而外，刚刚有人吻过我，即使我杀过人，这人也会……总而言之，在那里我还看到了另一个人……帽子上插着火红色的羽毛……不过，我是在说胡话；我很虚弱，你扶着我点儿……这就到楼梯了，不是吗……”
“你怎么了？你怎么了？”惊慌起来的拉祖米欣问。
“头有点儿晕，不过问题不在这里，而在于，我是这么忧郁！就像女人似的……真的！你看，这是什么？你瞧，你瞧！”
“什么？”
“难道你没看见？我屋里的灯光，看到了吗？从门缝里……”
“他们已经站在最后一道楼梯前，站在女房东的门边了，从楼下当真可以看到，拉斯科利尼科夫的小屋里有灯光。
“奇怪！也许是娜斯塔西娅，”拉祖米欣说。
“这个时候她从来不去我那儿，再说，她早就睡了，不过……对我来说，反正一样！再见！”
“你怎么这么说呢？我送你回家，和你一道进去！”
“我知道你会和我一道进去，不过我想在这儿和你握手告别。好，把手伸出来，再见！”
“你怎么了，罗佳？”
“没什么；咱们走吧；你可以作为证人……”
他们开始上楼梯了，拉祖米欣脑子里闪过一个念头，心想，也许佐西莫夫是对的。“唉！我跟他胡扯，搅得他心烦意乱了！”他喃喃地自言自语。来到房门前，他们突然听到屋里有说话的声音。
“这里到底是怎么回事？”拉祖米欣大声叫喊。
拉斯科利尼科夫第一个上去抓住门把手，把门打开，把门大敞开以后，却站在门口呆呆地一动也不动了。
他的母亲和妹妹坐在他屋里的沙发上，已经等了他一个半钟头了。为什么他最没料到的就是她们的到来，对她们也想得最少呢，尽管今天又得到消息，说她们已经动身，已经在路上，马上就会到了？在这一个半钟头里她们争先恐后地询问娜斯塔西娅，现在她还站在她们面前，而且已经把所有详细情况全都告诉她们了。听说他“今天逃跑了”，可他还有病，而且从她的叙述中可以发觉，他一定还在神智不清，她们都吓坏了！“天哪，他是怎么了！”两人都哭了。在这一个半钟头的等待中，她俩都忍受了难以想象的痛苦。
迎接拉斯科利尼科夫出现的是一声充满激情的高兴的呼喊。两人一起向他扑了过来。但是他一动不动地站着，好像是个死人；一种让他无法忍受、突然涌上心头的感觉恰似晴天一声霹雳，击中了他。他的手也没有抬起来去拥抱她们：手抬不起来。母亲和妹妹把他紧紧抱在怀里，吻他，又是笑，又是哭……他后退了一步，摇晃了一下，就昏倒在地板上了。
惊慌，恐惧的呼喊，呻吟……站在门口的拉祖米欣飞快跑进屋里，把病人抱在自己强壮有力的手里，不一会儿病人在沙发上醒过来了。
“没关系，没关系！”他对母亲和妹妹大声嚷，“这是昏厥，这不要紧！医生刚刚说过，他好得多了，他身体完全健康！拿水来！瞧，他正在醒过来，瞧，已经醒过来了！……”
他一把抓住杜涅奇卡的手，差点儿没把她的手扭得脱臼，让她弯下腰去看看，“他已经醒过来了”。母亲和妹妹十分感动而又感激地看着拉祖米欣，简直把他看作神明；她们已经从娜斯塔西娅那里听说，在她们的罗佳患病的这段时间里，对罗佳来说，这个“机灵的年轻人”意味着什么，那天晚上母亲和杜尼娅私下里谈心的时候，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜·拉斯科利尼科娃就是把他叫作“机灵的年轻人”的。

第三部分第一章
Raskolnikov got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to Razumihin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's.
"Go home . . . with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin, "good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything . . . Is it long since you arrived?"
"This evening, Rodya," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the train was awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here, near you . . ."
"Don't torture me!" he said with a gesture of irritation.
"I will stay with him," cried Razumihin, "I won't leave him for a moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts' content! My uncle is presiding there."
"How, how can I thank you!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once more pressing Razumihin's hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again.
"I can't have it! I can't have it!" he repeated irritably, "don't worry me! Enough, go away . . . I can't stand it!"
"Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute," Dounia whispered in dismay; "we are distressing him, that's evident."
"Mayn't I look at him after three years?" wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Stay," he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get muddled. . . . Have you seen Luzhin?"
"No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly.
"Yes . . . he was so kind . . . Dounia, I promised Luzhin I'd throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell. . . ."
"Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don't mean to tell us . . ." Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dounia.
Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense.
"Dounia," Raskolnikov continued with an effort, "I don't want that marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name again."
"Good Heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Brother, think what you are saying!" Avdotya Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. "You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired," she added gently.
"You think I am delirious? No . . . You are marrying Luzhin for /my/ sake. But I won't accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before to-morrow, to refuse him . . . Let me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!"
"That I can't do!" the girl cried, offended, "what right have you . . ."
"Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow . . . Don't you see . . ." the mother interposed in dismay. "Better come away!"
"He is raving," Razumihin cried tipsily, "or how would he dare! To-morrow all this nonsense will be over . . . to-day he certainly did drive him away. That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too. . . . He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest- fallen. . . ."
"Then it's true?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Good-bye till to-morrow, brother," said Dounia compassionately--"let us go, mother . . . Good-bye, Rodya."
"Do you hear, sister," he repeated after them, making a last effort, "I am not delirious; this marriage is--an infamy. Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn't . . . one is enough . . . and though I am a scoundrel, I wouldn't own such a sister. It's me or Luzhin! Go now. . . ."
"But you're out of your mind! Despot!" roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her glance.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed.
"Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered in despair to Razumihin. "I will stay somewhere here . . . escort Dounia home."
"You'll spoil everything," Razumihin answered in the same whisper, losing patience--"come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you," he went on in a half whisper on the stairs- "that he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do himself some mischief. . . ."
"What are you saying?"
"And Avdotya Romanovna can't possibly be left in those lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch couldn't find you better lodgings . . . But you know I've had a little to drink, and that's what makes me . . . swear; don't mind it. . . ."
"But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, "Ill beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I can't leave him like that, I cannot!"
This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady's door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving them reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all the closer to him. If they'd told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodya she looked on his presence as providential, and was unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasya's account of her brother's queer friend, which prevented her from trying to run away from him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She realised, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of Razumihin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with.
"You can't go to the landlady, that's perfect nonsense!" he cried. "If you stay, though you are his mother, you'll drive him to a frenzy, and then goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do: Nastasya will stay with him now, and I'll conduct you both home, you can't be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that way. . . . But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honour, I'll bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I'll run home in a twinkling--I've a lot of friends there, all drunk--I'll fetch Zossimov--that's the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is not drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I'll drag him to Rodya, and then to you, so that you'll get two reports in the hour--from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that's a very different thing from my account of him! If there's anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you here myself, but, if it's all right, you go to bed. And I'll spend the night here, in the passage, he won't hear me, and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady's, to be at hand. Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the question; it's all right for me, but it's out of the question for you: she wouldn't take you, for she's . . . for she's a fool . . . She'd be jealous on my account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know . . . of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too! . . . No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?"
"Let us go, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna, "he will certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodya already, and if the doctor really will consent to spend the night here, what could be better?"
"You see, you . . . you . . . understand me, because you are an angel!" Razumihin cried in ecstasy, "let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I'll come in a quarter of an hour."
Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent and good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in such a condition. . . .
"Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!" Razumihin broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge steps, so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, however. "Nonsense! That is . . . I am drunk like a fool, but that's not it; I am not drunk from wine. It's seeing you has turned my head . . . But don't mind me! Don't take any notice: I am talking nonsense, I am not worthy of you. . . . I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I've taken you home, I'll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right. . . . If only you knew how I love you both! Don't laugh, and don't be angry! You may be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend, too, I want to be . . . I had a presentiment . . . Last year there was a moment . . . though it wasn't a presentiment really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan't sleep all night . . . Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad . . . that's why he mustn't be irritated."
拉斯科利尼科夫欠起身来，坐到沙发上。
拉祖米欣正滔滔不绝地劝慰母亲和妹妹，他的话前言不搭后语，然而热情洋溢；拉斯科利尼科夫虚弱无力地朝拉祖米欣摆摆手，叫他别再说下去了，然后拉住母亲和妹妹的手，一会儿看看这个，一会儿看看那个，有两分钟光景默默不语。他的目光让母亲感到害怕了。他的目光中透露出一种强烈到痛苦程度的感情，但同时神情又是呆滞的，甚至几乎是疯狂的。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜哭了。
阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜面色苍白；她的手在哥哥的手里簌簌发抖。
“你们回去吧，……跟他一道走，”他声音断断续续地说着指指拉祖米欣，“到明天，明天一切……你们早就来了吗？”
“晚上到的，罗佳，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜回答，“火车晚点，迟了很久。不过，罗佳，无论如何我现在也不离开你。我就在这儿住一夜，在旁边守着你……”
“别折磨我了！”他说，恼怒地挥了挥手。
“我留下来守着他！”拉祖米欣高声说，“一分钟也不离开他，我那儿那些人，叫他们都见鬼去，让他们去生气好了！那里有我舅舅全权处理。”
“叫我怎么，怎么感谢您呢！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说，又紧紧握住拉祖米欣的手，但是拉斯科利尼科夫又打断了她的话：
“我受不了，我受不了，”他恼怒地反复说，“请你们别折磨我！够了，你们走吧……我受不了！……”
“咱们走吧，妈妈，哪怕从屋里出去一会儿也好，”惊恐的杜尼娅悄悄地说，“我们让他觉得很痛苦，这可以看得出来。”
“难道三年没见，我都不能好好地看看他吗！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜哭了起来。
“等一等！”他又叫住了她们，“你们老是打断我，我的思想给搞乱了……你们见到卢任了吗？”
“没有，罗佳，不过他已经知道我们来了。我们听说，彼得·彼特罗维奇心那么好，今天来看过你，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜有点儿胆怯地补充说。
“是啊……他的心那么好……杜尼娅，不久前我对卢任说，我要把他赶下楼去，我把他赶走了……”
“罗佳，你怎么了！你，大概……你不是想要说，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜惊恐地说，但是看看杜尼娅，又把话咽回去了。
阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜凝神注视着哥哥，等着他往下说。她俩已经事先从娜斯塔西娅那里听说过发生争吵的事，后者就她所理解的，尽可能把事情的经过告诉了她们，她们都困惑不解，感到异常痛苦，等着他说下去。
“杜尼娅，”拉斯科利尼科夫勉强控制着自己，接着说，“我不赞成这门婚事，所以你应当明天一开口就拒绝卢任，叫他再也不要来了。”
“我的天哪！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜喊了一声。
“哥哥，你想想看，你说的是什么！”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜开始气愤地说，但是又立刻忍住了。“也许你现在身体不好，你累了，”她简短地说。
“我在说胡话吗？不……你是为了我才嫁给卢任的。可是我不接受你的牺牲。所以，明天以前，你就写信……拒绝他……明天早晨让我看看，这事就了结了！”
“这我不能做！”受了委屈的姑娘高声说。“你有什么权力……”
“杜涅奇卡，你也太急躁了，别说了，明天……难道你没看到……”母亲惊呆了，赶快对杜尼娅说。“唉，咱们最好还是走吧！”
“他在说胡话！”微带醉意的拉祖米欣高声叫嚷，“要不然，他怎么敢！明天就会聪明些了……不过今天他当真赶走了他。是有这么回事。嗯，那一个也光火了……他在这儿大发议论，炫耀自己的知识，可走的时候却是夹着尾巴……”
“那么这是真的了？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。
“明天见，哥哥，”杜尼娅满怀同情地说，“咱们走吧，妈妈……再见，罗佳！”
“你听到吗，妹妹，”他鼓足最后一点力气对着她们的背影重复说，“我不是说胡话；结这门亲事是可耻的。就算我是个卑鄙的人吧，但是我不会把这样的妹妹看作妹妹。要么是我，要么是卢任！你们走吧……”
“你疯了吗！独断专横的家伙！”拉祖米欣吼叫起来，但是拉斯科利尼科夫已经不再回答，不过也许是没有力气回答了。他躺到沙发上，疲惫不堪地转过脸去，面对着墙壁。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜好奇地看了看拉祖米欣，她那乌黑的眼睛炯炯发光：在这目光的注视下，拉祖米欣甚至颤栗了一下。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜仿佛吃了一惊，一动不动地站着。
“我无论如何也不能走！”她几乎是绝望地悄悄对拉祖米欣说，“我留在这儿，随便在什么地方……请您送送杜尼娅。”
“您会把事情全都弄糟了的！”拉祖米欣失去自制，也低声说，“咱们走吧，至少到楼梯上去。娜斯塔西娅，给照个亮！我向您发誓，”已经到了楼梯上，他又小声接着说，“不久前他差点儿没把我和医生都痛打一顿！您明白这意味着什么吗？要打医生！医生让步了，免得惹他生气，他走了，我留下，在楼下守着，可他立刻穿上衣服，溜出去了。要是惹火了他，现在他还会溜，夜里溜出去，不知会干出什么事来……”
“哎哟，您说些什么呀！”
“再说，您不回去，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜也不能独自一个人住在旅馆里！请您想想看，你们是住在一个什么样的地方！而彼得·彼特罗维奇，这个坏蛋，难道就不能给你们找个好一点儿的住处吗……不过，你们要知道，我有点儿醉了，所以……说了骂人的话；请别在意……”
“不过，我去找找女房东，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜坚持说，“我求求她，求她随便给找个地方，让我和杜尼娅住一夜。我不能这样丢下他不管，我不能！”
他们说这些话的时候是站在楼梯平台上，就站在女房东的房门前。娜斯塔西娅从楼梯的下面一级上给他们照着亮。拉祖米欣异常兴奋。半小时前他送拉斯科利尼科夫回家的时候，虽然废话说得太多，他自己也知道这一点，可是他的精神却十分饱满，头脑也几乎是清醒的，尽管这天晚上他喝的酒多得惊人。现在他的心情甚至好像异常高兴，同时他喝下去的那些酒仿佛又一下子以加倍的力量冲进他的头脑里。他和两位妇女站在一起，拉住她们两人的手，劝说她们，以惊人的坦率态度向她们列举一条条理由，大概是为了更有说服力，几乎每说一句话，他都把她俩的手攥得更紧，就像夹在老虎钳里一样，把她们的手都攥痛了，而且贪婪地拿眼睛直盯着阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，似乎一点儿也不觉得不好意思。有时她们痛得想从他那双瘦骨嶙嶙的大手里把自己的手抽出来，但是他不仅没发觉这是怎么回事，反而更用力把她们的手往自己这边拉。如果她们为了自己的利益，现在叫他头朝下冲下楼梯，他也会不假思索，毫不迟疑，立刻执行她们的命令。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜一心想着她的罗佳，焦急不安，尽管感觉到这个年轻人有点儿古怪，而且把她的手攥得太痛，但是因为她同时又把他看作神明，所以不想注意这些古怪的小节。然而，虽说阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜同样为哥哥担心，虽然就性格来说，她并不胆小，但是看到她哥哥的朋友那闪射着异样光芒的目光，却感到惊讶，甚至是感到恐惧了，只不过因为娜斯塔西娅说的关于这个怪人的那些话，使她对他产生了无限信任，这才没有试图从他身边逃跑，而且把母亲也拉着，和自己一同跑掉。她也明白，看来现在她们是不能逃避他的。不过，十分钟以后，她已经大为放心：拉祖米欣有个特点，不管他心情如何，都能很快把自己的真实感情完全流露出来，所以不一会儿人们就会了解，自己是在和一个什么样的人打交道了。
“可不能去找女房东，这想法最荒唐也不过了！”他高声叫嚷，竭力让普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜相信。“虽然您是母亲，可如果您留下来，就会使他发疯，那可就不知会闹出什么事来了！您听我说，我看这么办好了：这会儿先让娜斯塔西娅坐在他那里，我把你们送回去，因为没有人陪着，你们自己可不能在街上行走，在我们彼得堡，对这……唉，管它去呢！……然后我立刻从你们那儿跑回这里，一刻钟以后，我以人格担保，就会给你们送消息去：他情况怎么样？睡了，还是没睡？以及其他等等。然后，你们听我说！然后又从你们那里很快跑回家去——我那里有客人，都喝醉了，——去叫佐西莫夫——这是给他看病的医生，现在他在我家里，他没醉；这个人不喝酒，永远不会醉！我把他拖到罗季卡那里，然后立刻到你们这里来，这就是说，一个钟头之内你们可以得到两次关于他的消息，——而且是从医生那儿来的消息，你们明白吗，是从医生本人那里得到的消息；这可就不仅是听我说说了！如果情况不好，我发誓，我自己会领你们到这儿来，如果情况良好，那么你们就可以睡了。我整夜都睡在这儿，睡在穿堂里，他听不见的，我让佐西莫夫睡在房东那里，这样可以随时找到他。你们看，现在对他来说，谁守着他最好呢，是您，还是医生？医生更有用，更有用，不是吗。好，那么就请你们回去吧！去女房东那里却不行；我去可以，你们去不行：她不会让你们去……因为她傻。她会为了我嫉妒阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，您要知道，她也会嫉妒您……不过对阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，她是一定会嫉妒的。是个完全、完全让人摸不透的女人！不过，我也是个傻瓜……这算不了什么！咱们走吧！你们相信我吗？嗯，你们相信，还是不相信我？”
“咱们走吧，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜说，“他答应了，一定会这么做的。他已经救过哥哥的命，如果医生真的同意夜里住在这儿，那不是再好不过了吗？”
“瞧，您……您……理解我，因为您是天使！”拉祖米欣欣喜若狂地高声叫喊。“走吧！娜斯塔西娅！马上上楼去，坐在他身边，带着灯；一刻钟后我就来……”
普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜虽然还不完全相信，可也没再反对。拉祖米欣挽住她俩的手，把她们拉下楼去。不过他还是叫她不放心：“虽然他人很机灵，心肠也好，可是他答应的事能办得到吗？他有点儿醉了，不是吗……”
“我明白，您心里在想，我喝醉了！”拉祖米欣猜到了她的想法，打断了她的思路，同时迈开大步在人行道上走着，以致两位妇女勉强才能跟上他，不过他却没有发觉。“没有的事！也就是说……我醉得像个傻瓜一样了，可是问题不在这里，我醉了，可不是因为喝了酒。而是，我一看到你们，就像喝醉了一样……别睬我！请别介意：我在胡说八道，我配不上你们……我一点儿也配不上你们！……我把你们一送回去，立刻就在这儿，在河里，往自己头上浇两桶冷水，就会清醒过来了……但愿你们知道，我是多么爱你们两位！……请别笑我，也别生气！……你们对谁都可以生气，可别生我的气！我是他的朋友，所以也是你们的朋友。我希望如此……这我已经预感到了……去年，有这样的一瞬间……不过，根本不是预感到，因为你们好似从天而降。而我，大概会一夜都睡不着……这个佐西莫夫不久前担心他会发疯……所以不应该惹他生气……”
"What do you say?" cried the mother.
"Did the doctor really say that?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed.
"Yes, but it's not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here. . . . Ah! It would have been better if you had come to-morrow. It's a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not drunk! And I shan't be drunk. . . . And what made me get so tight? Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I've sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I've left my uncle to preside. Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and that's just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike themselves as they can. That's what they regard as the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is . . ."
"Listen!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames.
"What do you think?" shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, "you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That's man's one privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can't even make mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I'll kiss you for it. To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's. In the first case you are a man, in the second you're no better than a bird. Truth won't escape you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other people's ideas, it's what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?" cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking the two ladies' hands.
"Oh, mercy, I do not know," cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
"Yes, yes . . . though I don't agree with you in everything," added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so painfully.
"Yes, you say yes . . . well after that you . . . you . . ." he cried in a transport, "you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense . . . and perfection. Give me your hand . . . you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on my knees . . ." and he fell on his knees on the pavement, fortunately at that time deserted.
"Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed.
"Get up, get up!" said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset.
"Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That's it! Enough! I get up and we'll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and drunk . . . and I am ashamed. . . . I am not worthy to love you, but to do homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I've done homage. . . . Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away. . . . How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodgings! It's a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes? Well, then, I'll tell you, your /fiance/ is a scoundrel."
"Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting . . ." Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning.
"Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it," Razumihin made haste to apologise. "But . . . but you can't be angry with me for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because . . . hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I'm in . . . hm! Well, anyway, I won't say why, I daren't. . . . But we all saw to-day when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the barber's, not because he was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint and a buffoon. That's evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?" he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, "though all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch . . . is not on the right path. Though I've been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them all . . . though I don't respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and that bullock Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it's all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let's go on. I know this corridor, I've been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3. . . . Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don't let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I'll come back with news, and half an hour later I'll bring Zossimov, you'll see! Good- bye, I'll run."
"Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay.
"Don't worry yourself, mother," said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape. "God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has done for Rodya. . . ."
"Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself to leave Rodya? . . . And how different, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us. . . ."
Tears came into her eyes.
"No, it's not that, mother. You didn't see, you were crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness--that's the reason."
"Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he talked to you, Dounia!" said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia's standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. "I am sure he will think better of it to-morrow," she added, probing her further.
"And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow . . . about that," Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin's return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna's and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter's mood at such moments.
Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant--the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother's; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother's insolent, cruel and ungrateful words--and his fate was sealed.
He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow's foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross.
Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin's departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back.
“您说什么！”母亲高声叫喊。
“难道医生这么说过吗？”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜吃了一惊，问。
“说过，不过不是这么回事，完全不是这么回事。他还给他吃过这么一种药，一种药粉，我看到的，可这时你们来了……唉！……你们明天再来就好了！我们走了，这很好。再过一个钟头，佐西莫夫会亲自向你们报告一切。他这个人可不会喝醉！我也不再喝醉了……我为什么喝得这么醉呢？因为他们把我拖入了一场争论，这些该死的家伙！我已经发过誓不参加争论了！……他们都在胡说八道！差点儿没打起来！我让舅舅待在那儿，招待他们……嗯，你们相信吗：他们要求人完全没有个性，还觉得其中有极大的乐趣！要是自己不是自己，要是自己尽可能不像自己，那该多好！他们认为，这就是最大的进步。要是他们是按照自己的想法胡说八道，倒也罢了，可是……”
“请您听我说，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜怯生生地打断了他，但这只不过更加激起了他的热情。
“您认为怎样？”拉祖米欣把嗓门提得更高，大声叫喊，“您认为我是为了他们胡说八道生他们的气吗？没有的事！我喜欢人们胡扯！胡扯是一切生物中只有人类才享有的唯一特权。通过胡扯，可以得到真理！我也胡扯，所以我也是人。如果不先胡扯十四次，就不会获得一个真理，也许，得先胡扯一百十四次，从某一方面来看，这也是值得尊敬的；唉，可是我们连独出心裁地胡扯都不会！你跟我胡扯好了，不过要独出心裁，是自己想出来的，那么我就会吻你。独出心裁地胡扯，要知道，这几乎胜过只重复别人的真理；在第一种情况下，你是人，而在第二种情况下，你只不过是一只鹦鹉！真理是跑不了的，却可以使生活停滞不前；有过这样的例子。嗯，现在我们怎么样呢？在科学、文化修养、思维、发明、思想观念、愿望、自由主义、理性、经验，以及一切，一切，一切，一切，一切领域，我们大家无一例外，还都是中学预备班一年级的学生！喜欢靠人家的智慧混日子，——已经习以为常了！是不是这样呢？我说得对吗？”拉祖米欣高声叫喊，说着握紧并摇晃着两位女士的手，“是不是这样呢？”
“噢，我的天哪，我不知道，”可怜的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。
“是这样的，是这样的……虽说我并不完全同意您的意见，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜郑重其事地补上一句，并且立刻大叫了一声，因为这一次他把她的手攥得实在太痛了。
“是这样的？您说，是这样的？那么在这以后，您……您……”他欣喜若狂地高声呼喊，“您是善良、纯洁、理智和……完美的源泉！请把您的手伸给我，请您……也把您的手伸给我，我想吻吻你们的手，就在这儿，现在，跪下来吻你们的手！”
于是他在人行道当中跪了下来，幸而这时人行道上阒无一人。
“别这样，我求您，您这是做什么？”完全惊慌失措的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声叫喊。
“请您起来，请起来吧！”杜尼娅笑着说，她也感到惊慌不安了。
“你们不把手伸给我，我无论如何也不起来！对，就这样，够了，我起来了，咱们走吧！我是个不幸的傻瓜，我配不上你们，而且喝醉了，我感到羞愧……我不配爱你们，可是，跪在你们面前——这是每个人的义务，只要他不是十足的畜生！所以我跪下来了……瞧，这就是你们的旅馆，不久前罗季昂赶走了你们的彼得·彼特罗维奇，单就这一点来说，他做得对！这个人怎么敢让你们住在这样的旅馆里？这是丢脸的事！你们可知道，到这儿来的都是些什么人？可您是他的未婚妻，不是吗！您是他的未婚妻，对吗？哼，所以我要对您说，您的未婚夫会做出这样的事来，可见他是个卑鄙的家伙！”
“您听我说，拉祖米欣先生，您忘了……”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜开口说。
“对，对，您说得对，我太放肆了，我惭愧！”拉祖米欣猛然醒悟，“不过……不过……你们不会因为我这样说而生我的气吧！因为我这样说是出于至诚，而不是由于……嗯哼！这是卑鄙的；总而言之，不是由于我对您……嗯哼！……好，就这样吧，用不着，我不说由于什么，我不敢说！……不久前我们就全明白了，他一进来，我们就知道这个人跟我们不是一道的。不是因为他在理发师那儿卷过头发，也不是因为他急于炫耀自己的才智，而是因为，他是个密探和投机分子；因为他是个吝啬鬼和小丑，这是看得出来的。您认为他聪明吗？不，他是个傻瓜，傻瓜！哼，他配得上您吗？噢，我的天哪！你们要知道，女士们，”他已经走在旅馆的楼梯上，却突然站住了，“虽然我那儿那些人都喝醉了，然而他们都是正直的人，虽然我们也胡说八道，所以我也胡说八道，可是最后我们还是会明白，什么是真理，因为我们是走在光明正大的道路上，而彼得·彼特罗维奇走的却不是光明正大的道路。我虽然现在痛骂他们，可是我尊敬他们大家；就连扎苗托夫，虽说我并不尊敬他，可是喜欢他，因为他是条小狗崽！就连这个畜生佐西莫夫也是一样，因为他正直，而且精通业务……不过够了，什么都说完了，也得到了宽恕。得到宽恕了吗？是这样吗？好，咱们走吧。我熟悉这条走廊，来过不止一次了；瞧，就在这儿，三号房间里，发生过一件丢脸的事……喂，你们住在这里哪个房间？几号？八号吗？好，那么夜里可要锁上门，谁也别让他进来。一刻钟后我带着消息回来，然后，再过半个钟头，还要和佐西莫夫一道来，你们会知道的！再见，我走了！”
“我的天哪，杜涅奇卡，会出什么事吗？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜惊慌而又胆怯地对女儿说。
“您放心好了，妈妈，”杜尼娅回答，说着摘下帽子，取下披肩，“是上帝亲自给我们派来了这位先生，尽管他是直接从酒宴上来的。对他是可以信赖的，请您相信。而且他为哥哥已经做过的一切……”
“唉，杜涅奇卡。天知道他还会不会来！我怎么能决定丢下罗佳不管呢！……我完全，完全想象不到，会这样见到他！
他的神情多么冷酷，就像他不高兴看到我们似的……”
她眼里出现了泪珠。
“不，不是这样的，妈妈。您没细看，您一直在哭。由于生了一场大病，他心情很不好，——一切都是因为这个缘故。”
“唉，这场病啊！会出什么事，会出什么事吗！而且他是怎么跟你说话啊，杜尼娅！”母亲说，一边怯生生地看看女儿的眼睛，想从眼睛里看出她心里的全部想法，因为女儿护着罗佳，这使她获得了一半安慰：如此看来，女儿原谅了他。
“我深信，明天他准会改变主意，”她加上一句，想彻底摸透女儿的想法。
“可我深信，关于这件事……明天他还是会这么说……”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜斩钉截铁地回答，当然，这是个难题，因为这一点是普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜现在很怕谈起的。杜尼娅走近前去，吻了吻母亲。母亲默默地紧紧拥抱了她。然后坐下，焦急不安地等着拉祖米欣回来，同时怯生生地注视着女儿，女儿也在等待着，双手交叉，抱在胸前，在屋里踱来踱去，一面在暗自思索着什么。这样沉思着从一个角落走到另一个角落，是阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜通常的习惯，不知为什么母亲总是怕在这样的时候打断她的沉思。
拉祖米欣酒醉后突然对阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜产生了火热的爱情，这当然好笑；但是看一看阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，特别是现在，当她双臂交叉，抱在胸前，忧郁而若有所思地在屋里踱来踱去的时候，也许很多人都会原谅他，更何况他是处于一种反常的心理状态呢。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜十分漂亮，——高高的个儿，身材异常苗条匀称，强壮有力，而且很自信，——在她的每个姿态中都流露出这种自信，不过这丝毫也不损害她举止的柔美和优雅。她的脸像她的哥哥，不过甚至可以把她叫作美人儿。她的头发是褐色的，比她哥哥的头发稍淡一些；眼睛几乎是黑的，炯炯发光，神情傲慢，但有时，虽然并不是经常的，看上去却又异常善良。她肤色白皙，但不是病态的苍白；她的脸光艳照人，娇艳而健康。她的嘴略小了点儿，红艳艳的下嘴唇和下巴一起稍稍向前突出，——这是这张美丽的脸上唯一的缺陷，但是也赋予她的脸一种特殊的性格，仿佛使她脸上有了一种傲慢的神态。她脸上的表情总是严肃多于快乐，总是好像在沉思默想；然而这张脸是多么适于微笑，愉快而无忧无虑的、青春的笑容对她来说是多么合适啊！热情、坦诚、单纯而轻信、正直、像勇士一般强壮有力、又有点儿醉意的拉祖米欣，从未见过类似的女性，对她一见倾心，这是可以理解的。更何况好像老天故意安排下这样一个机会，让他第一次看到杜尼娅的时候，恰好是她与哥哥晤面、心中充满兄妹情谊和欢乐的美好时刻呢。后来他又看到，在她愤怒地回答哥哥无礼的、忘恩负义、冷酷无情的命令时，她的下嘴唇突然颤抖了一下，——
这时他就再也不能自持了。
不过，因为他已微带醉意，不久前在楼梯上脱口而出，说拉斯科利尼科夫那个性情古怪的女房东普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜不但会为了他嫉妒阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，而且看来也会嫉妒普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜，那倒是说的实话。尽管普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜已经四十三岁，她的容貌却依然保持着昔日的风采，而且看上去比她的实际年龄年轻得多，那些直到老年都能保持心情开朗，能给人留下鲜明印象，而且满怀正直、真诚而热情的妇女，几乎总是这样。咱们附带说一声，能够保持这一切，是即使到了老年也不致失去美色的唯一方法。她的头发已经开始斑白，渐渐疏稀，细碎的鱼尾纹早已爬满了她的眼角，由于忧虑和痛苦，双颊已经凹陷和干瘪，但这张脸还是美丽的。这是一幅杜涅奇卡的脸的肖像，不过是二十年以后的肖像，再就是她那并不向前突出的下嘴唇的表情，和女儿的不大一样。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜多情善感，不过不致使人感到肉麻，她胆小，忍让，可也有一定的限度：很多事情她都能忍让，对很多事情她都能同意，就连对那些与她的信念相反的事，也是如此，不过总是有这么一条由正直、原则和绝对不能放弃的信念划定的界线，无论什么情况也不能迫使她越过这条界线。
拉祖米欣走后，整整过了二十分钟，传来两声轻微然而急促的敲门声；他回来了。
“我不进去了，没有空！”房门打开以后，他匆匆地说，“他睡得很熟，睡得十分香甜，很安静，上帝保佑，让他睡上十个钟头吧。娜斯塔西娅在他那儿守着；我叫她在我回去以前别出去。现在我去把佐西莫夫拖来，他会向你们报告的，然后你们也睡一会儿；我看得出，你们都累坏了。”
"I won't come in, I haven't time," he hastened to say when the door was opened. "He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya's with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you'd better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything. . . ."
And he ran off down the corridor.
"What a very competent and . . . devoted young man!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted.
"He seems a splendid person!" Avdotya Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room.
It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin's promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov's, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the patient's illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, "was, so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas . . . and so on." Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna's anxiously and timidly inquiring as to "some suspicion of insanity," he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania--he, Zossimov, was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine--but that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been in delirium and . . . and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favourable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, "if only all fresh shocks can be avoided," he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself.
"We'll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!" Razumihin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. "I'll be with you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my report."
"That's a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna," remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street.
"Fetching? You said fetching?" roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. "If you ever dare. . . . Do you understand? Do you understand?" he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. "Do you hear?"
"Let me go, you drunken devil," said Zossimov, struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection.
"Of course, I am an ass," he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, "but still . . . you are another."
"No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly."
They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov's lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable anxiety.
"Listen," he said, "you're a first-rate fellow, but among your other failings, you're a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you're getting fat and lazy and can't deny yourself anything--and I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt. You've let yourself get so slack that I don't know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You--a doctor--sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients! In another three or four years you won't get up for your patients . . . But hang it all, that's not the point! . . . You are going to spend to-night in the landlady's flat here. (Hard work I've had to persuade her!) And I'll be in the kitchen. So here's a chance for you to get to know her better. . . . It's not as you think! There's not a trace of anything of the sort, brother . . .!"
"But I don't think!"
"Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue . . . and yet she's sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that's unholy! She's most prepossessing . . . I'll repay you, I'll do anything. . . ."
Zossimov laughed more violently than ever.
"Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?"
"It won't be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You're a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won't regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: 'I shed hot tears.' She likes the genuine article--and well, it all began with that song; Now you're a regular performer, a /maitre/, a Rubinstein. . . . I assure you, you won't regret it!"
"But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?"
"Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not that sort at all. . . . Tchebarov tried that. . . ."
"Well then, drop her!"
"But I can't drop her like that!"
"Why can't you?"
"Well, I can't, that's all about it! There's an element of attraction here, brother."
"Then why have you fascinated her?"
"I haven't fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won't care a straw whether it's you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing. . . . I can't explain the position, brother . . . look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now . . . begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I'm not joking, I'm in earnest, it'll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)--she just sighed and perspired! And you mustn't talk of love--she's bashful to hysterics--but just let her see you can't tear yourself away--that's enough. It's fearfully comfortable; you're quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you're careful."
"But what do I want with her?"
"Ach, I can't make you understand! You see, you are made for each other! I have often been reminded of you! . . . You'll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it's sooner or later? There's the feather-bed element here, brother--ach! and not only that! There's an attraction here--here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish- pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on--as snug as though you were dead, and yet you're alive--the advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I'm talking, it's bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I'll go in and look at him. But there's no need, it's all right. Don't you worry yourself, yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice anything--delirium or fever--wake me at once. But there can't be. . . ."
于是他离开她们，顺着走廊走了。
“一个多麻利和……忠实的青年人啊！”非常高兴的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声说。
“看来，是个很好的人！”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜怀着几分热情回答，又开始在屋里踱来踱去。
几乎过了一个钟头，走廊里传来了脚步声，又听到一下敲门的声音。两位妇女都在等着，因为这一次她们都完全相信拉祖米欣的诺言了；真的，他果然把佐西莫夫拖来了。佐西莫夫立刻同意离开酒宴，去看拉斯科利尼科夫，不过他不相信喝醉了的拉祖米欣，到两位女士这里来，却很不乐意，疑虑重重。但是他的自尊心立刻得到了满足，甚至感到快慰：他明白，人家当真是在等着他，就像是在等候一位先知。他整整坐了十分钟，而且完全说服了普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜，让她放了心。他说话时怀着异乎寻常的同情心，然而态度拘谨，不知怎的显得特别严肃，完全像一个二十七岁的医生在重要的咨询会议上发表意见，没有一句话离题，没有流露出一丝一毫要与这两位女士建立更密切的私人关系的愿望。他一进来就发觉阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜光艳照人，立刻竭力根本不去注意她，在会见她们的全部时间里，只对普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜一个人说话。这一切使他内心里获得极大的满足。谈到病人，他是这样说的，说是目前病人处于完全令人满意的状态。据他观察，病人的病，除了最近几个月生活上恶劣的物质条件，还有某些精神因素，“可以说是许多复杂的精神和物质影响的结果，如惊慌、担心、忧虑、某些想法……以及诸如此类的影响”。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜开始特别留心听着，佐西莫夫对此稍有察觉，于是对这一话题较多地发挥了几句。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜担心而又怯生生地问：“似乎有点儿怀疑他患了精神病？”对这个问题，他安详而且面带坦诚的微笑回答说，他的话被过分夸大了；当然，可以注意到，病人头脑里有某种执拗的想法，显示出偏执狂的症候，——因为他，佐西莫夫，目前正特别注意医学上这一非常有意思的专科，——不过得记住，几乎直到今天，病人神智都不大清楚，那么……当然，他亲人们的到来会促使他恢复健康，消除疑虑，使病情根本好转，“只要能避免再受到新的特殊震动”，他意味深长地补充说。然后他站起来，庄重而亲切地告辞，为他送别的是祝福，热情的感谢，央求，甚至还有阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜向他伸过来的小手，虽然他并没请求，她却主动要和他握手，他出去时对这次访问异常满意，对自己就更加满意了。
“咱们明天再谈；请安歇吧，立刻，一定！”拉祖米欣像作总结似地说，和佐西莫夫一同走了出去。“明天尽可能早一些，我再来向你们报告。”
“不过，这位阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜是个多么迷人的小姑娘啊！”当他们俩走到街上的时候，佐西莫夫几乎馋涎欲滴地说。
“迷人吗？你说她迷人！”拉祖米欣吼叫起来，突然扑向佐西莫夫，一把卡住他的咽喉。“要是什么时候你胆敢……你明白吗？明白吗？”他大声叫喊，抓着衣领摇晃着他，把他推到墙跟前，“听到了吗？”
“唉，放手，醉鬼！”佐西莫夫竭力想要挣脱出来，拉祖米欣已经放开他以后，他凝神看了看拉祖米欣，突然哈哈大笑起来。拉祖米欣站在他面前，垂下双手，忧郁而严肃地陷入沉思。
“当然，我是头笨驴，”他神情阴郁，好似乌云，“不过……
你也是的。”
“嗳，老兄，不，我可根本不是。我不会痴心梦想。”
他们默默地走着，不过走近拉斯科利尼科夫的住所时，拉祖米欣感到十分担心，这才打破了沉默。
“你听我说，”他对佐西莫夫说，“你是个很不错的人，不过你呀，除了你所有那些恶劣的品质以外，你也是个色鬼，这我知道，而且还是个卑鄙无耻的色鬼。你是个神经质的、软弱无力的败类，你任性胡来，养得太肥，什么事情都做得出来，——我把这叫作卑鄙无耻，因为这会使人直接掉进卑鄙无耻的泥潭里去。你们自己娇惯成了这个样子，老实说，我不能理解的是，与此同时，你怎么能作一个具有忘我精神的医生。睡在羽毛褥子上（医生嘛！），可是夜里要起来去给人看病！三年以后，你就不会再为了病人在夜里起来了……啊，对了，见鬼，问题不在这里，而在于：今天你得在女房东家里住一夜（好不容易才说服了她！）可我睡在厨房里；这可是让你们更亲密地熟识的好机会！不过不是你想的那回事！老兄，那种事啊，连影儿都没有……”
“我根本就没想。”
“老兄，这是腼腆、沉默，羞涩以及冷酷无情的贞节，可与此同时，又唉声叹气，像蜡一样在融化，一个劲儿地融化！看在世界上一切妖魔鬼怪的份上，请你帮我摆脱她吧！她是个非常漂亮的女人！……我会报答你的，哪怕牺牲自己的脑袋，也要报答你！”
佐西莫夫哈哈大笑，笑得比以前更厉害了。
“你爱得发疯了！我要她干吗？”
“请你相信，麻烦不会太多，不过得说些蠢话，你爱说什么，就说什么，只要坐到她身边说就行了。何况你还是个医生，可以治治她的病嘛。我发誓，你不会后悔的。她屋里有架古钢琴；你要知道，我会弹两下，不过弹不好；我那里有一首歌曲，一首真正的俄罗斯歌曲：‘我洒下热泪……’她喜欢真正的俄罗斯歌曲，——于是就从歌曲开始；可你是个弹钢琴的能手，是教师，鲁宾斯坦①……我担保，你不会后悔的！”
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①鲁宾斯坦（一八二九——一八九四），俄罗斯著名钢琴家和作曲家。
“你是不是向她许下了什么诺言？按照程式订了合同，签过了字？也许答应过和她结婚……”
“没有，没有，根本没有这种事！而且她也完全不是这样的人；切巴罗夫追求过她……”
“好，那你就甩掉她好了！”
“可是不能就这样甩掉她！”
“为什么不能？”
“嗯，不知为什么不能这样，就是这么一回事！老兄，这儿有诱惑力这个因素。”
“那你为什么引诱她呢？”
“可我根本就没引诱她，也许，甚至是我受了她的引诱，这是因为我傻，可对她来说，不论是你，还是我，都完全一样，只要有人坐在她身边叹气就成。这，老兄……这我无法向你描述，这，——啊，你精通数学，现在还在研究，这我知道……嗯，你就教她微积分吧，真的，我不是开玩笑，我是一本正经地跟你说，对于她来说，什么都完全一样：她会瞅着你唉声叹气，整整一年就这样不断地叹气。顺带说一声，我曾经跟她大谈普鲁士上议院的情况（因为，跟她可有什么好谈的呢？），谈了很久，一连谈了两天，——可她只是在叹气，在出汗！不过可别跟她谈爱情，——她会臊得浑身发抖，——可是你要装出不能离开她的样子，——好，这就够了。舒服极了；完全跟在家里一样，——看看书，坐坐，躺躺，吃点儿东西……甚至可以小心谨慎地吻吻她……”
“可我要她干什么？”
“唉，我怎么也没法跟你解释清楚。你要知道，你们俩完全一模一样，你像她，她也像你！以前我就想到你了……你总得结婚吧！那么是早些，还是迟些，对你不都一样吗？老兄，这儿有这么好的羽毛褥子作为基础，——哎，而且还不只是羽毛褥子！这儿有一种力量在吸引你；这儿是世界的尽头，是停泊的地方，是宁静的避难所，是地球的中心，是由三条鱼构成的世界的基础①，这里有春饼，油腻的鱼肉馅烤饼，晚上的茶炊，轻轻的叹息，暖和的敞胸女短上衣，烧暖的火炕，一切享受的精华，——嗯，就跟你死了一样，可同时你又在活着，一举两得！哈，老兄，见鬼，我说得过火了，该睡觉了！你听我说：夜里有时候我会醒来，去看看他。不过没关系，我胡扯，一切都会很好的。你不必特别担心，你要愿意的话，也可以去看他一次。不过只要发觉什么，比如说，他说胡话啦，或者发烧啦，或者有什么不对头的地方，立刻就叫醒我。不过，不可能……”

第二章

Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o'clock, troubled and serious. He found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable--so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that "thrice accursed yesterday."
The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown himself "base and mean," not only because he had been drunk, but because he had taken advantage of the young girl's position to abuse her /fiance/ in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right had he to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all how could he know the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat . . . Foo! how despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, "that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart"! And would such a dream ever be permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl--he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna . . . that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying.
"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self-abasement, "of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or smoothed over . . . and so it's useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my duty . . . in silence, too . . . and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing . . . for all is lost now!"
And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He hadn't another suit--if he had had, perhaps he wouldn't have put it on. "I would have made a point of not putting it on." But in any case he could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his assistance and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean.
He washed that morning scrupulously--he got some soap from Nastasya-- he washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was angrily answered in the negative. "Let it stay as it is! What if they think that I shaved on purpose to . . .? They certainly would think so! Not on any account!"
"And . . . the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners of a pothouse; and . . . and even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman . . . what was there in that to be proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that . . . and all the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things . . . not exactly dishonest, and yet. . . . And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm . . . and to set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he'd make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he wouldn't care! He'd be worse!"
He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, came in.
He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't wake him and promised to see him again about eleven.
"If he is still at home," he added. "Damn it all! If one can't control one's patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether /he/ will go to them, or whether /they/ are coming here?"
"They are coming, I think," said Razumihin, understanding the object of the question, "and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I."
"But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty to do besides looking after them."
"One thing worries me," interposed Razumihin, frowning. "On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him . . . all sorts of things . . . and amongst them that you were afraid that he . . . might become insane."
"You told the ladies so, too."
"I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so seriously?"
"That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him . . . and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known what happened then at the police station and that some wretch . . . had insulted him with this suspicion! Hm . . . I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill . . . and see their fancies as solid realities. . . . As far as I remember, it was Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all! . . . And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm . . . he shouldn't have told all that last night. He is an awful chatterbox!"
"But whom did he tell it to? You and me?"
"And Porfiry."
"What does that matter?"
"And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him to-day. . . ."
"They'll get on all right!" Razumihin answered reluctantly.
"Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn't seem to dislike him . . . and they haven't a farthing, I suppose? eh?"
"But what business is it of yours?" Razumihin cried with annoyance. "How can I tell whether they've a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps you'll find out. . . ."
"Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night's wine has not gone off yet. . . . Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night's lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my /bonjour/ through the door; she was up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken into her from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview. . . ."
At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev's house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and ill-disguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it.
Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because "she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand." Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him.
He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov's life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted, however, many things, which were better omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun.
"Tell me, tell me! What do you think . . . ? Excuse me, I still don't know your name!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily.
"Dmitri Prokofitch."
"I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch . . . how he looks . . . on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is he now? In a word, I should like . . ."
第二天早上八点钟，拉祖米欣醒了，满腹忧虑，神情严肃。这天早晨他心里突然出现了许多未曾预见到的、使他困惑不解的新问题。以前他从未想到，有什么时候会像这样醒来。他想起昨天的事，直到每个细节都记得清清楚楚，还记得发生了一件对他来说很不平常的事，使他产生了在这以前从未有过的印象，与以前的所有印象都不一样。同时他又清清楚楚地意识到，犹如烈火般在他头脑中燃烧起来的幻想是绝对无法实现的，——显而易见，它绝不可能实现，因此，他为这幻想感到羞愧，于是他赶快去想别的，去想其他更迫切的要操心的事和使他感到困惑不解的问题，这些都是“该死的昨天”给他遗留下来的。
他的最可怕的回忆就是，昨天他是多么“卑鄙，丑恶”，这倒不仅仅是因为他喝醉了，而是因为，由于愚蠢和仓促间产生妒嫉，竟利用一位姑娘的处境，当着她的面大骂她的未婚夫，可是他不但不知道他们之间的相互关系和义务，而且连他这个人也没好好地了解过。而且他有什么权利这样匆忙和轻率地对这个人作出判断？有谁请他作评判人呢！难道像阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜这样的人，会为了钱而嫁给一个卑鄙的人吗？可见这个人是有优点的。那么旅馆呢？可说实在的，他怎么能够知道，这是家什么旅馆？要知道，他正在准备一套住宅……呸，这一切是多么卑鄙！他喝醉了，这算什么辩解的理由？这不过是愚蠢的借口，会使他显得更加卑鄙！酒后吐真言，真话都说出来了，“也就是说，他那颗满怀妒意、粗野无礼的心中所有卑鄙污浊的东西全都吐露出来了！”难道他，拉祖米欣，可以哪怕存一点儿这样的幻想吗？与这样的姑娘相比，他算什么人呢——他不过是个喝醉了的不安分的家伙，昨天吹过牛的人。“难道可以作这样无耻和可笑的对比吗？”想到这里，拉祖米欣不禁满脸通红了，而突然，好像故意为难似的，就在这一瞬间，他清清楚楚记起，昨天他站在楼梯上对她们说，女房东会为了他嫉妒阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜……这可真让人太难堪了。他抡起拳头，对着厨房里的炉灶猛打了一拳，打伤了自己的手，还打掉了一块砖头。
“当然，”过了一会儿，他带着某种自卑感喃喃地自言自语，“当然，现在这些卑鄙的行径将永远无法掩饰，也无法改正了……所以，关于这件事，已经没什么好想的了，所以我再去她们那里的时候，一句话也别说……只是履行自己的义务……也是一句话不说，而且……也不请求原谅，什么也不说，而且……当然，现在一切都完了！”
然而穿衣服的时候，他比往常更加细心地察看了自己的衣服。他没有别的衣服，即使有，也许他也不会穿，“就这样，故意不穿”。但无论如何再不能不修边幅、邋里邋遢了：他无权不尊重别人的感情，让人家感到受了侮辱，更何况这是一些正需要他的帮助、自己叫他去的人呢。他用刷子仔仔细细刷干净自己的衣服。他身上的内衣一向还都过得去；在这方面他是特别爱干净的。
这天早晨他洗脸也洗得很细心，——在娜斯塔西娅那里找到了一块肥皂，——洗了头发、脖子，特别用心洗了手。要不要刮刮下巴上的短胡子呢？当需要回答这个问题的时候（普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜那儿有很好的刀片，还是从扎尔尼岑先生过世后保存下来的），他甚至倔强地作出了否定的回答：“就让它这样留着好了！哼，她们会想，我刮胡子是为了……而且准会这么想！无论如何不刮！”
“而……而主要的是，他这么粗鲁，又这么脏，对人的态度是粗野的；而且……而且，即使他知道，他是，虽然不能说完全是，可他到底是个正派人……嗯，不过，是个正派人，又有什么可以骄傲的？人人都该作正派人，而且还不仅仅是正派，而……而他毕竟（他记得）干过这样的勾当……倒不是说，是不光彩的，可那还不是一样！……而他曾经有过些什么样的想法啊！嗯哼……把这一切跟阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜放到一起！是呀，见鬼！好吧！哼，我就故意要弄得这么脏，浑身油污，粗里粗气，我才不在乎呢！以后我还是要这样！……”
昨夜住在普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜客厅里的佐西莫夫进来的时候，正看到他在这样自言自语。
佐西莫夫要回家去，临走匆匆去看了一眼病人。拉祖米欣向他报告说，病人睡得很熟。佐西莫夫吩咐，在他自己醒来以前，不要叫醒他。他答应十点多再来。
“只要他能待在家里，”他补充说。“哼，见鬼！医生说的话病人根本就不听，你倒试试看，去给他治病吧！你可知道，是他去找她们，还是她们上这儿来？”
“我想，是她们来，”拉祖米欣明白他这样问的目的，回答说，“而且当然啦，他们要谈他们家里的事。我要走开；作为医生，你自然比我有更多的权利。”
“可我也不是神甫；我来看看就走；没有他们，我的事情也够多的了。”
“有件事让我不放心，”拉祖米欣皱起眉头，打断了他的话，“昨天我喝醉了，在路上走着的时候，说漏了嘴，跟他说了些各式各样的蠢话……各式各样的……顺带也说了，你担心，似乎他……有可能害精神病……”
“昨天你跟两位女士也说过这种蠢话了吧。”
“我知道，我很蠢！你要揍我，就揍我一顿吧！怎么，你当真有什么坚定不移的想法吗？”
“唉，我在胡扯；哪里有什么坚定不移的想法！你带我到他那里去的时候，自己把他描绘成一个偏执狂患者……嗯，昨天我们还火上加油，也就是说，是你说了些火上加油的话……谈起油漆匠的事；说不定他就是为了这件事才发疯的，你这场谈话可真是太好了！我要是确切地知道当时在警察局里发生的那回事，知道那里有那么个坏蛋怀疑他……侮辱了他的话！嗯哼……昨天我就不让你说这些话了。要知道，这些偏执狂患者都会小题大作，以假当真……从昨天扎苗托夫说的那些话里，仅就我所记得的，事情已经有一半弄清楚了。啊，对了！我知道这么一回事，有个四十岁的多疑病患者，因为受不了一个八岁的小男孩每天吃饭的时候嘲笑他，就把那个小男孩给杀死了！他的情况却是：衣衫褴褛，警察分局局长蛮横无礼，又碰上发病，再加上这样的怀疑！这一切都落到了一个发狂的多疑病患者的身上！而且他还有极其强烈、十分独特的虚荣心！而这也许就正是致病的原因！嗯，不错，见鬼！……顺便说说，这个扎苗托夫当真是个可爱的小孩子，不过，嗯哼，……昨天他不该把这些全都说出来。他这个人说话太不谨慎了！”
“可他是对谁说的呢？对我和对你，不是吗？”
“还有波尔菲里。”
“那又怎样呢，对波尔菲里说了，又怎样呢？”
“顺便说一声，对那两位，对母亲和妹妹，你能起点儿什么作用，能影响她们吗？今天对她们得更加小心……”
“跟她们会说得通的！”拉祖米欣不乐意地回答。
“你为什么要这样对待这个卢任呢？他是个有钱的人，看来，她并不讨厌他……可她们不是什么也没有吗？啊？”
“可你干吗要打听这些？”拉祖米欣恼怒地大声嚷，“我怎么知道她有什么，还是什么也没有？你自己去问好了，也许会打听出来……”
“呸，有时候你是多么愚蠢！昨天的醉意还在起作用吗……再见；代我谢谢普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜，谢谢她给我提供了个过夜的地方。她把门锁上了，我隔着房门对她说了声崩儒尔①，她没回答，她自己七点钟就起来了，从厨房里穿过走廊给她送去了茶炊……我没有荣幸会见她……”
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①法文bonjour的音译，“日安”之意。
九点整，拉祖米欣来到了巴卡列耶夫的旅馆。两位女士早就怀着歇斯底里的急不可耐的心情等着他了。她们七点钟、也许更早些就已经起来了。他进去的时候脸色像黑夜一样阴郁，笨拙地点头行礼，并立刻为此生气了——当然，是生自己的气。他的猜测完全错了：普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜突然向他跑过来，拉住他的双手，几乎要吻他的手。他不好意思地朝阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜看了一眼；但是就连这张高傲的脸上，这时露出的也是感谢和友好的表情，出乎他意料的对他极其尊敬，（而不是嘲讽的目光和不由自主、掩饰不住的蔑视！）如果迎接他的是辱骂，说真的，他反而会觉得轻松些，现在竟是这样，倒使他感到太难为情了。幸好有现成的话题，于是他赶紧谈正经事。
听说“他还没醒”，不过“一切都很好”，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说，这是好现象，“因为她非常，非常，非常需要事先商量一下”。接着问他喝过茶没有，并邀请他一道喝茶；因为在等着拉祖米欣，她们自己还没喝过茶。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜按了按铃，应声前来的是一个很脏、衣服也破破烂烂的人，吩咐他送茶来，茶终于摆好了，但是一切都那么脏，那么不像样，因此两位女士都面有愧色。拉祖米欣起劲地大骂这家旅馆，但是一想起卢任，立刻就住了声，感到很窘，因此，当普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜终于接连不断提出一连串问题的时候，他真高兴极了。
他回答这些问题，讲了足有三刻钟，他的话不断地被打断，一个问题要问上几遍；罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇最近一年来的生活情况，只要是他知道的，他都把最重要和不能不讲的一切事情告诉了她们，最详尽地叙述了他的病情。不过有很多事情他都略而不提，那都是应当省略的，其中也有警察局里发生的事及其一切后果。她们全神贯注地听着他讲；但是每当他认为已经讲完了，已经能够满足这两位听众的要求的时候，却总是发现，对于她们来说，似乎这还只不过是刚刚开始。
“请您，请您告诉我，您是怎么想的……哎哟，请原谅，到现在我还不知道您的大名呢？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜急忙说。
“德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇。”
“那么，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，我很想，很想知道……一般说来……他对各种事物有什么看法，也就是说，请理解我的意思，这该怎么跟您说呢，最好还是这么说吧：他喜欢什么，不喜欢什么？他是不是总是这样爱发脾气？他有些什么愿望，也可以说，有些什么理想，如果可以这样说的话？现在是什么对他有特殊影响？总之，我希望……”
“哎哟，妈妈，怎么能一下子回答这一切问题啊！”杜尼娅说。
“啊，我的天哪，我可完全，完全没想到会看到他像这个样子，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇。”
"Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?" observed Dounia.
"Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofitch!"
"Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years' separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and of late--and perhaps for a long time before--he has been suspicious and fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly callous; it's as though he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn't jeer at things, not because he hasn't the wit, but as though he hadn't time to waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him."
"God grant it may," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by Razumihin's account of her Rodya.
And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident.
"You've told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother's character . . . and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him," observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. "I think you are right that he needs a woman's care," she added thoughtfully.
"I didn't say so; but I daresay you are right, only . . ."
"What?"
"He loves no one and perhaps he never will," Razumihin declared decisively.
"You mean he is not capable of love?"
"Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in everything, indeed!" he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had just before said of her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at him.
"You may both be mistaken about Rodya," Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. "I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can't imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of doing . . . Well, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl--what was her name--his landlady's daughter?"
"Did you hear about that affair?" asked Avdotya Romanovna.
"Do you suppose----" Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. "Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn't that he doesn't love us!"
"He has never spoken a word of that affair to me," Razumihin answered cautiously. "But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange."
"And what did you hear?" both the ladies asked at once.
"Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl's death, was not at all to Praskovya Pavlovna's liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively ugly . . . and such an invalid . . . and queer. But she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good qualities or it's quite inexplicable. . . . She had no money either and he wouldn't have considered her money. . . . But it's always difficult to judge in such matters."
"I am sure she was a good girl," Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly.
"God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don't know which of them would have caused most misery to the other--he to her or she to him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the latter's annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on the score of his illness.
"He had planned it before his illness," he added.
"I think so, too," Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself so carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna, too, was struck by it.
"So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not resist asking.
"I can have no other opinion of your daughter's future husband," Razumihin answered firmly and with warmth, "and I don't say it simply from vulgar politeness, but because . . . simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and . . . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely . . . and this morning I am ashamed of it."
He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they began to speak of Luzhin.
Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance.
"You see, Dmitri Prokofitch," she began. "I'll be perfectly open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?"
"Of course, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically.
"This is what it is," she began in haste, as though the permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. "Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you know; instead of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You'd better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very much . . . you will soon see what that is, and . . . tell me your candid opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya's character better than anyone and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don't feel sure how to act and I . . . I've been waiting for your opinion."
Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as follows:
"Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an interview with you to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than to-morrow evening at eight o'clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovitch may not be present at our interview--as he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have the honour to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing my special respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful homage of
“这是很自然的，”德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇回答。“我母亲不在了，嗯，可我舅舅每年都来一趟，几乎每次都认不出我，就连外貌也认不出来，可他是个聪明人；嗯，你们离别三年了，岁月流逝，人怎么能不发生变化呢。而且我能跟你们说什么呢？我认识罗季昂只有一年半：他忧郁，总是闷闷不乐，高傲而且倔强；最近一个时期（也许，还要早得多）他神经过敏，患了多疑症。他为人慷慨，心地善良。他不喜欢流露自己的感情，宁愿做出一些被人看作冷酷无情的事情，也不肯用言词说明自己的心意。不过，有时他根本不像多疑病患者，而只不过是冷淡无情，麻木不仁达到了缺乏人性的程度，真的，就好像他有两种截然相反的性格，这两种性格在他身上轮流出现。有时他极端沉默！他总是没有空，什么都妨碍他，可他却一直躺着，什么事也不做。他不嘲笑人，倒不是因为他缺少说俏皮话的机智，而似乎是他没有时间花在这种小事上。他总是不听完别人说的话。对当前大家感兴趣的事，他从来不感兴趣。他对自己估计很高，似乎这也并非毫无根据。嗯，还有什么呢？……我觉得，你们的到来会对他产生最有益的、可以使他得救的影响。”
“啊，上帝保佑！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼，拉祖米欣对她的罗佳的评语使她痛苦到极点。
最后，拉祖米欣较为大胆地看了看阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜。谈话的时候他时常看她，不过只是匆匆地看一眼，只看一眼，就立刻把目光移开了。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜一会儿坐到桌边，留心听着，一会儿又站起来，按照她往常的习惯，两手交叉，抱在胸前，闭紧嘴唇，从一个角落走到另一个角落，有时提个问题，但并不停下来，一面走，一面在沉思。她也有不听完别人说话的习惯。她穿一件料子轻而薄的深色连衫裙，脖子上系一条透明的白色围巾。根据许多迹象来看，拉祖米欣立刻发觉，两位妇女的境况贫困到了极点。如果阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜穿得像一位女王，似乎他就根本不会怕她了；现在，也许正因为她穿得这样寒酸，正因为他发觉了她们贫穷的境况，他心里才感到恐惧，并为自己的每一句话、每一个姿势都感到害怕，对于一个本来就缺乏自信的人来说，这当然会使他感到格外拘束了。
“您讲了我哥哥性格中许多很有意思的情况，而且……说得很公正。这很好；我认为，您很敬重他，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜微笑着说。“您说，得有个女人待在他身边，看来，这话说得也不错，”她沉思着补上一句。
“这话我没说过，不过，也许，这一点您说得对，只是……”
“什么？”
“要知道，他什么人也不爱；也许永远也不会爱上谁，”拉祖米欣毫无顾忌地说。
“也就是说，他不能爱？”
“您要知道，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，您太像您哥哥了，甚至各方面都像！”出乎自己意料地，他突然很不谨慎地说，但立刻想起，现在是在对她谈她哥哥哪方面的情况，满脸涨得通红，感到很窘。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜看着他，不能不大笑起来。
“关于罗佳，你们俩可能都看错了，”有点儿见怪的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜接着话茬说。“我说的不是现在，杜涅奇卡。彼得·彼特罗维奇在这封信里写的那些话……还有我和你所作的推测，也许都不对，不过，您无法想象，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，他是多么爱幻想，还有，这该怎么说呢，他总是变化无常。他的性格我从来就摸不透，还在他十五岁的时候就是这样。我相信，现在他也会突然对自己做出什么别人永远也不想做的事情来……对了，眼前就有个例子：您知道吗，一年半以前，他让我多么吃惊和震动，差点儿没把我折磨死，因为他突然想跟这个，她叫什么来着，——跟这个扎尔尼岑娜的女儿，也就是他女房东的女儿结婚？”
“关于这件事，您知道些什么详细情况吗？”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜问。
“您以为，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜激动地接着说，“当时我的眼泪，我的央求，我的病，我的死，也许我会愁死，还有我们的贫穷，会阻止他吗？他会满不在乎地跨过一切障碍。可是难道他，难道他不爱我们吗？”
“这件事，他自己从来没跟我说起过，什么也没说过”，拉祖米欣小心谨慎地回答，“不过我从扎尔尼岑娜太太那儿多少听到过一些，她也不是个爱说话的人，我听到的话，甚至有点儿使人奇怪……”
“您到底听到了些什么呢？”两位妇女一起问。
“其实也没有任何太特殊的情况。我只是知道，这门亲事已经完全办妥了，只是因为新娘死了，才没有成亲，对这门亲事，扎尔尼岑娜太太很不称心……除此而外，据说新娘甚至长得并不好看，也就是说，甚至长得很丑……而且有病，而且……而且她有点儿怪……不过，好像也有某些优点。大概一定有一些优点；不然就完全不可理解了……什么嫁妆也没有，而且他也不会指望靠嫁妆生活……总之，对这种事情很难作出判断。”
“我相信，他是一个值得尊敬的姑娘，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜简短地说。
“求上帝饶恕我，可当时我对她的死是那么高兴，虽说我不知道，他们两个是谁害了谁，是他害了她呢，还是她害了他？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜结束了这个话题；然后小心谨慎地，欲言又止，又问起昨天罗佳和卢任发生争吵的事来，而且不断地看看杜尼娅，弄得她显然感到不高兴了。看得出来，罗佳和卢任之间的争吵最使她心烦意乱，简直让她感到可怕，颤栗。拉祖米欣又把当时的情况详详细细地说了一遍，但这一次加上了自己的结论：他直截了当地责备拉斯科利尼科夫故意侮辱彼得·彼特罗维奇，这一次几乎没有因为他有病而原谅他。
“还在生病以前，他就想好了的，”他补充说。
“我也这么想，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜很伤心地说。但是使她十分惊讶的是，这一次拉祖米欣谈到彼得·彼特罗维奇时是那么小心，甚至好像有些尊敬的样子。这也使阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜感到惊讶。
“那么您对彼得·彼特罗维奇的看法就是这样的了？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜忍不住问。
“对令爱的未婚夫我不能有别的看法，”拉祖米欣坚决而又热情地回答，“而且我不仅是出于庸俗的礼貌才这么说，而是因为……因为……嗯，至少是因为阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜自己选中了这个人，单凭这一点，就不能有别的看法。如果说，昨天我把他那样痛骂了一顿，那么这是因为昨天我喝得烂醉，而且精神失常；对，是精神失常，愚蠢，发疯，完全发疯了……今天为这感到羞愧！……”他脸红了，不作声了。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜一下子涨红了脸，但是没有打破沉默。从他们开始谈论卢任的那一分钟起，都没说过一句话。
然而，没有女儿的支持，看来普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜自己拿不定主意。最后，她不断地看看女儿，讷讷地说，现在有个情况让她非常担心。
“您要知道，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇……”他开始说。
“我想完全开诚布公地和德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇谈谈，杜尼娅，你看怎么样？”
“那是当然了，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜庄严地说。
“是这么回事，”她赶紧说，允许她诉说自己的苦衷，仿佛是卸下了她肩上的千斤重担。“今天很早我们收到了彼得·彼特罗维奇的一封短简，是对我们昨天通知他我们已经到达的答复。您要知道，昨天他本该像他答应过的，在车站接我们。可他没去，却派了一个仆人到车站去接我们，带去了这家旅馆的地址，让他告诉我们该怎么走，彼得·彼特罗维奇还让这个仆人转告，他本人今天清早来我们这里。可是今天早晨他又没来，却送来了这封短简……您最好还是自己看看吧；信里有一点让我非常担心……您马上就会看到谈的是什么了，而且……请直言不讳地把您的意见告诉我，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇！您最了解罗佳的性格，也最能给我们出个主意。我先告诉您，杜涅奇卡已经作出决定，一看过信就决定了，可我还不知道该怎么办，所以……所以一直在等着您。”
拉祖米欣打开写着昨天日期的短简，看到上面写的是：
“普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜夫人：敬启者，因意外延误，未能亲至车站迎候尊驾，特派干员前往代候。又因参政院紧急事务亟待处理，且不愿妨碍夫人与令郎、阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜与兄长骨肉重新团聚，明晨亦不能与夫人晤面，为此深感遗憾。定于明晚八时整赴尊寓拜谒夫人，并冒昧附带提出一恳切而又坚决之请求，仆与夫人会晤时，希望罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇已不在座，因昨日仆于其病中前住探望时，彼曾对仆横加指责，无礼辱骂，此种侮辱，实属空前；此外，另有一事必须亲自向夫人作详细说明，亦望听取夫人对此作出解释。如不顾仆之请求，届时与罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇相遇，仆将被迫立即告退，则夫人咎由自取，勿谓言之不预也。仆修此书，盖恐有如下情况：仆探望罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇时，彼病情尚如此严重，而两小时后竟霍然痊愈，足见其已能离家前往尊寓。仆曾亲眼目睹，在一于马蹄下丧生之醉汉家中，借口安葬死者，彼竟将为数达二十五卢布之巨款赠予该醉汉之女，而伊乃一行为不端之女人，为此仆深感震惊，因仆得悉，此款夫人得来非易。谨此，请代向令爱阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜致意。请接受诚挚敬意。
您的忠实仆人
彼·卢任”
“我现在该怎么办呢，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说，几乎要哭出来了。“您说，我怎么能叫罗佳别来呢？昨天他那么坚决要求他妹妹拒绝与彼得·彼特罗维奇结婚，现在又叫我们别让他来！只要他知道了，他准会故意来的，那……到那时会怎样呢？”
“阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜怎么决定的，就怎么办好了，”
拉祖米欣立刻不慌不忙地回答。
“啊，我的天哪！她说……天知道她在说些什么，也不对我说明她有什么目的！她说，最好是，倒不是最好，而是，不知是为了什么，一定得让罗佳故意在今晚八点钟来这里，一定要让他们见面……我却连这封信也不想给他看到，想要通过您想个巧妙的办法，让他别来……因为他是那么容易发脾气，……而且我什么也不明白，又是死了个什么醉汉，又是什么女儿，他又怎么会把仅有的一点钱全都送给了这个女儿……这些钱……”
"Your humble servant,
"P. LUZHIN."
"What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?" began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. "How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, and . . . what will happen then?"
"Act on Avdotya Romanovna's decision," Razumihin answered calmly at once.
"Oh, dear me! She says . . . goodness knows what she says, she doesn't explain her object! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it's absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of being here at eight o'clock and that they must meet. . . . I didn't want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from coming by some stratagem with your help . . . because he is so irritable. . . . Besides I don't understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have given the daughter all the money . . . which . . ."
"Which cost you such sacrifice, mother," put in Avdotya Romanovna.
"He was not himself yesterday," Razumihin said thoughtfully, "if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too. . . . Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn't understand a word. . . . But last night, I myself . . ."
"The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and there I assure you we shall see at once what's to be done. Besides, it's getting late--good heavens, it's past ten," she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. "A present from her /fiance/," thought Razumihin.
"We must start, Dounia, we must start," her mother cried in a flutter. "He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful heavens!"
While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle; Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were not merely shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. "The queen who mended her stockings in prison," he thought, "must have looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levees."
"My God!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch," she added, glancing at him timidly.
"Don't be afraid, mother," said Dounia, kissing her, "better have faith in him."
"Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven't slept all night," exclaimed the poor woman.
They came out into the street.
"Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna . . . she was all in white . . . she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming me. . . . Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don't know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's dead!"
"No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"
"She died suddenly; and only fancy . . ."
"Afterwards, mamma," put in Dounia. "He doesn't know who Marfa Petrovna is."
"Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don't know what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation. . . . Don't be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what's the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?"
"Yes, I bruised it," muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
"I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault with me. . . . But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my . . . weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know."
"Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don't ask him too much about his health; he doesn't like that."
"Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the stairs. . . . What an awful staircase!"
"Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling," said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: "He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so."
"Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he has waked up."
The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they reached the landlady's door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out.
“这些钱是您很不容易弄来的，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜补充说。
“昨天他不大正常，”拉祖米欣若有所思地说。“要是你们知道昨天他在一家小饭馆里干了些什么的话，虽说他做得很聪明……嗯哼！我们昨天一道回家的时候，他的确跟我提到过一个死了的人和一个什么姑娘，不过我一句也没听懂……
其实我自己也……”
“妈妈，最好我们一起到他那儿去，请您相信，一到了那儿，我们立刻就会看出该怎么办了。再说，我们也该走了——上帝啊！十点多了！”她看了看用一条纤细的威尼斯表链挂在脖子上的、很好看的珐郎面金表，突然喊了一声，——这块金表和她的其他服饰极不协调。“未婚夫送的礼物”，拉祖米欣想。
“啊，该走了！……该走了，杜涅奇卡，该走了！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜焦急地忙乱起来，“他又会认为，我们这么久不去，准是还在为昨天的事生气呢。唉，我的天哪。”
这么说着，她慌忙披上披肩，戴上帽子；杜尼娅也穿戴起来。拉祖米欣发觉，她的手套不但是旧的，甚至也破了，然而服装的这种明显的寒酸样子甚至使两位女士显得特别尊严，那些衣着寒酸，可是善于打扮的人，总是具有这种特殊的尊严。拉祖米欣怀着崇敬的心情看着杜涅奇卡，并为自己能伴送她而感到自豪。“那位皇后，”他暗自想，“那位在监狱里补自己长袜的皇后①，看上去才像一位真正的皇后，甚至比她参加最豪华的庆典或接受朝见的时候更像一位真正的皇后。”
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①指法国路易十六的妻子，玛丽亚—安图安涅塔（一七五五——一七九三）。法国大革命时，她被关进监狱。
“我的天哪！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜突然高声说，“我哪会想到，我竟会像现在这样怕跟儿子、怕跟我亲爱的、亲爱的罗佳见面呢！……我害怕，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇！”
她怯生生地瞅了他一眼，补充说。
“您别怕，妈妈，”杜尼娅说着吻了吻她。“您最好是相信他。我相信。”
“唉，我的天哪！我也相信，可是整整一夜我都没睡！”这个可怜的女人高声说。
他们来到了街上。
“你要知道，杜涅奇卡，快到早晨的时候，我刚刚稍微打了个盹儿，忽然梦见了玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜……她穿着一身白衣服……来到我跟前，拉着我的手，对着我直摇头，而且是那么严厉，那么严厉，好像是责备我……这是好兆头吗？唉，我的天哪，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，您还不知道呢：玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜死了！”
“不，我不知道；哪一个玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜？”
“她是突然死的！您要知道……”
“以后再说吧，妈妈，”杜尼娅插嘴说，“因为他还不知道玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜是谁呢。”
“啊，您不知道吗？可我还以为您已经什么都知道了呢。请您原谅我，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，这几天我简直糊涂了。真的，我把您当成了我们的神明，所以才深信不疑，以为您已经全都知道了。我把您当成了亲人……我这么说，您可别生气。哎哟，我的天哪，您右手怎么了？受伤了？”
“是啊，受伤了，”感到非常幸福的拉祖米欣含糊不清地说。
“我有时候说话太直，所以杜尼娅常常纠正我……不过，我的天哪，他住在一间什么样的房子里啊！可是，他醒了没有？这个女人，他的女房东，认为这也叫房子吗？您听我说，您说过，他不喜欢流露自己的感情，那么我也许，由于我的……那些弱点，让他感到讨厌了吧？……您能教教我吗，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇？我对他该怎样呢？我，您要知道，我真完全不知所措了。”
“如果看到他皱眉，就不要钉着追问他；尤其是不要钉着追问他的健康状况：他不喜欢人家问他身体怎样。”
“唉，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，作母亲可真痛苦啊！不过，就是这道楼梯了……这楼梯多么可怕！”
“妈妈，您连脸色都发白了，镇静下来吧，我亲爱的，”杜尼娅亲热地对母亲说，“他看到您，应该感到幸福才对，您却这么折磨自己，”她两眼闪闪发亮，又补上一句。
“请你们稍等一等，我先去看看他醒了没有？”
两位女士悄悄地跟在走到前边先上楼去的拉祖米欣后面，已经走到四楼女房东的房门前时，发觉女房东的房门开着一条小缝，两只的溜溜转动的黑眼睛正从暗处注视着她们。当她们的目光碰到门后的目光时，房门突然砰地一声关上了，吓得普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜差点儿没有大叫起来。

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. . . .'"
佐西莫夫是个高大、肥胖的人，脸有点儿浮肿，面色苍白，脸上刮得干干净净，淡黄色的头发是直的，戴着眼镜，一只胖得有点儿发肿的手指上戴着一枚老大的镶宝石戒指。他大约有二十六、七岁。穿一件十分考究、料子轻而薄的、宽松的大衣，一条夏季穿的浅色长裤，总而言之，他身上的衣服全都是宽大的，很考究，而且是崭新的；内衣也无可挑剔，表链又粗又重。他一举一动都是慢腾腾的，好像有点儿萎靡不振，同时又故意作出一副随随便便的样子；随时都流露出自命不凡的神情，不过他竭力想把自己的自负隐藏起来。所有认识他的人都认为他是个难以相处的人，可是都说，他业务不错。
“老兄，我到你那儿去过两趟……你瞧，他醒过来了！”拉祖米欣大声说。
“我看到了，看到了；喂，现在自我感觉怎么样，啊？”佐西莫夫对拉斯科利尼科夫说，同时凝神细细打量着他，坐到沙发上他的脚边，立刻就尽可能懒洋洋地靠在沙发上了。
“心情一直忧郁，”拉祖米欣接着说，“我们刚刚给他换了内衣，他差点儿没哭起来。”
“这是可以理解的；内衣可以以后再换嘛，既然他自己不愿意……脉搏很正常。头还有点儿痛，是吧？”
“我没有病，我身体完全健康！”拉斯科利尼科夫执拗而又气愤地说，突然在沙发上欠起身来，两眼炯炯发光，可是立刻又倒到枕头上，转过脸去对着墙壁。佐西莫夫凝神注视着他。
“很好……一切都很好，”他懒洋洋地说。“吃过点儿什么吗？”
告诉了他，又问，可以给他吃什么。
“什么都能给他吃……汤，茶……蘑菇和黄瓜当然不能让他吃，牛肉也不行……还有，……啊，干吗尽说些没意思的话呢！……”他和拉祖米欣互相使了个眼色。“药水不要喝了，什么都不要了；明天我再来看看……本来今天也行，……嗯，是的……”
“明天晚上我领他去散散步！”拉祖米欣决定，“去尤苏波夫花园，然后去‘水晶宫’①。”
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①一八六二年彼得堡开了一家叫“水晶宫”的大饭店。“水晶宫”这个名称在当时颇为时髦，这是因为伦敦有一座“水晶宫”——为第一次世界工业博览会（一八五一）而建造的一座玻璃大楼。
“明天我连动都不让他动，不过……稍微动动也可以……
嗯，到时候再说吧。”
“唉，真遗憾，今天我刚好要为迁入新居请客，只两步远；要是他也能去就好了。哪怕在我们中间在沙发上躺一会儿也好！你去吗？”拉祖米欣突然对佐西莫夫说，“当心，可别忘了，你答应了的。”
“也许要稍迟一些去。他那里准备了些什么？”
“唉，没弄什么，茶，伏特加，鲱鱼。还有馅饼：来的都是自己人。”
“都是哪些人？”
“都是这儿的人，而且都是新人，真的，——也许只除了老舅舅，不过连他也是新人：昨天刚到彼得堡，不知来办什么事；我和他五年见一次面。”
“他是做什么的？”
“在县里当个邮政局长，就这样混了一辈子……领退休金了，六十五岁，没什么好说的……不过，我爱他。波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇要来：这个区里侦查科的科长……法学院的毕业生。对了，你认识他……”
“他也是你的什么亲戚？”
“最远的远亲；你干吗皱眉？怎么，你们吵过一次架，所以，大概你就不来了，是吗？”
“我才瞧不起他呢……”
“这样最好。嗯，那儿还有几个大学生，一个教师，一个小官，一个乐师，一个军官，扎苗托夫……”
“请你告诉我，你，或者他，”佐西莫夫朝拉斯科利尼科夫那边点了点头，“跟扎苗托夫能有什么共同之处呢？”
“唉，这些唠唠叨叨的人啊！原则……你太讲原则了，立足于原则，就会失去行动自由，这也就像站在弹簧上一样，都不敢随心所欲地动一动；可照我看，人好，——这就是原则，我什么也不想知道。扎苗托夫是个十分出色的人。”
“发不义之财。”
“哼，发不义之财，我才不在乎呢！发不义之财又怎样！”拉祖米欣突然大声叫喊，有点儿不自然地发起脾气来，“难道我向你称赞他发不义之财了吗？我说，只是从某一点来看，他是个好人！要是从各方面去看，还会剩下多少好人？我深信，那样的话，我这个人怕只值一个烤洋葱头，而且还要把你也搭上……”
“这太少了；我会给两个的……”
“可你嘛，我只给一个！再说点儿俏皮话吧！扎苗托夫还是个小孩子，我还会像对待小孩子那样揪他的头发呢，应当把他拉过来，而不是推开他。把一个人推开，这样你就不能改造他了，对一个小孩子来说，更是如此。对待小孩子需要加倍小心。唉，你们这些进步的笨蛋哪，什么都不懂！不尊重别人，也就是侮辱自己……如果你想知道的话，那么我们之间大概也有件共同的事情。”
“很想知道。”
“都是为了漆匠，也就是油漆工的那件案子……我们一定会把他救出来！其实现在也没什么大不了的了。现在案情已经毫无疑问，十分明显了！我们只不过是再加把劲而已。”
“什么油漆工啊！”
“怎么，难道我没讲过吗？没讲过？哦，想起来了，我只跟你说过一开始的情况……喏，就是杀死放高利贷的老太婆，杀死那个官太太的凶杀案……现在有个油漆工也牵连进去了……”
“关于这件凶杀案，你告诉我以前，我就听说了，而且对这件案子甚至还很感兴趣……这多多少少是因为……有一次碰巧……在报纸上也看到过！这……”
“莉扎薇塔也给杀死了！”娜斯塔西娅冷不丁突然对拉斯科利尼科夫说。他一直待在屋里，紧靠在门边，听着。
“莉扎薇塔？”拉斯科利尼科夫用勉强可以听到的声音喃喃地说。
“莉扎薇塔，那个女小贩，你不认识吗？她常到这儿楼下来。还给你补过衬衣呢。”
拉斯科利尼科夫转过脸去，面对着墙壁，在已经很脏、印着小白花的黄色墙纸上挑了一朵上面有褐色条纹、而且很难看的小白花，仔细观察起来：这朵花上有几片花瓣，花瓣上的锯齿是什么样的，上面有几条条纹？他感觉到，他的手脚都麻木了，好像已经瘫痪了，可是他并不试着动一动，仍然执拗地盯着那朵小花。
“那个油漆工怎么样了？”佐西莫夫极为不满地打断了娜斯塔西娅的话。她叹了口气，不作声了。
“也被当作凶手了！”拉祖米欣激动地接着说。
“有什么罪证吗？”
“有什么罪证啊？不过，正是因为有罪证，可这罪证不能算是证据，需要证明的就正是这一点！这完全跟一开始他们逮捕和怀疑这两个，啊！想起来了……科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫一模一样。呸，这一切做得多么愚蠢，就连从旁观者的观点来看，也觉得太恶劣了！佩斯特里亚科夫也许今天会来我家……顺带说一声，罗佳，这件案子你是知道的，还在你病倒以前就发生了，正好是你在警察局里昏倒的头一天，当时那里正在谈论这个案子……”
佐西莫夫好奇地瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫；后者一动不动。
“你知道吗，拉祖米欣？我倒要瞧瞧，你这个爱打抱不平的人到底有多大神通，”佐西莫夫说。
“就算是吧，不过我们还是一定要把他救出来！”拉祖米欣用拳头捶了一下桌子，大声叫嚷。“你知道这儿最气人的是什么吗？气人的倒不是他们撒谎；撒谎总是可以宽恕的；撒谎不是坏事，因为谎言会导致真理。不，气人的是他们说谎，还对自己的谎言顶礼膜拜。我尊敬波尔菲里，不过……譬如说吧，一开始是什么把他们搞糊涂了呢？房门本来是扣着的，可是和管院子的一道回来——却是开着的：可见杀人的就是科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫！瞧，这就是他们的逻辑。”
“你别急呀；只不过是拘留了他们；可不能……顺便说一声：我遇到过这个科赫；原来他向老太婆收购过逾期的抵押品？是吗？”
“对，是个骗子！他也收购票据。是个投机商人。叫他见鬼去吧！可我为什么生气呢，你明白吗？惹我生气的是他们陈腐，庸俗，一成不变，因循守旧……而这里，单从这一个案件里就可以发现一条全新的途径。单是根据心理上的材料就可以看出，应该怎样做才能发现真正的蛛丝马迹。‘我们，’他们说，‘有事实！’可事实并不是一切；至少有一半要看你是不是会分析这些事实！”
“你会分析这些事实吗？”
“不是吗，当你感觉到，凭直觉感觉到，你能为这个案子提供一些帮助的时候，是不能保持沉默的，假如……唉！你了解这个案子的详情细节吗？”
“我正等着听听这个油漆工的情况呢。”
“啊，对了！好，你听着，是这么回事：正好是在凶杀案发生以后第三天，一大清早，他们还在那儿跟科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫纠缠不休的时候，——尽管他们两个每人都已证明了自己的每一步行动：提出的证据是无可怀疑的！——就在这时候，突然出现了最出人意料的事实。有个姓杜什金的人，就是那幢房子对面一家小酒铺的老板，来到警察局，拿来一个装着一副金耳环的小首饰匣，讲了这么一篇故事：‘前天晚上他跑到我这里来，大约是八点刚过，’这是日期和时间！你注意到吗？‘在这以前白天就来过我这儿的那个油漆匠，米科拉，拿来了这个装着金耳环和宝石的小匣子，要用这作抵押，跟我借两个卢布，我问：哪儿弄来的？他说，是在人行道上捡来的。我没再多问，’这是杜什金说的，‘给了他一张票子——也就是一个卢布，——因为我想，他不向我抵押，也会向别人抵押，反正一样，他准是买酒，把它喝光，最好还是让东西放在我这儿：最好把它保存起来，说不定以后会有用处，万一出什么事，或者有什么谣言，我立刻就把它交出去。’哼，当然啦，他说的全是谎话，全是胡扯，因为我认识这个杜什金，他自己就是个放高利贷、窝藏脏物的家伙，他从米科拉手里把这件值三十卢布的东西骗过来，根本不是为了‘交出去’。他只不过是害怕了。哼，去他的，你听着；杜什金接着又说：‘这个乡下人，米科拉·杰缅季耶夫，我从小就认识，我们是同省同县，扎拉斯基县的人，所以我们都是梁赞人。米科拉虽然不是酒鬼，可是爱喝两杯，我们大家都知道，他就在这幢房子里干活，跟米特列一道油漆，他跟米特列也是小同乡。他拿到一卢布的票子，马上就把它换开，立刻喝了两杯酒，拿了找头就走了，那时候我没看到米特列跟他在一起。第二天我们听说，阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜和她妹妹莉扎薇塔·伊万诺芙娜叫人拿斧头杀死了，我们都认得她们，这时耳环让我起了疑心，——因为我们知道，死者经常放债，收下人家的东西，作为抵押。我到那幢房子里去找他们，小心谨慎地悄悄打听，首先问：米科拉在这儿吗？米特列说，米科拉出去玩儿去了，到天亮才回来，喝得醉醺醺的，在家里待了约摸十分钟，又出去了，后来米特列就没再见到过他，活儿是他独自个儿干完的。他们干活的那儿跟被人杀死的那两个人走的是同一道楼梯，在二楼。我们听了这些话以后，当时对谁也没说过什么，’这是杜什金说的，‘杀人的事，我们尽可能都打听清楚了，回到家里，心里还是觉得怀疑。今天一清早，八点钟，’就是说，这已经是第三天了，你明白吗？‘我看到，米科拉进来找我了，他不大清醒，可也不是醉得很厉害，跟他说话，他还能听得懂。他坐到长凳上，一声不响。除了他，那时候酒店里只有一个外人，还有一个人在长凳上睡觉，跟我们认识，还有两个孩子，是我们那儿跑堂的。我问：“你看见米特列了吗？”他说：“没有，没看见。”“你也没来过这儿？”“没来过，”他说，“有两天多没来过了。”“昨天夜里你在哪里过的夜？”他说：“在沙区①，住在科洛姆纳②的人那里。”我说：“耳环是打哪儿弄来的？”“在人行道上捡的，”他说这话的时候神气不大对头，而且不看着我。我说：“你听说过就在那天晚上，那个时刻，那道楼梯上，发生了这么一桩事吗？”“没有，”他说，“没听说过，”可是他瞪着眼听着，脸刷地一下子变得煞白，简直像刷墙的白灰。我一边讲给他听，一边瞅着他，可他拿起帽子，站了起来。这时我想留住他，我说：“等等，米科拉，不喝一杯吗？”说着我向一个跑堂的小鬼使了个眼色，叫他在门口拦着，我从柜台后走了出来：他立刻从我身边跑开，逃到街上，拔脚就跑，钻进了一条小胡同里，——一转眼就不见了。这时我不再怀疑了，因为他犯了罪，这是明摆着的……’”
"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.
①沙区是彼得堡的一个远郊区，因那里的土壤是沙土而得名。
②科洛姆纳是彼得堡的另一个区。
③量酒的容量，约合○·○六公升。
“那还用说！”佐西莫夫说。
“别忙！你先听完！他们当然立刻去搜捕米科拉：把杜什金也拘留了，进行了搜查，米特列也给拘留了起来；也审问了科洛姆纳的居民，——不过前天突然把米科拉带来了：在×城门附近一家客店里拘留了他。他来到那里，从脖子上摘下一个银十字架，要用十字架换一什卡利克③酒喝。换给了他。过了一会儿，一个乡下女人到牛棚里去，从板壁缝里看到：他在隔壁板棚里把一根宽腰带拴到房梁上，结了个活扣；站到一块木头上，想把活扣套到自己脖子上；那女人拼命叫喊起来，大家都跑来了，问他：‘你是什么人！’他说：‘你们带我到××分局去好了，我全都招认’。把他客客气气地送到了这个警察分局，也就是送到了这里。于是审问他，问这，问那，叫什么，干什么的，多大年纪，——‘二十二岁’——以及其他等等。问：‘你跟米特列一道干活的时候，在某时某刻，看到楼梯上有什么人吗？’回答：‘大家都知道，总有人上来下去，不过我们没注意。’‘没听到什么响声，什么喧闹声吗？’‘没听到什么特别的响声。’‘当天你知道不知道，米科拉，就在那天那个时候，有这么一个寡妇和她妹妹被人杀害，遭到了抢劫？’‘我什么也不知道。第三天才在小酒店里头一次听阿凡纳西·帕夫雷奇说起这件事。’‘耳环是从哪儿弄来的？’‘在人行道上捡的。’‘为什么第二天你没和米特列一道去干活？’‘因为我喝酒去了。’‘在哪儿喝酒？’‘在某处某处。’‘为什么从杜什金那儿逃跑？’‘因为当时我很害怕。’‘怕什么？’‘怕给我判罪。’‘既然你觉得自己没犯罪，那你怎么会害怕呢？……’嗯，信不信由你，佐西莫夫，这个问题提出来了，而且一字不差，就是这么问的，这我肯定知道，人家准确无误地把原话告诉了我！怎么样？怎么样？”
“啊，不，但罪证是有的。”
“可现在我说的不是罪证，而是问题，说的是他们怎样理解实质！唉，见鬼！……他们一再施加压力，逼供，于是他就招认了：‘不是在人行道上捡的，’他说，‘是在我跟米特列一道油漆的那套房子里捡到的。’‘怎么捡到的？’‘是这么捡到的：我和米特列油漆了一整天，一直到八点钟，已经打算走了，可是米特列拿起刷子，往我脸上抹油漆，他抹了我一脸漆，转身就跑，我在他后面追。我在后面追他，边追边喊；刚一下楼梯，正往大门口跑，我一下子撞到管院子的和几位先生身上，有几位先生跟他在一起，我记不得了，为了这，管院子的把我大骂了一顿，另一个管院子的也骂了我，管院子的人的老婆也跑出来骂我们，有一位先生和一位太太走进大门，他也骂我们，因为我和米特列横躺在那里，拦住了路：我揪住米特列的头发，把他按倒在地上，拿拳头捶他，米特列也从我身子底下揪住我的头发，拿拳头捶我，我们这样打架不是因为谁恨谁，而是因为我们要好，闹着玩儿。后来米特列挣脱出来，往街上跑去，我跟在他后面追，没追上，就一个人回到那套房子里，——因为，得收拾收拾。我动手收拾东西，等着米特列，他也许会回来。在穿堂门后的墙角落里忽然踩到一个小盒子。我一看，有个小盒子，包在纸里。我把纸拆开，看到有几个那么小的小钩，我把小钩扳开——原来小盒子里装着耳环……’”
“在门后边？放在门后边？在门后边？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然高声叫喊，用浑浊、惊恐的目光瞅着拉祖米欣，用一只手撑着，在沙发上慢慢欠起身来。
“是啊……怎么呢？你怎么了？你怎么这样？”拉祖米欣也从座位上欠起身来。
“没什么！……”拉斯科利尼科夫用勉强可以听到的声音回答，又倒在枕头上，转过脸去，对着墙壁。有一会工夫，大家都默不作声。
“大概，他打了个盹儿，还没完全睡醒，”最后，拉祖米欣疑问地望着佐西莫夫说；佐西莫夫轻轻地摇摇头，表示不同意他的说法。
“好，接着说吧，”佐西莫夫说，“以后怎么样了？”
“以后怎么样了？他一看到耳环，立刻把那套房子和米特列全都忘了，拿起帽子，跑到了杜什金那里，大家都已经知道，他从杜什金那里拿到了一个卢布，却对杜什金撒了个谎，说是在人行道上捡的，而且马上就把钱换开，买酒喝了。对于杀人的事，他还是说：‘什么都不知道，只是到第三天才听说的。’‘为什么到现在你一直不露面呢？’‘因为害怕。’‘为什么要上吊？’‘因为担心。’‘担心什么？’‘给我判罪。’瞧，这就是事情的全部经过。现在你是怎么想呢，他们从中得出了什么结论？”
“有什么好想的呢，线索是有的，不管是什么线索吧，可总是线索。事实。你不会认为该把你的油漆工释放了吧？”
“可是现在他们已经认定他就是凶手了！他们已经毫不怀疑……”
“你胡扯；你太性急了。那么耳环呢？你得同意，如果耳环就是在那一天那个时候从老太婆的箱子里落到尼古拉①手里的，——你得同意，它们总得通过某种方式才能落到他的手里，对不对呢？在这类案件的侦查过程中，这具有相当重要的意义。”
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①尼古拉即米科拉。
“怎么落到他手里的！怎么落到他手里的？”拉祖米欣高声叫喊，“难道你，医生，作为一个首先必须研究人、比任何人都更有机会研究人的本性的医生，难道你还没看出，根据所有这些材料来看，这个尼古拉的本性是什么样的吗？难道你还没一眼看出，在审问中他供述的一切都是绝对不容怀疑的实情吗？耳环正是像他供述的那样落到他手里的。他踩到了小盒子，于是把它捡了起来！”
“绝对不容怀疑的实情！可是他自己也供认，从一开始他就撒了谎。”
“你听我说。你留心听着：管院子的、科赫、佩斯特里亚科夫、另一个管院子的、第一个管院子的人的妻子、当时正坐在她屋里的一个女人、七等文官克留科夫，就在这时候他正从马车上下来，搀着一位太太的手走进大门，——所有的人，也就是有八个或九个证人，都异口同声地证明，尼古拉把德米特里①按倒在地上，压在他身上用拳头揍他，德米特里也揪住尼古拉的头发，用拳头揍他。他们横躺在路上，拦住了道路；四面八方都在骂他们，可他们却‘像小孩子一样’（证人们的原话），一个压在一个身上，尖声大叫，打架，哈哈大笑，两人争先恐后地哈哈大笑，两人的脸都滑稽得要命，像孩子样互相追赶着，跑到街上去了。你听到了吗？现在请你注意，可别忽略过去：楼上尸体还有热气，听到了吗，发现尸体的时候，尸体还有热气！如果是他们杀的，或者是尼古拉独自一个人杀的，还撬开箱子，抢走了财物，或者仅仅是以某种方式参加了抢劫，那么请允许我向你提个问题，只提一个问题：这样的精神状态，也就是尖声叫喊，哈哈大笑，像小孩子样在大门口打架，——这样的精神状态与斧头、鲜血、恶毒的诡计、小心谨慎、抢劫，能够协调得起来吗？刚刚杀了人，总共才不过过了五分钟或十分钟，——所以得出这一结论，是因为尸体还有热气，——他们知道马上就会有人来，却突然丢下尸体，让房门散着离开了那套房间，而且丢下了到手的财物，像小孩子样在路上滚作一团，哈哈大笑，把大家的注意力都吸引到自己身上来，而异口同声证明这一情况的足有十个证人！”
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①德米特里即米特列。
“当然，奇怪！当然，这不可能，不过……”
“不，老兄，不是不过，而是，如果就在那同一天同一时刻落到尼古拉手里的耳环的确是对他不利的物证——然而这物证已直接由他的供词作了说明，所以这还是一个有争议的物证，——那就也应该考虑到那些证明他无罪的事实，何况这些事实都是无法反驳的呢。你是怎么认为呢，根据我们法学的特性来看，他们会不会，或者能不能把仅仅基于心理上不可能、仅仅基于精神状态的事实看作无法反驳的事实，因而可以推翻所有认为有罪的物证，而不管这些物证是什么东西？不，他们决不会接受这样的事实，无论如何也不会接受的，因为他们发现了那个小盒子，而这个人又想上吊，‘如果他不是觉得自己有罪，就不可能这么做！’这是个主要问题，这就是我为什么着急的原因！你要明白！”
“我看出来了，你在着急。等等，我忘了问一声：有什么能够证明，装着耳环的小盒子确实是老太婆箱子里的东西？”
“这已经证明了，”拉祖米欣皱起眉头，好像不乐意似地回答，“科赫认出了这东西，并且指出了谁是抵押人，后者肯定地证明，东西确实是他的。”
“糟糕。现在还有一个问题：科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫上楼去的时候，有没有人看到过尼古拉，能不能以什么方式证明这一点？”
“问题就在这里了，谁也没看到过他，”拉祖米欣感到遗憾地说，“糟就糟在这里，就连科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫上楼去的时候也没看到他们，虽说他们的证明现在也没有多大的意义。他们说：‘我们看到，房门开着，想必有人在里面干活，不过打开前门经过的时候没有注意，也记不清当时里面有没有工人了。’”
“嗯哼。所以仅有的能为他们辩护的理由，就是他们互相用拳头捶打和哈哈大笑了。即使这是有力的证据吧，不过……现在请问：你自己对全部事实作何解释呢？如果耳环的确是像他供述的那样拾到的，那你对这一事实又怎样解释呢？”
“我怎样解释吗？可这有什么好解释的：事情是明摆着的！至少侦查这件案子的途径已经清清楚楚，得到证实了，而且正是这个小盒子证实的。真正的凶手无意中失落了这副耳环。科赫和佩斯特里亚科夫在楼上敲门的时候，凶手扣上门躲在里面。科赫干了件蠢事，下楼去了；这时凶手跳出来，也往楼下跑，因为他再没有别的出路。在楼梯上，为了躲开科赫、佩斯特里亚科夫和管院子的，他藏进那套空房子里，而这恰好是在德米特里和尼古拉从屋里跑出去的那个时候，管院子的和那两个人从门前经过的时候，他站在门后，等到脚步声消失了，他才沉着地走下楼去，而这又正好是在德米特里和尼古拉跑到街上去的那个时候，大家都已经散了，大门口已经一个人也没有了。也许有人看到了他，可是没注意；进进出出的人多着呢！当他躲在门后的时候，小盒子从口袋里掉了出来，可他没发觉掉了，因为他顾不上这个。小盒子明确无误地证明，真正的凶手正是站在那里的。全部情况就是如此！”
“不简单！不，老兄，这真够巧妙的。这太巧妙了！”
“可是为什么，为什么呢？”
“因为这一切凑得太巧了……而且错综复杂……简直像演戏一样。”
“唉！”拉祖米欣大声叫道，但就在这时，房门开了，进来一个从未见过的人，在座的人谁也不认识他。

第五章 This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov's low and narrow "cabin." With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this "cabin" by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov: "Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?" Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him. "Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?" This familiar "what do you want" seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again. "This is Raskolnikov," mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunter's case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back. Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said "This is Raskolnikov" he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated: "Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?" The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively: "Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?" But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time. "Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no information?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted. In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin's face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment. "I had presumed and calculated," he faltered, "that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago . . ." "I say, why are you standing in the doorway?" Razumihin interrupted suddenly. "If you've something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here's a chair, thread your way in!" He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to "thread his way in." The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin. "No need to be nervous," the latter blurted out. "Rodya has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of Rodya's, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nursing him; so don't you take any notice of us, but go on with your business." "Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?" Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov. "N-no," mumbled Zossimov; "you may amuse him." He yawned again. "He has been conscious a long time, since the morning," went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good- nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student. "Your mamma," began Luzhin. "Hm!" Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly. "That's all right, go on." Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. "Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment . . ." "I know, I know!" Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. "So you are the /fiance/? I know, and that's enough!" There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch's being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment's silence. Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of "fiance" so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed--a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the role of fiance. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor's and were all right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr Petrovitch's attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly upon his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser's, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before. But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities. "I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation," he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. "If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute." Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on: ". . . Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival." "Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly. "Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house." "That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin. "There are two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I've been there." "Yes, rooms . . ." "A disgusting place--filthy, stinking and, what's more, of doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It's cheap, though . . ." "I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself," Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. "However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time . . . I have already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev's house, too . . ." "Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something. "Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?" "Yes . . . no," Raskolnikov answered. "Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian. . . . A very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns new things from them." Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all. 这是一位年纪已经不轻的先生，拘谨古板，神态庄严，脸上的表情给人以谨小慎微、牢骚满腹的印象，他一进门，先站在门口，带着令人难受的、毫不掩饰的惊讶神色往四下里打量了一番，仿佛用目光在问：“我这是到了哪里了？”他怀疑地、甚至故意装作有点儿惊恐、甚至是受了侮辱的样子，环顾拉斯科利尼科夫这间狭小、低矮的“船舱”。他又带着同样惊讶的神情把目光转移到拉斯科利尼科夫身上，然后凝神注视着他，拉斯科利尼科夫没穿外衣，头发散乱，没洗过脸，躺在一张小得可怜的脏沙发上，也在拿眼睛盯着来人，细细打量他。随后他又同样慢条斯理地打量衣衫不整、没刮过脸、也没梳过头的拉祖米欣，拉祖米欣没有离开自己的座位，也大胆地用疑问的目光直瞅着他的眼睛。紧张的沉默持续了大约一分钟光景，最后，气氛发生了小小的变化，而这也是应该预料到的。根据某种、不过是相当明显的反应，进来的这位先生大概意识到，在这里，在这间“船舱”里，过分的威严姿态根本不起任何作用，于是他的态度变得稍微温和些了，尽管仍然有点儿严厉，却是彬彬有礼地、每一个音节都说得清清楚楚地问佐西莫夫： “这位就是罗季昂·罗曼内奇·拉斯科利尼科夫，大学生先生，或者以前是大学生？” 佐西莫夫慢慢地动了动，也许是会回答他的，如果不是他根本就没去问的拉祖米欣立刻抢先回答了他的话： “喏，他就躺在沙发上！您有什么事？” 这句不拘礼节的“您有什么事”可惹恼了这位古板的先生；他甚至差点儿没有转过脸去，面对着拉祖米欣，不过还是及时克制住了，随即赶快又向佐西莫夫回过头来。 “这就是拉斯科利尼科夫！”佐西莫夫朝病人点了点头，懒洋洋地说，然后打了个呵欠，不知怎的嘴张得特别大，而且这个张着嘴的姿势持续的时间也特别长。随后他从自己坎肩口袋里慢慢掏出一块很大的、凸起来的、带盖的金表，打开表看了看，又同样慢腾腾、懒洋洋地把表装回到口袋里。 拉斯科利尼科夫本人一直默默地仰面躺着，凝神注视着来客，虽说他这样看着他，并没有任何用意。现在他已经转过脸来，不再看墙纸上那朵奇异的小花了，他的脸看上去异常苍白，露出异乎寻常的痛苦神情，仿佛他刚刚经受了一次痛苦的手术，或者刚刚经受过一次严刑拷打。但是进来的这位先生渐渐地越来越引起他的注意，后来使他感到困惑，后来又引起他的怀疑，甚至似乎使他觉得害怕起来。当佐西莫夫指了指他，说：“这就是拉斯科利尼科夫”的时候，他突然十分迅速地、仿佛猛一下子欠起身来，坐到床上，几乎用挑衅的、然而是断断续续的微弱声音说： “对！我就是拉斯科利尼科夫！您要干什么？” 客人注意地看了看他，庄严地说： “彼得·彼特罗维奇·卢任。我深信，我的名字对您已经不是完全一无所闻了。” 但是拉斯科利尼科夫等待的完全是另一回事，脸上毫无表情、若有所思地瞅了瞅他，什么也没回答，好像彼得·彼特罗维奇这个名字他完全是头一次听到似的。 “怎么？难道您至今还未得到任何消息吗？”彼得·彼特罗维奇有点儿不快地问。 拉斯科利尼科夫对他的回答是慢慢倒到枕头上，双手垫在头底下，开始望着天花板。卢任的脸上露出烦恼的神情。佐西莫夫和拉祖米欣怀着更强烈的好奇心细细打量起他来，最后他显然发窘了。 “我推测，我估计，”他慢吞吞地说，“十多天前，甚至几乎是两星期前发出的信……” “喂，您为什么一直站在门口呢？”拉祖米欣突然打断了他的话，“既然您有话要说，那就请坐吧，不过你们两位，您和娜斯塔西娅都站在那儿未免太挤了。娜斯塔西尤什卡，让开点儿，让他进来！请进，这是椅子，请到这边来！挤进来吧！” 他把自己那把椅子从桌边挪开一些，在桌子和自己的膝盖之间腾出一块不大的空间，以稍有点儿局促的姿势坐在那儿，等着客人“挤进”这条夹缝里来。时机挑得刚好合适，使客人无论如何也不能拒绝，于是他急急忙忙、磕磕绊绊，挤进这块狭窄的空间。客人来到椅子边，坐下，怀疑地瞅了瞅拉祖米欣。 “不过，请您不要觉得难堪，拉祖米欣贸然地说，“罗佳生病已经四天多了，说了三天胡话，现在清醒了过来，甚至吃东西也有胃口了。那边坐着的是他的医生，刚给他作了检查，我是罗佳的同学，从前也是大学生，现在在照看他；所以请不要理会我们，也不要感到拘束，您要说什么，就接着往下说吧。” “谢谢你们。不过我的来访和谈话会不会惊动病人呢！”彼得·彼特罗维奇对佐西莫夫说。 “不一会，”佐西莫夫懒洋洋地说，“您甚至能为他排忧解闷，”说罢又打了个呵欠。 “噢，他早就清醒过来了，从早上就清醒了！”拉祖米欣接着说，他那不拘礼节的态度让人感到完全是一种真诚朴实的表现，所以彼得·彼特罗维奇思索了一下以后，鼓起勇气来了，也许这或多或少是因为这个衣衫褴褛、像个无赖的人自称是大学生的缘故。 “令堂……”卢任开口说。 “嗯哼！”拉祖米欣很响地哼了一声，卢任疑问地瞅了瞅他。 “没什么，我并没有什么意思；请说吧……” 卢任耸了耸肩。 “……我还在她们那里的时候，令堂就给您写信来了。来到这里，我故意等了几天，没来找您，想等到深信您一切都已知悉以后再来；但是现在使我惊奇的是……” “我知道，知道！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然用最不耐烦的懊恼语气说。“这就是您吗？未婚夫？哼，我知道！……够了！” 彼得·彼特罗维奇气坏了，不过什么也没说。他努力匆匆思索，想弄清这一切意味着什么。沉默持续了大约一分钟光景。 拉斯科利尼科夫回答他的时候，本已稍微转过脸来，面对着他了，这时突然又重新凝神注视，怀着某种特殊的好奇心细细打量起他来，仿佛刚才还没看清他这个人，或者似乎是卢任身上有什么新的东西使他吃了一惊：为了看清卢任，他甚至故意从枕头上稍稍欠起身来。真的，彼得·彼特罗维奇的全部外表的确好像有某种不同寻常的东西，让人感到惊奇，似乎足以证明，刚才那样无礼地管他叫“未婚夫”，并非毫无道理。第一，可以看得出来。而且甚至是太明显了：他急于加紧利用待在首都的这几天时间，把自己打扮打扮，美化一番，等待着未婚妻到来，不过这是完全无可非议，也是完全可以允许的。在这种情况下，甚至自以为，也许甚至是过分得意地自以为打扮得更加讨人喜欢了，这也是可以原谅的，因为彼得·彼特罗维奇是未婚夫嘛。他的全身衣服都新做的，而且都很好，也许只有一样不好：所有衣服都太新了，也过于明显地暴露了众所周知的目的。就连那顶漂亮、崭新的圆呢帽也说明了这个目的：彼得·彼特罗维奇对这顶呢帽尊敬得有点儿过分，把它拿在手里的那副小心谨慎的样子也太过火了。就连那副非常好看的、真正茹文①生产的雪青色手套也说明了同样的目的，单从这一点来看也足以说明问题了：他不是把手套戴在手上，而是只拿在手里，摆摆派头。彼得·彼特罗维奇衣服的颜色是明快的浅色，这种颜色多半适合年轻人穿着。他穿一件漂亮的浅咖啡色夏季西装上衣，一条轻而薄的浅色长裤，一件同样料子的坎肩和一件刚买来的、做工精细的衬衣，配一条带玫瑰色条纹的、轻柔的上等细麻纱领带，而最妙的是：这一切对彼得·彼特罗维奇甚至还挺合适。他容光焕发，甚至还有点儿好看，本来看上去就不像满四十五岁的样子。乌黑的络腮胡子像两个肉饼，遮住他的双颊，很讨人喜欢，密密地汇集在刮得发亮的下巴两边，显得十分漂亮。他的头发虽已稍有几茎银丝，却梳得光光滑滑，还请理发师给卷过，可是在这种情况下，就连他的头发也并不显得好笑，虽说卷过的头发通常总是会让人觉得可笑，因为这必然会使人的脸上出现去举行婚礼的德国人的神情。如果说这张相当漂亮而庄严的脸上当真有某种让人感到不快或使人反感的地方，那么这完全是由于别的原因。拉斯科利尼科夫毫不客气、仔仔细细地把卢任先生打量了一番，恶毒地笑了笑，又倒到枕头上，仍然去望天花板。 -------- ①茹文系比利时的一个城市。 但是卢任先生竭力克制着，好像决定暂时不理会这些古怪行为。 “发现您处于这样的状况，我感到非常、非常难过，”他想努力打破沉默，又开口说。“如果我知道您身体欠佳，我早就来了。不过，您要知道，事情太多！……加上还要在参政院里办理一件我的律师业务方面的事情。至于您可以猜得到的那些急于要办的事，我就不提了。我随时都在等待着您的，也就是说，等待令堂和令妹到来……” 拉斯科利尼科夫稍动了动，想说什么；他的脸上露出激动不安的神情。彼得·彼特罗维奇停顿下来，等着，但是因为什么也没听到，于是又接着说下去： “……随时等待着。给她们找了一处房子，先让她们暂时住着……” “在哪儿？”拉斯科利尼科夫虚弱无力地问。 “离这儿不太远，巴卡列耶夫的房子……” “这是在沃兹涅先斯基街，”拉祖米欣插嘴说，“那房子有两层，是家小旅馆；商人尤申开的；我去过。” “是的，是家小旅馆……” “那地方极其可怕、非常讨厌：又脏又臭，而且可疑；经常出事；鬼知道那儿住着些什么人！……为了一件丢脸的事，我去过那儿。不过，房租便宜。” “我当然没能了解这么多情况，因为我也是刚来到这里，”彼得·彼特罗维奇很爱面子地反驳说，“不过，是两间非常、非常干净的房间，因为这只是住很短的一段时间……我已经找到了一套正式的，也就是我们未来的住房，”他转过脸来，对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“目前正在装修；暂时我自己也是在这样的房间里挤一挤，离这儿只有几步路，是利佩韦赫泽尔太太的房子，住在我的一位年轻朋友安德烈·谢苗内奇·列别贾特尼科夫的房间里；就是他指点我，叫我去找巴卡列耶夫的房子……” “列别贾特尼科夫的？”拉斯科利尼科夫仿佛想起什么，慢慢地说。 “是的，安德烈·谢苗内奇·列别贾特尼科夫，在部里任职。您认识他？” “是的……不……”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。 “请原谅，因为您这样问，我才觉得您认识他。我曾经是他的监护人……是个很可爱的年轻人……对新思想很感兴趣……我很喜欢会见青年人：从他们那里可以知道，什么是新事物。”彼得·彼特罗维奇满怀希望地扫视了一下在座的人。 "How do you mean?" asked Razumihin. "In the most serious and essential matters," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted at the question. "You see, it's ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it's my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted . . ." "At what?" "Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality . . ." "That's true," Zossimov let drop. "Nonsense! There's no practicality." Razumihin flew at him. "Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting," he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, "and desire for good exists, though it's in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there's no practicality. Practicality goes well shod." "I don't agree with you," Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment. "Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It's my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious prejudice have been rooted up and turned into ridicule. . . . In a word, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing . . ." "He's learnt it by heart to show off!" Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly. "What?" asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no reply. "That's all true," Zossimov hastened to interpose. "Isn't it so?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. "You must admit," he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness--he almost added "young man"--"that there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth . . ." "A commonplace." "No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, 'love thy neighbour,' what came of it?" Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with excessive haste. "It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it, 'Catch several hares and you won't catch one.' Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised in society--the more whole coats, so to say--the firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to bring to pass my neighbour's getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it . . ." "Excuse me, I've very little wit myself," Razumihin cut in sharply, "and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I've grown so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don't blame you, that's quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That's enough!" "Excuse me, sir," said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive dignity. "Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too . . ." "Oh, my dear sir . . . how could I? . . . Come, that's enough," Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation. Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two. "I trust our acquaintance," he said, addressing Raskolnikov, "may, upon your recovery and in view of the circumstances of which you are aware, become closer . . . Above all, I hope for your return to health . . ." Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from his chair. "One of her customers must have killed her," Zossimov declared positively. "Not a doubt of it," replied Razumihin. "Porfiry doesn't give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there." "Examining them?" Raskolnikov asked aloud. "Yes. What then?" "Nothing." "How does he get hold of them?" asked Zossimov. "Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves." "It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!" "That's just what it wasn't!" interposed Razumihin. "That's what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn't work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it's clear that it was only a chance that saved him--and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman's trunks, her rags--and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel!" "You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?" Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression and his vanity overcame his prudence. "Yes. You've heard of it?" "Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood." "Do you know the details?" "I can't say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case-- the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student's robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain. . . . And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society--for peasants don't pawn gold trinkets-- how are we to explain this demoralisation of the civilised part of our society?" "There are many economic changes," put in Zossimov. "How are we to explain it?" Razumihin caught him up. "It might be explained by our inveterate impracticality." "How do you mean?" "What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? 'Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.' I don't remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We've grown used to having everything ready-made, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck,(*) and every man showed himself in his true colours." (*) The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. "But morality? And so to speak, principles . . ." "But why do you worry about it?" Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. "It's in accordance with your theory!" "In accordance with my theory?" "Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed . . ." "Upon my word!" cried Luzhin. "No, that's not so," put in Zossimov. Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. "There's a measure in all things," Luzhin went on superciliously. "Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose . . ." "And is it true," Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, "is it true that you told your /fiancee/ . . . within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most . . . was that she was a beggar . . . because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?" "Upon my word," Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, "to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I . . . suspect who . . . in a word . . . this arrow . . . in a word, your mamma . . . She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking. . . . But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way. . . . And indeed . . . indeed . . ." "I tell you what," cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, "I tell you what." "What?" Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds. "Why, if ever again . . . you dare to mention a single word . . . about my mother . . . I shall send you flying downstairs!" "What's the matter with you?" cried Razumihin. "So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let me tell you, sir," he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, "at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you . . . never after this . . ." "I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov. "So much the worse . . ." "Go to hell!" But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received. "How could you--how could you!" Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity. "Let me alone--let me alone all of you!" Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. "Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!" "Come along," said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin. "But we can't leave him like this!" "Come along," Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him. "It might be worse not to obey him," said Zossimov on the stairs. "He mustn't be irritated." "What's the matter with him?" "If only he could get some favourable shock, that's what would do it! At first he was better. . . . You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him. . . . I am very much afraid so; he must have!" "Perhaps it's that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness. . . ." "Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excited--that's the murder?" "Yes, yes," Razumihin agreed, "I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted." "Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I'll go and see him again. . . . There'll be no inflammation though." "Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya. . . ." Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered. "Won't you have some tea now?" she asked. "Later! I am sleepy! Leave me." He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out. “这是指哪一方面呢？”拉祖米欣问。 “指最重要的，也可以说是最本质的东西，”彼得·彼特罗维奇赶快接着说，似乎这个问题使他感到高兴。“要知道，我已经十年没来彼得堡了。所有我们这些新事物、改革和新思想——所有这一切，我们在外省也接触到了；不过要想看得更清楚，什么都能看到，就必须到彼得堡来。嗯，我的想法就正是如此：观察我们年轻一代，最能有所发现，可以了解很多情况。说实在的：我很高兴……” “是什么让您高兴呢？” “您的问题提得很广泛。我可能弄错，不过，我似乎找到了一种更明确的观点，甚至可以说是一种批评的精神；一种更加务实的精神……” “这是对的，”佐西莫夫透过齿缝慢吞吞地说。 “你胡说，根本没有什么务实精神，”拉祖米欣抓住这句话不放。“要有务实精神，那可难得很，它不会从天上飞下来。几乎已经有两百年了，我们什么事情也不敢做……思想吗，大概是正在徘徊，”他对彼得·彼特罗维奇说，“善良的愿望也是有的，虽说是幼稚的；甚至也能发现正直的行为，尽管这儿出现了数不清的骗子，可务实精神嘛，还是没有！务实精神是罕见的。” “我不同意您的看法，”彼得·彼特罗维奇带着明显的十分高兴的神情反驳说，“当然啦，对某件事情入迷，出差错，这是有的，然而对这些应当采取宽容态度：对某件事情入迷，说明对这件事情怀有热情，也说明这件事情所处的外部环境是不正常的。如果说做得太少，那么是因为时间不够。至于方法，我就不谈了。照我个人看，也可以说，甚至是已经做了一些事情：一些有益的新思想得到传播，某些有益的新作品得以流传，取代了从前那些空想和浪漫主义的作品；文学作品有了更加成熟的特色；许多有害的偏见得以根除，受到了嘲笑……总之，我们已经一去不返地与过去一刀两断了，而这，照我看，已经是成就了……” “背得真熟！自我介绍，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说。 “什么？”彼得·彼特罗维奇没听清，于是问，可是没得到回答。 “这都是对的，”佐西莫夫赶快插了一句。 “不对吗？”彼得·彼特罗维奇愉快地看了看佐西莫夫，接着说。“您得承认，”他对拉祖米欣接着说，不过已经带点儿洋洋得意和占了上风的神气，差点儿没有加上一句：“年轻人，”“至少为了科学，为了追求经济学的真理……在这方面已经有了巨大成就，或者像现在人们所说的，有了进步。” “老生常谈！” “不，不是老主常谈！譬如说吧，在此以前，人们常对我说：‘你该去爱’，于是我就去爱了，结果怎样呢？”彼得·彼特罗维奇接着说，也许说得太匆忙了，“结果是我把一件长上衣撕作两半，和别人分着穿，于是我们两个都衣不蔽体，这就像俄罗斯谚语所说的：‘同时追几只兔子，一只也追不上’。科学告诉我们：要爱别人，首先要爱自己，因为世界上的一切都是以个人利益为基础的。你只爱自己，那么就会把自己的事情办好，你的长上衣也就能保持完整了。经济学的真理补充说，社会上私人的事办得越多，也可以这么说吧，完整的长上衣就越多，那么社会的基础也就越牢固，社会上也就能办好更多的公共事业。可见我仅仅为个人打算，只给自己买长上衣，恰恰是为大家着想，结果会使别人得到比撕破的长上衣更多的东西，而这已经不仅仅是来自个人的恩赐，而是得益于社会的普遍繁荣了①。见解很平常，但不幸的是，很久没能传到我们这里来，让狂热的激情和幻想给遮蔽起来了，不过要领会其中的道理，似乎并不需要有多少机智……” -------- ①英国经济学家、哲学家边塔姆（一七四八——一八三二）和他的信徒米利（一八○六——一八七三）的著作译成俄文后，当时俄国的报刊上正在广泛讨论他们的这种实用主义观点。 “对不起，我也并不机智，”拉祖米欣不客气地打断了他的话，“所以我们别再谈了。我这样说是有目的的，不然，所有这些废话和自我安慰，所有这些絮絮叨叨、没完没了的老生常谈，说来说去总是那么几句，三年来已经让我听腻烦了，真的，不但我自己，就是别人当着我的面说这些话，我都会脸红。您当然是急于炫耀自己学识渊博，这完全可以原谅，我并不责备您。现在我只想知道，你是什么人，因为，您要知道，近来有那么多各式各样的企业家要参加公共事业，而不管他接触到什么，都要曲解它，使之为自己的利益服务，结果把一切事业都搞得一塌糊涂。唉！够了！” “先生，”卢任先生怀着极其强烈的自尊感厌恶地说，“您是不是想要这样无礼地暗示，我也是……” “噢，请别这么想，请别这么想……我哪会呢！……唉，够了！”拉祖米欣毫不客气地打断了他，急遽地转过脸去，面对佐西莫夫，继续不久前的谈话。 彼得·彼特罗维奇显得相当聪明，立刻表示相信所作的解释。不过他决定，再过两分钟就走。 “现在我们已经开始认识了，我希望，”他对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“等您恢复健康以后，而且由于您已经知道的那些情况，我们的关系会更加密切……尤其希望您能早日康复……” 拉斯科利尼科夫连头都没转过来。彼得·彼特罗维奇从椅子上站起身来。 “一定是个抵押过东西的人杀死的！”佐西莫夫肯定地说。 “一定是个抵押东西的人！”拉祖米欣附和说。“波尔菲里没把自己的想法说出来，不过还是在审问那些抵押过东西的人……” “审问抵押过东西的人？”拉斯科利尼科夫高声问。 “是的，怎么呢？” “没什么。” “他是怎么找到他们的？”佐西莫夫问。 “有些是科赫说出来的；另一些人的名字写在包东西的纸上，还有一些，是听说这件事后，自己跑了去的……” “嘿，大概是个狡猾、老练的坏蛋！好大的胆子！多么坚决果断！” “问题就在这里了，根本不是！”拉祖米欣打断了他的话。 “正是这一点让你们大家全都迷惑不解，无法了解真实情况。我却认为，他既不狡猾，也不老练，大概这是头一次作案！如果认为这是经过精心策划的，凶手是个狡猾的老手，那将是不可思议的。如果认为凶手毫无经验，那就只有偶然的机会才使他得以侥幸逃脱，而偶然的机会不是会创造奇迹吗？也许，就连会碰到障碍，他都没预料到！他是怎么干的呢？——拿了几件值十卢布或二十卢布的东西，把它们塞满自己的口袋，在老太婆的箱子里那堆旧衣服里面乱翻了一通，——而在抽屉柜里，在上面一格抽屉的一个小匣子里，除了债券，人们还发现了一千五百卢布现金！他连抢劫都不会，只会杀人1第一次作案，我说，这是他第一次作案；发慌了！不是他老谋深算，而是靠偶然的机会侥幸脱身！” “这好像是说的不久前杀死一位老年官太太的那件凶杀案吧，”彼得·彼特罗维奇对着佐西莫夫插了一句嘴，他已经拿着帽子和手套站在那里了，但临走想再说几句卖弄聪明的话。看来他是想给人留下个好印象，虚荣心战胜了理智。 “是的。您听说了？” “那还用说，跟她是邻居嘛……” “详情细节您都了解吗？” “那倒不能说；不过使我感兴趣的却是另一个情况，可以说，是整个问题。最近四、五年来下层阶级中的犯罪日益增多，这我就不谈了；我也不谈到处不断发生的抢劫和纵火；对我来说，最奇怪的是，上层阶级中的犯罪也同样愈来愈多，可以说，与下层阶级中的犯罪是并行的。听说某处有一个从前上过大学的人在大道上抢劫邮车；另一个地方，一些属于上层社会的人制造假钞票；在莫斯科捕获了一伙伪造最近发行的有奖债券的罪犯，——主犯之一是个教世界通史的讲师；还有，国外有一位驻外使馆的秘书被人谋杀，是由于金钱和某种难以猜测的原因……如果现在这个放高利贷的老太婆是被一个社会地位较高的人杀害的，因为乡下人不会去抵押金器，那么，第一，该怎样来解释我们社会上那一部分文明人士的堕落呢？” “经济上的许多变化……”佐西莫夫回答。 “怎样解释吗？”拉祖米欣吹毛求疵地说。“正是因为我们根深蒂固地过于缺少务实精神，这就是解释。” “这是什么意思？” “在莫斯科，问您的那个讲师，为什么伪造有奖债券，他是这样回答的：‘大家用各种办法发财，所以我也急于发财。’原话我记不得了，不过意思就是：尽快发财，不劳而获！大家都习惯坐享其成，靠别人的思想生活，吃别人嚼过的东西。哼，最后审判的时刻一到，每个人都要前去受审：看你还靠什么发财……” “然而道德呢？也可以说，作人的原则……” “您在为什么操心啊？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然插嘴说。“这正是根据您的理论产生的结果！” “怎么是根据我的理论呢？” “把您刚才鼓吹的那一套引伸开去，结论就是：杀人是可以的……” “怎么会呢！”卢任高声喊道。 “不，不是这样！”佐西莫夫回答。 拉斯科利尼科夫躺在那儿，面色苍白，上嘴唇颤抖着，呼吸困难。 “一切都有个限度，”卢任高傲地接着说，“经济观念还不等于请你去杀人，假如认为……” “这是真的吗，您，”拉斯科利尼科夫又突然用气得发抖的声音打断了他的话，从他的声音里可以听出，侮辱卢任，他感到十分高兴，“这是真的吗，您曾经对您的未婚妻说……就在您向她求婚刚刚得到她同意的时候……您就对她说，您最高兴的是……她是个穷人……因为娶一个穷人家的女儿对您更为有利，以后您好控制她……可以责备她，说她受了您的恩惠，是吗……” “先生！”卢任面红耳赤，窘态毕露，恼恨而气忿地高声叫喊，“先生……竟这样歪曲我的意思！请您原谅，我必须说，传到您耳中的，或者不如说是故意让您知道的流言，毫无根据，我……我怀疑，有人……一句话……这枝冷箭……一句话，是令堂……我本来就觉得，尽管她有不少优点，可是她的想法里有某些狂热和浪漫主义的色彩……不过我还是万万没想到，她竟会以幻想来歪曲事实，这样来理解我，把事情想象成……而到底……到底……” “您知道吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫高声大喊，从枕头上欠起身来，目光炯炯，锐利逼人，直盯着他，“您知道吗？” “知道什么？”卢任住了口，脸上带着受到侮辱和挑衅的神情，等待着。沉默持续了几秒钟。 “就是，如果您再一次……您胆敢再提到……我母亲一个字……我就叫您滚出去！” “您怎么了！”拉祖米欣喊了一声。 “啊，原来是这样！”卢任脸色发白，咬住嘴唇。“先生，您听我说，”他一字一顿地说，竭力克制着，可还是气得喘不过气来，“还在不久前我刚一进来的时候，我就看出，您对我的态度是不友好的，可是我故意留下来，好对您能有更多的了解。对于一个有病的人和亲戚，很多事情我都可以原谅，但是现在……对您……我永远也不会原谅……” “我没有病！”拉斯科利尼科夫大声叫喊。 “那就更不会……” “滚，您给我见鬼去！” 但是卢任已经自己走了，没有把话说完，就又从桌子和椅子之间挤了出去；这一次拉祖米欣站了起来。让他过去。卢任谁也不看，甚至也没向佐西莫夫点个头，虽然后者早已向他点头示意，叫他别再打扰病人了；卢任走了出去，当他微微弯腰走出房门的时候，小心翼翼地把帽子举得齐肩膀那么高。就连他弯腰的姿势也仿佛表现出，他随身带走了多么严重的侮辱。 “能这样吗，能这样吗？”大惑不解的拉祖米欣摇着头说。 “别管我，你们都别管我！”拉斯科利尼科夫发狂似地叫喊。“你们到底肯让我安静一下不，你们这些折磨人的家伙！我不怕你们！现在我谁也不怕，谁也不怕！给我滚开！我想独自个儿待在这儿，独自个儿，独自个儿，独自个儿！” “咱们走吧，”佐西莫夫对拉祖米欣点点头，说。 “那怎么行，难道能这样丢下他不管吗？” “走吧！”佐西莫夫坚持地又说了一遍，说罢就走了出去。 拉祖米欣想了想，就跑出去追他了。 “如果我们不听他的话，那可能更糟，”佐西莫夫已经到了楼梯上，说。“不能激怒他……” “他怎么了？” “如果有什么有利的因素推动他一下就好了！刚才他精神还好……你听我说，他有什么心事！一件总也放不下、让他十分苦恼的心事……这一点我非常担心；准是这么回事！” “也许就是这位叫彼得·彼特罗维奇的先生吧！从谈话中可以听出，他要和他妹妹结婚，罗佳生病以前接到过一封信，信里提到了这件事……” “是啊；见鬼，他偏偏现在来了；也许会把事情完全弄糟了。你发觉没有，他对一切都漠不关心，对什么都避而不答，只除了一件事，这件事总是会使他失去自制：就是这件凶杀案……” “对，对！”拉祖米欣附和说，“我不但发觉，而且非常注意！他很关心，也很害怕。这是因为，就在他生病的那天有人吓唬过他，在警察局长的办公室里；他昏过去了。” “今天晚上你把这件事跟我详细谈谈，以后我再告诉你一件事。他让我很感兴趣，很感兴趣！半小时后我再去看他…… 不过发炎是不会的……” “谢谢你！这段时间里，我在帕申卡那儿等着，通过娜斯塔西娅照料他……” 只剩下拉斯科利尼科夫一个人了，他急不可耐、满腹忧虑地看看娜斯塔西娅；但她还拖延着不走。 “现在要喝茶吗？”她问。 “以后再喝！我想睡觉！别管我……” 他痉挛地转身面对墙壁；娜斯塔西娅走了出去。

第六章 But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again and began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in them. "To-day, to-day," he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment's thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, blowing up the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street. It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: "that all /this/ must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he /would not go on living like that/." How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination. From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on," and both moved on to the next shop. "Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering. "I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what I mean?--and the street lamps shine through it . . ." "I don't know. . . . Excuse me . . ." muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street. Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler's shop. "Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?" "All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov. "What's his name?" "What he was christened." "Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?" The young man looked at Raskolnikov again. "It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!" "Is that a tavern at the top there?" "Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-room and you'll find princesses there too. . . . La-la!" Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V. He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so. Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating- houses; women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes. He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below. . . . someone could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement. "Oh, my handsome soldier Don't beat me for nothing," trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that. "Shall I go in?" he thought. "They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?" "Won't you come in?" one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive--the only one of the group. "Why, she's pretty," he said, drawing himself up and looking at her. She smiled, much pleased at the compliment. "You're very nice looking yourself," she said. "Isn't he thin though!" observed another woman in a deep bass. "Have you just come out of a hospital?" "They're all generals' daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses," interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. "See how jolly they are." "Go along with you!" "I'll go, sweetie!" And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov moved on. "I say, sir," the girl shouted after him. "What is it?" She hesitated. "I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there's a nice young man!" Raskolnikov gave her what came first--fifteen copecks. "Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!" "What's your name?" "Ask for Duclida." "Well, that's too much," one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. "I don't know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame. . . ." Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov. "Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! . . . How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature! . . . And vile is he who calls him vile for that," he added a moment later. He went into another street. "Bah, the Palais de Cristal! Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. . . . Zossimov said he'd read it in the papers. Have you the papers?" he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. "What if it is?" he thought. "Will you have vodka?" asked the waiter. "Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days, and I'll give you something." "Yes, sir, here's to-day's. No vodka?" The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them. "Oh, damn . . . these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . another fire in the Petersburg quarter . . . and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. . . . Ah, here it is!" He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk. 但是她刚一出去，他立刻就起来了，用门钩扣上房门，解开拉祖米欣不久前拿来、又重新包起来的那包衣服，动手穿了起来。怪事：似乎他突然变得十分镇静了；既不像不久前那样精神错乱，胡言乱语，也不像最近这段时间那样失魂落魄，惊恐万分。这是一种奇怪的、突然到来的镇静的最初瞬间。他的动作毫无差错，目的明确，表现出他有某种坚定的意图。“今天，就在今天！……”他喃喃地自言自语。不过他明白，他还很虚弱，但极度的精神紧张，使他变得镇静和下定决心的精神紧张，给了他力量和自信；不过他希望不至于跌倒在街上。他全身都换上了新衣服，看了看放在桌子上的钱，想了想，把钱都装进了衣袋。一共是二十五卢布。他又拿了那几个五戈比的铜币，那是拉祖米欣拿去买衣服的十个卢布找回的零钱。然后他轻轻取下门钩，从屋里出来，走下楼梯，朝大敞着的厨房门里面张了一眼：娜斯塔西娅背对着他站着，弯下腰，正在吹女房东的茶炊。她什么也没听到。而且谁能想到他会出去呢？不一会儿，他已经到了街上。 已经八点钟了，红日西沉。仍然那么闷热；然而他还是贪婪地吸了一口这恶臭难闻、尘土飞扬、被城市污染了的空气。他的头微微眩晕起来；他那双发红的眼睛里和白中透黄，十分消瘦的脸上，却显示出某种奇怪的旺盛精力。他不知道，也没想过要到哪里去；他只知道一点：“这一切必须在今天结束，一下子结束它，立刻；否则他决不回家，因为他不愿这样活下去。”怎么结束？用什么办法结束？他一点儿也不知道，也不愿去想它。他驱除了这个想法，这个想法在折磨他。他只是感觉到，而且知道，必须让一切都发生变化，不是这样变，就是那样变，“不管怎么变都行”，他怀着绝望的、执拗的自信和决心反复说。 由于以前养成的习惯，他顺着从前散步时通常走的那条路径直往干草广场走去。还不到干草广场，在一家小铺门前，马路上站着一个身背手摇风琴的黑发年轻流浪乐师，正在摇着一首十分动人的抒情歌曲。他是为站在他前面人行道上的一个姑娘伴奏，她约摸有十四、五岁，打扮得像一位小姐，穿一条钟式裙，肩上披着披肩，戴着手套，头上戴一顶插着火红色羽毛的草帽；这些东西都破旧了。她用街头卖唱的声音演唱那首抒情歌曲，声音发抖，然而相当悦耳和富有感染力，期待着小铺子里会有人丢给她两个戈比。拉斯科利尼科夫停下来，站在两三个听众身边，听了一会儿，掏出一枚五戈比的铜币，放到姑娘的手里。她正唱到最动人的高音上，突然停住不唱了，歌声猝然中断，她用尖锐的声音向摇琴的乐师喊了一声“够了！”于是两人慢慢往前、往另一家小铺子走去。 “您爱听街头卖唱吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然问一个和他一起站在摇手摇风琴的乐师身旁的过路行人，那人已不算年轻了，看样子像是个游手好闲的人。那人奇怪地看了他一眼，吃了一惊。“我爱听，”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说，不过看他的神情，却仿佛根本不是在谈街头卖唱，“在寒冷、阴暗、潮湿的秋天晚上，一定要在潮湿的晚上，行人的脸色都白得发青，面带病容，这时候我爱听在手摇风琴伴奏下唱歌；或者是在没有风，潮湿的雪直接从天上飘落的时候，那就更好了，您明白吗？透过雪花，煤气路灯①闪闪烁烁……” -------- ①十九世纪六十年代彼得堡市中心区装上了煤气路灯，其余地区是煤油路灯。 “我不明白……对不起……”那位先生含糊不清地说，拉斯科利尼科夫的问题和奇怪的神情吓坏了他，他走到马路对面去了。 拉斯科利尼科夫一直朝前走，来到干草广场的一个拐角上，那天跟莉扎薇塔谈话的那个小市民和他老婆就是在这儿摆摊做生意的；但是这会儿他们不在这儿。认出这个地方以后，他站住了，往四下里看了看，问一个正在面粉店门口打呵欠、身穿红衬衣的年轻小伙子： “不是有个市民在这个拐角上做生意吗，跟一个女人，跟他老婆一起，不是吗？” “各式各样的人都在做生意，”小伙子傲慢地打量着拉斯科利尼科夫，回答说。 “他叫什么名字？” “受洗礼的时候给他取了个什么名字，就叫什么名字。” “你是不是扎拉斯基人？哪个省的？” 小伙子又瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫。 “大人，我们那儿不是省，是县，我兄弟出门去了，我待在家里，所以我不知道……清您原谅，大人，多多包涵。” “上面是个小饭馆吗？” “是个小饭馆，有弹子台；还有漂亮女人……好极了！” 拉斯科利尼科夫穿过广场。那边拐角上密密麻麻站着一群人，全都是乡下人。他挤进人最多的地方，看看那些人的脸。不知为什么，他很想跟所有人说话儿。但是乡下人都不答理他，大家都东一伙西一簇地挤在一起，互相小声交谈着，乱哄哄的，不知在谈什么。他站了一会儿，想了想，就往右转弯，在人行道上朝B大街那个方向走去。过了广场，他走进了一条小胡同…… 以前他也常经过这条很短的小胡同，胡同拐一个弯，从广场通往花园街。最近一段时间，每当他心里烦闷的时候，总是很想到这一带来溜达溜达，“好让心里更加烦闷”。现在他进了这条胡同，什么也不去想。这儿有一幢大房子，整幢房子里都是小酒馆和其他饮食店；从这些酒馆、饭店里不断跑出一些穿得像去“邻居家串门儿”的女人——不包头巾，只穿一件连衫裙。她们在人行道上两三个地方，主要是在底层入口处旁，成群地挤在一起，从入口走下两级台阶，就可以进入各种娱乐场所。这时从其中一个娱乐场所里正传出一阵阵喧闹声，在街上都听得清清楚楚：吉他声丁丁东东，有人在唱歌，笑语喧哗，十分快活。一大群女人挤在门口；有的坐在台阶上，另一些坐在人行道上，还有一些站在那里闲扯。旁边有个喝醉了的士兵，嘴里叼着支香烟，高声骂着街，在马路上闲荡，看来是想去什么地方，可是到底要去哪里，却想不起来了。一个衣衫褴褛的人正和另一个衣衫褴褛的人对骂，一个烂醉如泥的醉汉横躺在街道上。拉斯科利尼科夫在那一大群女人身旁站了下来。她们用嘶哑的声音交谈着；她们都穿着印花布连衫裙和山羊皮的皮鞋，都没包头巾。有一些已经四十多岁了，不过也有十六、七岁的，几乎个个的眼睛都被打伤了。 不知为什么，下边的歌声和喧闹声引起了他的注意……可以听到，那里，在一阵阵哈哈大笑和尖叫声中，在尖细的假噪唱出的雄壮歌曲和吉他的伴奏下，有人正用鞋后跟打着拍子，拼命跳舞。他全神贯注、阴郁而若有所思地听着，在门口弯下腰来，从人行道上好奇地往穿堂里面张望。 你呀，我漂亮的岗警呀， 你别无缘无故地打我呀！—— 歌手尖细的歌声婉转动人。拉斯科利尼科夫很想听清唱的是什么歌，似乎全部问题都在于此了。 “是不是要进去呢？”他想。“他们在哈哈大笑。因为喝醉了。怎么，我要不要也喝它个一醉方休呢？” “不进去吗，亲爱的老爷？”女人中有一个用相当响亮、还没有完全嘶哑的声音问。她还年轻，甚至不难看，——是这群女人中唯一的一个。 “瞧，你真漂亮啊！”他稍稍直起腰来，看了看她，回答说。 她嫣然一笑；她很爱听恭维话。 “您也挺漂亮啊，”她说。 “您多瘦啊！”另一个女人声音低沉地说，“刚从医院出来吗？” “好像都是将军的女儿，不过都是翘鼻子！”突然一个微带醉意的乡下人走过来，插嘴说，他穿一件厚呢上衣，敞着怀，丑脸上带着狡猾的笑容。“瞧，好快活啊！” “既然来了，就进去吧！” “是要进去！很高兴进去！” 他跌跌撞撞地下去了。 拉斯科利尼科夫又往前走去。 “喂，老爷！”那女人在后面喊了一声。 “什么事？” 她感到不好意思了。 “亲爱的老爷，我永远高兴陪您玩几个钟头，可这会儿不知怎的在您面前却鼓不起勇气来。可爱的先生，请给我六个戈比，买杯酒喝！” 拉斯科利尼科夫随手掏出几个铜币：三枚五戈比的铜币。 “啊，您这位老爷心肠多好啊！” “您叫什么？” “您就问杜克莉达吧。” “不，怎么能这样呢，”突然那群女人里有一个对着杜克莉达摇摇头，说。“我真不知道，怎么能这样跟人家要钱！要是我的话，我会臊得找个地缝钻进去……” 拉斯科利尼科夫好奇地望望那个说话的女人。这是个有麻子的女人，三十来岁，脸上给打得青一块紫一块的，上嘴唇也有点肿了。她安详而又严肃地说，责备杜克莉达。 “我是在哪儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫边往前走，边想，“我是在哪儿看到过，一个被判处死刑的人，在临刑前一小时说过，或者是想过，如果他必须在高高的悬崖绝壁上活着，而且是在仅能立足的那么狭窄的一小块地方站着，——四周却是万丈深渊，一片汪洋，永久的黑暗，永久的孤独，永不停息的狂风暴雨，——而且要终生站在这块只有一俄尺见方的地方，站一千年，永远站在那里，——他也宁愿这样活着，而不愿马上去死！①只要能活着，活着，活着！不管怎样活着，——只要活着就好！……多么正确的真理！人是卑鄙的！谁要是为此把人叫作卑鄙的东西，那么他也是卑鄙的，”过了一会儿，他又补上一句。 -------- ①见雨果的《巴黎圣母院》。这里不是引用原文。 他走到了另一条街上。“噢，‘水晶宫’！不久前拉祖米欣谈到过‘水晶宫’。不过我到底想干什么？对了，看报！…… 佐西莫夫说，在报上看到过……” “有报纸吗？”他走进一家宽敞的、甚至颇为整洁的饭店，问道，这家饭店有好几间房间，不过相当空。有两三个顾客在喝茶，稍远一点儿的一间屋里坐着一伙人，一共有四个，在喝香槟，拉斯科利尼科夫觉得，好像扎苗托夫也在他们中间。 不过，从远处看，看不清楚。 “管他去！”他想。 “要伏特加吗？”跑堂的问。 “给来杯茶。你再给我拿几份报纸来，旧的，从五天前一直到今天的，都要，我给你几个酒钱。” “知道了。这是今天的报纸。要伏特加吗？” 旧报纸和茶都拿来了。拉斯科利尼科夫坐下，翻着找起来：“伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——阿茨蒂克人——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔——巴尔托拉——马西莫——阿茨蒂克人——伊兹列尔①……呸，见鬼！啊，这儿是新闻：一个女人摔下楼梯——一市民因酗酒丧生——沙区发生火灾——彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾——又是彼得堡区发生火灾②——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——伊兹列尔——马西莫……哦，在这里了……” "What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd known him all his life. "Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?" Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile. "I know you have," he answered. "I've heard it. You looked for my sock. . . . And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you've been with him to Luise Ivanovna's--you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand--it was quite clear, wasn't it?" "What a hot head he is!" "The explosive one?" "No, your friend Razumihin." "You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who's been pouring champagne into you just now?" "We've just been . . . having a drink together. . . . You talk about pouring it into me!" "By way of a fee! You profit by everything!" Raskolnikov laughed, "it's all right, my dear boy," he added, slapping Zametov on the shoulder. "I am not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman. . . ." "How do you know about it?" "Perhaps I know more about it than you do." "How strange you are. . . . I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn't to have come out." "Oh, do I seem strange to you?" "Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?" "Yes." "There's a lot about the fires." "No, I am not reading about the fires." Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. "No, I am not reading about the fires," he went on, winking at Zametov. "But confess now, my dear fellow, you're awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?" "I am not in the least. Mayn't I ask a question? Why do you keep on . . . ?" "Listen, you are a man of culture and education?" "I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium," said Zametov with some dignity. "Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings-- you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!" Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov's face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended. "Foo! how strange you are!" Zametov repeated very seriously. "I can't help thinking you are still delirious." "I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?" "Yes, curious." "Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I've made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?" "Well, what is it?" "You prick up your ears?" "How do you mean--'prick up my ears'?" "I'll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you . . . no, better 'I confess' . . . No, that's not right either; 'I make a deposition and you take it.' I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching. . . ." he screwed up his eyes and paused. "I was searching--and came here on purpose to do it--for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman," he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while. "What if you have been reading about it?" he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. "That's no business of mine! What of it?" "The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not heeding Zametov's explanation, "about whom you were talking in the police-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?" "What do you mean? Understand . . . what?" Zametov brought out, almost alarmed. Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh! "You are either mad, or . . ." began Zametov, and he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind. "Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!" "Nothing," said Zametov, getting angry, "it's all nonsense!" Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for some time. "Why don't you drink your tea? It's getting cold," said Zametov. "What! Tea? Oh, yes. . . ." Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea. "There have been a great many of these crimes lately," said Zametov. "Only the other day I read in the /Moscow News/ that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets!" "Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "So you consider them criminals?" he added, smiling. "Of course they are criminals." "They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object--what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes-- what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change the notes either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth thousand--he was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?" "That his hands trembled?" observed Zametov, "yes, that's quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can't stand things." "Can't stand that?" "Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn't. For the sake of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it's their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to do it. Would you?" Raskolnikov had an intense desire again "to put his tongue out." Shivers kept running down his spine. "I should do it quite differently," Raskolnikov began. "This is how I would change the notes: I'd count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I'd set to the second thousand; I'd count that half-way through and then hold some fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again--to see whether it was a good one. 'I am afraid,' I would say, 'a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a false note,' and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, 'No, excuse me,' I would say, 'I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.' And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, 'Change them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back, 'No, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation. That's how I'd do it." "Foo! what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home--that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle--but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn't stand it. That was clear from the . . ." Raskolnikov seemed offended. "Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov. "Well, they will catch him." "Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You've a tough job! A great point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child can mislead you." "The fact is they always do that, though," answered Zametov. "A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn't go to a tavern, of course?" Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov. "You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave in that case, too?" he asked with displeasure. -------- ①拉斯科利尼科夫看的是报纸上的广告。伊兹列尔是彼得堡郊外“矿泉”花园的主人，当时城里人都喜欢去“矿家”花园散步。一八六五年有两个侏儒到达彼得堡，一个叫马西莫，一个叫巴尔托拉，据说他们是墨西哥一个已经绝灭的土著民族阿茨蒂克人的后裔。当时报纸上广泛报道了这两个侏儒到达彼得堡的消息。 ②彼得堡区与市中心区之间隔着涅瓦河。十九世纪六十年代那里都是木头房子，一八六五年夏季炎热，那里经常发生火灾。 他终于找到了他要找的，于是看起来了；一行行的字在他眼中跳动，然而他还是看完了所有“消息”，并贪婪地在以后几期报纸上寻找最新的补充报道。他翻报纸的时候，由于焦急慌乱，手在发抖。突然有人坐到他这张桌子这儿来，坐到了他的身边。他一看，是扎苗托夫，就是那个扎苗托夫，还是那个样子，戴着好几个镶宝石的戒指，挂看表链，搽过油的乌黑的鬈发梳成分头，穿一件很考究的坎肩，常礼服却穿旧了，衬衫也不是新的。他心情愉快，甚至是十分愉快而又温和地微笑着。因为喝了香槟，他那黝黑的脸稍有点儿红晕。 “怎么！您在这儿？”他困惑不解地说，那说话的语气，就好像他们是老相识似的，“昨天拉祖米欣还对我说，您一直昏迷不醒。这真奇怪！要知道，我去过您那儿……” 拉斯科利尼科夫知道他准会过来。他把报纸放到一边，转过脸来，面对着扎苗托夫。他嘴唇上挂着冷笑，在这冷笑中流露出一种前所未有的、恼怒的不耐烦神情。 “这我知道，知道您去过，”他回答，“听说过。您找过一只袜子……您知道吗，拉祖米欣非常喜欢您，他说，您和他一道到拉维扎·伊万诺芙娜那儿去过，谈起她的时候，您竭力向火药桶中尉使眼色，可他就是不明白您的意思，您记得吗？怎么会不明白呢——事情是明摆着的……不是吗？” “他可真是个爱惹事生非的人！” “火药桶吗？” “不，您的朋友，拉祖米欣……” “您过得挺不错啊，扎苗托夫先生；到最快活的地方来，不用花钱！刚才是谁给您斟的香槟？” “我们……喝了两杯……又给斟上了吗？！” “这是酬劳嘛！您拥有一切呀！”拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。 “没关系，心地善良的孩子，没关系！”他拍了拍扎苗托夫的肩膀，又补上一句，“我可不是故意惹您生气，‘而是因为我们要好，闹着玩儿’，老太婆的那个案子里，您那个工人用拳头捶米季卡的时候，也是这么说的。” “可您是怎么知道的？” “我嘛，也许比您知道得还多。” “您这人真有点儿怪……大概，还病得很厉害。您不该出来……” “您觉得我怪吗？” “是的。怎么，您在看报？” “是在看报。” “有许多关于火灾的消息。” “不，我不是在看火灾的消息，”这时他神秘地看了看扎苗托夫；嘲讽的微笑使他的嘴唇变了形。“不，我不是看火灾的消息，”他对扎苗托夫眨眨眼，接着说。“您承认吧，可爱的青年人，您很想知道我在看什么消息，是吧？” “根本不想知道；我只不过这么问问。难道不能问吗？您怎么总是……” “喂，您是个受过教育、有文化的人，是吧？” “我读过中学六年级，”扎苗托夫神情有点儿庄重地说。 “六年级！唉，你呀，我的小宝贝儿！梳着分头，戴着镶宝石的戒指——是个有钱的人！嘿，一个多可爱的小孩子呀！”这时拉斯科利尼科夫对着扎苗托夫的脸神经质地狂笑起来。扎苗托夫急忙躲开了，倒不是因为觉得受了侮辱，而是大吃一惊。 “嘿，您多怪啊！”扎苗托夫神情十分严肃地又说了一遍。 “我觉得，您一直还在说胡话。” “我说胡话？你胡扯，小宝贝儿！……那么，我很怪吗？ 您觉得我很有意思，是吗？有点儿异常？” “有点儿异常。” “是不是谈谈，我在看什么，找什么？瞧，我叫他们拿来了这么多报纸！可疑，是吗？” “好，您请说吧。” “耳朵竖起来了吗？” “竖起来，这是什么意思？” “等以后再告诉您，竖起来是什么意思，而现在，我最亲爱的朋友，我向您声明……不，最好是：‘供认’……不，这也不对：‘我招供，您审问’——这就对了！那么我招供，我看的是，我关心的是……我找的是……我寻找的是……”拉斯科利尼科夫眯缝起眼来，等待着，“我寻找的是——而且就是为此才到这儿来的——谋杀那个老太婆、那个官太太的消息，”最后，他几乎把自己的脸紧凑到扎苗托夫的脸上，低声耳语似地说。扎苗托夫凝神注视着他，一动不动，也没把自己的脸躲开。后来扎苗托夫觉得，最奇怪的是，他们之间的沉默足足持续了一分钟，足足有一分钟，他们俩就这样互相对视着。 “您看这些消息，那又怎样呢？”扎苗托夫困惑不解而且不耐烦地高声说。“这关我什么事！这是什么意思？” “就是那个老太婆，”拉斯科利尼科夫还是那样悄悄地接下去说，对扎苗托夫的高声叫喊丝毫不动声色，“就是那个老太婆，您记得吗，你们在办公室里谈论起她来的时候，我昏倒了。怎么，现在您明白了吗？” “这是什么意思？什么……‘您明白了吗’？”扎苗托夫几乎是惊慌地问。 拉斯科利尼科夫神情呆板而又严肃的脸霎时间起了变化，突然又像刚才那样神经质地狂笑起来，似乎他已完全不能控制自己了。他顿时想起不久前的那一瞬间，异常清晰地感觉到当时的情景：他手持斧头站在门后，门钩在跳动，他们在门外破口大骂，要破门而入，他却突然想对他们高声大喊，和他们对骂，向他们伸舌头，逗弄他们，嘲笑他们，哈哈大笑，哈哈大笑，哈哈大笑！ “您不是疯子，就是……”扎苗托夫脱口而出，但立刻住了嘴，仿佛有个突然在他脑子里一闪而过的想法使他吃一惊。 “就是？‘就是’什么？嗯，是什么？喂，请说啊！” “没什么！”扎苗托夫气呼呼地说，“全都是胡说八道！” 两人都默默不语。在一阵突然爆发的狂笑之后，拉斯科利尼科夫又突然陷入沉思，变得忧郁起来。他用胳膊肘撑在桌子上，一只手托着头。似乎他把扎苗托夫完全忘了。沉默持续了相当久。 “您怎么不喝茶呢？茶要凉了，”扎苗托夫说。 “啊？什么？茶？……好吧……”拉斯科利尼科夫从杯子里喝了一口茶，把一小块面包放进嘴里，突然看了看扎苗托夫，好像想起了一切，仿佛一下子精神振作起来：他的脸上又恢复了一开始时那种嘲讽的神情。他在继续喝茶。 “如今发生了不少这种欺诈案件，”扎苗托夫说。“不久前我在《莫斯科新闻》上看到一条消息，莫斯科捕获了一伙制造伪币的罪犯。是一个集团。他们伪造债券。” “哦，这已经是很久以前的事了！我还在一个月以前就看到了，”拉斯科利尼科夫平静地回答。“这么说，照您看，这是些骗子了？”他冷笑着补上一句。 “怎么不是骗子呢？” “这些人吗？是孩子，布兰别克①，而不是骗子！有整整五十个人为了这个目的结成了一伙！难道能这样吗？有三个就已经太多了，而且还得互相信任，对别人比对自己还要相信！只要有一个喝醉了，说漏了嘴，那就全都完了！布兰别克！雇了些靠不住的人在各个银行办事处兑换债券：这种事情能随便碰到个人就让他去干吗？好，即使这些布兰别克成功了，即使每人都换了一百万卢布，那么以后呢？一辈子怎么办？每个人这一辈子都得取决于别人是不是会走漏风声！这样还不如上吊，倒还干脆！他们却连兑换都不会：有一个才在办事处里兑换了五千卢布，手就发抖了。点完了四千，还有一千，不点就收下了，相信不会有错，只想揣到口袋里，赶快逃走。于是就引起了怀疑。因为有一个傻瓜，一切全都毁了！难道能这么干吗？” -------- ①法文blanc－bec的音译，“乳臭未干的孩子”，“黄口孺子”之意。 “双手发抖吗？”扎苗托夫随声附和说，“不，这是可能的。不，这我完全相信，完全相信这是可能的。有时是会经受不住。” “经受不住？” “您会经受得住？不，我可受不了！为了一百卢布赏金去干这么可怕的事情！拿着假债券去——去哪里？——去银行办事处，而那里的人识别债券，都是经验丰富的老手，—— 不，我准会心慌意乱。您却不会发慌吗？” 拉斯科利尼科夫突然又很想“伸出舌头来”。一阵阵寒颤掠过他的背脊。 “要是我，就不会这么干，”他从老远谈起。“要是我，我就这样去兑换：最先拿到的那一千卢布，要翻来覆去点四遍，每张钞票都要仔仔细细看了又看，然后再去点另外那一千；先从头点起，点到一半，抽出一张五十卢布的票子，对着亮处看看，再把它翻转来，又对着亮处看看，——是不是假的呢？‘我，’就说：‘我不放心：我有个女亲戚，前两天就是因为收下了一张假钞票，白丢了二十五卢布’；还要编个故事，叙说一遍。待到开始点第三叠一千的时候，——不，对不起：我好像觉得，在那第二叠一千里，点到七百的时候，数得不对，我有怀疑，于是丢下这第三叠一千，又去点第二叠，——五千卢布都是这样点法。等到都点完了，又从第五叠和第二叠里各抽出一张钞票来，对着亮处看了又看，又觉得可疑，‘请给换一张’，——折腾得那个办事员疲惫不堪，不知道怎样才能把我打发走！等到终于都点清了，走出去了，却又把门打开——啊，不，对不起，我又回转来，问个什么问题，要求得到解释，——要叫我，就这么干！” “嘿”，您说了些多么可怕的话！”扎苗托夫笑着说。“不过这只是说说而已，真的干起来，您准会出差错。我跟您说，照我看，干这种事，别说是您我，就连经验丰富的亡命之徒也不能担保万无一失。用不着到远处去找，眼前就有现成的例子：我们地区里有个老太婆让人给杀害了。看来是个玩命的家伙，大白天，不顾一切危险，豁出命来干，只是靠奇迹才能侥幸逃脱，——可他的手还是发抖了：没能偷走所有财物，没能经受住；从案情就可以看出……” 拉斯科利尼科夫仿佛受到了侮辱。 “可以看出！那么请您去抓住他吧，现在就去！”他高声叫喊，幸灾乐祸地激扎苗托夫。 "I should like to," Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks. "Very much?" "Very much!" "All right then. This is how I should behave," Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov's, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. "This is what I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone--there would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I'd roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There'd be no trace." "You are a madman," said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak out. "And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?" he said suddenly and--realised what he had done. Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile. "But is it possible?" he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him. "Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?" "Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now," Zametov cried hastily. "I've caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe less than ever?" "Not at all," cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. "Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?" "You don't believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there," he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, "how much?" "Thirty copecks," the latter replied, running up. "And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!" he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. "Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You've cross-examined my landlady, I'll be bound. . . . Well, that's enough! /Assez cause!/ Till we meet again!" He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed. Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively. "Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead," he decided. Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes. "So here you are!" he shouted at the top of his voice--"you ran away from your bed! And here I've been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?" "It means that I'm sick to death of you all and I want to be alone," Raskolnikov answered calmly. "Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot! . . . What have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!" "Let me go!" said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder. "Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I'll do with you directly? I'll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!" "Listen, Razumihin," Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm-- "can't you see that I don't want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who . . . curses them, who feels them a burden in fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn't I tell you plainly enough to-day that you were torturing me, that I was . . . sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because it's continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness' sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God's sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!" He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had been with Luzhin. Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop. "Well, go to hell then," he said gently and thoughtfully. "Stay," he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. "Listen to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you've any little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in that! There isn't a sign of independent life in you! You are made of spermaceti ointment and you've lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don't believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!" he cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement--"hear me out! You know I'm having a house-warming this evening, I dare say they've arrived by now, but I left my uncle there--I just ran in--to receive the guests. And if you weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation . . . you see, Rodya, I recognise you're a clever fellow, but you're a fool!--and if you weren't a fool you'd come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there's no help for it! I'd give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one . . . a cup of tea, company. . . . Or you could lie on the sofa--any way you would be with us. . . . Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?" "No." "R-rubbish!" Razumihin shouted, out of patience. "How do you know? You can't answer for yourself! You don't know anything about it. . . . Thousands of times I've fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards. . . . One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember, Potchinkov's house on the third storey. . . ." "Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you'd let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence." "Beat? Whom? Me? I'd twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat. . . ." "I shall not come, Razumihin." Raskolnikov turned and walked away. "I bet you will," Razumihin shouted after him. "I refuse to know you if you don't! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?" "Yes." "Did you see him?" "Yes." "Talked to him?" "Yes." "What about? Confound you, don't tell me then. Potchinkov's house, 47, Babushkin's flat, remember!" Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs. "Confound it," he went on almost aloud. "He talked sensibly but yet . . . I am a fool! As if madmen didn't talk sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid of." He struck his finger on his forehead. "What if . . . how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself. . . . Ach, what a blunder! I can't." And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Cristal to question Zametov. Raskolnikov walked straight to X---- Bridge, stood in the middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back. “有什么呢，会抓到的。” “谁去抓？您吗？您抓到他吗？您会累得筋疲力尽！你们所指望的最重要的一点，是这个人会不会大手大脚地花钱，不是吗？本来没有钱，这时突然大手大脚地挥霍起来，——怎么会不是他呢？那么，就这一点来说，你们准会上这个小孩子的当，如果他想这么干的话！” “问题就在这里了，他们总是这么干的，”扎苗托夫回答，“他们豁出命来，狡猾地杀了人，后来马上就在酒馆里落入法网。就是在他们大手大脚挥霍的时候捕获他们。不是所有人都像您这样狡猾。您当然不会进酒馆了，不是吗？” 拉斯科利尼科夫皱起眉头，凝神瞅了瞅扎苗托夫。 “看来您是得寸进尺，很想知道，在这种情况下我会怎么干了？”他很不高兴地问。 “倒是很想知道，”扎苗托夫坚决而认真地回答。不知怎的他的语气和目光都变得太认真了。 “很想吗？” “很想。” “好吧。我会这样做，”拉斯科利尼科夫开始说，又突然把自己的脸凑近扎苗托夫的脸，又凝神注视着他，又是那样低声耳语，以致扎苗托夫这一次甚至颤抖了一下。“要叫我，就会这么办：我会拿了钱和东西，一离开那儿，哪里也不去，立刻就会去找一个荒凉僻静的地方，那儿只有一道围墙，几乎一个人也没有；——找一个菜园或者这一类的地方。事先我就会看中那个地方，这个院子里有块一普特或者一普特半重的大石头，就在一个角落上，围墙旁边，也许从盖那幢房子的时候起就放在那儿了；我会搬开这块石头，——石头底下一定有一个坑，——我会把所有这些东西和钱都放进这个坑里。把东西放进去以后，我会再把石头推回去，放得跟原来一个样，再用脚把土踩实，然后走开。一年，两年，三年，我都不会去取它，——哼，您去找吧！钱虽然有过，可是全花光了！” “您是个疯子，”扎苗托夫不知为什么也几乎是低声悄悄地说，而且不知为什么突然从拉斯科利尼科夫身边挪开一些。拉斯科利尼科夫两眼炯炯发光；面色白得可怕；他的上嘴唇抖动了一下，轻轻跳动起来。他尽量俯身凑近扎苗托夫，嘴唇微微翕动起来，可是什么话也没说；这样持续了约摸半分钟的样子；他知道自己在做什么，可是不能控制自己。一句可怕的话，就像那时候门上的门钩一样，在他嘴里一个劲儿地跳动着：眼看就要冲出来了；眼看就要约束不住，眼看就要脱口而出了！ “如果老太婆和莉扎薇塔是我杀的，那又怎样呢？”他突然说，又立刻醒悟了。 扎苗托夫古怪地看了他一眼，脸色白得像桌布一样。他笑了笑，他的脸变得很不自然。 “难道这可能吗？”他用勉强可以听到的声音说。 拉斯科利尼科夫恶狠狠地瞅了他一眼。 “您承认吧，您相信了？是吧？不是吗？” “根本不信！现在比任何时候更不相信！”扎苗托夫急忙说。 “终于落网了！小麻雀给捉住了。既然现在‘比任何时候更不相信’，可见以前您相信过，不是吗？” “根本不是！”扎苗托夫大声叫嚷，显然发窘了。“您就是为了让我上当受骗，故意吓唬我吗？” “这么说您不相信吗？那时候我从办公室出去以后，你们背着我讲了些什么？我昏倒以后，火药桶中尉干吗要盘问我？喂，你过来，”他对跑堂的喊了一声，同时站起来，拿起帽子，“多少钱？” “一共三十戈比，”跑堂的一边跑过来，一边回答。 “再给二十戈比小费。瞧，多少钱啊！”他把那只拿着钞票的、发抖的手伸到扎苗托夫面前，“红的和蓝的①，一共二十五卢布。打哪儿弄来的？哪儿来的这身新衣服？因为您是知道的，我曾经连一个戈比也没有！大概已经问过女房东了……好，够了！Assezcausé！②再见……最愉快的再见！……” -------- ①红的是十卢布一张的钞票，蓝的是五卢布一张的。 ②法文，“闲扯得够了”之意。 他走了出去，由于一种奇怪的歇斯底里的感觉，他浑身都在发抖，在这种奇怪的感觉里同时还有一部分抑制不住的高兴，——不过他神情阴郁，十分疲倦。他的脸扭歪了，好像刚发过什么病似的。他更疲倦了。他曾经恢复了精力，现在精力突然衰退了，随着他受到第一次刺激，随着第一次感到气愤，随着这种气愤的感觉逐渐消失，他的精力也迅速衰退了。 只剩下扎苗托夫一个人以后，他又在那个地方沉思默想地坐了许久。拉斯科利尼科夫无意中完全改变了他对这件凶杀案的某一点的想法，并最终确定了自己的意见。 “伊利亚·彼特罗维奇是个笨蛋！”最后他断定。 拉斯科利尼科夫刚打开到街上去的门，突然就在台阶上迎面撞到了正走进来的拉祖米欣。两个人甚至只隔一步远，却谁也没看到谁，所以几乎撞了个头碰头。他们彼此用目光打量着对方，对看了一会儿。拉祖米欣惊讶极了，但是突然，一股怒火，一股真正的怒火在他眼里可怕地闪闪发光。 “哈，原来你在这儿！”他扯着嗓子大喊。“从床上下来，跑了！我到处找他，连沙发底下都找过了！顶楼上也去过了！为了你，我差点儿没把娜斯塔西娅痛打一顿……可是瞧，他在哪里！罗季卡！这是什么意思？把实话全说出来！你说老实话！听见了吗！” “这意思就是，你们全都让我烦死了，我想独自个儿待一会儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫安详地回答。 “独自个几？在你还不能走路，脸还白得像麻布一样，呼吸还很困难的时候！傻瓜！……你在‘水晶宫’干什么了？立刻说出来！” “让我走！”拉斯科利尼科夫说，想从他身旁过去。这可把拉祖米欣惹火了：他紧紧抓住了他的肩膀。 “让你走？你竟敢说：‘让我走’？你知道现在我要把你怎么样吗？我要一把抱住你，把你捆起来，夹在腋下把你弄回家去，锁起来！” “你听我说，拉祖米欣，”拉斯科利尼科夫轻轻地，看来完全平静地说，“难道你看不出我不愿领你的情吗？何苦偏要施恩于……根本不领情的人？对你的关心，他觉得根本无法忍受，对这样的人，你何苦偏要关怀备至？在我刚开始发病的时候，你为什么要找到我？说不定我倒很高兴死呢？难道今天我对你说得还不清楚吗：你是在折磨我，你让我……烦死了！你当真愿意折磨人吗？请你相信，你这样做的确严重妨碍我恢复健康，因为这是在不断地惹我生气。为了不惹我生气，佐西莫夫刚才不是已经走了吗。看在上帝份上，请你也别管我了！最后，请问你有什么权力强制我，不让我自由行动？难道你看不出，我现在说话，神智是完全清醒的吗？我求求你，请你教导我，用什么办法才能让你不再和我纠缠，不再为我做什么好事？就算我忘恩负义，就算我行为卑鄙吧，不过请你们大家都不要管我，看在上帝份上，请你们都别管我！ 别管我！别管我！” 他一开始说话是平心静气的，事先就感到把满腔恶毒的怨气发泄出来的那种快乐，可是到末了，却气得发狂，上气不接下气，跟不久前和卢任说话时一样了。 拉祖米欣站了一会儿，想了想，放开了他的手。 “你滚，见鬼去吧！”他轻轻地说，几乎是陷入沉思。“等等！”拉斯科利尼科夫正要走，他又突然吼叫起来，“你听我说。我要告诉你，所有你们这些人，没有一个不是只会空谈和吹牛的家伙！只要你们一遇上点儿不顺心的事，就像下蛋的母鸡一样，唠唠叨叨，嘀咕个没完！就连嘀咕起来，也是剽窃别人的词句。在你们身上看不到一丁点儿独立生活的影子！你们都是用鲸蜡膏做成的，血管里流的不是血，而是乳浆！你们当中的人，我一个也不相信！在任何情况下，首先引人注目的就是，你们似乎都不像人！等——一——等！”看到拉斯科利尼科夫又要走，他加倍狂怒地大喊一声，“你给我听完！你知道，为庆贺我迁入新居，今天有人来我家聚会，也许现在已经来了，我让舅舅留在家里招待客人，——我刚刚跑回去一趟。那么，如果你不是傻瓜，不是惹人讨厌的傻瓜，不是愚蠢透顶的傻瓜，不是和大家格格不入的怪物……你要知道，罗佳，我承认，你是个聪明小伙子，可你是个傻瓜！——那么，如果你不是傻瓜，今天你还是上我那儿去，坐一个晚上，总比白白地磨破鞋底要好一些。既然你已经出来了，那就一定得去！我给你弄把软绵绵的扶手椅来，房东那里有……喝杯茶，和朋友们聚会聚会……啊，不，我要让你躺到沙发上，——那样也还是跟我们在一起……佐西莫夫也要去。你去吗？” “不去。” “你—胡—说！”拉祖米欣忍不住高声吼叫了起来，“你怎么知道不去？你不能对自己的行为负责！而且对这种事，你什么也不懂……我像这样跟人吵架，吵得谁也不理谁，已经有上千次了，可后来又和好如初……感到惭愧了，就又去找人家！那么你记住，波钦科夫的房子，三楼……” “为了得到施恩于人的快乐，您大概肯让人揍您一顿吧，拉祖米欣先生。” “揍谁？揍我！只要有人胆敢这么想一想，我就拧掉他的鼻子！波钦科夫的房子，四十七号，官员巴布什金的住宅里……” “我不去，拉祖米欣！”拉斯科利尼科夫转身走了。 “我打赌，你一定会来！”拉祖米欣对着他的背影叫喊。 “不然你……不然我就不把你看作我的朋友！等等，喂！扎苗托夫在那儿吗？” “在那儿。” “你见到了？” “见到了。” “说话了？” “说话了。” “谈些什么？唉，去你的吧，请别说了。波钦科夫的房子，四十七号，巴布什金的住所，别忘了！” 拉斯科利尼科夫走到花园街，在街角拐了个弯。拉祖米欣沉思了一会儿，望着他的背影。最后他挥了挥手，走进屋去，但是在楼梯当中又站住了。 “见鬼！”他几乎是出声地继续想，“他说话倒是有理智的，可好像……要知道，我也是个傻瓜！难道疯子说话就没有理智吗？我好像觉得，佐西莫夫担心的就是这一点！”他用一根手指敲了敲前额。“嗯，如果……唉，现在怎么能让他一个人走呢？大概会淹死的……唉，我错了！不行！”于是他跑回去追赶拉斯科利尼科夫，但是连他的影子都看不见了。他啐了一口，快步回到“水晶宫”去，赶快去问扎苗托夫。 拉斯科利尼科夫径直走上×桥，站到桥当中的栏杆旁边，用两个胳膊肘撑在栏杆上，举目远眺。和拉祖米欣分手后，他已虚弱到这种程度，好容易才来到这儿，他想在什么地方坐下来，或者就躺到街上。他俯身对着河水，无意识地望着落日最后一抹粉红色的反光，望着在愈来愈浓的暮色中逐渐变暗的一排房屋，望着左岸沿河大街某处顶楼上远方的一个小窗户，有一瞬间落日的余晖突然照射到小窗子上，于是它闪闪烁烁，好似在火焰中一般，他还望着运河里渐渐变黑的河水，好像在细细端详它。最后，一些红色的圆圈儿在他眼里旋转起来，房屋似乎在动，行人、沿河大街、马车——这一切都在四周旋转，跳起舞来。突然他颤抖了一下，也许是一个奇怪的、怪模怪样的幻象才使他没有再一次昏倒。他感觉到，有人站到了他身旁，就站在他右边，紧挨着他；他看了一眼——看到一个身材高高的妇女，头上包着头巾，椭圆形的脸又黄又瘦，深深凹陷下去的眼睛微微发红。她直瞅着他，但显然什么也没看见，也没看出有人站在那里。突然她用右手撑着栏杆，抬起右脚，跨过栅栏，然后又把左脚跨过去，纵身跳进运河。肮脏的河水向四面让开，转瞬间就吞没了这个牺牲品，但是一分钟后那个投水的女人又浮了上来，随着奔流的河水悄无声息地往下游漂去，头和脚都没入水中，背脊朝上，已经弄乱了的、鼓胀起来的裙子，像个枕头样露在水里。 "A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him. "Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!" "A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her: she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing. "She's drunk herself out of her senses," the same woman's voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her--and here she's in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see yonder. . . ." The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone mentioned the police station. . . . Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. "No, that's loathsome . . . water . . . it's not good enough," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will come of it," he added, "no use to wait. What about the police office . . . ? And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o'clock. . . ." He turned his back to the railing and looked about him. "Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out "to make an end of it all." Complete apathy had succeeded to it. "Well, it's a way out of it," he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. "Anyway I'll make an end, for I want to. . . . But is it a way out? What does it matter! There'll be the square yard of space--ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah . . . damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don't care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one's head." To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute's thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of /the/ house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since /that/ evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. "That wasn't so then," he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. "It's shut up and the door newly painted. So it's to let." Then the third storey and the fourth. "Here!" He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov's coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened. "She comes to me in the morning," said the elder to the younger, "very early, all dressed up. 'Why are you preening and prinking?' says I. 'I am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!' That's a way of going on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!" "And what is a fashion book?" the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority. "A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the female. They're pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies' fluffles, they're beyond anything you can fancy." "There's nothing you can't find in Petersburg," the younger cried enthusiastically, "except father and mother, there's everything!" "Except them, there's everything to be found, my boy," the elder declared sententiously. Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance. "What do you want?" he asked suddenly. Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction. "Well, what do you want? Who are you?" the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again. "I want to take a flat," he said. "I am looking round." "It's not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the porter." "The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no blood?" "What blood?" "Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there." "But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy. "Who am I?" "Yes." "You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you." The workmen looked at him in amazement. "It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up," said the elder workman. "Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway. At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers- by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them. "What do you want?" asked one of the porters. "Have you been to the police office?" "I've just been there. What do you want?" "Is it open?" "Of course." "Is the assistant there?" "He was there for a time. What do you want?" Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought. "He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward. "Which flat?" "Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he. 'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.' And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us." The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed. "Who are you?" he shouted as impressively as he could. "I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil's house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me." Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street. "Why have you been to the flat?" "To look at it." "What is there to look at?" "Take him straight to the police station," the man in the long coat jerked in abruptly. Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones: "Come along." "Yes, take him," the man went on more confidently. "Why was he going into /that/, what's in his mind, eh?" "He's not drunk, but God knows what's the matter with him," muttered the workman. "But what do you want?" the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest--"Why are you hanging about?" "You funk the police station then?" said Raskolnikov jeeringly. "How funk it? Why are you hanging about?" "He's a rogue!" shouted the peasant woman. "Why waste time talking to him?" cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. "Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!" And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked away. "Strange man!" observed the workman. "There are strange folks about nowadays," said the woman. "You should have taken him to the police station all the same," said the man in the long coat. "Better have nothing to do with him," decided the big porter. "A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you won't get rid of him. . . . We know the sort!" "Shall I go there or not?" thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from someone a decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him alone. . . . All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage. . . . A light gleamed in the middle of the street. "What is it?" Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and knew that it would all soon be over. “有个女人投河了！有个女人投河了！”几十个声音在喊；人们跑了过来，两岸都挤满了人，桥上，拉斯科利尼科夫周围聚集了一大群人，从后面推他，挤他。 “天哪，这是我们的阿芙罗西尼尤什卡呀！”不远的地方传来一个女人的哭喊声。“天哪，救命啊！好心的人们，把她拉上来呀！” “船！弄条小船来！”人群中在喊。 但是船已经不需要了：一个警察顺着斜坡的台阶跑到河边，脱掉大衣和靴子，跳下水去。没费多大事：河水已经把溺水者冲到离斜坡只有两步远的地方，他用右手抓住她的衣服，左手抓住他的一个同事伸给他的长竿，投水的女人立刻给拉了上来。把她放到了斜坡的花岗石板上。她很快苏醒过来了，欠起身，坐起来，一连打了几个喷嚏，鼻子里呼哧呼哧地响，毫无意义地用双手在湿淋淋的裙子上乱擦了一阵。她什么话也不说。 “她醉得不省人事了，天哪，醉得不省人事了，”还是那个女人的声音哭着说，她已经站在阿芙罗西尼尤什卡身边了，“前两天她也想上吊来看，从绳子上把她给救下来了。这会儿我正上小铺里去买东西，留下个小姑娘看着她，——瞧，又出了这种罪过的事！是个普通平民，天哪，我们的一个普通老百姓，就住在附近，从边上数起第二所房子里，就在那儿……” 人们渐渐散了，两个警察还在照看着投水的女人，有人喊了一声，提到了警察局……拉斯科利尼科夫怀着一种奇怪的漠不关心的心情，冷漠地看着这一切。他感到厌恶了。“不，讨厌……水……不值得，”他喃喃地自言自语。“不会有任何结果，”他补上一句。“没什么好等了。这是什么，警察局……扎苗托夫为什么不在办公室？九点多办公室还在办公……”他转身背对着栏杆，朝四周看了看。 “那么怎么样呢！走吧！”他坚决地说，于是从桥上下来，往警察局那个方向走去。他的心空虚，麻木。他什么也不愿想。就连烦恼也消失了，刚刚他从家里出来，打算“结束一切！”的时候，曾经精力充沛，现在精力已经消失得无影无踪。 取而代之的是冷漠。 “有什么呢？这也是一条出路！”他在沿河大街上悄悄地、无精打采地走着，心里在想。“我还是要去结束掉，因为我希望结束……不过，这是出路吗？反正一样！一俄尺的空间是会有的，——嘿！不过，是个什么结局啊！难道是结局吗？我去告诉他们，还是不说呢？哎……见鬼！再说，我也累了：赶快在什么地方躺下，或者坐下吧！最丢人的是，太愚蠢了。对这我也不在乎。呸，有些多么愚蠢的想法钻进我脑子里来了……” 去警察局，得一直走，在第二个转弯处往左拐：离这儿只有几步路了。但是走到第一个转弯处，他站住了，想了想，拐进一条小胡同，绕道走，穿过两条衔，——也许是毫无目的，可也许是为了拖延时间，赢得时间，哪怕再拖延一分钟也好。他走路时，眼睛看着地下。突然仿佛有人对着他耳朵悄悄说了句什么。他抬起头来，看到自己正站在那幢房子前，就站在大门旁边。从那天晚上起他就再没来过这儿，也没经过这儿。 一种无法抗拒、也无法解释的愿望吸引了他。他走进那幢房子，穿过门洞，然后进了右手的第一个入口，顺着那道熟悉的楼梯上四楼去。又窄又陡的楼梯很暗。他在每一个楼梯平台上都站下来，好奇地往四下里看看。第一层楼的平台上，窗子上的窗框完全拆下来了。“那时还没拆掉”，他想。瞧，已经到了二楼尼科拉什卡和米季卡在那儿干活的那套房间：“门锁着；门重新油漆过了；这么说，要出租了。”瞧，这是三楼……这是四楼……“这儿！”他感到困惑不解：这套住房的门大敞着，里面有人，可以听到说话的声音；这他无论如何也没料到。稍犹豫了一会儿，他走上最后几级楼梯，走进屋里。 这套房子也重新装修过了；里面有几个工人；这似乎使他吃了一惊。不知为什么，他想象，他将要看到的一切都会和他离开时一模一样，也许，就连那两具尸体也仍然倒在那儿的地板上。而现在却是：空徒四壁，什么家具也没有；真有点儿奇怪！他走到窗前，坐到窗台上。 一共只有两个工人，两个都是年轻小伙子，一个年纪大些，另一个年轻得多。他们正在往墙上糊带淡紫色小花的白色新墙纸，以取代以前那些已经又旧又破的黄色墙纸。拉斯科利尼科夫不知为什么很不喜欢把墙纸换掉；他怀着敌意看着这些新墙纸，仿佛因为一切都变得面目全非而感到惋惜。 两个工人显然是耽误了些时间，现在正匆匆卷起墙纸，准备回家。拉斯科利尼科夫的出现几乎没引起他们的注意。他们正在谈论着什么。拉斯科利尼科夫双手交叉，坐在那儿侧耳倾听。 “她大清早就来找我，”那个年纪大些的对那个年轻的说，“一大早就来了，打扮得好漂亮啊。我说：‘你干吗在我面前装腔作势，’我说，‘你在我面前扭来扭去作什么？’‘我想，’她说，‘季特·瓦西利耶维奇，我希望从今以后完全听你的。’瞧，原来是这么回事！嘿，她打扮得那个漂亮啊：完全是时装杂志上的样子，简直就像杂志上的画片儿！” “叔叔，这时装杂志是什么？”那个年轻的问。他显然是在向“叔叔”讨教。 “时装杂志嘛，这就是，我的老弟，这么一些图画，彩色的，每星期六都邮寄给这儿的裁缝，从外国寄来的，上面教人怎样穿才时髦，有男人的，同样也有女人的。就是说，是图画。男人多半画成穿着腰部打褶的大衣，女人嘛，老弟，那上面画的，都是给女人做衣服时做样子的，别提多好看了！” “在这个彼得堡，什么东西没有啊！”那个年轻的心驰神往地高声叫嚷，“除了圣母，什么都有！” “除了这，我的老弟，什么都有，”那个年纪大些的教导似地结束了这场谈话。 拉斯科利尼科夫站起来，往另一间屋里走去，从前，箱子、床和抽屉柜都摆在那间屋里；屋里没有家具了，他觉得这间房间非常小。墙纸还是原来的；墙角落里，墙纸上清晰地显示出原来供圣像的神龛的痕迹。他往四下里看了看，又回到窗前。年纪较大的工人斜着眼睛盯着他。 “您有什么事？”他突然问拉斯科利尼科夫。 拉斯科利尼科夫没有回答，却站起来，走进穿堂，拉了一下门铃。还是那个门铃，还是同样的白铁皮的响声！他又拉了一次，第三次；他留神听了听，记起了一切。他越来越清晰、越来越逼真地想起了从前那痛苦、可怕、说不清是一种什么感觉的心情，铃声每响一下，他就打一个寒颤，可是他却觉得越来越高兴了。 “您要干什么？您是什么人？”一个工人走到他跟前，大声问。拉斯科利尼科夫又走进房门。 “我想租房子，”他说，“来看看。” “没有人夜里来租房子；再说，您该跟管院子的一道来。” “地板冲洗过了；要油漆吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫接着说。 “血没有了？” “什么血？” “老太婆和她妹妹都被人杀害了。这儿曾经有一大摊血。” “你到底是什么人？”工人不安地大声问。 “我吗？” “是的。” “你想知道吗？……咱们到警察局去，我在那里告诉你。” 两个工人都莫明其妙地瞅了瞅他。 “我们该走了，已经迟了。咱们走，阿廖什卡。得把门锁上，”那个年纪较大的工人说。 “好，咱们走吧！”拉斯科利尼科夫漠然地回答，说罢最先走了出去，慢慢下楼去了。“喂，管院子的！”走到大门口，他喊了一声。 有好几个人站在房子的入口处，在看过路的行人；站在那儿的是两个管院子的，一个妇女，一个穿长袍的小市民，另外还有几个人。拉斯科利尼科夫径直朝他们走去。 “您有什么事？”两个管院子的当中有一个问。 “你到警察局去过吗？” “刚刚去过。您有什么事？” “那里有人吗？” “有。” “副局长也在那里？” “那时候在。您有什么事？” 拉斯科利尼科夫没回答，站在他们旁边，陷入沉思。 “他来看房子，”那个年纪大一些的工人走近前来，说。 “什么房子？” “就是我们在那里干活的那套房子。他说：‘为什么把血冲洗掉了？’他说：‘这里发生过凶杀案，可我来租这套房子。’还动手去拉门铃，差点儿没拉断了。他还说，‘咱们到警察局去，在那里我会把什么都说出来。’纠缠不休。” 管院子的皱起眉头，疑惑地上上下下打量拉斯科利尼科夫。 “您是什么人？”他语气更加严厉地问。 “我是罗季昂·罗曼内奇·拉斯科利尼科夫，以前是大学生，住在希利的房子里，就在这儿的一条小胡同里，离这儿不远，十四号房间。你去问问管院子的……他认识我。”拉斯科利尼科夫说话的时候，神情有点儿懒洋洋地，若有所思，他没有转过脸去，一直凝神注视着渐渐暗下来的街道。 “您为什么到那套房子里去？” “去看看。” “那里有什么好看的？” “把他抓起来，送到警察局去吧？”那个小市民突然插进来说，可是马上就住了声。 拉斯科利尼科夫回头斜着眼睛瞅瞅他，把他细细打量了一下，还是那么轻轻地、懒洋洋地说： “咱们走吧。” “带他走！”小市民鼓起勇气接住话茬说。“他为什么老是想着那件事，是不是心里有鬼，啊？” “他是不是喝醉了，只有上帝知道，”那个工人嘟嘟囔囔地说。 “您有什么事？”管院子的又高声叫嚷，他当真发火了。 “你干吗纠缠不休？” “您怕去警察局？”拉斯科利尼科夫讥讽地对他说。 “怕什么？你干吗纠缠不休？” “无赖！”那个女人喊了一声。 “跟他扯什么，”另一个管院子的大声囔，这是个身材魁梧的汉子，穿一件厚呢上衣，敞着怀，腰带上挂着一串钥匙。 “滚！……当真是个无赖……滚！” 他一把抓住拉斯科利尼科夫的肩膀，猛一下子把他推到了街上。拉斯科利尼科夫几乎跌了个倒栽葱，但是没有倒下去，他挺直了身子，默默地望了望那些看热闹的，于是往前走去。 “这人真怪，”那个工人说。 “如今人都变得古怪了，”那个女人说。 “还是该把他送到警察局去，”那个小市民加上一句。 “不用理他，”那个身材魁梧的管院子的人毅然决然地说。 “完全是个无赖！看得出来，他就是要找碴儿，你一理他，就摆脱不了了……我们知道这种人！” “那么，去，还是不去？”拉斯科利尼科夫想，一边在十字路口马路当中站下来，朝四下里望望，仿佛在等待什么人说出最后一句具有决定意义的话。可是哪里都没有反应：一切都像他脚下的石头一样死气沉沉，寂静无声，只是对于他一个人来说，是死气沉沉的，只是对于他一个人……突然，远处人声嘈杂，离他二百步远，街道尽头，可以看到，在愈来愈浓的黑暗中有一群人，他听到了谈话声，呼喊声……人群中停着一辆马车……微弱的灯光在街道中闪闪烁烁。“这是怎么回事？”拉斯科利尼科夫往右一拐，朝人群那里走去。他仿佛要抓住一切可以利用的机会，想到这里，不禁冷笑一声，因为关于去警察局的事，大概已经作出了决定，他清醒地知道，一切立刻就要结束了。

第七章 An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle. . . . A mass of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and kept repeating: "What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!" Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured. "Merciful heaven!" wailed the coachman, "what more could I do? If I'd been driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Everyone could see I was going along just like everybody else. A drunken man can't walk straight, we all know. . . . I saw him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy. . . . The horses are young and ready to take fright . . . they started, he screamed . . . that made them worse. That's how it happened!" "That's just how it was," a voice in the crowd confirmed. "He shouted, that's true, he shouted three times," another voice declared. "Three times it was, we all heard it," shouted a third. But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name. Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man's face. He recognised him. "I know him! I know him!" he shouted, pushing to the front. "It's a government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel's house. . . . Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?" He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in violent agitation. The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at once. "Just here, three houses away," he said eagerly, "the house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter. . . . It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I'll pay, I'll pay! At least he will be looked after at home . . . they will help him at once. But he'll die before you get him to the hospital." He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman's hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people volunteered to help. Kozel's house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov's head and showing the way. "This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round! I'll pay, I'll make it worth your while," he muttered. Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him --heels together and toes turned out. He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever. "You wouldn't believe, you can't imagine, Polenka," she said, walking about the room, "what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa's house and how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that everyone who came to see him said, 'We look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch, as our governor!' When I . . . when . . ." she coughed violently, "oh, cursed life," she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast, "when I . . . when at the last ball . . . at the marshal's . . . Princess Bezzemelny saw me--who gave me the blessing when your father and I were married, Polenka--she asked at once 'Isn't that the pretty girl who danced the shawl dance at the breaking-up?' (You must mend that tear, you must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or to-morrow--cough, cough, cough--he will make the hole bigger," she articulated with effort.) "Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from Petersburg then . . . he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him that my heart had long been another's. That other was your father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry. . . . Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the stockings! Lida," said she to the youngest one, "you must manage without your chemise to-night . . . and lay your stockings out with it . . . I'll wash them together. . . . How is it that drunken vagabond doesn't come in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish- clout, he has torn it to rags! I'd do it all together, so as not to have to work two nights running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What's this?" she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men, who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. "What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!" "Where are we to put him?" asked the policeman, looking round when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in. "On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way," Raskolnikov showed him. "Run over in the road! Drunk!" someone shouted in the passage. Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and clutched at her, trembling all over. Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna. "For God's sake be calm, don't be frightened!" he said, speaking quickly, "he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don't be frightened, he will come to, I told them bring him here . . . I've been here already, you remember? He will come to; I'll pay!" "He's done it this time!" Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she rushed to her husband. Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man's head a pillow, which no one had thought of and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her. Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one. "I've sent for a doctor," he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, "don't be uneasy, I'll pay. Haven't you water? . . . and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as you can. . . . He is injured, but not killed, believe me. . . . We shall see what the doctor says!" Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, in readiness for washing her children's and husband's linen that night. This washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov's request, but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood off Marmeladov's face. Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began to realise that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation. "Polenka," cried Katerina Ivanovna, "run to Sonia, make haste. If you don't find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and that she is to come here at once . . . when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on the shawl." 街道当中停着一辆十分考究、显然是老爷们坐的四轮马车，车上套着两匹灰色的烈马；车上没有乘客，车夫也已经从自己座位上下来，站在一旁；有人拉住马的笼头。四周挤了一大群人，站在最前面的是几个警察。其中一个警察提着盏点亮的提灯，弯着腰，用提灯照着马路上车轮旁边的什么东西。大家都在谈论，叫喊，叹息；车夫似乎感到困惑不解，不时重复说： “真倒楣！上帝啊，真倒楣啊！” 拉斯科利尼科夫尽可能挤进人群，终于看到了那个引起骚乱和好奇的对象。地上躺着一个刚刚被马踩伤的人，看来已经失去知觉，那人穿得很差，但衣服却是“高贵的”，浑身是血。脸上、头上鲜血直淌；脸给踩坏了，皮肤撕破了，已经完全变了样，看得出来，踩得不轻。 “天哪！”车夫数数落落地哭着说，“这可叫人怎么提防啊！要是我把车赶得飞快，要么是没喊他，那还可以怪我，可是我赶得不慌不忙，不快不慢。大家都看到的：别人怎样赶，我也怎样赶。喝醉的人不能点蜡烛——这大家都知道！……我看到他穿马路的时候摇摇晃晃，差点儿没有跌倒，——我对他喊了一声，又喊了一声，再喊一声，还勒住了马；他却径直倒到了马蹄底下！是他故意的吗，要么是他已经喝得烂醉了……马还小，容易受惊，——它们猛一拉，他大喊一声—— 它们更害怕了……这样一来，就闯了祸。” “事情就是这样！”人群中有人高声作证。 “他是喊过，这是实话，向他喊了三次，”另一个声音响应。 “的确是喊了三次，大家都听到的，”第三个大声嚷。 不过车夫并不十分沮丧和惊恐。看得出来，马车属于一个有钱有势的主人，而他正在什么地方等着马车；警察当然要考虑到这个情况，设法顺利解决这次车祸。目前要做的是，把受伤的人送到警察分局，然后再送进医院去。谁也不知道他的名字。 这时拉斯科利尼科夫挤了进来，变下腰，凑得更近一些。 突然灯光照亮了这个不幸的人的脸；他认出了他。 “我认识他，我认识！”他完全挤上前去，高声大喊，“这是位官员，退职的，九等文官，马尔梅拉多夫！他就住在这儿附近，住在科泽尔的房子里……赶快去请医生！我付钱，这就是！”他从口袋里掏出钱来，给一个警察看。他异常激动不安。 有人认出了被踩伤的人，警察对此十分满意。拉斯科利尼科夫说出了自己的名字，把自己的地址告诉了他们，并且竭力劝说警察赶快把失去知觉的马尔梅拉多夫抬回家去，他那样尽心竭力，就像给踩伤的是他的亲爹一样。 “就在这儿，过去三幢房子，”他急急忙忙地说，“科泽尔的房子，一个很有钱的德国人的房子……刚刚他大概是喝醉了，要回家去。我认识他……他是个酒鬼……他的家就在那里，有妻子，几个孩子，还有个女儿。一时半会儿还送不进医院，可这儿，这幢房子里大概有个医生！我付钱，我付钱！……到底有自己人照料，马上就会进行急救，不然，不等送到医院，他就会死了……” 他甚至已经不让人看到，悄悄地把钱塞到警察手里；其实事情很明显，这样做是合情合理的，无论如何可以就近采取措施，进行急救。把受伤的人抬起来，抬走了；有人自愿帮忙。科泽尔的房子离这儿只有三十来步远。拉斯科利尼科夫跟在后面，小心翼翼地扶着他的头，给人们指路。 “这边。往这边走！上楼梯的时候得头朝上抬着；转弯…… 对了！我付钱，我谢谢大家，”他含糊不清地说。 卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跟往常一样，一空下来，立刻双臂交叉紧紧抱在胸前，在自己那间小屋里踱来踱去，从窗前走到炉子前，然后再走回去，自言自语，不断地咳嗽。最近她越来越经常和自己的大女儿、十岁的波莲卡谈话，说得越来越多，尽管有很多事情波莲卡还听不懂，可是她倒很懂得母亲需要什么，因此总是用自己那双聪明的大眼睛注视着母亲，竭力装作什么都懂的样子。这一次波莲卡正在给一整天都觉得不舒服的小弟弟脱衣服，让他躺下睡觉。小男孩等着给他换衬衣，换下来的衬衣要在夜里洗掉，他默默地坐在椅子上，神情严肃，一动不动地伸直两条小腿，脚后跟紧紧并拢，脚尖往两边分开。他在听妈妈和姐姐说话儿，撅着小嘴，瞪着眼睛，一动不动，完全像一个乖孩子临睡前坐着让人给脱衣服时通常应有的样子。一个比他还小的小姑娘，穿得完全破破烂烂，正站在屏风旁，等着给她脱衣服。通楼梯的房门开着，这样可以多少吹散从别的房间里像波浪般涌来的烟草的烟雾，烟味呛得那个可怜的、害肺病的女人不停地咳嗽，咳得很久很久，痛苦不堪。这一个星期以来，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜似乎变得更瘦，双颊上的红晕也比以前更鲜艳了。 “你不会相信，你也无法想象，波莲卡，”她一边在屋里走，一边说，“在我爸爸家里的时候，我们过的是多么快乐、多么阔绰的生活，这个酒鬼害得我好苦，也害了你们大家！我爸爸是位五等文官①，已经差不多是省长了；他只差一步就可以当省长了，所以大家都来拜访他，说：‘伊万·米哈依洛维奇，我们已经把您看作是我们的省长了。’当我……咳，咳！当我……咳——咳——咳……噢，该死的生活！”她大声叫喊，双手抓住胸口，想把痰吐出来，“当我，……唉，在最后一次舞会上……在首席贵族的官邸里……别兹泽梅利娜娅公爵夫人看到了我，——后来，我嫁给你爸爸的时候，波莉娅，公爵夫人曾为我祝福，——立刻就问：‘这是不是在毕业典礼上跳披巾舞的那个可爱的姑娘？’……（破了的地方得缝起来；你去拿针来，照我教你的那样，这就把它补好，要不，明天……咳！明天……咳——咳——咳！……会破得更大！”她拼命用力喊出来）……“那时候宫廷侍从谢戈利斯基公爵刚从彼得堡来，……跟我跳了马祖卡舞，第二天就想来向我求婚：可是我婉言谢绝了，说，我的心早已属于别人。这个别人就是你的父亲，波莉娅；我爸爸非常生气，……水准备好了吗？好，把衬衫拿来；袜子呢？……莉达，”她对小女儿说，“这一夜你就不穿衬衣睡吧；随便睡一夜……把袜子也放到旁边……一道洗……这个流浪汉怎么还不回来，醉鬼！他把衬衫都穿得像块抹布了，全撕破了……最好一道洗掉，省得一连两夜都得受罪！上帝呀！咳——咳——咳——咳！又咳了！这是怎么回事！”她大声叫喊，朝站在穿堂里的人群望了望，望了望不知抬着什么挤进她屋里来的那些人。“这是什么？抬的是什么？上帝呀！” -------- ①五等文官可以作副省长。 “放到哪儿？”把浑身血污、失去知觉的马尔梅拉多夫抬进屋里以后，一个警察问，说着朝四下里看了看。 “放到沙发上！就放到沙发上，头放在这儿，”拉斯科利尼科夫指指沙发。 “在街上给轧伤了！醉鬼！”穿堂里有人叫喊。 卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜站在那里，脸色煞白，呼吸困难。孩子们都吓坏了。小莉多奇卡大喊一声，扑到波莲卡身上，抱住她，浑身索索发抖。 把马尔梅拉多夫放到沙发上以后，拉斯科利尼科夫跑到卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跟前： “看在上帝份上，请您放心，不要惊慌！”他说得又急又快，“他穿马路，让马车轧伤了，您别着急，他会醒过来的，我叫他们抬到这儿来……我来过你们家，您记得吗……他会醒过来的，我付钱！” “他达到目的了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜绝望地大喊一声，扑到丈夫身边。 拉斯科利尼科夫很快就发觉，这个女人不是那种会立刻昏倒的女人。一转眼的工夫，这个惨遭不幸的人头底下就出现了一个枕头——这是无论谁还都没想到的；卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜动手给他脱掉外衣，察看伤口，忙碌着，并没有惊慌失措，她忘记了自己，咬紧发抖的嘴唇，压制着就要从胸中冲出来的叫喊。 这时拉斯科利尼科夫劝说一个人赶快去请医生。原来医生就住在附近，只隔着一幢房子。 “我叫人请医生去了，”他对卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜反复说，“请别着急，我来付钱。有水吗？……给我条餐巾，毛巾也行，随便什么都行，快点儿；还不知道他伤势怎么样……他只是受了伤，没有被轧死，请您相信……看医主会怎么说吧！” 卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跑到窗前；那里，墙角落里一把压坏的椅子上有一大瓦盆水，是准备夜里给孩子们和丈夫洗衣服的。夜里洗衣服，都是卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜亲自动手，至少一星期洗两次，有时洗得更勤，因为已经弄到这种地步，换洗的内衣已经几乎根本没有了，全家每人只有一件内衣，而对于不干净，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜却是无法容忍的。她宁愿等大家都睡了以后，自己来干这件力不胜任的活儿，累得要死，为的是到早晨能在拉在屋里的绳上把湿内衣晾干，让大家都穿上干净内衣，而不愿看到家里脏得要命。她应拉斯科利尼科夫的要求，端起那盆水，想要端过来递给他，可是差点儿没有连盆一起摔倒。不过拉斯科利尼科夫已经找到一条毛巾，用水把它浸湿，动手给马尔梅拉多夫擦净血迹斑斑的脸。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜站在那儿，痛苦地喘着气，双手紧紧捂着胸口。她自己也需要救护了。拉斯科利尼科夫开始明白，他劝人们把受伤的人抬到这儿来，也许做得并不好。 那个警察也困惑地站着。 “波莉娅！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜喊了一声，“快跑去找索尼娅。要是她不在家，反正一样，你就对邻居说，父亲叫马给踩伤了，叫她立刻到这儿来……一回家就来。快点儿，波莉娅！给，包上头巾！” “拼命跑！”小男孩突然从椅子上喊了一声，说罢又恢复了原来的姿势，笔直地坐在椅子上，一声不响，瞪着眼睛，脚后跟并拢①，脚尖朝两边分开。 -------- ①原文是“脚后跟朝前”。但前面曾说，他是并拢脚后跟。并拢脚后跟似乎比较合理。 这时屋里挤满了人，真的是连针都插不进去。警察都走了，只有一个暂时还留在那儿，竭力把从楼梯上挤进来的人又赶回到楼梯上去。可是利佩韦赫泽尔太太的所有房客几乎都从里屋里跑了出来，起初还只是挤在门口，后来却成群地涌进屋里来。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜气坏了。 “至少得让人安安静静地死吧！”她对着那群人叫喊，“你们倒有戏看了！还叼着香烟呢！咳——咳——咳！请再戴着帽子进来吧！……还真有个人戴着帽子呢……出去！至少也该尊敬死人的遗体啊！” "Run your fastest!" cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread out. Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn't have dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lippevechsel's lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a fury. "You might let him die in peace, at least," she shouted at the crowd, "is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well keep your hats on. . . . And there is one in his hat! . . . Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!" Her cough choked her--but her reproaches were not without result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and compassion. Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying that they'd no business to make a disturbance here. "No business to die!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German. "Ah, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands, "your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!" "Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying," Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might "remember her place" and even now could not deny herself this satisfaction). "Amalia Ludwigovna . . ." "I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna." "You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who's laughing behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of 'they are at it again' was in fact audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall be informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew me as a girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often been a benefactor to him. Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and protectors, whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pride, knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna . . ." All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna's eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes. "My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding," she said in despair. "We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can," she cried to him. Marmeladov recognised her. "A priest," he articulated huskily. Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame and exclaimed in despair: "Oh, cursed life!" "A priest," the dying man said again after a moment's silence. "They've gone for him," Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, he obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier but not for long. Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes. "A-ah," he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something. "What now?" cried Katerina Ivanovna. "Barefoot, barefoot!" he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child's bare feet. "Be silent," Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, "you know why she is barefooted." "Thank God, the doctor," exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved. The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man's chest. It was gashed, crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking yellowish-black bruise--a cruel kick from the horse's hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road. "It's wonderful that he has recovered consciousness," the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov. "What do you think of him?" he asked. "He will die immediately." "Is there really no hope?" "Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp. . . . His head is badly injured, too . . . Hm . . . I could bleed him if you like, but . . . it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes." "Better bleed him then." "If you like. . . . But I warn you it will be perfectly useless." At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained. All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy's shirt, and managed to cover the girl's bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene. At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said, "She's coming, I met her in the street." Her mother made her kneel beside her. Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death and despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door. The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving. "What am I to do with these?" she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones. "God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour," the priest began. "Ach! He is merciful, but not to us." "That's a sin, a sin, madam," observed the priest, shaking his head. "And isn't that a sin?" cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man. "Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings." "You don't understand!" cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand. "And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he's dying! One less to keep!" 咳嗽憋得她喘不过气来，不过她的叫喊倒发生了作用。显然，他们对卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜甚至有点儿害怕了；那些房客都怀着一种打心眼儿里感到满意的奇怪心情，一个跟一个地挤回门口去了；有人突然遇到不幸的时候，就是在他最亲近的亲人中，也毫无例外地会发觉这种奇怪的心情，尽管他们对亲人的不幸真心实意地感到惋惜，并深表同情。 不过从门外传来的谈话声中提到了医院，还说，不该把这儿搅得不得安宁，完全无此必要。 “不该让人死！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜高声叫嚷，已经跑过去，打开房门，想要把他们痛骂一顿，却在门口撞到了利佩韦赫泽尔太太，她刚刚听说这件不幸的事，立刻跑来整顿秩序。这是一个非常喜欢吵架、最会胡搅蛮缠的德国女人。 “哎呀，我的天哪！”她双手一拍，“您的酒鬼丈夫叫马给踩死了。应该把他送到医院去。我是房东！” “阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜！请您回想一下您说的活，”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜高傲地说（她和女房东说话，总是用高傲的语气，好让她“记住自己的地位”，就连现在也不能放弃让自己得到这种快乐的机会），“阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜……” “我一劳容易（永逸）地告诉您，您永远别敢再叫我阿玛莉·柳德维戈芙娜了，我是阿玛莉—伊万！” “您不是阿玛莉—伊万，而是阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜，因为我不是您那些下流无耻、惯于拍马逢迎的人，我可不是像列别贾特尼科夫先生那样的人，瞧，现在他正在门外笑呢（门外真的传来了笑声和叫喊声：‘吵起来了！’），所以我要永远管您叫阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜，虽说我根本弄不懂，您为什么不喜欢这个名字。您自己看到了，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇出了什么事；他快死了。请您立刻把这道门关上，别让任何人到这里来。至少也要让人安安静静地死！不然的话，请您相信，明天总督大人就会知道您的行为。还在我作姑娘的时候，公爵大人就认识我，而且对谢苗·扎哈罗维奇印象很深，还帮过他好多次忙呢。大家都知道，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇有很多朋友和靠山，不过因为他觉得自己有这个倒楣的弱点，出于高尚的自尊心，自己不再去找他们了，可是现在（她指指拉斯科利尼科夫）有一位慷慨的年轻人在帮助我们，他有钱，而且交际很广，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇从小就认识他，请您相信，阿玛莉娅·柳德维戈芙娜……” 这些话都说得非常快，而且越说越快，但是一阵咳嗽一下子打断了卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜动人的雄辩。这时那个快要咽气的人醒过来了，呻吟起来，她赶紧跑到了他的身边。受伤的人睁开眼睛，还没认出、也不明白，弯着腰站在他面前的是什么人，于是仔细瞅着拉斯科利尼科夫。他呼吸困难，深深地吸气，间隔很长时间；嘴角上流出鲜血；前额上冒出冷汗。他没认出拉斯科利尼科夫，眼珠不安地转动起来。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜看着他，目光悲哀而严厉，泪珠止不住从眼里流淌出来。 “我的天哪！他的整个胸膛全都给轧伤了！血，血！”她绝望地说。“得把他上身的内衣全脱下来！你稍微侧转身去，谢苗·扎哈罗维奇，如果你还能动的话，”她对他大声喊。 马尔梅拉多夫认出了她。 “叫神甫来！”他声音嘶哑地说。 卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜走到窗前，前额靠在窗框上，绝望地高声大喊： “噢，该死的生活！” “叫神甫来！”沉默了一会儿以后，快咽气的人又说。 “去——了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜对着他大声喊；他听了她的叫喊，不作声了。他用怯生生而又忧郁的目光寻找她；她又回到他跟前来，站在床头旁，他稍微安静了些，可是时间不长。不久他的眼睛停留在小莉多奇卡（他最宠爱的小女儿）身上，她躲在墙角落里，像发病一样，浑身簌簌发抖，用她那孩子式的惊讶的目光凝神注视着他。 “啊……啊……”他焦急地指指她。他想要说什么。 “还想说什么？”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜高声叫喊。 “她光着脚！脚光着呢！”他含糊不清地说，同时用好似疯人的目光望着小姑娘光着的小脚。 “别—说—了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜气愤地叫喊，“你自己知道，她的脚为什么光着！” “谢天谢地，医生来了！”高兴起来的拉斯科利尼科夫高声说。 医生进来了，是个衣着整洁的小老头儿，德国人，他带着怀疑的神情朝四下里望了望，走到受伤的人跟前，按了按脉，又仔细摸摸他的头，在卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜的帮助下，解开浸透鲜血的衬衣，让受伤的人胸部裸露出来。整个胸部全都血肉模糊，没有一点完好的地方；右侧的几根肋骨断了。左侧，正好在心脏的部位，有老大一块最让人担心的、黑中透黄的伤痕，这是马蹄猛踩下去造成的重伤。医生皱起眉头。那个警察对他说，被轧伤的人给卷到了车轮底下，在马路上滚动着，给拖了三十来步远。 “奇怪，他怎么还会醒过来呢，”医生悄悄地对拉斯科利尼科夫说。 “您说什么？”后者问。 “这就要死了。” “难道没有任何希望了？” “一点儿也没有！只剩最后一口气了……况且头部伤势那么重……嗯哼。也许可以放血……不过……这也没有用。五分钟或者十分钟以后，必死无疑。” “那么您最好还是给放血吧！” “好吧……不过我预先告诉您，这完全无济于事。” 这时又听到一阵脚步声，穿堂里的人群让开了，一个头发斑白的小老头儿——拿着圣餐①的神甫出现在门口。还在街上的时候，警察就去请他了。医生立刻把座位让给他，并且意味深长地和他交换了一下眼色。拉斯科利尼科夫请求医生至少再稍等一会儿。医生耸耸肩，留了下来。 -------- ①面包和葡萄酒，象征耶稣的肉体和血液。 大家都往后退开了。忏悔持续的时间很短。就要咽气的人未必十分清楚这是在做什么；他只能发出一些断断续续、含糊不清的声音。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜抱起莉多奇卡，把小男孩从椅子上拉下来，走到墙角落里，炉子跟前，跪下来，让两个孩子跪在她前面。小姑娘只是簌簌地发抖，小男孩却用裸露着的膝盖跪在地下，不慌不忙地抬起一只小手，从肩到腰画着十字，磕头时前额都碰到地上，看来，这使他得到某种特殊的乐趣。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜咬住嘴唇，强忍着眼泪；她也在祈祷，偶尔拉拉孩子身上的衬衫，把它拉正，一边仍然跪着祈祷，一边从抽屉柜上拿过一块三角头巾，披到小姑娘裸露得太多的肩膀上。这时里屋的房门又被那些好奇的人打开了。穿堂里看热闹的人越来越拥挤，这幢楼上的房客全都挤在那里，不过他们都没有跨进这间房子的门坎。只有一段蜡烛头照耀着这个场面。 这时跑去叫姐姐的波莲卡穿过人群，从穿堂里迅速挤了进来。她进来了，由于急急奔跑，还在气喘吁吁，她摘下头巾，用眼睛寻找母亲，走到她跟前说：“姐姐来了！在街上遇到了她！”母亲让她也跪在自己身边。一个姑娘悄无声息、怯生生地从人群中挤了过来，她突然出现在这间屋里，出现在贫困、破衣烂衫、死亡和绝望之中，让人感到奇怪。她穿的也是褴褛的衣服；她的衣服都很便宜，不过像街头妓女那样打扮得颇为入时，合乎在她们那个特殊社会里形成的趣味和规矩，而且带有明显、可耻的露骨的目的。索尼娅在穿堂门口站住了，没有跨进门坎，好像不好意思地看着屋里，似乎什么也没看明白，而且忘记了她穿的那件几经转手倒卖、她才买到手、可是在这里却有伤大雅的彩色绸衣，绸衣后面的下摆长得出奇，让人觉得好笑，忘记了那条十分宽大、堵住了房门的钟式裙，忘记了脚上的那双浅色皮鞋，忘记了夜里并不需要、可她还是带着的那把奥姆布列尔①，也忘记了那顶插着根鲜艳的火红色羽毛、滑稽可笑的圆草帽。从这顶轻浮地歪戴着的帽子底下露出一张瘦削、苍白、惊恐的小脸，嘴张着，两只眼睛吓得呆呆地一动不动。索尼娅个子不高，有十七、八岁了，人很瘦，不过是个相当好看的淡黄色头发的姑娘，有一双十分漂亮的淡蓝色眼睛。她凝神注视着床，注视着神甫；由于赶了一阵路，她也气喘吁吁的。最后，人群中一阵窃窃私语以及有人说的几句话，大概都飞进了她的耳朵里。她低下头，一步跨过门坎，到了屋里，不过仍然站在门口。 -------- ①法文ombrelle，“小伞”之意。 忏悔和授圣餐的仪式都结束了。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜又走到丈夫床前。神甫后退几步，走的时候对卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜说了几句临别赠言和安慰她的话。 “叫我怎么安置这些孩子呢？”她指着孩子们，很不客气而又气愤地打断了他。 “上帝是仁慈的；信赖至高无上的上帝的帮助吧，”神甫说。 “哼！仁慈的，可是不管我们！” “这是罪过，罪过，夫人，”神甫摇着头说。 “可这不是罪过吗？”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜指着奄奄一息的丈夫，高声叫喊。 “也许，那些无意中给你们造成不幸的人同意给予补偿，至少会赔偿你们失去的收入……” “您不理解我的意思！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜挥了挥手，愤怒地叫嚷。“为什么赔偿？因为是他，这个醉鬼，自己钻到马蹄底下去的！什么收入？他没有收入，只有痛苦。因为他，这个酒鬼，把什么都喝光了。他经常偷走我们的东西，拿到小酒馆去，把自己的一生，还有我的一生，全都在小酒馆里毁掉了！他要死了，真是谢天谢地！损失会少些了！” “临终的时刻应当宽恕，这却是罪过，夫人，这样的感情是极大的罪过！” 卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜在受伤的丈夫身边忙乱地照料他，给他喝水，擦掉他头上的汗和血，摆正枕头，虽然忙个不停，有时还抽空转过脸去，和神甫说几句话。现在她却几乎是发疯似地突然向神甫扑来。 “唉，神甫！空话，这只不过是些空话！宽恕！要是他没给轧着，今天又是喝得醉醺醺的回来，他身上只有一件衬衣，已经穿得又旧又破，他倒可以倒头就睡，我却得直到天亮洗个不停，洗他的破衣烂衫，洗孩子们的衣服，然后在窗外晾干，天蒙蒙亮，我还得坐下来缝缝补补，——这就是我的一夜！……为什么还要宽恕呢？我本来就已经宽恕了！” 一阵从胸膛里咳出来的、可怕的咳嗽打断她的话。她咳出一口痰来，吐在手绢儿上，拿给神甫看，同时痛苦地用另一只手紧紧按着胸口。手绢儿上全都是血…… "You must forgive in the hour of death, that's a sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin." Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him almost in a frenzy. "Ah, father! That's words and only words! Forgive! If he'd not been run over, he'd have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he'd have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children's and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I should have been darning them. That's how I spend my nights! . . . What's the use of talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!" A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handkerchief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing. Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him: "Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!" And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia. Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a corner. "Who's that? Who's that?" he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing, and trying to sit up. "Lie down! Lie do-own!" cried Katerina Ivanovna. With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering. "Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!" he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without moving. He died in her arms. "He's got what he wanted," Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband's dead body. "Well, what's to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can I give them to-morrow to eat?" Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna. "Katerina Ivanovna," he began, "last week your husband told me all his life and circumstances. . . . Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends. . . . Allow me now . . . to do something . . . to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I think--and if that can be of any assistance to you, then . . . I . . . in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again . . . I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow. . . . Good-bye!" And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly. "Ah, is that you?" he asked him. "He's dead," answered Raskolnikov. "The doctor and the priest have been, all as it should have been. Don't worry the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible . . . you are a kind-hearted man, I know . . ." he added with a smile, looking straight in his face. "But you are spattered with blood," observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat. "Yes . . . I'm covered with blood," Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs. He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling "Wait! wait!" He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child's thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give. "Tell me, what is your name? . . . and where do you live?" she said hurriedly in a breathless voice. He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not have said why. "Who sent you?" "Sister Sonia sent me," answered the girl, smiling still more brightly. "I knew it was sister Sonia sent you." "Mamma sent me, too . . . when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up, too, and said 'Run fast, Polenka.'" "Do you love sister Sonia?" "I love her more than anyone," Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver. "And will you love me?" By way of answer he saw the little girl's face approaching him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him. "I am sorry for father," she said a moment later, raising her tear- stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. "It's nothing but misfortunes now," she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people. "Did your father love you?" "He loved Lida most," she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like grown-up people, "he loved her because she is little and because she is ill, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture, too," she added with dignity. "And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French, for it's time my education began." "And do you know your prayers?" "Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the 'Ave Maria' and then another prayer: 'Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonia,' and then another, 'Lord, forgive and bless our second father.' For our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do pray for the other as well." "Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. 'And Thy servant Rodion,' nothing more." "I'll pray for you all the rest of my life," the little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more. Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in. "Enough," he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. "I've done with fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven't I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her--and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for the reign of reason and light . . . and of will, and of strength . . . and now we will see! We will try our strength!" he added defiantly, as though challenging some power of darkness. "And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space! "I am very weak at this moment, but . . . I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov's house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were not close by . . . let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction, too--no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength--that's what they don't know," he added proudly and self-confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every moment. What was it had happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, 'could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old woman.' Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of that. "But I did ask her to remember 'Thy servant Rodion' in her prayers," the idea struck him. "Well, that was . . . in case of emergency," he added and laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits. He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at Potchinkov's and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin's room was fairly large; the company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the landlady's servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up from the landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it. 神甫低下头，什么话也没说。 马尔梅拉多夫已经在咽最后一口气了；他目不转睛地瞅着又俯身看着他的卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜的脸。他一直想要对她说句什么话；他努力转动着舌头，含糊不清地说出几个字来，但是卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜懂得他是请求她宽恕，立刻用命令的口吻对他大声喊道： “别——说——话！用不着！……我知道你想说的是什么！”受伤的人不作声了；但这时他那毫无目的东张西望的目光落到了门上，他看到了索尼娅…… “这是谁？这是谁？”他突然声音嘶哑、上气不接下气地说，神色惊慌不安，眼睛恐惧地望着门口，女儿就站在那里，他竭力想欠起身来。 “躺下！躺一下！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜大声喊。 可是他以不寻常的力量用一只手撑着身子。他古怪地、一动不动呆呆地望着女儿，看了好一会工夫，好像没认出她来。他还连一次也没看到她穿着这样的衣服。突然他认出了她，认出了这个受尽侮辱、悲痛万分、打扮得十分漂亮、却羞愧得无地自容的女儿，她正温顺地等着轮到自己和垂死的父亲诀别。她的脸上露出无限痛苦的神情。 “索尼娅！女儿！原谅我！”他大声喊，想要把手伸给她，可是失去了支撑点，咕咚一声从沙发上摔下去，脸朝下跌到了地上；大家赶紧跑过去把他抬起来，放到沙发上，可是他已经气息奄奄，与这个世界告别了。索尼娅有气无力地喊了一声，跑上前去，抱住了他，就这样抱着他一动不动。他死在了她的怀里。 “他达到目的了！”卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜看到丈夫的尸体，大声说，“唉，现在怎么办呢？我拿什么来安葬他！拿什么，明天拿什么来给他们吃啊？” 拉斯科利尼科夫走到卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜跟前。 “卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，”他对她说，“上星期，您这位现在已经去世的丈夫把他的生活状况和所有情况全都告诉了我……请您相信，他谈到您的时候，怀着十分热烈的感情和敬意。在那天晚上我知道了他对你们大家是多么忠诚，而对您，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，他更是特别尊敬，特别爱您，尽管他有这个不幸的嗜好，从那天晚上起，我们就成了朋友……现在请允许我……聊尽绵薄……作为对我亡友的一点心意。这里是……二十卢布，似乎，——如果这能对你们多少有点儿帮助，那么……我……总之我还会来的，——我一定来……我说不定明天就来……再见！” 他迅速走出屋去，赶快挤出人丛，来到了楼梯上；但在人丛中突然碰到了尼科季姆·福米奇，他得知发生了不幸的事，想来亲自处理。从在办公室里发生了那件事情以后，他们还没见过面，可是尼科季姆·福米奇立刻认出了他。 “啊，是您吗？”他问拉斯科利尼科夫。 “他死了，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。“医生来过，神甫也来过了，一切都办妥了。请别过分惊动那个可怜的女人了，她本来就有肺病。请设法让她振作起来，如果您做得到的话……因为您是个好心人，我是知道的……”他直瞅着他的眼睛，冷笑着补上一句。 “可是您身上怎么沾上了血迹，”尼科季姆·福米奇说，在灯光下，他看到拉斯科利尼科夫的坎肩上有好几块鲜红的血迹。 “是啊，沾上了血……我浑身是血！”拉斯科利尼科夫说，他的神态有些特别，说罢微微一笑，点了点头，就下楼去了。 他轻轻地走下楼去，不慌不忙，身上在发烧，但是他并没意识到；他心里充满了一种从未体验过的感觉，仿佛突然涌来一股无限强大的生命力，心里已经无法容纳了。这就像一个被判处死刑的人出乎意外地突然获得赦免时的感觉一样。下楼下了一半的时候，回家去的神甫赶上了他；拉斯科利尼科夫默默地让神甫走到前面去，默默地和他互相点头致意。但是已经在下最后几磴楼梯的时候，他突然听到身后有匆匆的脚步声。有人在追赶他。这是波莲卡；她跑着来追他，还在喊他：“喂！喂！” 他朝她转过身来。她跑下最后一道楼梯，在他跟前站住了，站在比他高一磴的楼梯上。暗淡的灯光从院子里照到这里。拉斯科利尼科夫看清了小姑娘瘦削然而可爱的小脸，这小脸向他微笑着，带着小孩子特有的愉快神情瞅着他。她跑来是负有使命的，看来，她自己也很喜欢完成这项使命。 “喂，您叫什么？……还有，您住在哪儿？”她匆忙地问，还在气喘吁吁的。 他把双手放在她的肩上，面带幸福的神情瞅着她。他看着她，觉得那么高兴，——他自己也不知是为什么。 “谁叫您来的？” “索尼娅姐姐叫我来的，”小姑娘回答，笑得更愉快了。 “我就知道，是索尼娅姐姐叫您来的。” “妈妈也叫我来。索尼娅姐姐叫我来的时候，妈妈也走过来，说：“快跑，波莲卡！” “您喜欢索尼娅姐姐吗？” “我最喜欢的就是她！”波莲卡语气特别坚定地说，她的笑容突然变得严肃了。 “您会喜欢我吗？” 他没有听到回答，却看到小姑娘的小脸向他凑了过来，她那丰满的小嘴唇天真地伸过来，要来吻他。突然，她那瘦得像火柴棒样的两条胳膊紧紧搂住了他，头靠到他的肩上，小姑娘轻轻地哭了，脸越来越紧地贴在他的身上。 “我可怜爸爸！”稍过了一会儿，她说，同时抬起挂满泪珠的小脸，用双手擦去眼泪，“现在老是发生这种不幸的事，”她突然又加上一句，神情特别庄重，每当小孩子突然想要像“大人”那样说话的时候，总是竭力装出一副这样的神情。 “爸爸喜欢您吗？” “他最喜欢莉多奇卡，”她十分严肃地接着说，一点儿也不笑，已经完全是像大人那样说话了，“他喜欢她，是因为她小，还因为她有病，总是给她带糖果来，他教我们念书，教过我语法和神学，”她庄重地补充说，“妈妈什么也没说，不过我们知道，她喜欢他教我们，爸爸也知道她喜欢，可妈妈想让他教我学法语，因为我已经该受教育了。” “您会祈祷吗？” “噢，那还用说，我们都会！早就会了；因为我已经大了，经常自己默默地祈祷，科利亚和莉多奇卡跟妈妈一起大声祈祷；先念‘圣母’，接着祷告：‘上帝啊，求你宽恕索尼娅姐姐，保佑她’，接下来还有：‘上帝啊，求你宽恕和保佑我们的那一个爸爸’，因为我们从前的那个爸爸死了，这一个，是我们的另一个爸爸，我们也为那个爸爸祈祷。” “波莲卡，我叫罗季昂；以后什么时候请您也为我祈祷： ‘还有你的仆人罗季昂’——旁的什么也不用说。” “今后我一辈子都为您祈祷，”小姑娘热情地说，突然又笑起来，扑到他身上，又紧紧抱住了他。 拉斯科利尼科夫把自己的名字和地址都告诉了她，答应明天一定来。由于他对她这么好，小姑娘十分高兴地走了。他来到街上的时候，已经十点多了。五分钟后他站在桥上，正好又站在不久前那个女人投河的地方。 “够了！”他毅然决然、十分激动地说，“滚开吧，幻影，滚开吧，心造的恐惧，滚开吧，幽灵！……生活是存在的！难道我现在不是在活着吗？我的生活还没有和老太婆一同死去！愿她在天国安息，——够了，老大娘，该安息了！现在是理智和光明的世界……也是意志和力量统治一切的时代……现在咱们瞧吧！现在咱们来较量较量吧！”他傲慢地加上一句，仿佛是对着某种黑暗的力量说话，向它提出挑战。“而我已经同意在一俄尺见方的空间生活了！” “……这时我很虚弱，不过……好像病全好了。不久前我出来的时候就知道病会好的。真巧，波钦科夫的房子离这儿只有几步路。即使不只几步路，我也一定要去找拉祖米欣……这次打的赌就让他赢了吧！……让他也开开心，——没关系，让他开心好了！……力量，需要力量：没有力量，什么也得不到；而力量得用力量来获得，这一点他们可不知道，”他自豪而又自信地补上一句，勉强拖着两条腿走下桥去。他心中的自豪和自信每分钟都在增长；又过了一分钟，他已经变成和以前完全不同的另一个人。然而究竟出了什么特殊的事情，是什么使他发生了这么大的变化？连他自己也不知道；他似乎抓住了一根稻草，突然觉得，他“还能活下去，生活还是存在的，他的生活并没有和老太婆一同死去”。也许他得出这一结论未免过于匆忙了，然而这一点他没有想到。 “可是我曾请求她也为仆人罗季昂祈祷，”这个想法突然在他脑子里一闪而过，“啊，这是……以防万一！”他补充说，又立刻感到自己的行为幼稚，于是笑了起来，他的心情异常好。 他很容易就找到了拉祖米欣的住处；波钦科夫的房子里，大家已经知道这位新房客了，管院子的立刻告诉他该怎么走。才上了一半楼梯，就能听到一大群人吵吵嚷嚷和很热闹的谈话声音了。冲着楼梯的房门大敞着；可以听到一阵阵叫喊和争论的声音。拉祖米欣的房间相当大，有十五个人聚集在那里。拉斯科利尼科夫在前室里站住了。这儿，隔板后面，房东的两个女仆正在生两个大茶炊，在一瓶瓶的酒以及大大小小盛着馅饼和下酒菜的盘子、碟子旁边忙碌着，这些东西都是从房东的厨房里拿来的。拉斯科利尼科夫派她们去叫拉祖米欣。拉祖米欣兴高采烈地跑了出来。一眼就可以看出，他已经喝得很多了，尽管拉祖米欣几乎从来不会喝得酩酊大醉，但是这一次却可以看出，他已有几分醉意。 “你听我说，”拉斯科利尼科夫连忙说，“我来，只是为了向你说一声，这次打赌你赢了，当真是谁也不知道他会发生什么事。我不能进去了：我这么虚弱，马上就会跌倒的。因此，我要说声：你好，再见了！明天你去我那里……” “你听我说，我送你回家去！既然你自己说，你很虚弱……” “客人们呢？刚刚朝这儿张望的那个头发鬈曲的人是谁？” “这一个吗？鬼知道他是谁！大概是舅舅的熟人，可也许是自己来的……我让舅舅招待他们；他是个非常可爱的人；可惜你不能这就跟他认识一下了。不过，去他们的！现在他们哪里还会想到我啊，再说我也需要出去透透气，所以，老兄，你来得正好；再过两分钟，我就要跟人打架了，真的！突然胡说八道起来……你无法想象，人竟会这样胡言乱语！不过，怎么会想象不到呢？难道我们自己不胡扯吗？唉，让他们胡扯去吧：现在扯过了，以后就不扯了……你稍坐一下，我去把佐西莫夫叫出来。” 佐西莫夫甚至是迫不及待地向拉斯科利尼科夫跑了过来；可以看出，他怀有某种特殊的好奇心；不久他脸上的神情就变得开朗了。 "Listen," Raskolnikov hastened to say, "I've only just come to tell you you've won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to him. I can't come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so good evening and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow." "Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you're weak yourself, you must . . ." "And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out?" "He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle's, I expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited . . . I'll leave uncle with them, he is an invaluable person, pity I can't introduce you to him now. But confound them all now! They won't notice me, and I need a little fresh air, for you've come just in the nick of time--another two minutes and I should have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff . . . you simply can't imagine what men will say! Though why shouldn't you imagine? Don't we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them . . . that's the way to learn not to! . . . Wait a minute, I'll fetch Zossimov." Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special interest in him; soon his face brightened. "You must go to bed at once," he pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could, "and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago . . . a powder." "Two, if you like," answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once. "It's a good thing you are taking him home," observed Zossimov to Razumihin--"we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he's not at all amiss--a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn . . ." "Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?" Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. "I won't tell you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he's got a notion in his head that you are . . . mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the first place, you've three times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad, you needn't care a hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what's brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation to-day with Zametov." "Zametov told you all about it?" "Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov. . . . Well, the fact is, Rodya . . . the point is . . . I am a little drunk now. . . . But that's . . . no matter . . . the point is that this idea . . . you understand? was just being hatched in their brains . . . you understand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble's burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the time-- that's between ourselves, brother; please don't let out a hint that you know of it; I've noticed he is a ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna's. But to-day, to-day it's all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that . . ." Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too freely. "I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint," said Raskolnikov. "No need to explain that! And it wasn't the paint only: the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't believe! 'I am not worth his little finger,' he says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de Cristal, that was too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly--put out your tongue at him: 'There now, what do you make of it?' It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it's what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn't there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your acquaintance . . ." "Ah! . . . he too . . . but why did they put me down as mad?" "Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother. . . . What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it's clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances . . . and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness . . . I am a little drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own . . . I tell you, he's mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him . . ." For half a minute both were silent. "Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly: I've just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died . . . I gave them all my money . . . and besides I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same . . . in fact I saw someone else there . . . with a flame-coloured feather . . . but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me . . . we shall be at the stairs directly . . ." "What's the matter? What's the matter with you?" Razumihin asked anxiously. "I am a little giddy, but that's not the point, I am so sad, so sad . . . like a woman. Look, what's that? Look, look!" "What is it?" "Don't you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack . . ." They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the landlady's door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov's garret. "Queer! Nastasya, perhaps," observed Razumihin. "She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago, but . . . I don't care! Good-bye!" "What do you mean? I am coming with you, we'll come in together!" "I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!" "What's the matter with you, Rodya?" "Nothing . . . come along . . . you shall be witness." They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "Ah, I've upset him with my chatter!" he muttered to himself. When they reached the door they heard voices in the room. "What is it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered. His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his "running away" to-day, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! "Good Heavens, what had become of him?" Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a half. A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov's entrance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting. Anxiety, cries of horror, moans . . . Razumihin who was standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the sofa. "It's nothing, nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister--"it's only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is all right again!" And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that "he is all right again." The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during his illness, by this "very competent young man," as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia. “立刻睡觉，”他尽可能给病人检查了一下，作出决定，“夜里要吃一包药。您吃吗？我不久前配的……一包药粉。” “两包也行，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。 他立刻吃了药。 “你亲自送他回去，这太好了，”佐西莫夫对拉祖米欣说，“明天怎么样，咱们到明天再看，今天却甚至很不错：比不久前有了明显的好转。活到老，学到老呀……” “你知道咱们出来的时候，刚刚佐西莫夫悄悄地跟我说了些什么吗？”他们刚刚走到街上，拉祖米欣就贸然说。“我，老兄，我把什么都直截了当地告诉你，因为他们都是傻瓜。佐西莫夫叫我在路上跟你随便聊聊，也让你随便谈谈，然后把我们的谈话都告诉他，因为他有个想法……认为你……是疯子，或者差不多是个疯子。你自己想想看吧！第一，你比他聪明两倍，第二，如果你不是疯子，那么他脑子里有这种荒唐想法，你根本就不会在乎，第三，这个胖家伙本行是外科医生，现在却对精神病发生了浓厚的兴趣，今天你和扎苗托夫的那场谈话使他确信，他对你的看法是正确的。” “扎苗托夫把我们的谈话全告诉你了？” “全告诉了我，他做得太对了。现在我已经摸清了全部底细，扎苗托夫也明白了……啊，对了，总而言之，罗佳，……问题在于……我现在有点儿醉了……不过这没关系……问题在于，这个想法……你明白吗？当真在他们头脑里冒出来了……你明白吗？也就是说，他们谁也不敢大声说出这个想法，因为这是荒唐透顶的，特别是在他们抓到这个油漆工以后，这一切全都不攻自破，永远破产了。为什么他们都是傻瓜呢？当时我把扎苗托夫揍了一顿，只是稍微揍了一下，——这只是我们之间私下里说说，老兄；请你千万别说出去，就连暗示都不行，千万别让人知道，你知道这件事；我发觉，他很爱面子；这是在拉维扎家里的事，不是今天，今天事情全都明白了。主要是这个伊利亚·彼特罗维奇！当时他利用了你在办公室里昏倒的机会，后来他自己也感到惭愧了；因为我知道……” 拉斯科利尼科夫贪婪地听着。拉祖米欣酒后说漏了嘴。 “我当时昏倒是因为闷热和那股油漆味，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。 “这还用得着解释吗！而且不单是因为油漆味：你发烧整整一个月了；佐西莫夫可以证明！不过现在这个小孩子是多么失望，你简直无法想象！他说：‘我抵不上这个人的一个小指头！’就是说，抵不上你的一个小指头。有时，老兄，有时他心肠也是好的。不过这个教训，今天在‘水晶宫’里对他的这个教训，这真是再好也不过了！要知道，一开头你可把他吓坏了，吓得他直发抖！你几乎使他又对这荒唐透顶的想法深信不疑，后来，突然，——向他伸出舌头，那意思就是说：‘给，怎么，你胜利了吗！’妙极了！现在他给击败了，羞愧得无地自容！你真是个能手，真的，对他们，就得这样。唉，可惜我不在场！现在他在等着你，很想见到你。波尔菲里也想跟你认识认识……” “可是……这个人也……可是他们为什么把我当作疯子？” “我的意思是，并不是把你当成疯子。我，老兄，似乎我跟你扯得太多了……你要知道，不久前，他感到惊讶的是，你只对这一点感兴趣；现在清楚了，你为什么会感兴趣；了解了一切情况……当时这让你多么生气，而且和病纠缠在一起……我，老兄，稍有点儿醉了，不过鬼知道他心里有什么想法……我跟你说：他对精神病发生了浓厚兴趣。不过你别在乎……” 有半分钟光景，两人都没有说话。 “你听我说，拉祖米欣，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，“我要坦率地告诉你，我刚去过一个死人家里，有个官员死了……我把我的钱全给了他们……除此而外，刚刚有人吻过我，即使我杀过人，这人也会……总而言之，在那里我还看到了另一个人……帽子上插着火红色的羽毛……不过，我是在说胡话；我很虚弱，你扶着我点儿……这就到楼梯了，不是吗……” “你怎么了？你怎么了？”惊慌起来的拉祖米欣问。 “头有点儿晕，不过问题不在这里，而在于，我是这么忧郁！就像女人似的……真的！你看，这是什么？你瞧，你瞧！” “什么？” “难道你没看见？我屋里的灯光，看到了吗？从门缝里……” “他们已经站在最后一道楼梯前，站在女房东的门边了，从楼下当真可以看到，拉斯科利尼科夫的小屋里有灯光。 “奇怪！也许是娜斯塔西娅，”拉祖米欣说。 “这个时候她从来不去我那儿，再说，她早就睡了，不过……对我来说，反正一样！再见！” “你怎么这么说呢？我送你回家，和你一道进去！” “我知道你会和我一道进去，不过我想在这儿和你握手告别。好，把手伸出来，再见！” “你怎么了，罗佳？” “没什么；咱们走吧；你可以作为证人……” 他们开始上楼梯了，拉祖米欣脑子里闪过一个念头，心想，也许佐西莫夫是对的。“唉！我跟他胡扯，搅得他心烦意乱了！”他喃喃地自言自语。来到房门前，他们突然听到屋里有说话的声音。 “这里到底是怎么回事？”拉祖米欣大声叫喊。 拉斯科利尼科夫第一个上去抓住门把手，把门打开，把门大敞开以后，却站在门口呆呆地一动也不动了。 他的母亲和妹妹坐在他屋里的沙发上，已经等了他一个半钟头了。为什么他最没料到的就是她们的到来，对她们也想得最少呢，尽管今天又得到消息，说她们已经动身，已经在路上，马上就会到了？在这一个半钟头里她们争先恐后地询问娜斯塔西娅，现在她还站在她们面前，而且已经把所有详细情况全都告诉她们了。听说他“今天逃跑了”，可他还有病，而且从她的叙述中可以发觉，他一定还在神智不清，她们都吓坏了！“天哪，他是怎么了！”两人都哭了。在这一个半钟头的等待中，她俩都忍受了难以想象的痛苦。 迎接拉斯科利尼科夫出现的是一声充满激情的高兴的呼喊。两人一起向他扑了过来。但是他一动不动地站着，好像是个死人；一种让他无法忍受、突然涌上心头的感觉恰似晴天一声霹雳，击中了他。他的手也没有抬起来去拥抱她们：手抬不起来。母亲和妹妹把他紧紧抱在怀里，吻他，又是笑，又是哭……他后退了一步，摇晃了一下，就昏倒在地板上了。 惊慌，恐惧的呼喊，呻吟……站在门口的拉祖米欣飞快跑进屋里，把病人抱在自己强壮有力的手里，不一会儿病人在沙发上醒过来了。 “没关系，没关系！”他对母亲和妹妹大声嚷，“这是昏厥，这不要紧！医生刚刚说过，他好得多了，他身体完全健康！拿水来！瞧，他正在醒过来，瞧，已经醒过来了！……” 他一把抓住杜涅奇卡的手，差点儿没把她的手扭得脱臼，让她弯下腰去看看，“他已经醒过来了”。母亲和妹妹十分感动而又感激地看着拉祖米欣，简直把他看作神明；她们已经从娜斯塔西娅那里听说，在她们的罗佳患病的这段时间里，对罗佳来说，这个“机灵的年轻人”意味着什么，那天晚上母亲和杜尼娅私下里谈心的时候，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜·拉斯科利尼科娃就是把他叫作“机灵的年轻人”的。

第三部分第一章 Raskolnikov got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to Razumihin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother's. "Go home . . . with him," he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin, "good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything . . . Is it long since you arrived?" "This evening, Rodya," answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "the train was awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here, near you . . ." "Don't torture me!" he said with a gesture of irritation. "I will stay with him," cried Razumihin, "I won't leave him for a moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts' content! My uncle is presiding there." "How, how can I thank you!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once more pressing Razumihin's hands, but Raskolnikov interrupted her again. "I can't have it! I can't have it!" he repeated irritably, "don't worry me! Enough, go away . . . I can't stand it!" "Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute," Dounia whispered in dismay; "we are distressing him, that's evident." "Mayn't I look at him after three years?" wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Stay," he stopped them again, "you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get muddled. . . . Have you seen Luzhin?" "No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today," Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly. "Yes . . . he was so kind . . . Dounia, I promised Luzhin I'd throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell. . . ." "Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don't mean to tell us . . ." Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dounia. Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense. "Dounia," Raskolnikov continued with an effort, "I don't want that marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name again." "Good Heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Brother, think what you are saying!" Avdotya Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. "You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired," she added gently. "You think I am delirious? No . . . You are marrying Luzhin for /my/ sake. But I won't accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before to-morrow, to refuse him . . . Let me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!" "That I can't do!" the girl cried, offended, "what right have you . . ." "Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow . . . Don't you see . . ." the mother interposed in dismay. "Better come away!" "He is raving," Razumihin cried tipsily, "or how would he dare! To-morrow all this nonsense will be over . . . to-day he certainly did drive him away. That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too. . . . He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest- fallen. . . ." "Then it's true?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Good-bye till to-morrow, brother," said Dounia compassionately--"let us go, mother . . . Good-bye, Rodya." "Do you hear, sister," he repeated after them, making a last effort, "I am not delirious; this marriage is--an infamy. Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn't . . . one is enough . . . and though I am a scoundrel, I wouldn't own such a sister. It's me or Luzhin! Go now. . . ." "But you're out of your mind! Despot!" roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her glance. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed. "Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered in despair to Razumihin. "I will stay somewhere here . . . escort Dounia home." "You'll spoil everything," Razumihin answered in the same whisper, losing patience--"come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you," he went on in a half whisper on the stairs- "that he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do himself some mischief. . . ." "What are you saying?" "And Avdotya Romanovna can't possibly be left in those lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch couldn't find you better lodgings . . . But you know I've had a little to drink, and that's what makes me . . . swear; don't mind it. . . ." "But I'll go to the landlady here," Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, "Ill beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I can't leave him like that, I cannot!" This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady's door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving them reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all the closer to him. If they'd told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodya she looked on his presence as providential, and was unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasya's account of her brother's queer friend, which prevented her from trying to run away from him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She realised, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of Razumihin that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with. "You can't go to the landlady, that's perfect nonsense!" he cried. "If you stay, though you are his mother, you'll drive him to a frenzy, and then goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do: Nastasya will stay with him now, and I'll conduct you both home, you can't be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that way. . . . But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honour, I'll bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I'll run home in a twinkling--I've a lot of friends there, all drunk--I'll fetch Zossimov--that's the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is not drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I'll drag him to Rodya, and then to you, so that you'll get two reports in the hour--from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that's a very different thing from my account of him! If there's anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you here myself, but, if it's all right, you go to bed. And I'll spend the night here, in the passage, he won't hear me, and I'll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady's, to be at hand. Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the question; it's all right for me, but it's out of the question for you: she wouldn't take you, for she's . . . for she's a fool . . . She'd be jealous on my account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know . . . of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too! . . . No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?" "Let us go, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna, "he will certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodya already, and if the doctor really will consent to spend the night here, what could be better?" "You see, you . . . you . . . understand me, because you are an angel!" Razumihin cried in ecstasy, "let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I'll come in a quarter of an hour." Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent and good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in such a condition. . . . "Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!" Razumihin broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge steps, so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, however. "Nonsense! That is . . . I am drunk like a fool, but that's not it; I am not drunk from wine. It's seeing you has turned my head . . . But don't mind me! Don't take any notice: I am talking nonsense, I am not worthy of you. . . . I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I've taken you home, I'll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right. . . . If only you knew how I love you both! Don't laugh, and don't be angry! You may be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend, too, I want to be . . . I had a presentiment . . . Last year there was a moment . . . though it wasn't a presentiment really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan't sleep all night . . . Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad . . . that's why he mustn't be irritated." 拉斯科利尼科夫欠起身来，坐到沙发上。 拉祖米欣正滔滔不绝地劝慰母亲和妹妹，他的话前言不搭后语，然而热情洋溢；拉斯科利尼科夫虚弱无力地朝拉祖米欣摆摆手，叫他别再说下去了，然后拉住母亲和妹妹的手，一会儿看看这个，一会儿看看那个，有两分钟光景默默不语。他的目光让母亲感到害怕了。他的目光中透露出一种强烈到痛苦程度的感情，但同时神情又是呆滞的，甚至几乎是疯狂的。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜哭了。 阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜面色苍白；她的手在哥哥的手里簌簌发抖。 “你们回去吧，……跟他一道走，”他声音断断续续地说着指指拉祖米欣，“到明天，明天一切……你们早就来了吗？” “晚上到的，罗佳，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜回答，“火车晚点，迟了很久。不过，罗佳，无论如何我现在也不离开你。我就在这儿住一夜，在旁边守着你……” “别折磨我了！”他说，恼怒地挥了挥手。 “我留下来守着他！”拉祖米欣高声说，“一分钟也不离开他，我那儿那些人，叫他们都见鬼去，让他们去生气好了！那里有我舅舅全权处理。” “叫我怎么，怎么感谢您呢！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说，又紧紧握住拉祖米欣的手，但是拉斯科利尼科夫又打断了她的话： “我受不了，我受不了，”他恼怒地反复说，“请你们别折磨我！够了，你们走吧……我受不了！……” “咱们走吧，妈妈，哪怕从屋里出去一会儿也好，”惊恐的杜尼娅悄悄地说，“我们让他觉得很痛苦，这可以看得出来。” “难道三年没见，我都不能好好地看看他吗！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜哭了起来。 “等一等！”他又叫住了她们，“你们老是打断我，我的思想给搞乱了……你们见到卢任了吗？” “没有，罗佳，不过他已经知道我们来了。我们听说，彼得·彼特罗维奇心那么好，今天来看过你，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜有点儿胆怯地补充说。 “是啊……他的心那么好……杜尼娅，不久前我对卢任说，我要把他赶下楼去，我把他赶走了……” “罗佳，你怎么了！你，大概……你不是想要说，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜惊恐地说，但是看看杜尼娅，又把话咽回去了。 阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜凝神注视着哥哥，等着他往下说。她俩已经事先从娜斯塔西娅那里听说过发生争吵的事，后者就她所理解的，尽可能把事情的经过告诉了她们，她们都困惑不解，感到异常痛苦，等着他说下去。 “杜尼娅，”拉斯科利尼科夫勉强控制着自己，接着说，“我不赞成这门婚事，所以你应当明天一开口就拒绝卢任，叫他再也不要来了。” “我的天哪！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜喊了一声。 “哥哥，你想想看，你说的是什么！”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜开始气愤地说，但是又立刻忍住了。“也许你现在身体不好，你累了，”她简短地说。 “我在说胡话吗？不……你是为了我才嫁给卢任的。可是我不接受你的牺牲。所以，明天以前，你就写信……拒绝他……明天早晨让我看看，这事就了结了！” “这我不能做！”受了委屈的姑娘高声说。“你有什么权力……” “杜涅奇卡，你也太急躁了，别说了，明天……难道你没看到……”母亲惊呆了，赶快对杜尼娅说。“唉，咱们最好还是走吧！” “他在说胡话！”微带醉意的拉祖米欣高声叫嚷，“要不然，他怎么敢！明天就会聪明些了……不过今天他当真赶走了他。是有这么回事。嗯，那一个也光火了……他在这儿大发议论，炫耀自己的知识，可走的时候却是夹着尾巴……” “那么这是真的了？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。 “明天见，哥哥，”杜尼娅满怀同情地说，“咱们走吧，妈妈……再见，罗佳！” “你听到吗，妹妹，”他鼓足最后一点力气对着她们的背影重复说，“我不是说胡话；结这门亲事是可耻的。就算我是个卑鄙的人吧，但是我不会把这样的妹妹看作妹妹。要么是我，要么是卢任！你们走吧……” “你疯了吗！独断专横的家伙！”拉祖米欣吼叫起来，但是拉斯科利尼科夫已经不再回答，不过也许是没有力气回答了。他躺到沙发上，疲惫不堪地转过脸去，面对着墙壁。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜好奇地看了看拉祖米欣，她那乌黑的眼睛炯炯发光：在这目光的注视下，拉祖米欣甚至颤栗了一下。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜仿佛吃了一惊，一动不动地站着。 “我无论如何也不能走！”她几乎是绝望地悄悄对拉祖米欣说，“我留在这儿，随便在什么地方……请您送送杜尼娅。” “您会把事情全都弄糟了的！”拉祖米欣失去自制，也低声说，“咱们走吧，至少到楼梯上去。娜斯塔西娅，给照个亮！我向您发誓，”已经到了楼梯上，他又小声接着说，“不久前他差点儿没把我和医生都痛打一顿！您明白这意味着什么吗？要打医生！医生让步了，免得惹他生气，他走了，我留下，在楼下守着，可他立刻穿上衣服，溜出去了。要是惹火了他，现在他还会溜，夜里溜出去，不知会干出什么事来……” “哎哟，您说些什么呀！” “再说，您不回去，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜也不能独自一个人住在旅馆里！请您想想看，你们是住在一个什么样的地方！而彼得·彼特罗维奇，这个坏蛋，难道就不能给你们找个好一点儿的住处吗……不过，你们要知道，我有点儿醉了，所以……说了骂人的话；请别在意……” “不过，我去找找女房东，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜坚持说，“我求求她，求她随便给找个地方，让我和杜尼娅住一夜。我不能这样丢下他不管，我不能！” 他们说这些话的时候是站在楼梯平台上，就站在女房东的房门前。娜斯塔西娅从楼梯的下面一级上给他们照着亮。拉祖米欣异常兴奋。半小时前他送拉斯科利尼科夫回家的时候，虽然废话说得太多，他自己也知道这一点，可是他的精神却十分饱满，头脑也几乎是清醒的，尽管这天晚上他喝的酒多得惊人。现在他的心情甚至好像异常高兴，同时他喝下去的那些酒仿佛又一下子以加倍的力量冲进他的头脑里。他和两位妇女站在一起，拉住她们两人的手，劝说她们，以惊人的坦率态度向她们列举一条条理由，大概是为了更有说服力，几乎每说一句话，他都把她俩的手攥得更紧，就像夹在老虎钳里一样，把她们的手都攥痛了，而且贪婪地拿眼睛直盯着阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，似乎一点儿也不觉得不好意思。有时她们痛得想从他那双瘦骨嶙嶙的大手里把自己的手抽出来，但是他不仅没发觉这是怎么回事，反而更用力把她们的手往自己这边拉。如果她们为了自己的利益，现在叫他头朝下冲下楼梯，他也会不假思索，毫不迟疑，立刻执行她们的命令。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜一心想着她的罗佳，焦急不安，尽管感觉到这个年轻人有点儿古怪，而且把她的手攥得太痛，但是因为她同时又把他看作神明，所以不想注意这些古怪的小节。然而，虽说阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜同样为哥哥担心，虽然就性格来说，她并不胆小，但是看到她哥哥的朋友那闪射着异样光芒的目光，却感到惊讶，甚至是感到恐惧了，只不过因为娜斯塔西娅说的关于这个怪人的那些话，使她对他产生了无限信任，这才没有试图从他身边逃跑，而且把母亲也拉着，和自己一同跑掉。她也明白，看来现在她们是不能逃避他的。不过，十分钟以后，她已经大为放心：拉祖米欣有个特点，不管他心情如何，都能很快把自己的真实感情完全流露出来，所以不一会儿人们就会了解，自己是在和一个什么样的人打交道了。 “可不能去找女房东，这想法最荒唐也不过了！”他高声叫嚷，竭力让普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜相信。“虽然您是母亲，可如果您留下来，就会使他发疯，那可就不知会闹出什么事来了！您听我说，我看这么办好了：这会儿先让娜斯塔西娅坐在他那里，我把你们送回去，因为没有人陪着，你们自己可不能在街上行走，在我们彼得堡，对这……唉，管它去呢！……然后我立刻从你们那儿跑回这里，一刻钟以后，我以人格担保，就会给你们送消息去：他情况怎么样？睡了，还是没睡？以及其他等等。然后，你们听我说！然后又从你们那里很快跑回家去——我那里有客人，都喝醉了，——去叫佐西莫夫——这是给他看病的医生，现在他在我家里，他没醉；这个人不喝酒，永远不会醉！我把他拖到罗季卡那里，然后立刻到你们这里来，这就是说，一个钟头之内你们可以得到两次关于他的消息，——而且是从医生那儿来的消息，你们明白吗，是从医生本人那里得到的消息；这可就不仅是听我说说了！如果情况不好，我发誓，我自己会领你们到这儿来，如果情况良好，那么你们就可以睡了。我整夜都睡在这儿，睡在穿堂里，他听不见的，我让佐西莫夫睡在房东那里，这样可以随时找到他。你们看，现在对他来说，谁守着他最好呢，是您，还是医生？医生更有用，更有用，不是吗。好，那么就请你们回去吧！去女房东那里却不行；我去可以，你们去不行：她不会让你们去……因为她傻。她会为了我嫉妒阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，您要知道，她也会嫉妒您……不过对阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，她是一定会嫉妒的。是个完全、完全让人摸不透的女人！不过，我也是个傻瓜……这算不了什么！咱们走吧！你们相信我吗？嗯，你们相信，还是不相信我？” “咱们走吧，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜说，“他答应了，一定会这么做的。他已经救过哥哥的命，如果医生真的同意夜里住在这儿，那不是再好不过了吗？” “瞧，您……您……理解我，因为您是天使！”拉祖米欣欣喜若狂地高声叫喊。“走吧！娜斯塔西娅！马上上楼去，坐在他身边，带着灯；一刻钟后我就来……” 普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜虽然还不完全相信，可也没再反对。拉祖米欣挽住她俩的手，把她们拉下楼去。不过他还是叫她不放心：“虽然他人很机灵，心肠也好，可是他答应的事能办得到吗？他有点儿醉了，不是吗……” “我明白，您心里在想，我喝醉了！”拉祖米欣猜到了她的想法，打断了她的思路，同时迈开大步在人行道上走着，以致两位妇女勉强才能跟上他，不过他却没有发觉。“没有的事！也就是说……我醉得像个傻瓜一样了，可是问题不在这里，我醉了，可不是因为喝了酒。而是，我一看到你们，就像喝醉了一样……别睬我！请别介意：我在胡说八道，我配不上你们……我一点儿也配不上你们！……我把你们一送回去，立刻就在这儿，在河里，往自己头上浇两桶冷水，就会清醒过来了……但愿你们知道，我是多么爱你们两位！……请别笑我，也别生气！……你们对谁都可以生气，可别生我的气！我是他的朋友，所以也是你们的朋友。我希望如此……这我已经预感到了……去年，有这样的一瞬间……不过，根本不是预感到，因为你们好似从天而降。而我，大概会一夜都睡不着……这个佐西莫夫不久前担心他会发疯……所以不应该惹他生气……” "What do you say?" cried the mother. "Did the doctor really say that?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed. "Yes, but it's not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here. . . . Ah! It would have been better if you had come to-morrow. It's a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not drunk! And I shan't be drunk. . . . And what made me get so tight? Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I've sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I've left my uncle to preside. Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and that's just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike themselves as they can. That's what they regard as the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is . . ." "Listen!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames. "What do you think?" shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, "you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That's man's one privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can't even make mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I'll kiss you for it. To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's. In the first case you are a man, in the second you're no better than a bird. Truth won't escape you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other people's ideas, it's what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?" cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking the two ladies' hands. "Oh, mercy, I do not know," cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Yes, yes . . . though I don't agree with you in everything," added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so painfully. "Yes, you say yes . . . well after that you . . . you . . ." he cried in a transport, "you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense . . . and perfection. Give me your hand . . . you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on my knees . . ." and he fell on his knees on the pavement, fortunately at that time deserted. "Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed. "Get up, get up!" said Dounia laughing, though she, too, was upset. "Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That's it! Enough! I get up and we'll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and drunk . . . and I am ashamed. . . . I am not worthy to love you, but to do homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I've done homage. . . . Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away. . . . How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodgings! It's a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes? Well, then, I'll tell you, your /fiance/ is a scoundrel." "Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting . . ." Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning. "Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it," Razumihin made haste to apologise. "But . . . but you can't be angry with me for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because . . . hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I'm in . . . hm! Well, anyway, I won't say why, I daren't. . . . But we all saw to-day when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the barber's, not because he was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skin-flint and a buffoon. That's evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?" he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, "though all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch . . . is not on the right path. Though I've been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them all . . . though I don't respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and that bullock Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it's all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let's go on. I know this corridor, I've been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3. . . . Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don't let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I'll come back with news, and half an hour later I'll bring Zossimov, you'll see! Good- bye, I'll run." "Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay. "Don't worry yourself, mother," said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape. "God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has done for Rodya. . . ." "Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself to leave Rodya? . . . And how different, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us. . . ." Tears came into her eyes. "No, it's not that, mother. You didn't see, you were crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness--that's the reason." "Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? And how he talked to you, Dounia!" said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia's standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. "I am sure he will think better of it to-morrow," she added, probing her further. "And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow . . . about that," Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin's return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna's and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter's mood at such moments. Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant--the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother's; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother's insolent, cruel and ungrateful words--and his fate was sealed. He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov's eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow's foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross. Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin's departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back. “您说什么！”母亲高声叫喊。 “难道医生这么说过吗？”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜吃了一惊，问。 “说过，不过不是这么回事，完全不是这么回事。他还给他吃过这么一种药，一种药粉，我看到的，可这时你们来了……唉！……你们明天再来就好了！我们走了，这很好。再过一个钟头，佐西莫夫会亲自向你们报告一切。他这个人可不会喝醉！我也不再喝醉了……我为什么喝得这么醉呢？因为他们把我拖入了一场争论，这些该死的家伙！我已经发过誓不参加争论了！……他们都在胡说八道！差点儿没打起来！我让舅舅待在那儿，招待他们……嗯，你们相信吗：他们要求人完全没有个性，还觉得其中有极大的乐趣！要是自己不是自己，要是自己尽可能不像自己，那该多好！他们认为，这就是最大的进步。要是他们是按照自己的想法胡说八道，倒也罢了，可是……” “请您听我说，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜怯生生地打断了他，但这只不过更加激起了他的热情。 “您认为怎样？”拉祖米欣把嗓门提得更高，大声叫喊，“您认为我是为了他们胡说八道生他们的气吗？没有的事！我喜欢人们胡扯！胡扯是一切生物中只有人类才享有的唯一特权。通过胡扯，可以得到真理！我也胡扯，所以我也是人。如果不先胡扯十四次，就不会获得一个真理，也许，得先胡扯一百十四次，从某一方面来看，这也是值得尊敬的；唉，可是我们连独出心裁地胡扯都不会！你跟我胡扯好了，不过要独出心裁，是自己想出来的，那么我就会吻你。独出心裁地胡扯，要知道，这几乎胜过只重复别人的真理；在第一种情况下，你是人，而在第二种情况下，你只不过是一只鹦鹉！真理是跑不了的，却可以使生活停滞不前；有过这样的例子。嗯，现在我们怎么样呢？在科学、文化修养、思维、发明、思想观念、愿望、自由主义、理性、经验，以及一切，一切，一切，一切，一切领域，我们大家无一例外，还都是中学预备班一年级的学生！喜欢靠人家的智慧混日子，——已经习以为常了！是不是这样呢？我说得对吗？”拉祖米欣高声叫喊，说着握紧并摇晃着两位女士的手，“是不是这样呢？” “噢，我的天哪，我不知道，”可怜的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。 “是这样的，是这样的……虽说我并不完全同意您的意见，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜郑重其事地补上一句，并且立刻大叫了一声，因为这一次他把她的手攥得实在太痛了。 “是这样的？您说，是这样的？那么在这以后，您……您……”他欣喜若狂地高声呼喊，“您是善良、纯洁、理智和……完美的源泉！请把您的手伸给我，请您……也把您的手伸给我，我想吻吻你们的手，就在这儿，现在，跪下来吻你们的手！” 于是他在人行道当中跪了下来，幸而这时人行道上阒无一人。 “别这样，我求您，您这是做什么？”完全惊慌失措的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声叫喊。 “请您起来，请起来吧！”杜尼娅笑着说，她也感到惊慌不安了。 “你们不把手伸给我，我无论如何也不起来！对，就这样，够了，我起来了，咱们走吧！我是个不幸的傻瓜，我配不上你们，而且喝醉了，我感到羞愧……我不配爱你们，可是，跪在你们面前——这是每个人的义务，只要他不是十足的畜生！所以我跪下来了……瞧，这就是你们的旅馆，不久前罗季昂赶走了你们的彼得·彼特罗维奇，单就这一点来说，他做得对！这个人怎么敢让你们住在这样的旅馆里？这是丢脸的事！你们可知道，到这儿来的都是些什么人？可您是他的未婚妻，不是吗！您是他的未婚妻，对吗？哼，所以我要对您说，您的未婚夫会做出这样的事来，可见他是个卑鄙的家伙！” “您听我说，拉祖米欣先生，您忘了……”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜开口说。 “对，对，您说得对，我太放肆了，我惭愧！”拉祖米欣猛然醒悟，“不过……不过……你们不会因为我这样说而生我的气吧！因为我这样说是出于至诚，而不是由于……嗯哼！这是卑鄙的；总而言之，不是由于我对您……嗯哼！……好，就这样吧，用不着，我不说由于什么，我不敢说！……不久前我们就全明白了，他一进来，我们就知道这个人跟我们不是一道的。不是因为他在理发师那儿卷过头发，也不是因为他急于炫耀自己的才智，而是因为，他是个密探和投机分子；因为他是个吝啬鬼和小丑，这是看得出来的。您认为他聪明吗？不，他是个傻瓜，傻瓜！哼，他配得上您吗？噢，我的天哪！你们要知道，女士们，”他已经走在旅馆的楼梯上，却突然站住了，“虽然我那儿那些人都喝醉了，然而他们都是正直的人，虽然我们也胡说八道，所以我也胡说八道，可是最后我们还是会明白，什么是真理，因为我们是走在光明正大的道路上，而彼得·彼特罗维奇走的却不是光明正大的道路。我虽然现在痛骂他们，可是我尊敬他们大家；就连扎苗托夫，虽说我并不尊敬他，可是喜欢他，因为他是条小狗崽！就连这个畜生佐西莫夫也是一样，因为他正直，而且精通业务……不过够了，什么都说完了，也得到了宽恕。得到宽恕了吗？是这样吗？好，咱们走吧。我熟悉这条走廊，来过不止一次了；瞧，就在这儿，三号房间里，发生过一件丢脸的事……喂，你们住在这里哪个房间？几号？八号吗？好，那么夜里可要锁上门，谁也别让他进来。一刻钟后我带着消息回来，然后，再过半个钟头，还要和佐西莫夫一道来，你们会知道的！再见，我走了！” “我的天哪，杜涅奇卡，会出什么事吗？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜惊慌而又胆怯地对女儿说。 “您放心好了，妈妈，”杜尼娅回答，说着摘下帽子，取下披肩，“是上帝亲自给我们派来了这位先生，尽管他是直接从酒宴上来的。对他是可以信赖的，请您相信。而且他为哥哥已经做过的一切……” “唉，杜涅奇卡。天知道他还会不会来！我怎么能决定丢下罗佳不管呢！……我完全，完全想象不到，会这样见到他！ 他的神情多么冷酷，就像他不高兴看到我们似的……” 她眼里出现了泪珠。 “不，不是这样的，妈妈。您没细看，您一直在哭。由于生了一场大病，他心情很不好，——一切都是因为这个缘故。” “唉，这场病啊！会出什么事，会出什么事吗！而且他是怎么跟你说话啊，杜尼娅！”母亲说，一边怯生生地看看女儿的眼睛，想从眼睛里看出她心里的全部想法，因为女儿护着罗佳，这使她获得了一半安慰：如此看来，女儿原谅了他。 “我深信，明天他准会改变主意，”她加上一句，想彻底摸透女儿的想法。 “可我深信，关于这件事……明天他还是会这么说……”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜斩钉截铁地回答，当然，这是个难题，因为这一点是普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜现在很怕谈起的。杜尼娅走近前去，吻了吻母亲。母亲默默地紧紧拥抱了她。然后坐下，焦急不安地等着拉祖米欣回来，同时怯生生地注视着女儿，女儿也在等待着，双手交叉，抱在胸前，在屋里踱来踱去，一面在暗自思索着什么。这样沉思着从一个角落走到另一个角落，是阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜通常的习惯，不知为什么母亲总是怕在这样的时候打断她的沉思。 拉祖米欣酒醉后突然对阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜产生了火热的爱情，这当然好笑；但是看一看阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，特别是现在，当她双臂交叉，抱在胸前，忧郁而若有所思地在屋里踱来踱去的时候，也许很多人都会原谅他，更何况他是处于一种反常的心理状态呢。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜十分漂亮，——高高的个儿，身材异常苗条匀称，强壮有力，而且很自信，——在她的每个姿态中都流露出这种自信，不过这丝毫也不损害她举止的柔美和优雅。她的脸像她的哥哥，不过甚至可以把她叫作美人儿。她的头发是褐色的，比她哥哥的头发稍淡一些；眼睛几乎是黑的，炯炯发光，神情傲慢，但有时，虽然并不是经常的，看上去却又异常善良。她肤色白皙，但不是病态的苍白；她的脸光艳照人，娇艳而健康。她的嘴略小了点儿，红艳艳的下嘴唇和下巴一起稍稍向前突出，——这是这张美丽的脸上唯一的缺陷，但是也赋予她的脸一种特殊的性格，仿佛使她脸上有了一种傲慢的神态。她脸上的表情总是严肃多于快乐，总是好像在沉思默想；然而这张脸是多么适于微笑，愉快而无忧无虑的、青春的笑容对她来说是多么合适啊！热情、坦诚、单纯而轻信、正直、像勇士一般强壮有力、又有点儿醉意的拉祖米欣，从未见过类似的女性，对她一见倾心，这是可以理解的。更何况好像老天故意安排下这样一个机会，让他第一次看到杜尼娅的时候，恰好是她与哥哥晤面、心中充满兄妹情谊和欢乐的美好时刻呢。后来他又看到，在她愤怒地回答哥哥无礼的、忘恩负义、冷酷无情的命令时，她的下嘴唇突然颤抖了一下，—— 这时他就再也不能自持了。 不过，因为他已微带醉意，不久前在楼梯上脱口而出，说拉斯科利尼科夫那个性情古怪的女房东普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜不但会为了他嫉妒阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，而且看来也会嫉妒普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜，那倒是说的实话。尽管普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜已经四十三岁，她的容貌却依然保持着昔日的风采，而且看上去比她的实际年龄年轻得多，那些直到老年都能保持心情开朗，能给人留下鲜明印象，而且满怀正直、真诚而热情的妇女，几乎总是这样。咱们附带说一声，能够保持这一切，是即使到了老年也不致失去美色的唯一方法。她的头发已经开始斑白，渐渐疏稀，细碎的鱼尾纹早已爬满了她的眼角，由于忧虑和痛苦，双颊已经凹陷和干瘪，但这张脸还是美丽的。这是一幅杜涅奇卡的脸的肖像，不过是二十年以后的肖像，再就是她那并不向前突出的下嘴唇的表情，和女儿的不大一样。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜多情善感，不过不致使人感到肉麻，她胆小，忍让，可也有一定的限度：很多事情她都能忍让，对很多事情她都能同意，就连对那些与她的信念相反的事，也是如此，不过总是有这么一条由正直、原则和绝对不能放弃的信念划定的界线，无论什么情况也不能迫使她越过这条界线。 拉祖米欣走后，整整过了二十分钟，传来两声轻微然而急促的敲门声；他回来了。 “我不进去了，没有空！”房门打开以后，他匆匆地说，“他睡得很熟，睡得十分香甜，很安静，上帝保佑，让他睡上十个钟头吧。娜斯塔西娅在他那儿守着；我叫她在我回去以前别出去。现在我去把佐西莫夫拖来，他会向你们报告的，然后你们也睡一会儿；我看得出，你们都累坏了。” "I won't come in, I haven't time," he hastened to say when the door was opened. "He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya's with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you'd better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything. . . ." And he ran off down the corridor. "What a very competent and . . . devoted young man!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted. "He seems a splendid person!" Avdotya Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room. It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin's promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov's, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the patient's illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, "was, so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas . . . and so on." Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna's anxiously and timidly inquiring as to "some suspicion of insanity," he replied with a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania--he, Zossimov, was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine--but that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been in delirium and . . . and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favourable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, "if only all fresh shocks can be avoided," he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself. "We'll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!" Razumihin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. "I'll be with you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my report." "That's a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna," remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street. "Fetching? You said fetching?" roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. "If you ever dare. . . . Do you understand? Do you understand?" he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. "Do you hear?" "Let me go, you drunken devil," said Zossimov, struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection. "Of course, I am an ass," he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, "but still . . . you are another." "No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly." They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov's lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable anxiety. "Listen," he said, "you're a first-rate fellow, but among your other failings, you're a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you're getting fat and lazy and can't deny yourself anything--and I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt. You've let yourself get so slack that I don't know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You--a doctor--sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients! In another three or four years you won't get up for your patients . . . But hang it all, that's not the point! . . . You are going to spend to-night in the landlady's flat here. (Hard work I've had to persuade her!) And I'll be in the kitchen. So here's a chance for you to get to know her better. . . . It's not as you think! There's not a trace of anything of the sort, brother . . .!" "But I don't think!" "Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue . . . and yet she's sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that's unholy! She's most prepossessing . . . I'll repay you, I'll do anything. . . ." Zossimov laughed more violently than ever. "Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?" "It won't be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You're a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won't regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: 'I shed hot tears.' She likes the genuine article--and well, it all began with that song; Now you're a regular performer, a /maitre/, a Rubinstein. . . . I assure you, you won't regret it!" "But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?" "Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not that sort at all. . . . Tchebarov tried that. . . ." "Well then, drop her!" "But I can't drop her like that!" "Why can't you?" "Well, I can't, that's all about it! There's an element of attraction here, brother." "Then why have you fascinated her?" "I haven't fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won't care a straw whether it's you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing. . . . I can't explain the position, brother . . . look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now . . . begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I'm not joking, I'm in earnest, it'll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)--she just sighed and perspired! And you mustn't talk of love--she's bashful to hysterics--but just let her see you can't tear yourself away--that's enough. It's fearfully comfortable; you're quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you're careful." "But what do I want with her?" "Ach, I can't make you understand! You see, you are made for each other! I have often been reminded of you! . . . You'll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it's sooner or later? There's the feather-bed element here, brother--ach! and not only that! There's an attraction here--here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish- pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on--as snug as though you were dead, and yet you're alive--the advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I'm talking, it's bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I'll go in and look at him. But there's no need, it's all right. Don't you worry yourself, yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice anything--delirium or fever--wake me at once. But there can't be. . . ." 于是他离开她们，顺着走廊走了。 “一个多麻利和……忠实的青年人啊！”非常高兴的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声说。 “看来，是个很好的人！”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜怀着几分热情回答，又开始在屋里踱来踱去。 几乎过了一个钟头，走廊里传来了脚步声，又听到一下敲门的声音。两位妇女都在等着，因为这一次她们都完全相信拉祖米欣的诺言了；真的，他果然把佐西莫夫拖来了。佐西莫夫立刻同意离开酒宴，去看拉斯科利尼科夫，不过他不相信喝醉了的拉祖米欣，到两位女士这里来，却很不乐意，疑虑重重。但是他的自尊心立刻得到了满足，甚至感到快慰：他明白，人家当真是在等着他，就像是在等候一位先知。他整整坐了十分钟，而且完全说服了普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜，让她放了心。他说话时怀着异乎寻常的同情心，然而态度拘谨，不知怎的显得特别严肃，完全像一个二十七岁的医生在重要的咨询会议上发表意见，没有一句话离题，没有流露出一丝一毫要与这两位女士建立更密切的私人关系的愿望。他一进来就发觉阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜光艳照人，立刻竭力根本不去注意她，在会见她们的全部时间里，只对普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜一个人说话。这一切使他内心里获得极大的满足。谈到病人，他是这样说的，说是目前病人处于完全令人满意的状态。据他观察，病人的病，除了最近几个月生活上恶劣的物质条件，还有某些精神因素，“可以说是许多复杂的精神和物质影响的结果，如惊慌、担心、忧虑、某些想法……以及诸如此类的影响”。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜开始特别留心听着，佐西莫夫对此稍有察觉，于是对这一话题较多地发挥了几句。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜担心而又怯生生地问：“似乎有点儿怀疑他患了精神病？”对这个问题，他安详而且面带坦诚的微笑回答说，他的话被过分夸大了；当然，可以注意到，病人头脑里有某种执拗的想法，显示出偏执狂的症候，——因为他，佐西莫夫，目前正特别注意医学上这一非常有意思的专科，——不过得记住，几乎直到今天，病人神智都不大清楚，那么……当然，他亲人们的到来会促使他恢复健康，消除疑虑，使病情根本好转，“只要能避免再受到新的特殊震动”，他意味深长地补充说。然后他站起来，庄重而亲切地告辞，为他送别的是祝福，热情的感谢，央求，甚至还有阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜向他伸过来的小手，虽然他并没请求，她却主动要和他握手，他出去时对这次访问异常满意，对自己就更加满意了。 “咱们明天再谈；请安歇吧，立刻，一定！”拉祖米欣像作总结似地说，和佐西莫夫一同走了出去。“明天尽可能早一些，我再来向你们报告。” “不过，这位阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜是个多么迷人的小姑娘啊！”当他们俩走到街上的时候，佐西莫夫几乎馋涎欲滴地说。 “迷人吗？你说她迷人！”拉祖米欣吼叫起来，突然扑向佐西莫夫，一把卡住他的咽喉。“要是什么时候你胆敢……你明白吗？明白吗？”他大声叫喊，抓着衣领摇晃着他，把他推到墙跟前，“听到了吗？” “唉，放手，醉鬼！”佐西莫夫竭力想要挣脱出来，拉祖米欣已经放开他以后，他凝神看了看拉祖米欣，突然哈哈大笑起来。拉祖米欣站在他面前，垂下双手，忧郁而严肃地陷入沉思。 “当然，我是头笨驴，”他神情阴郁，好似乌云，“不过…… 你也是的。” “嗳，老兄，不，我可根本不是。我不会痴心梦想。” 他们默默地走着，不过走近拉斯科利尼科夫的住所时，拉祖米欣感到十分担心，这才打破了沉默。 “你听我说，”他对佐西莫夫说，“你是个很不错的人，不过你呀，除了你所有那些恶劣的品质以外，你也是个色鬼，这我知道，而且还是个卑鄙无耻的色鬼。你是个神经质的、软弱无力的败类，你任性胡来，养得太肥，什么事情都做得出来，——我把这叫作卑鄙无耻，因为这会使人直接掉进卑鄙无耻的泥潭里去。你们自己娇惯成了这个样子，老实说，我不能理解的是，与此同时，你怎么能作一个具有忘我精神的医生。睡在羽毛褥子上（医生嘛！），可是夜里要起来去给人看病！三年以后，你就不会再为了病人在夜里起来了……啊，对了，见鬼，问题不在这里，而在于：今天你得在女房东家里住一夜（好不容易才说服了她！）可我睡在厨房里；这可是让你们更亲密地熟识的好机会！不过不是你想的那回事！老兄，那种事啊，连影儿都没有……” “我根本就没想。” “老兄，这是腼腆、沉默，羞涩以及冷酷无情的贞节，可与此同时，又唉声叹气，像蜡一样在融化，一个劲儿地融化！看在世界上一切妖魔鬼怪的份上，请你帮我摆脱她吧！她是个非常漂亮的女人！……我会报答你的，哪怕牺牲自己的脑袋，也要报答你！” 佐西莫夫哈哈大笑，笑得比以前更厉害了。 “你爱得发疯了！我要她干吗？” “请你相信，麻烦不会太多，不过得说些蠢话，你爱说什么，就说什么，只要坐到她身边说就行了。何况你还是个医生，可以治治她的病嘛。我发誓，你不会后悔的。她屋里有架古钢琴；你要知道，我会弹两下，不过弹不好；我那里有一首歌曲，一首真正的俄罗斯歌曲：‘我洒下热泪……’她喜欢真正的俄罗斯歌曲，——于是就从歌曲开始；可你是个弹钢琴的能手，是教师，鲁宾斯坦①……我担保，你不会后悔的！” -------- ①鲁宾斯坦（一八二九——一八九四），俄罗斯著名钢琴家和作曲家。 “你是不是向她许下了什么诺言？按照程式订了合同，签过了字？也许答应过和她结婚……” “没有，没有，根本没有这种事！而且她也完全不是这样的人；切巴罗夫追求过她……” “好，那你就甩掉她好了！” “可是不能就这样甩掉她！” “为什么不能？” “嗯，不知为什么不能这样，就是这么一回事！老兄，这儿有诱惑力这个因素。” “那你为什么引诱她呢？” “可我根本就没引诱她，也许，甚至是我受了她的引诱，这是因为我傻，可对她来说，不论是你，还是我，都完全一样，只要有人坐在她身边叹气就成。这，老兄……这我无法向你描述，这，——啊，你精通数学，现在还在研究，这我知道……嗯，你就教她微积分吧，真的，我不是开玩笑，我是一本正经地跟你说，对于她来说，什么都完全一样：她会瞅着你唉声叹气，整整一年就这样不断地叹气。顺带说一声，我曾经跟她大谈普鲁士上议院的情况（因为，跟她可有什么好谈的呢？），谈了很久，一连谈了两天，——可她只是在叹气，在出汗！不过可别跟她谈爱情，——她会臊得浑身发抖，——可是你要装出不能离开她的样子，——好，这就够了。舒服极了；完全跟在家里一样，——看看书，坐坐，躺躺，吃点儿东西……甚至可以小心谨慎地吻吻她……” “可我要她干什么？” “唉，我怎么也没法跟你解释清楚。你要知道，你们俩完全一模一样，你像她，她也像你！以前我就想到你了……你总得结婚吧！那么是早些，还是迟些，对你不都一样吗？老兄，这儿有这么好的羽毛褥子作为基础，——哎，而且还不只是羽毛褥子！这儿有一种力量在吸引你；这儿是世界的尽头，是停泊的地方，是宁静的避难所，是地球的中心，是由三条鱼构成的世界的基础①，这里有春饼，油腻的鱼肉馅烤饼，晚上的茶炊，轻轻的叹息，暖和的敞胸女短上衣，烧暖的火炕，一切享受的精华，——嗯，就跟你死了一样，可同时你又在活着，一举两得！哈，老兄，见鬼，我说得过火了，该睡觉了！你听我说：夜里有时候我会醒来，去看看他。不过没关系，我胡扯，一切都会很好的。你不必特别担心，你要愿意的话，也可以去看他一次。不过只要发觉什么，比如说，他说胡话啦，或者发烧啦，或者有什么不对头的地方，立刻就叫醒我。不过，不可能……”

第二章 Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o'clock, troubled and serious. He found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable--so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that "thrice accursed yesterday." The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown himself "base and mean," not only because he had been drunk, but because he had taken advantage of the young girl's position to abuse her /fiance/ in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right had he to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all how could he know the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat . . . Foo! how despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, "that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart"! And would such a dream ever be permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl--he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna . . . that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying. "Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self-abasement, "of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or smoothed over . . . and so it's useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my duty . . . in silence, too . . . and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing . . . for all is lost now!" And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He hadn't another suit--if he had had, perhaps he wouldn't have put it on. "I would have made a point of not putting it on." But in any case he could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his assistance and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always decent; in that respect he was especially clean. He washed that morning scrupulously--he got some soap from Nastasya-- he washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was angrily answered in the negative. "Let it stay as it is! What if they think that I shaved on purpose to . . .? They certainly would think so! Not on any account!" "And . . . the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners of a pothouse; and . . . and even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman . . . what was there in that to be proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that . . . and all the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things . . . not exactly dishonest, and yet. . . . And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm . . . and to set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he'd make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he wouldn't care! He'd be worse!" He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, came in. He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't wake him and promised to see him again about eleven. "If he is still at home," he added. "Damn it all! If one can't control one's patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether /he/ will go to them, or whether /they/ are coming here?" "They are coming, I think," said Razumihin, understanding the object of the question, "and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I." "But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty to do besides looking after them." "One thing worries me," interposed Razumihin, frowning. "On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him . . . all sorts of things . . . and amongst them that you were afraid that he . . . might become insane." "You told the ladies so, too." "I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so seriously?" "That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him . . . and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known what happened then at the police station and that some wretch . . . had insulted him with this suspicion! Hm . . . I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill . . . and see their fancies as solid realities. . . . As far as I remember, it was Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all! . . . And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm . . . he shouldn't have told all that last night. He is an awful chatterbox!" "But whom did he tell it to? You and me?" "And Porfiry." "What does that matter?" "And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him to-day. . . ." "They'll get on all right!" Razumihin answered reluctantly. "Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn't seem to dislike him . . . and they haven't a farthing, I suppose? eh?" "But what business is it of yours?" Razumihin cried with annoyance. "How can I tell whether they've a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps you'll find out. . . ." "Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night's wine has not gone off yet. . . . Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night's lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my /bonjour/ through the door; she was up at seven o'clock, the samovar was taken into her from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview. . . ." At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev's house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and ill-disguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it. Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because "she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand." Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna's questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him. He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov's life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted, however, many things, which were better omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun. "Tell me, tell me! What do you think . . . ? Excuse me, I still don't know your name!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily. "Dmitri Prokofitch." "I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch . . . how he looks . . . on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is he now? In a word, I should like . . ." 第二天早上八点钟，拉祖米欣醒了，满腹忧虑，神情严肃。这天早晨他心里突然出现了许多未曾预见到的、使他困惑不解的新问题。以前他从未想到，有什么时候会像这样醒来。他想起昨天的事，直到每个细节都记得清清楚楚，还记得发生了一件对他来说很不平常的事，使他产生了在这以前从未有过的印象，与以前的所有印象都不一样。同时他又清清楚楚地意识到，犹如烈火般在他头脑中燃烧起来的幻想是绝对无法实现的，——显而易见，它绝不可能实现，因此，他为这幻想感到羞愧，于是他赶快去想别的，去想其他更迫切的要操心的事和使他感到困惑不解的问题，这些都是“该死的昨天”给他遗留下来的。 他的最可怕的回忆就是，昨天他是多么“卑鄙，丑恶”，这倒不仅仅是因为他喝醉了，而是因为，由于愚蠢和仓促间产生妒嫉，竟利用一位姑娘的处境，当着她的面大骂她的未婚夫，可是他不但不知道他们之间的相互关系和义务，而且连他这个人也没好好地了解过。而且他有什么权利这样匆忙和轻率地对这个人作出判断？有谁请他作评判人呢！难道像阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜这样的人，会为了钱而嫁给一个卑鄙的人吗？可见这个人是有优点的。那么旅馆呢？可说实在的，他怎么能够知道，这是家什么旅馆？要知道，他正在准备一套住宅……呸，这一切是多么卑鄙！他喝醉了，这算什么辩解的理由？这不过是愚蠢的借口，会使他显得更加卑鄙！酒后吐真言，真话都说出来了，“也就是说，他那颗满怀妒意、粗野无礼的心中所有卑鄙污浊的东西全都吐露出来了！”难道他，拉祖米欣，可以哪怕存一点儿这样的幻想吗？与这样的姑娘相比，他算什么人呢——他不过是个喝醉了的不安分的家伙，昨天吹过牛的人。“难道可以作这样无耻和可笑的对比吗？”想到这里，拉祖米欣不禁满脸通红了，而突然，好像故意为难似的，就在这一瞬间，他清清楚楚记起，昨天他站在楼梯上对她们说，女房东会为了他嫉妒阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜……这可真让人太难堪了。他抡起拳头，对着厨房里的炉灶猛打了一拳，打伤了自己的手，还打掉了一块砖头。 “当然，”过了一会儿，他带着某种自卑感喃喃地自言自语，“当然，现在这些卑鄙的行径将永远无法掩饰，也无法改正了……所以，关于这件事，已经没什么好想的了，所以我再去她们那里的时候，一句话也别说……只是履行自己的义务……也是一句话不说，而且……也不请求原谅，什么也不说，而且……当然，现在一切都完了！” 然而穿衣服的时候，他比往常更加细心地察看了自己的衣服。他没有别的衣服，即使有，也许他也不会穿，“就这样，故意不穿”。但无论如何再不能不修边幅、邋里邋遢了：他无权不尊重别人的感情，让人家感到受了侮辱，更何况这是一些正需要他的帮助、自己叫他去的人呢。他用刷子仔仔细细刷干净自己的衣服。他身上的内衣一向还都过得去；在这方面他是特别爱干净的。 这天早晨他洗脸也洗得很细心，——在娜斯塔西娅那里找到了一块肥皂，——洗了头发、脖子，特别用心洗了手。要不要刮刮下巴上的短胡子呢？当需要回答这个问题的时候（普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜那儿有很好的刀片，还是从扎尔尼岑先生过世后保存下来的），他甚至倔强地作出了否定的回答：“就让它这样留着好了！哼，她们会想，我刮胡子是为了……而且准会这么想！无论如何不刮！” “而……而主要的是，他这么粗鲁，又这么脏，对人的态度是粗野的；而且……而且，即使他知道，他是，虽然不能说完全是，可他到底是个正派人……嗯，不过，是个正派人，又有什么可以骄傲的？人人都该作正派人，而且还不仅仅是正派，而……而他毕竟（他记得）干过这样的勾当……倒不是说，是不光彩的，可那还不是一样！……而他曾经有过些什么样的想法啊！嗯哼……把这一切跟阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜放到一起！是呀，见鬼！好吧！哼，我就故意要弄得这么脏，浑身油污，粗里粗气，我才不在乎呢！以后我还是要这样！……” 昨夜住在普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜客厅里的佐西莫夫进来的时候，正看到他在这样自言自语。 佐西莫夫要回家去，临走匆匆去看了一眼病人。拉祖米欣向他报告说，病人睡得很熟。佐西莫夫吩咐，在他自己醒来以前，不要叫醒他。他答应十点多再来。 “只要他能待在家里，”他补充说。“哼，见鬼！医生说的话病人根本就不听，你倒试试看，去给他治病吧！你可知道，是他去找她们，还是她们上这儿来？” “我想，是她们来，”拉祖米欣明白他这样问的目的，回答说，“而且当然啦，他们要谈他们家里的事。我要走开；作为医生，你自然比我有更多的权利。” “可我也不是神甫；我来看看就走；没有他们，我的事情也够多的了。” “有件事让我不放心，”拉祖米欣皱起眉头，打断了他的话，“昨天我喝醉了，在路上走着的时候，说漏了嘴，跟他说了些各式各样的蠢话……各式各样的……顺带也说了，你担心，似乎他……有可能害精神病……” “昨天你跟两位女士也说过这种蠢话了吧。” “我知道，我很蠢！你要揍我，就揍我一顿吧！怎么，你当真有什么坚定不移的想法吗？” “唉，我在胡扯；哪里有什么坚定不移的想法！你带我到他那里去的时候，自己把他描绘成一个偏执狂患者……嗯，昨天我们还火上加油，也就是说，是你说了些火上加油的话……谈起油漆匠的事；说不定他就是为了这件事才发疯的，你这场谈话可真是太好了！我要是确切地知道当时在警察局里发生的那回事，知道那里有那么个坏蛋怀疑他……侮辱了他的话！嗯哼……昨天我就不让你说这些话了。要知道，这些偏执狂患者都会小题大作，以假当真……从昨天扎苗托夫说的那些话里，仅就我所记得的，事情已经有一半弄清楚了。啊，对了！我知道这么一回事，有个四十岁的多疑病患者，因为受不了一个八岁的小男孩每天吃饭的时候嘲笑他，就把那个小男孩给杀死了！他的情况却是：衣衫褴褛，警察分局局长蛮横无礼，又碰上发病，再加上这样的怀疑！这一切都落到了一个发狂的多疑病患者的身上！而且他还有极其强烈、十分独特的虚荣心！而这也许就正是致病的原因！嗯，不错，见鬼！……顺便说说，这个扎苗托夫当真是个可爱的小孩子，不过，嗯哼，……昨天他不该把这些全都说出来。他这个人说话太不谨慎了！” “可他是对谁说的呢？对我和对你，不是吗？” “还有波尔菲里。” “那又怎样呢，对波尔菲里说了，又怎样呢？” “顺便说一声，对那两位，对母亲和妹妹，你能起点儿什么作用，能影响她们吗？今天对她们得更加小心……” “跟她们会说得通的！”拉祖米欣不乐意地回答。 “你为什么要这样对待这个卢任呢？他是个有钱的人，看来，她并不讨厌他……可她们不是什么也没有吗？啊？” “可你干吗要打听这些？”拉祖米欣恼怒地大声嚷，“我怎么知道她有什么，还是什么也没有？你自己去问好了，也许会打听出来……” “呸，有时候你是多么愚蠢！昨天的醉意还在起作用吗……再见；代我谢谢普拉斯科维娅·帕夫洛芙娜，谢谢她给我提供了个过夜的地方。她把门锁上了，我隔着房门对她说了声崩儒尔①，她没回答，她自己七点钟就起来了，从厨房里穿过走廊给她送去了茶炊……我没有荣幸会见她……” -------- ①法文bonjour的音译，“日安”之意。 九点整，拉祖米欣来到了巴卡列耶夫的旅馆。两位女士早就怀着歇斯底里的急不可耐的心情等着他了。她们七点钟、也许更早些就已经起来了。他进去的时候脸色像黑夜一样阴郁，笨拙地点头行礼，并立刻为此生气了——当然，是生自己的气。他的猜测完全错了：普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜突然向他跑过来，拉住他的双手，几乎要吻他的手。他不好意思地朝阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜看了一眼；但是就连这张高傲的脸上，这时露出的也是感谢和友好的表情，出乎他意料的对他极其尊敬，（而不是嘲讽的目光和不由自主、掩饰不住的蔑视！）如果迎接他的是辱骂，说真的，他反而会觉得轻松些，现在竟是这样，倒使他感到太难为情了。幸好有现成的话题，于是他赶紧谈正经事。 听说“他还没醒”，不过“一切都很好”，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说，这是好现象，“因为她非常，非常，非常需要事先商量一下”。接着问他喝过茶没有，并邀请他一道喝茶；因为在等着拉祖米欣，她们自己还没喝过茶。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜按了按铃，应声前来的是一个很脏、衣服也破破烂烂的人，吩咐他送茶来，茶终于摆好了，但是一切都那么脏，那么不像样，因此两位女士都面有愧色。拉祖米欣起劲地大骂这家旅馆，但是一想起卢任，立刻就住了声，感到很窘，因此，当普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜终于接连不断提出一连串问题的时候，他真高兴极了。 他回答这些问题，讲了足有三刻钟，他的话不断地被打断，一个问题要问上几遍；罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇最近一年来的生活情况，只要是他知道的，他都把最重要和不能不讲的一切事情告诉了她们，最详尽地叙述了他的病情。不过有很多事情他都略而不提，那都是应当省略的，其中也有警察局里发生的事及其一切后果。她们全神贯注地听着他讲；但是每当他认为已经讲完了，已经能够满足这两位听众的要求的时候，却总是发现，对于她们来说，似乎这还只不过是刚刚开始。 “请您，请您告诉我，您是怎么想的……哎哟，请原谅，到现在我还不知道您的大名呢？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜急忙说。 “德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇。” “那么，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，我很想，很想知道……一般说来……他对各种事物有什么看法，也就是说，请理解我的意思，这该怎么跟您说呢，最好还是这么说吧：他喜欢什么，不喜欢什么？他是不是总是这样爱发脾气？他有些什么愿望，也可以说，有些什么理想，如果可以这样说的话？现在是什么对他有特殊影响？总之，我希望……” “哎哟，妈妈，怎么能一下子回答这一切问题啊！”杜尼娅说。 “啊，我的天哪，我可完全，完全没想到会看到他像这个样子，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇。” "Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?" observed Dounia. "Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofitch!" "Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years' separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and of late--and perhaps for a long time before--he has been suspicious and fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly callous; it's as though he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn't jeer at things, not because he hasn't the wit, but as though he hadn't time to waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him." "God grant it may," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by Razumihin's account of her Rodya. And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident. "You've told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother's character . . . and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him," observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. "I think you are right that he needs a woman's care," she added thoughtfully. "I didn't say so; but I daresay you are right, only . . ." "What?" "He loves no one and perhaps he never will," Razumihin declared decisively. "You mean he is not capable of love?" "Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in everything, indeed!" he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had just before said of her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at him. "You may both be mistaken about Rodya," Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. "I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can't imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of doing . . . Well, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl--what was her name--his landlady's daughter?" "Did you hear about that affair?" asked Avdotya Romanovna. "Do you suppose----" Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. "Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn't that he doesn't love us!" "He has never spoken a word of that affair to me," Razumihin answered cautiously. "But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange." "And what did you hear?" both the ladies asked at once. "Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl's death, was not at all to Praskovya Pavlovna's liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively ugly . . . and such an invalid . . . and queer. But she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good qualities or it's quite inexplicable. . . . She had no money either and he wouldn't have considered her money. . . . But it's always difficult to judge in such matters." "I am sure she was a good girl," Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly. "God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I don't know which of them would have caused most misery to the other--he to her or she to him," Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the latter's annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on the score of his illness. "He had planned it before his illness," he added. "I think so, too," Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself so carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna, too, was struck by it. "So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not resist asking. "I can have no other opinion of your daughter's future husband," Razumihin answered firmly and with warmth, "and I don't say it simply from vulgar politeness, but because . . . simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and . . . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely . . . and this morning I am ashamed of it." He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered a word from the moment they began to speak of Luzhin. Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance. "You see, Dmitri Prokofitch," she began. "I'll be perfectly open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?" "Of course, mother," said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically. "This is what it is," she began in haste, as though the permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. "Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you know; instead of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You'd better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very much . . . you will soon see what that is, and . . . tell me your candid opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya's character better than anyone and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don't feel sure how to act and I . . . I've been waiting for your opinion." Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as follows: "Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an interview with you to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than to-morrow evening at eight o'clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovitch may not be present at our interview--as he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have the honour to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing my special respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful homage of “这是很自然的，”德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇回答。“我母亲不在了，嗯，可我舅舅每年都来一趟，几乎每次都认不出我，就连外貌也认不出来，可他是个聪明人；嗯，你们离别三年了，岁月流逝，人怎么能不发生变化呢。而且我能跟你们说什么呢？我认识罗季昂只有一年半：他忧郁，总是闷闷不乐，高傲而且倔强；最近一个时期（也许，还要早得多）他神经过敏，患了多疑症。他为人慷慨，心地善良。他不喜欢流露自己的感情，宁愿做出一些被人看作冷酷无情的事情，也不肯用言词说明自己的心意。不过，有时他根本不像多疑病患者，而只不过是冷淡无情，麻木不仁达到了缺乏人性的程度，真的，就好像他有两种截然相反的性格，这两种性格在他身上轮流出现。有时他极端沉默！他总是没有空，什么都妨碍他，可他却一直躺着，什么事也不做。他不嘲笑人，倒不是因为他缺少说俏皮话的机智，而似乎是他没有时间花在这种小事上。他总是不听完别人说的话。对当前大家感兴趣的事，他从来不感兴趣。他对自己估计很高，似乎这也并非毫无根据。嗯，还有什么呢？……我觉得，你们的到来会对他产生最有益的、可以使他得救的影响。” “啊，上帝保佑！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼，拉祖米欣对她的罗佳的评语使她痛苦到极点。 最后，拉祖米欣较为大胆地看了看阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜。谈话的时候他时常看她，不过只是匆匆地看一眼，只看一眼，就立刻把目光移开了。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜一会儿坐到桌边，留心听着，一会儿又站起来，按照她往常的习惯，两手交叉，抱在胸前，闭紧嘴唇，从一个角落走到另一个角落，有时提个问题，但并不停下来，一面走，一面在沉思。她也有不听完别人说话的习惯。她穿一件料子轻而薄的深色连衫裙，脖子上系一条透明的白色围巾。根据许多迹象来看，拉祖米欣立刻发觉，两位妇女的境况贫困到了极点。如果阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜穿得像一位女王，似乎他就根本不会怕她了；现在，也许正因为她穿得这样寒酸，正因为他发觉了她们贫穷的境况，他心里才感到恐惧，并为自己的每一句话、每一个姿势都感到害怕，对于一个本来就缺乏自信的人来说，这当然会使他感到格外拘束了。 “您讲了我哥哥性格中许多很有意思的情况，而且……说得很公正。这很好；我认为，您很敬重他，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜微笑着说。“您说，得有个女人待在他身边，看来，这话说得也不错，”她沉思着补上一句。 “这话我没说过，不过，也许，这一点您说得对，只是……” “什么？” “要知道，他什么人也不爱；也许永远也不会爱上谁，”拉祖米欣毫无顾忌地说。 “也就是说，他不能爱？” “您要知道，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，您太像您哥哥了，甚至各方面都像！”出乎自己意料地，他突然很不谨慎地说，但立刻想起，现在是在对她谈她哥哥哪方面的情况，满脸涨得通红，感到很窘。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜看着他，不能不大笑起来。 “关于罗佳，你们俩可能都看错了，”有点儿见怪的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜接着话茬说。“我说的不是现在，杜涅奇卡。彼得·彼特罗维奇在这封信里写的那些话……还有我和你所作的推测，也许都不对，不过，您无法想象，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，他是多么爱幻想，还有，这该怎么说呢，他总是变化无常。他的性格我从来就摸不透，还在他十五岁的时候就是这样。我相信，现在他也会突然对自己做出什么别人永远也不想做的事情来……对了，眼前就有个例子：您知道吗，一年半以前，他让我多么吃惊和震动，差点儿没把我折磨死，因为他突然想跟这个，她叫什么来着，——跟这个扎尔尼岑娜的女儿，也就是他女房东的女儿结婚？” “关于这件事，您知道些什么详细情况吗？”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜问。 “您以为，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜激动地接着说，“当时我的眼泪，我的央求，我的病，我的死，也许我会愁死，还有我们的贫穷，会阻止他吗？他会满不在乎地跨过一切障碍。可是难道他，难道他不爱我们吗？” “这件事，他自己从来没跟我说起过，什么也没说过”，拉祖米欣小心谨慎地回答，“不过我从扎尔尼岑娜太太那儿多少听到过一些，她也不是个爱说话的人，我听到的话，甚至有点儿使人奇怪……” “您到底听到了些什么呢？”两位妇女一起问。 “其实也没有任何太特殊的情况。我只是知道，这门亲事已经完全办妥了，只是因为新娘死了，才没有成亲，对这门亲事，扎尔尼岑娜太太很不称心……除此而外，据说新娘甚至长得并不好看，也就是说，甚至长得很丑……而且有病，而且……而且她有点儿怪……不过，好像也有某些优点。大概一定有一些优点；不然就完全不可理解了……什么嫁妆也没有，而且他也不会指望靠嫁妆生活……总之，对这种事情很难作出判断。” “我相信，他是一个值得尊敬的姑娘，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜简短地说。 “求上帝饶恕我，可当时我对她的死是那么高兴，虽说我不知道，他们两个是谁害了谁，是他害了她呢，还是她害了他？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜结束了这个话题；然后小心谨慎地，欲言又止，又问起昨天罗佳和卢任发生争吵的事来，而且不断地看看杜尼娅，弄得她显然感到不高兴了。看得出来，罗佳和卢任之间的争吵最使她心烦意乱，简直让她感到可怕，颤栗。拉祖米欣又把当时的情况详详细细地说了一遍，但这一次加上了自己的结论：他直截了当地责备拉斯科利尼科夫故意侮辱彼得·彼特罗维奇，这一次几乎没有因为他有病而原谅他。 “还在生病以前，他就想好了的，”他补充说。 “我也这么想，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜很伤心地说。但是使她十分惊讶的是，这一次拉祖米欣谈到彼得·彼特罗维奇时是那么小心，甚至好像有些尊敬的样子。这也使阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜感到惊讶。 “那么您对彼得·彼特罗维奇的看法就是这样的了？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜忍不住问。 “对令爱的未婚夫我不能有别的看法，”拉祖米欣坚决而又热情地回答，“而且我不仅是出于庸俗的礼貌才这么说，而是因为……因为……嗯，至少是因为阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜自己选中了这个人，单凭这一点，就不能有别的看法。如果说，昨天我把他那样痛骂了一顿，那么这是因为昨天我喝得烂醉，而且精神失常；对，是精神失常，愚蠢，发疯，完全发疯了……今天为这感到羞愧！……”他脸红了，不作声了。阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜一下子涨红了脸，但是没有打破沉默。从他们开始谈论卢任的那一分钟起，都没说过一句话。 然而，没有女儿的支持，看来普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜自己拿不定主意。最后，她不断地看看女儿，讷讷地说，现在有个情况让她非常担心。 “您要知道，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇……”他开始说。 “我想完全开诚布公地和德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇谈谈，杜尼娅，你看怎么样？” “那是当然了，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜庄严地说。 “是这么回事，”她赶紧说，允许她诉说自己的苦衷，仿佛是卸下了她肩上的千斤重担。“今天很早我们收到了彼得·彼特罗维奇的一封短简，是对我们昨天通知他我们已经到达的答复。您要知道，昨天他本该像他答应过的，在车站接我们。可他没去，却派了一个仆人到车站去接我们，带去了这家旅馆的地址，让他告诉我们该怎么走，彼得·彼特罗维奇还让这个仆人转告，他本人今天清早来我们这里。可是今天早晨他又没来，却送来了这封短简……您最好还是自己看看吧；信里有一点让我非常担心……您马上就会看到谈的是什么了，而且……请直言不讳地把您的意见告诉我，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇！您最了解罗佳的性格，也最能给我们出个主意。我先告诉您，杜涅奇卡已经作出决定，一看过信就决定了，可我还不知道该怎么办，所以……所以一直在等着您。” 拉祖米欣打开写着昨天日期的短简，看到上面写的是： “普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜夫人：敬启者，因意外延误，未能亲至车站迎候尊驾，特派干员前往代候。又因参政院紧急事务亟待处理，且不愿妨碍夫人与令郎、阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜与兄长骨肉重新团聚，明晨亦不能与夫人晤面，为此深感遗憾。定于明晚八时整赴尊寓拜谒夫人，并冒昧附带提出一恳切而又坚决之请求，仆与夫人会晤时，希望罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇已不在座，因昨日仆于其病中前住探望时，彼曾对仆横加指责，无礼辱骂，此种侮辱，实属空前；此外，另有一事必须亲自向夫人作详细说明，亦望听取夫人对此作出解释。如不顾仆之请求，届时与罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇相遇，仆将被迫立即告退，则夫人咎由自取，勿谓言之不预也。仆修此书，盖恐有如下情况：仆探望罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇时，彼病情尚如此严重，而两小时后竟霍然痊愈，足见其已能离家前往尊寓。仆曾亲眼目睹，在一于马蹄下丧生之醉汉家中，借口安葬死者，彼竟将为数达二十五卢布之巨款赠予该醉汉之女，而伊乃一行为不端之女人，为此仆深感震惊，因仆得悉，此款夫人得来非易。谨此，请代向令爱阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜致意。请接受诚挚敬意。 您的忠实仆人 彼·卢任” “我现在该怎么办呢，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说，几乎要哭出来了。“您说，我怎么能叫罗佳别来呢？昨天他那么坚决要求他妹妹拒绝与彼得·彼特罗维奇结婚，现在又叫我们别让他来！只要他知道了，他准会故意来的，那……到那时会怎样呢？” “阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜怎么决定的，就怎么办好了，” 拉祖米欣立刻不慌不忙地回答。 “啊，我的天哪！她说……天知道她在说些什么，也不对我说明她有什么目的！她说，最好是，倒不是最好，而是，不知是为了什么，一定得让罗佳故意在今晚八点钟来这里，一定要让他们见面……我却连这封信也不想给他看到，想要通过您想个巧妙的办法，让他别来……因为他是那么容易发脾气，……而且我什么也不明白，又是死了个什么醉汉，又是什么女儿，他又怎么会把仅有的一点钱全都送给了这个女儿……这些钱……” "Your humble servant, "P. LUZHIN." "What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?" began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. "How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, and . . . what will happen then?" "Act on Avdotya Romanovna's decision," Razumihin answered calmly at once. "Oh, dear me! She says . . . goodness knows what she says, she doesn't explain her object! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it's absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of being here at eight o'clock and that they must meet. . . . I didn't want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from coming by some stratagem with your help . . . because he is so irritable. . . . Besides I don't understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have given the daughter all the money . . . which . . ." "Which cost you such sacrifice, mother," put in Avdotya Romanovna. "He was not himself yesterday," Razumihin said thoughtfully, "if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too. . . . Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn't understand a word. . . . But last night, I myself . . ." "The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and there I assure you we shall see at once what's to be done. Besides, it's getting late--good heavens, it's past ten," she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. "A present from her /fiance/," thought Razumihin. "We must start, Dounia, we must start," her mother cried in a flutter. "He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful heavens!" While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle; Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were not merely shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. "The queen who mended her stockings in prison," he thought, "must have looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levees." "My God!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch," she added, glancing at him timidly. "Don't be afraid, mother," said Dounia, kissing her, "better have faith in him." "Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven't slept all night," exclaimed the poor woman. They came out into the street. "Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna . . . she was all in white . . . she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming me. . . . Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don't know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's dead!" "No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?" "She died suddenly; and only fancy . . ." "Afterwards, mamma," put in Dounia. "He doesn't know who Marfa Petrovna is." "Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don't know what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation. . . . Don't be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what's the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?" "Yes, I bruised it," muttered Razumihin overjoyed. "I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault with me. . . . But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my . . . weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know." "Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don't ask him too much about his health; he doesn't like that." "Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the stairs. . . . What an awful staircase!" "Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling," said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: "He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so." "Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he has waked up." The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they reached the landlady's door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out. “这些钱是您很不容易弄来的，妈妈，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜补充说。 “昨天他不大正常，”拉祖米欣若有所思地说。“要是你们知道昨天他在一家小饭馆里干了些什么的话，虽说他做得很聪明……嗯哼！我们昨天一道回家的时候，他的确跟我提到过一个死了的人和一个什么姑娘，不过我一句也没听懂…… 其实我自己也……” “妈妈，最好我们一起到他那儿去，请您相信，一到了那儿，我们立刻就会看出该怎么办了。再说，我们也该走了——上帝啊！十点多了！”她看了看用一条纤细的威尼斯表链挂在脖子上的、很好看的珐郎面金表，突然喊了一声，——这块金表和她的其他服饰极不协调。“未婚夫送的礼物”，拉祖米欣想。 “啊，该走了！……该走了，杜涅奇卡，该走了！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜焦急地忙乱起来，“他又会认为，我们这么久不去，准是还在为昨天的事生气呢。唉，我的天哪。” 这么说着，她慌忙披上披肩，戴上帽子；杜尼娅也穿戴起来。拉祖米欣发觉，她的手套不但是旧的，甚至也破了，然而服装的这种明显的寒酸样子甚至使两位女士显得特别尊严，那些衣着寒酸，可是善于打扮的人，总是具有这种特殊的尊严。拉祖米欣怀着崇敬的心情看着杜涅奇卡，并为自己能伴送她而感到自豪。“那位皇后，”他暗自想，“那位在监狱里补自己长袜的皇后①，看上去才像一位真正的皇后，甚至比她参加最豪华的庆典或接受朝见的时候更像一位真正的皇后。” -------- ①指法国路易十六的妻子，玛丽亚—安图安涅塔（一七五五——一七九三）。法国大革命时，她被关进监狱。 “我的天哪！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜突然高声说，“我哪会想到，我竟会像现在这样怕跟儿子、怕跟我亲爱的、亲爱的罗佳见面呢！……我害怕，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇！” 她怯生生地瞅了他一眼，补充说。 “您别怕，妈妈，”杜尼娅说着吻了吻她。“您最好是相信他。我相信。” “唉，我的天哪！我也相信，可是整整一夜我都没睡！”这个可怜的女人高声说。 他们来到了街上。 “你要知道，杜涅奇卡，快到早晨的时候，我刚刚稍微打了个盹儿，忽然梦见了玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜……她穿着一身白衣服……来到我跟前，拉着我的手，对着我直摇头，而且是那么严厉，那么严厉，好像是责备我……这是好兆头吗？唉，我的天哪，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，您还不知道呢：玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜死了！” “不，我不知道；哪一个玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜？” “她是突然死的！您要知道……” “以后再说吧，妈妈，”杜尼娅插嘴说，“因为他还不知道玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜是谁呢。” “啊，您不知道吗？可我还以为您已经什么都知道了呢。请您原谅我，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，这几天我简直糊涂了。真的，我把您当成了我们的神明，所以才深信不疑，以为您已经全都知道了。我把您当成了亲人……我这么说，您可别生气。哎哟，我的天哪，您右手怎么了？受伤了？” “是啊，受伤了，”感到非常幸福的拉祖米欣含糊不清地说。 “我有时候说话太直，所以杜尼娅常常纠正我……不过，我的天哪，他住在一间什么样的房子里啊！可是，他醒了没有？这个女人，他的女房东，认为这也叫房子吗？您听我说，您说过，他不喜欢流露自己的感情，那么我也许，由于我的……那些弱点，让他感到讨厌了吧？……您能教教我吗，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇？我对他该怎样呢？我，您要知道，我真完全不知所措了。” “如果看到他皱眉，就不要钉着追问他；尤其是不要钉着追问他的健康状况：他不喜欢人家问他身体怎样。” “唉，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，作母亲可真痛苦啊！不过，就是这道楼梯了……这楼梯多么可怕！” “妈妈，您连脸色都发白了，镇静下来吧，我亲爱的，”杜尼娅亲热地对母亲说，“他看到您，应该感到幸福才对，您却这么折磨自己，”她两眼闪闪发亮，又补上一句。 “请你们稍等一等，我先去看看他醒了没有？” 两位女士悄悄地跟在走到前边先上楼去的拉祖米欣后面，已经走到四楼女房东的房门前时，发觉女房东的房门开着一条小缝，两只的溜溜转动的黑眼睛正从暗处注视着她们。当她们的目光碰到门后的目光时，房门突然砰地一声关上了，吓得普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜差点儿没有大叫起来。

第三章 "He is well, quite well!" Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered. He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen. Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there was a restlessness in his movements. He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word. "Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well," said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. "And I don't say this /as I did yesterday/," he said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand. "Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day," began Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies' entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. "In another three or four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two . . . or perhaps even three. This has been coming on for a long while. . . . eh? Confess, now, that it has been perhaps your own fault?" he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him. "It is very possible," answered Raskolnikov coldly. "I should say, too," continued Zossimov with zest, "that your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don't know, but they must be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial." "Yes, yes; you are perfectly right. . . . I will make haste and return to the university: and then everything will go smoothly. . . ." Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night. "What! he saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. "Then you have not slept either after your journey." "Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o'clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before two at home." "I don't know how to thank him either," Raskolnikov went on, suddenly frowning and looking down. "Setting aside the question of payment-- forgive me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)--I really don't know what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don't understand it . . . and . . . and . . . it weighs upon me, indeed, because I don't understand it. I tell you so candidly." "Don't be irritated." Zossimov forced himself to laugh. "Assume that you are my first patient--well--we fellows just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients." "I say nothing about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, "though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble." "What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day, are you?" shouted Razumihin. If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother. "As for you, mother, I don't dare to speak," he went on, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. "It is only to-day that I have been able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back." When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute the previous day. The mother's face lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. "Yes, that is what I love him for," Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. "He has these movements." "And how well he does it all," the mother was thinking to herself. "What generous impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister--simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that. . . . And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is! . . . He is even better looking than Dounia. . . . But, good heavens, what a suit --how terribly he's dressed! . . . Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch's shop, is better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him . . . weep over him--but I am afraid. . . . Oh, dear, he's so strange! He's talking kindly, but I'm afraid! Why, what am I afraid of? . . ." "Oh, Rodya, you wouldn't believe," she began suddenly, in haste to answer his words to her, "how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it's all over and done with and we are quite happy again--I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that woman--ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya! . . . She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can't imagine how we felt! I couldn't help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father's-- you can't remember him, Rodya--who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the court-yard and they couldn't pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help. . . . Because we were alone, utterly alone," she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although "we are quite happy again." "Yes, yes. . . . Of course it's very annoying. . . ." Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity. "What else was it I wanted to say?" He went on trying to recollect. "Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don't think that I didn't mean to come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first." "What are you saying, Rodya?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised. "Is he answering us as a duty?" Dounia wondered. "Is he being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a lesson?" "I've only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her . . . Nastasya . . . to wash out the blood . . . I've only just dressed." "Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm. "Oh, nothing--don't be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over . . . a clerk . . ." "Delirious? But you remember everything!" Razumihin interrupted. "That's true," Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. "I remember everything even to the slightest detail, and yet--why I did that and went there and said that, I can't clearly explain now." "A familiar phenomenon," interposed Zossimov, "actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions-- it's like a dream." "Perhaps it's a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman," thought Raskolnikov. "Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too," observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov. "There is some truth in your observation," the latter replied. "In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens--perhaps hundreds of thousands--hardly one is to be met with." “他好了，他好了！”佐西莫夫高兴地对进来的人们喊了一声。佐西莫夫已经来了十来分钟了，坐在沙发上昨天他坐过的那个角落里。拉斯科利尼科夫坐在他对面那个角落上，已经完全穿好衣服，甚至细心梳洗过了，他好久没有这样做过了。屋里一下子坐满了人，但娜斯塔西娅还是跟着客人们进来，在那儿听着。 真的，拉斯科利尼科夫几乎已经好了，特别是与昨天的情况比较，更是如此，只不过他面色十分苍白，心不在焉，郁郁不乐。从外表看，他像一个受伤的人，或者是忍受着肉体上某种剧烈痛苦的人：他双眉紧锁，双唇紧闭，目光像在发烧。他说话很少，很不乐意，仿佛是勉为其难，或者是在尽义务，有时他的动作似乎有些慌乱。 只差胳膊上没有绷带，或者手指上没套着塔夫绸的套子，不然就完全像一个，譬如说吧，手指严重化脓，或是手臂受伤，或者受了这一类创伤的人了。 不过，当母亲和妹妹进来的时候，有一瞬间这张苍白和神情忧郁的脸仿佛被一道亮光照得发出了光彩，但这只是使他脸上以前那种布满愁云、心不在焉的表情变得更加痛苦，似乎把这痛苦凝缩集中起来了。光转瞬间就熄灭了，痛苦却留了下来，佐西莫夫怀着刚刚开始给人治病的医生那种年轻人的热情，从各方面观察和研究自己的病人，惊奇地发觉，亲人们的到来并没有使他变得高兴，他脸上流露出来的却似乎是暗暗隐藏着的、痛苦的决心——决心忍受一两个小时无法避免的折磨。后来他看到，随后的谈话，几乎每一句都像是接触到并刺痛了他病人的伤口；但同时他又有点儿惊讶：今天病人竟能控制住自己，把昨天那种偏执狂患者的感情隐藏起来，而昨天，为了一句无足轻重的话，他都几乎要发疯。 “是的，现在我自己也看出，我差不多好了，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，说着亲切地吻了吻母亲和妹妹，这样一来普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜立刻容光焕发，“而且我说这话已经不是用昨天的方式了，”他又对着拉祖米欣补上了一句，还和他友好地握了握手。 “今天我甚至对他感到惊讶，”佐西莫夫说，他们来了，他感到非常高兴，因为在这十分钟里他和自己的病人已经没有什么话可谈了。“如果一直这样下去，再过三、四天，他就会和以前完全一样了，也就是说和一个月以前，或者是两个月以前……或者，也许是三个月以前？因为冰冻三尺，非一日之寒，这病是从很久以前就开始的……不是吗？现在您得承认，也许，这得怪您自己，是吧？”他面带小心谨慎的微笑，补上一句，仿佛一直还在担心有什么话会惹他生气。 “很有可能，”拉斯科利尼科夫冷冰冰地回答。 “我说这话的意思是，”佐西莫夫得寸进尺，接下去说，“您要完全恢复健康，现在主要全在于您自己了。现在已经可以和您谈谈了，我想提醒您，必须消除最初的病因，也可以这样说，必须消除致病的根本原因，那么您就会完全痊愈了，不然，病情甚至会恶化。这最初的病因，我不知道，但您想必是知道的。您是聪明人，当然，也观察过自己。我觉得，您得病的时间与您离开大学的时间多少有些巧合。您不能无事可做，因此我觉得，工作和为自己提出一个坚定的目标，对您会非常有益。” “对，对，您说得完全正确……我要赶快进大学，那么就一切都会……十分顺利了……” 佐西莫夫提出这些很有道理的劝告，一部分也是为了让这两位女士留下深刻的印象，可是他把话说完以后，看了看被劝告的对象，却发现后者的脸上露出明显的嘲笑神情，这时他当然有点儿发窘了。不过这只持续了很短暂的一会儿工夫。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜立刻向佐西莫夫致谢，特别是感谢他昨天夜里去旅馆看她们。 “怎么，他夜间也去过你们那里？”拉斯科利尼科夫好像有点儿担心地问。“这么说，你们长途旅行之后也没睡觉吗？” “啊，罗佳，这只不过是在两点钟以前哪。我和杜尼娅在家里的时候，两点以前从来不睡。” “我也不知道该怎样感谢他，”拉斯科利尼科夫接下去说，突然皱起眉头，眼睛看着地下。“钱的问题暂且不谈，——我提到这一点，请您原谅（他对佐西莫夫说），我不知道，我有哪一点值得您对我这样特别关心？简直无法理解……而且……而且这种关心甚至让我感到痛苦，因为无法理解：我坦率地对您说。” “请您别生气，”佐西莫夫勉强笑着说，“假定说，您是我的第一个病人，而我们，刚刚开始行医的医生们，爱我们的第一个病人，就像爱自己的孩子一样，有些人几乎是深深地爱上了他们。而我的病人并不多。” “至于他，我就不讲了，”拉斯科利尼科夫指着拉祖米欣补充说，“他也是，除了侮辱和一大堆麻烦事，从我这儿什么也没得到。” “嘿，你胡说！今天你是不是有点儿多情善感？”拉祖米欣高声叫嚷。 如果他目光较为敏锐的话，那么他就会看出，这根本不是什么多情善感，而甚至是完全相反。但是阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜却发觉了。她担心地凝神注视着哥哥。 “而对您，妈妈，我连提都不敢提，”他接着说下去，仿佛是在背诵从早上就背熟了的功课，“今天我才能多少想象出，昨天您在这儿等我回来的时候，心里感到多么难过。”说完这句话，他突然默默地微笑着向妹妹伸过一只手去。但是这一次，微笑中流露出的却是绝非故意做作的真实感情。杜尼娅立刻抓住向她伸过来的手，热情地和他握手，她感到十分高兴，满怀着感激的心情。在昨天发生争执之后，这是他第一次向她流露自己的感情。看到兄妹默默无言的彻底和解，母亲欣喜若狂，感到十分幸福，脸上发出了光彩。 “瞧，我就是为了这一点爱他！”总是喜欢夸张的拉祖米欣喃喃地说，在椅子上坚决地扭转身去，“他是会这样的！ ……” “这一切他做得多么好啊，”母亲暗自想，“他心里充满多么高尚的激情，他是多么简单而又委婉地结束了昨天和妹妹的所有误解，——只不过是在这样的时刻伸出手来，亲切地看了一眼……他的眼睛多好看哪，他的脸多么美啊！……他甚至比杜涅奇卡还要好看……不过，我的天哪，他穿了一身什么样的衣服，他穿得多么不像样啊！……阿凡纳西·伊万诺维奇铺子里那个送信的瓦西亚也比他穿得好些！……我简直想，简直想立刻向他扑过去，拥抱他，……大哭一场，——可是我害怕，我怕……上帝啊！他是多么……瞧，他说话是那么亲切，可是我害怕！不过我怕什么呢？……” “啊，罗佳，你不会相信的，”她突然接着话茬，赶快回答他的话，“昨天我和杜尼娅是多么……不幸啊！现在，一切都已经过去，已经结束，我们大家又都感到幸福了，——可以跟你说说了。你想想看，我们跑到这里，想要拥抱你，几乎是一下火车就跑来了，可是这个女人，——哦，对了，就是她！你好，娜斯塔西娅！……她突然对我们说，你害了热病，在发酒疯，刚才悄悄地从医生这儿逃跑了，神智不清地跑上街去，大家都跑去找你了。您想不出，我们急成了什么样子！我立刻想起波坦奇科夫中尉死得多么惨，他是我们的一个熟人，你父亲的朋友，——你不记得他，罗佳，——他也是发酒狂的时候这样跑出去，掉进院子当中的一口井里，只是到第二天才把他打捞上来。当然啦，我们是把事情看得过于严重了些。我们本想跑去找彼得·彼特罗维奇，希望至少有他的帮助……因为我们孤单无依，完全无依无靠，”她用诉苦的声音拖长语调说，可是突然住了声，因为她想起，这时提起彼得·彼特罗维奇还相当危险，尽管“我们大家又都感到幸福了”。 “是的，是的，……这一切当然让人感到遗憾……”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地回答，然而他的样子看上去是那么心不在焉，几乎是漫不经心，以致杜尼娅惊讶地看了他一眼。 “我还想说什么来着？”他接着说，努力回想着，“对了：妈妈，还有你，杜涅奇卡，请你们不要认为，今天我不愿先到你们那儿去，却等着你们先到我这儿来。” “你这是说什么话呀，罗佳！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼，她也感到惊讶了。 “他回答我们，是不是在尽义务呢？”杜涅奇卡想，“又是和好，又是请求原谅，就像是履行公事，或者是像背书。” “我一睡醒就想过去，可是衣服把我耽误住了；昨天忘了告诉她……告诉娜斯塔西娅……洗净这块血迹……只是到现在我才穿好衣服。” “血！什么血？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜惊恐地说。 “这没什么……您别担心。这血迹是因为，昨天我神智不清？在街上荡来荡去，碰上一个给轧伤的人……一个官员……” “神智不清？可你不是什么都记得吗，”拉祖米欣打断了他的话。 “这是真的，”不知为什么，对这个问题拉斯科利尼科夫特别关心地回答说，“我什么都记得，就连最小的细节也记得，可是真怪：我为什么要做那件事，为什么要到那里去，为什么要说那些话？却不能解释清楚。” “这是一种极为常见的现象，”佐西莫夫插嘴说，“一件事情的完成有时十分巧妙，而且极其复杂，是什么在支配这些行动，这些行动的起因是什么，却很难弄清，取决于各种病态的印象。这就像做梦一样。” “他几乎把我当成了疯子，这倒也好，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。 “就是健康的人，好像也有这样的情况，”杜涅奇卡担心地望着佐西莫夫，说。 “这话相当正确，”佐西莫夫回答，“就这方面来说，我们大家当真往往几乎都是疯子，只有一个小小的区别，‘病人’多多少少比我们疯得厉害些，所以必须分清这个界线。完全正常的人，几乎根本就没有，这是对的；几十个人里，也许是几十万人里才能碰到一个，而且就是这样的人，也并不是没有缺陷……” 谈起自己心爱的话题，佐西莫夫不慎说漏了嘴，“疯子”一词脱口而出，一听到这个词儿，大家都皱起眉头。拉斯科利尼科夫却好像毫不在意，坐在那儿，陷入深思，苍白的嘴唇上露出奇怪的微笑。他不知继续在想什么。 “喂，这个给轧伤的人怎么样了？我把你的话打断了！”拉祖米欣赶快高声说。 “什么？”拉斯科利尼科夫好像从梦中醒来，“是的，……所以，当我帮着把他抬回家去的时候，沾上了血迹……顺带说一声，妈妈，昨天我做了一件不可原谅的事；真的是精神不正常。昨天我把您寄给我的钱全都送给了……他的妻子……用来安葬他。现在这个寡妇，她有肺病，这个可怜的女人……三个小孩子都成了孤儿，没有饭吃……家里什么都没有……还有个女儿……要是您看到了，说不定您自己也会送给她……不过，我得承认，我没有任何权利，特别是因为我知道，这些钱您是怎么弄来的。要帮助别人，得先有这样做的权利，要不，就只能说：‘Crevez，chiens，sivousnXeYtespascontents！’①他放声大笑起来，“是不是这样呢，杜尼娅？” At the word "madman," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned. Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something. "Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!" Razumihin cried hastily. "What?" Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. "Oh . . . I got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me . . . to his wife for the funeral. She's a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature . . . three little children, starving . . . nothing in the house . . . there's a daughter, too . . . perhaps you'd have given it yourself if you'd seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it, or else /Crevez, chiens, si vous n'etes pas contents/." He laughed, "That's right, isn't it, Dounia?" "No, it's not," answered Dounia firmly. "Bah! you, too, have ideals," he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. "I ought to have considered that. . . . Well, that's praiseworthy, and it's better for you . . . and if you reach a line you won't overstep, you will be unhappy . . . and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier. . . . But all that's nonsense," he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. "I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother," he concluded, shortly and abruptly. "That's enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good," said his mother, delighted. "Don't be too sure," he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile. A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it. "It is as though they were afraid of me," Raskolnikov was thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent. "Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much," flashed through his mind. "Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out. "What Marfa Petrovna?" "Oh, mercy on us--Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote you so much about her." "A-a-h! Yes, I remember. . . . So she's dead! Oh, really?" he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. "What did she die of?" "Only imagine, quite suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. "On the very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully." "Why, were they on such bad terms?" he asked, addressing his sister. "Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost patience." "Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?" "No, no, he's an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!" Dounia answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into thought. "That had happened in the morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. "And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told. . . ." "After the beating?" "That was always her . . . habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the bath-house. . . . You see, she was undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!" "I should think so," said Zossimov. "And did he beat her badly?" "What does that matter!" put in Dounia. "H'm! But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother," said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself. "Ah, my dear, I don't know what to talk about," broke from Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Why, are you all afraid of me?" he asked, with a constrained smile. "That's certainly true," said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her brother. "Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the stairs." His face worked, as though in convulsion. "Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don't be angry, please, Rodya. . . . Why did you say that, Dounia?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed--"You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything together. . . . And I was so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now. . . . You should not, Dounia. . . . I am happy now--simply in seeing you, Rodya. . . ." "Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of everything!" As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a fearful lie--that he would never now be able to speak freely of everything--that he would never again be able to /speak/ of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone walked towards the door. "What are you about?" cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm. He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity. "But what are you all so dull for?" he shouted, suddenly and quite unexpectedly. "Do say something! What's the use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk. . . . We meet together and sit in silence. . . . Come, anything!" "Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "What is the matter, Rodya?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully. "Oh, nothing! I remembered something," he answered, and suddenly laughed. "Well, if you remembered something; that's all right! . . . I was beginning to think . . ." muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. "It is time for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps . . . if I can . . ." He made his bows, and went out. "What an excellent man!" observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent," Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. "I can't remember where I met him before my illness. . . . I believe I have met him somewhere---- . . . And this is a good man, too," he nodded at Razumihin. "Do you like him, Dounia?" he asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed. "Very much," answered Dounia. "Foo!--what a pig you are!" Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud. "Where are you off to?" "I must go." "You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don't go. What's the time? Is it twelve o'clock? What a pretty watch you have got, Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking." "It was a present from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dounia. "And a very expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady's." "I like that sort," said Dounia. "So it is not a present from her /fiance/," thought Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted. "I thought it was Luzhin's present," observed Raskolnikov. "No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet." "A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get married?" he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it. "Oh, yes, my dear." Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin. "H'm, yes. What shall I tell you? I don't remember much indeed. She was such a sickly girl," he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. "Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don't know what drew me to her then--I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still," he smiled dreamily. "Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium." "No, it was not only spring delirium," said Dounia, with warm feeling. He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down. "You love her even now?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched. "Her? Now? Oh, yes. . . . You ask about her? No . . . that's all now, as it were, in another world . . . and so long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems somehow far away." He looked attentively at them. "You, now . . . I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away . . . but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! And what's the use of asking about it?" he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into dreamy silence again. "What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It's like a tomb," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. "I am sure it's quite half through your lodging you have become so melancholy." -------- ①法文，意为：“畜生，如果你们觉得不好，那就死了吧。” “不，不是这样，”杜尼娅坚决地回答。 “哦！你也有……企图！……”他含糊不清地说，几乎是憎恨地看了她一眼，并且含讥带讽地微微一笑。“这我本该猜到的……有什么呢，这也值得称赞；对你来说，这会更好……一直走到这样一条界线，如果你不跨过去，就会遭到不幸，跨过去呢，也许会更加不幸……不过这都是胡说八道！”他气愤地加上一句，为自己这种不由自主的兴奋情绪感到恼怒。“我只不过想说，妈妈，我请求您原谅，”他突然生硬地、断断续续地结束了自己的话。 “够了，罗佳，我相信，你做的一切都很好！”十分高兴的母亲说。 “请您不要相信，”他回答，撇了撇嘴，微微一笑。接着是沉默。在这场谈话中有某种紧张气氛，在沉默中，在他们和好与请求的时候，大家也都有同样的感觉。 “好像她们都怕我呀，”拉斯科利尼科夫皱起眉头瞅着母亲和妹妹，心中暗想。真的，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜越是不说话，就越觉得害怕。 “不见面的时候，我倒好像很爱她们，”这想法突然在他脑子里一闪而过。 “你要知道，罗佳，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜死了！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜忽然一下子站了起来。 “这个玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜是什么人？” “唉，我的天哪，就是玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜·斯维德里盖洛娃呀！我在信里还给你写了那么多有关她的事情呢。” “啊——啊——啊，对了，我记得……那么，她死了？唉，真的吗？”他突然打了个哆嗦，仿佛从梦中醒来。“难道她死了吗？怎么死的？” “你要知道，是猝死！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜受到他好奇心的鼓舞，连忙说，“就在我给你发信的时候，甚至就在那一天！你要明白，这个可怕的人看来就是她致死的原因。据说，他把她狠狠地痛打了一顿！” “难道他们就是这样生活的吗？”他问妹妹。 “不，甚至相反。他对她总是很有耐心，甚至客客气气。在许多情况下，对她的性格他甚至采取过分宽容的态度，整整七年……不知为什么突然失去了耐心。” “既然他忍耐了七年，可见他根本不是那么可怕，不是吗？ 杜涅奇卡，你好像是在为他辩解？” “不，不，这是个可怕的人！我不能想象会有比这更可怕的，”杜尼娅几乎颤抖着回答，皱起眉头，陷入沉思。 “他们这件事发生在早上，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜连忙接下去说。“在这以后，她立刻吩咐套马，吃过午饭马上就进城去，因为每逢这种情况，她总是要进城；据说吃午饭的时候她胃口很好……” “挨了打以后？” “……不过，她一向有这么个……习惯，一吃完午饭，为了不耽误起程，立刻就去水滨浴场……你要知道，她在那儿进行浴疗；他们那里有一处冷泉，她每天按时在冷泉里沐浴，可是她一下水，就突然中风了！” “那还用说！”佐西莫夫说。 “把她打得很厉害吗？” “这还不一样吗，”杜尼娅回答。 “嗯哼！不过，妈妈，您倒喜欢讲这种无聊的事，”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地、仿佛是无意中突然说。 “唉，我亲爱的，我真不知道该说什么呢，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜脱口而出。 “怎么，你们大家都怕我吗？”他撇着嘴，不自然地笑着说。 “的确是这样，”杜尼娅说，目光严厉地逼视着哥哥。“妈妈上楼的时候，甚至吓得在画十字。” 他的脸仿佛在抽搐，变得很难看。 “唉，看你说的，杜尼娅！请别生气，罗佳……你为什么要这样说呢，杜尼娅！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德芙娜着急地说，“我，真的，到这儿来的时候，坐在车厢里一路上都在梦想着：我们将怎样见面，怎样互相谈谈各自的情况……我感到那么幸福，都不觉得是在路上了！唉，我在说什么啊！现在我也感到很幸福……你不该那么说，杜尼娅！单是看到你，我就已经觉得幸福了，罗佳……” “够了，妈妈，”他不好意思地含糊不清地说，紧紧握住她的手，可是不看着她，“我们会有时间痛痛快快说个够的。” 说完这句话，他突然感到很窘，脸色变得煞白：不久前体验过的一种可怕的感觉，一种像死人般冷冰冰的感觉，又突然穿透他的心灵；他又突然十分清楚，完全明白，刚才他撒了个弥天大谎：现在他不仅永远不能痛痛快快地说个够，而且永远再也不能跟任何人说什么了。这个折磨人的想法对他的影响是如此强烈，有那么一会儿工夫，他几乎想得出神，从座位上站起来，谁也不看，就从屋里往外走去。 “你怎么了？”拉祖米欣喊了一声，一把抓住了他的胳膊。 他又坐下，默默地朝四下里看看；大家都困惑不解地看着他。 “你们怎么都这样闷闷不乐！”他突然完全出乎意外地高声大喊，“随便说点儿什么嘛！真的，干吗这么干坐着！喂，说呀！大家都说话呀……我们聚会在一起，可是都不作声…… 喂，随便说点儿什么呀！” “谢天谢地！我还以为他又要像昨天那样呢，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜画了个十字，说。 “你怎么了，罗佳？”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜怀疑地问。 “没什么，我想起一件事来，”他回答，突然笑起来了。 “好，既然这样，那就好！不然我倒以为……”佐西莫夫含糊不清地说，说着从沙发上站起身来。“不过，我该走了； 也许，我还会再来一次……如果你们还在这儿……” 他告辞，走了。 “一个多好的人啊！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。 “不错，是个很好的、出色的、学识渊博的聪明人……”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，出乎意外地说得很快，而且异常兴奋，直到现在他还从未这么活跃过，“我已经记不得，生病以前我在什么地方见过他了……好像是在哪儿见过……瞧，这也是一位好人！”他朝拉祖米欣点点头，“你喜欢他吗，杜尼娅？”他问她，而且不知为什么突然大笑起来。 “很喜欢，”杜尼娅回答。 “呸，你是个多么……不讲交情的人！”给说得很不好意思、满脸通红的拉祖米欣说，说罢从椅子上站起来了。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜微微一笑，拉斯科利尼科夫却高声大笑起来。 “你去哪儿？” “我也……我也该走了。” “你根本不该走，请你留下来！佐西莫夫走了，所以你也该走吗？你别走……可是，几点了？十二点了吗？你这块表多可爱呀，杜尼娅！你们怎么又不说话了！就只有我一个人在说！……” “这是玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜送给我的礼物，”杜尼娅回答。 “价钱很贵呢，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜补充说。 “啊——啊——啊！多么大啊，几乎不像女表。” “我就喜欢这样的，”杜尼娅说。 “这么说，不是未婚夫的礼物，”拉祖米欣想，不知为什么觉得很高兴。 “我还以为是卢任送的礼物呢，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。 “不，他还什么也没送给过杜涅奇卡呢。” “啊——啊——啊！您还记得吗，妈妈，我曾经恋爱过，还想结婚呢，”他看着母亲说，话题突然转变，还有他说这话的语调，都使她感到惊讶。 “唉，我亲爱的，是呀！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜和杜涅奇卡以及拉祖米欣互相使了个眼色。 “嗯哼！是的！我能跟你们说点儿什么呢？甚至记不得多少了。她是个有病的小姑娘，”他接下去说，仿佛又突然陷入沉思，低下了头，“完全是个病魔缠身的姑娘；喜欢向乞丐施舍，一直梦想进修道院，有一次她跟我谈起这件事来，泪流满面；是的，是的……我记得……记得很清楚。长得……不好看。真的，我不知道当时我为什么对她产生了那么深的感情，似乎是为了她总是生病……如果她再是个跛子或驼背，我大概会更爱她……（他若有所思地微微一笑。）这……就像是春天里的梦呓……” “不，这不仅仅是春天里的梦呓，”杜涅奇卡兴奋地说。 他怀着紧张的心情留神看了看妹妹，但是没有听清或者甚至不理解她的话是什么意思。随后，他陷入沉思，站起来，走到母亲面前，吻了吻她，又回到原来的座位上，坐下了。 “你现在还在爱她！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。 “她？现在？啊，对了……您说的是她！不。现在这一切就好像是在那个世界上……而且那么久了。就连周围的一切也似乎不是在这个世界上发生的。……” 他留心看了看他们。 “喏，就连你们……我好像也是从千里以外在望着你们……唉，天知道，我们为什么要谈这些！问这问那的作什么呢？”他懊恼地加上一句，随后不说话了，咬着自己的指甲，又陷入沉思。 “你住的房子多么不好啊，罗佳，像个棺材，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜突然说，打破了令人难堪的沉默，“我相信，你变得这么忧郁，一半得归咎于这间房子。” “房子？……”他心不在焉地回答。“是啊，有很多事情是由房子促成的……我也这么想过……不过，妈妈，要是您能知道就好了，您刚刚说出了一个多么奇怪的想法，”他突然补上一句，奇怪地冷笑了一声。 再稍过一会儿，这一伙人、这离别三年之后重新聚首的亲人，还有这谈话的亲切语气——尽管他们根本无话可谈，——最后就都将使他完全无法忍受了。然而，有一件刻不容缓的事情，不管怎样一定得在今天解决，——还在不久前，他一醒来的时候，他就这样决定了。现在他为这件事感到高兴，仿佛把它看作一条出路。 “是这么回事，杜尼娅，”他认真而又冷淡地说，“昨天的事，我当然请你原谅，但是我认为我有责任再次提醒你，我的主要意见，我决不放弃。要么是我，要么是卢任。让我作个卑鄙的人吧，你却不应该这样。总有一个是卑鄙的。如果你嫁给卢任，我就不再把你看作妹妹。” “罗佳，罗佳！这还不和昨天一样吗，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜伤心地高声说，“你为什么总是把自己叫作卑鄙的人呢，这我可受不了！昨天也是这样……” “哥哥，”杜尼娅坚决地回答，语气也很冷淡，“这都是因为你有个错误的想法。我反复考虑了一夜，找出了你的错误。这都是因为，似乎，据你推测，好像我要嫁给什么人，是为了什么人而牺牲自己。根本不是这样。我要出嫁，只不过是为了自己，因为我很痛苦；其次，如果我能为亲人做点儿有益的事，我当然感到高兴，但这不是我作出这一决定的最主要的动机……” "My lodging," he answered, listlessly. "Yes, the lodging had a great deal to do with it. . . . I thought that, too. . . . If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just now, mother," he said, laughing strangely. A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with him after three years' absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which must be settled one way or the other that day--so he had decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of escape. "Listen, Dounia," he began, gravely and drily, "of course I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at once to look on you as a sister." "Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again," Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can't bear it. You said the same yesterday." "Brother," Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "In all this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision. . . ." "She is lying," he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. "Proud creature! She won't admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate. . . . Oh, how I . . . hate them all!" "In fact," continued Dounia, "I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him. . . . Why did you smile just now?" She, too, flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes. "All?" he asked, with a malignant grin. "Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch's courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too. . . . Why are you laughing again?" "And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me. . . . You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it." "It is not true. I am not lying," cried Dounia, losing her composure. "I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very day . . . and such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself. . . . I am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what's the matter?" "Good heavens! You have made him faint," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "No, no, nonsense! It's nothing. A little giddiness--not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H'm, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him, and that he . . . esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?" "Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch's letter," said Dounia. With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at Dounia. "It is strange," he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. "What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!" He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something particular. "What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, "is that he is a business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he writes such an uneducated letter." They all started. They had expected something quite different. "But they all write like that, you know," Razumihin observed, abruptly. "Have you read it?" "Yes." "We showed him, Rodya. We . . . consulted him just now," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed. "That's just the jargon of the courts," Razumihin put in. "Legal documents are written like that to this day." "Legal? Yes, it's just legal--business language--not so very uneducated, and not quite educated--business language!" "Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way," Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother's tone. "Well, if he's proud of it, he has reason, I don't deny it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is one expression, 'blame yourselves' put in very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or Zossimov, or one of us?" "N-no," answered Dounia, with more animation. "I saw clearly that it was too naively expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill in writing . . . that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed . . ." "It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble, and not 'on the pretext of the funeral,' but simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter--a young woman, as he writes, of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)--but to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naive eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows the man and . . . I don't think he has a great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish for your good . . ." Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting the evening. "Then what is your decision, Rodya?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk. "What decision?" "You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you . . . come?" "That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you think best," he added, drily. "Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare. "I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at this interview," said Dounia. "Will you come?" "Yes." "I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o'clock," she said, addressing Razumihin. "Mother, I am inviting him, too." "Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided," added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth. . . . Pyotr Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!" “她说谎！”他暗自想，同时在愤恨地咬着指甲。“骄傲的女人！她不愿承认，她想施恩于人！噢，庸俗的人们哪！他们爱，就像是恨……噢，我是多么……憎恨他们所有的人！” “总而言之，我要嫁给彼得·彼特罗维奇，”杜涅奇卡接着说下去，“是因为两害相权取其轻。我愿诚实地履行他期待于我的一切义务，所以，我并没有欺骗他……你为什么这样笑？” 她也发火了，她的眼里闪射出愤怒的火花。 “履行一切义务？”他恶毒地冷笑着问。 “到一定的限度。彼得·彼特罗维奇求婚的态度和方式立刻就向我显示出，他需要的是什么。他当然自命不凡，也许把自己估计得太高了，不过我希望他也能尊重我，……你为什么又笑了？” “你为什么脸又红了？你在说谎，妹妹，只是由于女性的固执，你才故意说谎，这只不过是为了在我面前坚持己见……你不可能尊重卢任，因为我见过他了，还和他谈过话。可见你是为了钱而出卖自己，可见，不管怎么说，你的行为是卑鄙的，我感到高兴的是，至少你还会脸红！” “不对，我没说谎！……”杜涅奇卡高声叫嚷起来，失去了冷静的态度，“如果我不是深信他尊重我，珍视我，我是决不会嫁给他的；如果我不是坚决相信，我会尊重他，我也决不会嫁给他。幸而对于这一点我可以深信不疑，就连今天，我也毫不怀疑。这样的婚姻决不是像你所说的那种卑鄙的事！即使你是对的，即使我当真下决心要做卑鄙的事，那么你像这样和我说话，从你那方面来说，难道不是太残酷了吗？你为什么要求我表现出也许连你自己都没有的英雄气概？这是专横霸道，这是强制！即使我毁了什么人，那么也只是毁了我自己……我还没杀害过任何人！……你为什么这样看着我？你的脸色为什么变得这么白？罗佳，你怎么了？罗佳，亲爱的！” “上帝啊！你说得他都快要昏厥了！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜高声惊呼。 “不，不，……没有的事……没什么！……头稍有点儿晕。根本不是昏厥……您怎么老是忘不了这些昏厥啊！……嗯哼！对了……我要说什么来着？对了：你今天是怎么会相信你能尊敬他，他也……会尊重你的，用你的话来说，是这样吧？你好像说过，今天，是吗？还是我听错了呢？” “妈妈，请把彼得·彼特罗维奇的信拿给哥哥看看，”杜涅奇卡说。 普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜用颤抖的双手把信递给他。他怀着强烈的好奇心接过了信。但是在把信打开之前，他突然不知为什么惊奇地看了看杜涅奇卡。 “奇怪，”他慢慢地说，仿佛突然有个新的想法使他吃了一惊，“我操的是哪份心？我干吗大嚷大叫？你爱嫁给谁就嫁给谁好了！” 他似乎是在自言自语，可是说出了声，有那么一会儿工夫，他瞅着妹妹，好像大惑不解。 他终于把信打开了，脸上仍然保持着某种奇怪的惊讶神情；然后他慢慢地、很用心地看起信来，看了两遍。普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜特别焦灼不安；大家也都预料会发生什么不平常的事情。 “这使我觉得奇怪，”他默默地想了一会儿，说，一边把信递给母亲，可是他这话并不是对着某一个人说的，“因为卢任是个办案的，是个律师，就连他说话也是这样……一副律师腔调，——可是信却写得文理不通。” 大家都骚动起来；完全没料到会有这样的反应。 “因为他们写信都是这个样子，”拉祖米欣断断续续地说。 “莫非你看过了？” “是的。” “我们让他看了，罗佳，我们……不久前我们商量过，”感到很窘的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜说。 “这其实是司法界的文体，”拉祖米欣打断了她的话，“司法界的公文至今都是这样写法。” “司法界的？对，正是司法界的，公文式的……倒不是说十分不通，可也并不完全合乎语言规范；是公文式的！” “彼得·彼特罗维奇并不隐瞒，他没念过多少书，甚至夸耀他是靠自我奋斗，取得了目前的社会地位，”阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜说，对哥哥的新语调有点儿生气了。 “有什么呢，既然夸耀，就是说有值得夸耀的东西，——这我并不反对。妹妹，我看完了信，竟提了一个这么不够郑重的意见，你好像是生气了，心想，我是由于恼怒，故意挑出这样一些鸡毛蒜皮的小事来挖苦你。恰恰相反，由于文体，我才想到了一个在目前情况下绝非多余的意见。信上有这么一句话：‘咎由自取’，写上这句话，意义重大，用意是明显的，此外，还有一句威胁性的话，说是如果我去，他立刻就走。这要走的威胁，也就等于威胁说，如果你们不听话，他就会抛弃你们，而且是现在，已经把你们叫到彼得堡来以后，现在就抛弃你们。嗯，你是怎么想呢，如果卢任的那句话是他（他指指拉祖米欣），或者是佐西莫夫，或者是我们当中随便哪一个写出来的，会不会同样令人感到气愤呢？” “不——会”，杜涅奇卡兴奋地回答，“我很明白，这话说得太天真了，可能他只不过是不善于写信……你考虑得很有道理，哥哥。我甚至没料到……” “这是司法界的说法，而用司法界的语言，就不能写成另一个样子，结果写出来的也许就比他所想的更粗鲁些了。不过，我一定会让你有点儿失望：这封信里还有一句话，一句诽谤我的话，而且是相当卑鄙的诽谤。昨天我是把钱送给了那个害肺病的、悲痛欲绝的寡妇，不是‘借口安葬’，而是，就是用来安葬死者的，也不是交给了女儿——像他信上说的，一个‘行为不端’的姑娘（昨天是我有生以来第一次看见她），而是交给了寡妇本人。我认为，这分明是他迫不及待的愿望：诋毁我，挑拨我和你们争吵。这句话又是用刀笔吏的语言说出来的，也就是过于明显地暴露了目的，而且是十分天真地急欲达到这个目的。他是个聪明人，不过要想做得聪明，单靠聪明还不够。这一切活活画出了一个人的面目，而且……我不认为他十分尊重你。我把这些告诉你，唯一的目的，是让你接受教训，因为我真心诚意地希望你好……” 杜涅奇卡没有回答；她的决定还在不久前就已经作出了，她只等着晚上到来。 “那么你怎么决定呢，罗佳？”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜问，他说话时这种出乎意外、极其认真的新语气使她比刚才更感到不安了。 “这‘决定’是什么意思？” “这不是吗，彼得·彼特罗维奇在信上说，叫你晚上别去我们那里，要是你去……他就走。那么你……去吗？” “这当然不该由我来决定，首先要由您决定，如果彼得·彼特罗维奇的这个要求并不让您感到屈辱的话，其次，要由杜尼娅决定，如果她也不感到屈辱的话。你们认为怎么做好，我就怎么做，”他干巴巴地补充说。 “杜涅奇卡已经决定了，我完全同意她的意见，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜赶紧插嘴说。 “我决定请求你，罗佳，坚决请求你，我们与他见面的时候，你一定要在场，”杜尼娅说，“你来吗？” “来。” “我也请您八点钟到我们那儿去，”她对拉祖米欣说。“妈妈，我也邀请了他。” “好极了，杜涅奇卡。唉，你们怎么决定，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜补充说，“那就怎么办吧。我心里也觉得轻松些；我不喜欢装假或说谎；我们最好是实话实说……现在彼得·彼特罗维奇生气也好，不生气也好，随便他吧！”

第四章 At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her with surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed, almost like a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby old- fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so much embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child. She was even about to retreat. "Oh . . . it's you!" said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once recollected that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin's letter of "some young woman of notorious behaviour." He had only just been protesting against Luzhin's calumny and declaring that he had seen the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not protested against the expression "of notorious behaviour." All this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a pang to his heart. "I did not expect you," he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her stop. "Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me--not there. Sit here. . . ." At Sonia's entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov's three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a bed, was too /familiar/ a place, he hurriedly motioned her to Razumihin's chair. "You sit here," he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa. Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov. "I . . . I . . . have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you," she began falteringly. "I come from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you . . . to be at the service . . . in the morning . . . at Mitrofanievsky . . . and then . . . to us . . . to her . . . to do her the honour . . . she told me to beg you . . ." Sonia stammered and ceased speaking. "I will try, certainly, most certainly," answered Raskolnikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his sentence. "Please sit down," he said, suddenly. "I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes," and he drew up a chair for her. Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov's pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed. "Mother," he said, firmly and insistently, "this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you." Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya's urgent and challenging look, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl's face, and scrutinised her with perplexity. Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever. "I wanted to ask you," said Raskolnikov, hastily, "how things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?" "No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause of death . . . they did not worry us . . . only the lodgers are angry." "Why?" "At the body's remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it's necessary . . ." "To-day, then?" "She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch." "She is giving a funeral lunch?" "Yes . . . just a little. . . . She told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral." All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again. During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little girl--almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this childishness seemed almost absurd. "But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral lunch?" Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the conversation. "The coffin will be plain, of course . . . and everything will be plain, so it won't cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough left . . . and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should be so. You know one can't . . . it's a comfort to her . . . she is like that, you know. . . ." "I understand, I understand . . . of course . . . why do you look at my room like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb." "You gave us everything yesterday," Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov's poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia's eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia. "Rodya," she said, getting up, "we shall have dinner together, of course. Come, Dounia. . . . And you, Rodya, had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us. . . . I am afraid we have exhausted you. . . ." "Yes, yes, I'll come," he answered, getting up fussily. "But I have something to see to." "But surely you will have dinner together?" cried Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. "What do you mean?" "Yes, yes, I am coming . . . of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?" "Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining with us?" "Please do," added Dounia. Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all strangely embarrassed. "Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good-bye again." Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room. But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort in her face, as though Avdotya Romanovna's courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her. "Dounia, good-bye," called Raskolnikov, in the passage. "Give me your hand." "Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?" said Dounia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him. "Never mind, give it to me again." And he squeezed her fingers warmly. Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off quite happy. "Come, that's capital," he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at her. "God give peace to the dead, the living have still to live. That is right, isn't it?" Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father floated before his memory in those moments. . . . ***** "Heavens, Dounia," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in the street, "I really feel relieved myself at coming away--more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that." "I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be forgiven." "Well, you were not very patient!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. "Do you know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are both melancholy, both morose and hot-tempered, both haughty and both generous. . . . Surely he can't be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!" "Don't be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be." "Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch breaks it off?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously. "He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dounia, sharply and contemptuously. "We did well to come away," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. "He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air . . . it is fearfully close in his room. . . . But where is one to get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up rooms. Good heavens! what a town! . . . stay . . . this side . . . they will crush you--carrying something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I declare . . . how they push! . . . I am very much afraid of that young woman, too." 这时房门轻轻地开了，有个姑娘怯生生地东张西望着，走进屋里。大家都惊讶而好奇地看着她。拉斯科利尼科夫没有立刻认出她来。这是索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜·马尔梅拉多娃。昨天他第一次看到她，然而是在那种时候，那样的环境里，她又穿了那么一身衣服，所以印在他记忆里的完全是另一个人的形象。现在这却是一个衣着朴素，甚至穿得和穷人一样的姑娘，还十分年轻，几乎像个小姑娘，谦逊端庄，彬彬有礼，脸上神情开朗，可又好像有点儿胆怯。她穿一件很朴素的、家常穿的连衫裙，戴一顶老式的旧帽子；不过还像昨天一样，手里拿着一把小伞。看到出乎意外的满满一屋子人，与其说她感到不好意思，倒不如说她完全惊慌失措了，她像小孩子样觉得害怕，甚至做了个想要退出去的动作。 “啊……是您吗？……”拉斯科利尼科夫异常惊讶地说，突然感到很窘。 他立刻想到，母亲和妹妹已经从卢任的信上略微知道，有这么一个行为“不端”的年轻姑娘。他刚刚还在抗议卢任的诽谤，说他是头一次看到这个姑娘，现在她却突然进到他屋里来了。他还记起，对“行为不端”一词，他丝毫没有提出抗议。这一切在他脑子里模模糊糊地一闪而过。但是他更加聚精会神地看了看她，突然发觉，这个被侮辱的人已经给作践成这个样子，顿时可怜起她来。当她吓得想要逃走的时候，他心里真难过极了。 “我完全没想到您会来，”他赶紧说，同时用目光留住她。 “请坐。您大概是从卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜那儿来。对不起，不是这里，请坐这儿……” 索尼娅进来的时候，坐在拉斯科利尼科夫三把椅子中紧靠门边那把椅子上的拉祖米欣欠起身来，让她进去。起初拉斯科利尼科夫想让她坐到沙发上佐西莫夫坐过的那个角落里，但是想到，叫她坐沙发未免过于亲昵了，因为沙发也就是他的床，于是又赶紧让她坐到拉祖米欣坐的那把椅子上。 “你呢，请坐这里，”他对拉祖米欣说，让他坐到佐西莫夫坐过的那个角落里。 索尼娅坐了下来，几乎吓得发抖，并怯生生地看了看那两位女士。看得出来，她自己也不明白，她怎么能和她们坐在一起。想到这一点，她吓得突然又站起来，完全惊慌失措地对拉斯科利尼科夫说： “我……我……来只待一会儿，请原谅我打搅您，”她结结巴巴地说。“是卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜叫我来的，她没有人可供差遣……卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜恳请您明天去参加安魂弥撒，早晨……作日祷的时候……在米特罗法尼耶夫斯基墓地①，然后上我们家去……去她那里……吃饭……请您赏光……她叫我来请您。” -------- ①米特罗法尼耶夫斯基墓地是埋葬小官吏、手艺人和士兵的公墓，建于一八三一年霍乱流行的时候。 索尼娅讷讷地说完，不作声了。 “我一定尽可能去……一定去，”拉斯科利尼科夫回答，也欠起身来，也说得结结巴巴地，而且没有把话说完……“您请坐，”他突然说，“我得跟您谈谈，请坐啊，——您也许很忙，但是请给我两分钟时间……” 他把椅子推给她。索尼娅又坐下来，又怯生生地、惊慌失措地赶快朝那两位女士看了一眼，突然低下了头。 拉斯科利尼科夫苍白的脸突然涨得血红；他仿佛浑身抽搐了一下，两眼闪闪发光。 “妈妈，”他坚决而执拗地说，“这是索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜·马尔梅拉多娃，就是那位不幸的马尔梅拉多夫先生的女儿，昨天我亲眼看到他被马踩伤了，他的事我已经跟你们说过……” 普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜朝索尼娅看了一眼，微微眯缝起眼睛。尽管在罗佳坚定和挑衅的目光逼视下，她感到侷促不安，但是她无论如何也不能放弃这一让自己得到满足的机会。杜涅奇卡严肃地凝神注视着这个面色苍白的姑娘的脸，困惑不解地细细打量着她。索尼娅听到在介绍她，又抬起眼来，但是比以前更加慌乱了。 “我想请问您，”拉斯科利尼科夫赶紧对她说，“今天你们那儿事情办得怎么样？有没有人来找麻烦？……譬如说，警察局里。” “没有，一切都过去了……因为，是怎么死的，这太明显了；没有人来找麻烦；只不过那些房客很生气。” “为什么？” “因为尸体停放了很久……现在天热，有臭味……所以今天晚祷前就抬到墓地去，抬到小教堂去停放到明天。卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜起初不愿意，现在自己也看出，不能再……” “那么今天？” “她请您赏光，明天去参加教堂里的安魂弥撒，然后去她那里，参加酬客宴。” “她要办酬客宴？” “是的，随便弄几样菜；她一再嘱咐，叫我谢谢您，谢谢您昨天帮助我们……没有您帮助，就根本没钱安葬，”她的嘴唇，还有下巴，都突然抖动起来，但是她努力克制着，忍住了，赶快又垂下眼睛看着地下。 谈话的时候，拉斯科利尼科夫凝神细细地打量她。他看到的是一张瘦削的、十分瘦削的小脸，面色苍白，长得不够端正，有点儿尖，生着尖尖的小鼻子和尖尖的小下巴。甚至不能说她长得漂亮，但是她那双淡蓝色的眼睛却是那么明亮，而当它们光彩四射的时候，她脸上的神情就变得那么善良和天真，人们不由得会被她吸引住。此外，她的脸上，她的整个体态中都显示出一种不同寻常的性格特点：尽管她已经十八岁了，可看上去还几乎是一个小姑娘，好像比她的实际年龄小得多，几乎完全像个小孩子，有时这一点甚至会可笑地在她的某些动作中表现出来。 “可是难道这么一点儿钱，卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜就够用了，甚至还想置办酒席？……”拉斯科利尼科夫问，执拗地要把谈话继续下去。 “棺材只买普通的……一切从简，所以花不了多少钱……刚才我跟卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜计算过了，还能剩下点儿钱，来办酬客宴……卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜想这么办。因为不能不……对她来说，这也是个安慰……她就是这样的人，您是知道的……” “我懂，我懂……当然啦……您为什么仔细看我的房子？ 妈妈也说，它像口棺材。” “您昨天把钱都送给我们了！”索涅奇卡突然用很富有感染力而且说得很快的低声回答，突然又垂下眼睛，看着地下。嘴唇和下巴又抖动起来。她早已对拉斯科利尼科夫的贫困状况感到惊讶了，现在这些话突然不由自主地脱口而出。接着是一阵沉默。杜涅奇卡的眼睛不知为什么流露出和蔼可亲的神情，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜甚至亲切地看了看索尼娅。 “罗佳，”她说，一边站了起来，“我们当然是在一起吃午饭了。杜涅奇卡，咱们走吧……而你，罗佳，你先去散一会儿步，然后休息休息，躺一躺，早点儿去我们那里……要不，我们会让你太累了，我担心……” “好，好，我来，”他回答，说着慌忙站起来……“不过我还有事……” “难道你们不在一起吃午饭了？”拉祖米欣惊奇地看着拉斯科利尼科夫，高声叫喊，“你这是做什么？” “是的，是的，我来，当然，当然……请你留下来，稍等一会儿。你们现在不需要他吧，妈妈？也许，我可以把他留下来？” “啊，不，不！而您，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，请来吃午饭，您肯赏光吗？” “请您一定来！”杜尼娅邀请说。 拉祖米欣鞠了个躬，容光焕发。有一瞬间不知为什么大家都突然奇怪地感到有些不好意思了。 “别了，罗佳，我是说，再见；我不喜欢说‘别了’，别了，娜斯塔西娅，……唉，又说‘别了’！……” 普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜本想也与索尼娅告别，可是不知为什么没有这么做，就急忙从屋里出去了。 但是阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜仿佛在等着轮到她和大家告别，她跟着母亲从索尼娅身边走过的时候，殷勤而彬彬有礼地对她深深地一躬到地。索涅奇卡发窘了，躬身还礼时有点儿匆匆忙忙，神色惊慌，脸上甚至流露出某种痛苦的神情，似乎阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜的客气和殷勤只能使她感到难过和痛苦。 “杜尼娅，别了！”已经到了穿堂里，拉斯科利尼科夫喊了一声，“握握手吧！” “我不是已经和你握过手了，忘了吗？”杜尼娅温柔地、又有点儿不好意思地转身面对着他，回答。 “那有什么关系，再握一次嘛！” 他紧紧地握了握她的手指。杜涅奇卡对他微微一笑，脸红了，赶快挣脱自己的手，跟着母亲走了，不知为什么她也感到十分幸福。 “啊，好极了！”他回到自己屋里，神情泰然地朝索尼娅看了一眼，对她说，“愿上帝让死者安息，但活着的人必须活下去！是这样吗？是这样吗？是这样，不是吗？” 索尼娅甚至惊奇地看着他突然变得神情开朗的脸；有一会儿工夫他默默地凝神注视着她，她去世的父亲所讲的关于她的那些故事这时突然掠过他的脑海…… “上帝啊，杜涅奇卡！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜和女儿一走到街上，立刻就说，“我们出来了，现在我倒好像很高兴；不知为什么觉得轻松些了。唉，昨天坐在车厢里的时候，我哪里想到，竟会为这感到高兴呢！” “我又要对您说了，妈妈，他还病得很厉害呢。难道您没看出来？也许是因为他非常想念我们，心情不好，损害了自己的身体。应该对他采取宽容态度，很多事情，很多事情都是可以原谅的。” “可你并不宽容！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜立刻急躁而又嫉妒地打断了她。“你要知道，杜尼娅，我看看你们兄妹俩，你简直就是他的活肖像，而且与其说是面貌像，不如说是性格像：你们俩都是性情忧郁的人，两人都郁闷不乐，脾气急躁，两人都高傲自大，两人都豁达大度……他不可能成为一个自私自利的人，杜涅奇卡，不是吗？……我一想到今天晚上我们那里会出什么事，心就停止跳动了！” “您别担心，妈妈，该怎么着，就怎么着。” “杜涅奇卡！你只要想想看，我们现在是什么样的处境！要是彼得·彼特罗维奇拒绝了，那会怎样呢？”可怜的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜一不小心，突然把心里的话说了出来。 “要是那样，他还有哪一点值得留恋呢！”杜涅奇卡尖锐而轻蔑地回答。 “现在我们走了，这样做很对，”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜连忙打断了她的话，“他有事，急着要去什么地方；让他出去走走，至少可以呼吸点儿新鲜空气……他那儿闷得要命……可是这儿哪有可以呼吸新鲜空气的地方？就连这里，大街上，也像在没有气窗的屋里一样。上帝呀，这是个什么样的城市啊！……快站住，让开，会踩死人的，不知是拉着什么飞跑！这拉的不是一架钢琴吗，真的……都是这样横冲直撞……对这个少女，我也非常害怕……” "What young woman, mother? "Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now." "Why?" "I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause of the trouble. . . ." "Nothing of the sort!" cried Dounia, in vexation. "What nonsense, with your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening before, and he did not know her when she came in." "Well, you will see. . . . She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her, and he introduces her to us--to you! So he must think a great deal of her." "People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it is all nonsense." "God grant it may be!" "And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer," Dounia snapped out, suddenly. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed. ***** "I will tell you what I want with you," said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumihin to the window. "Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming," Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart. "One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!" he turned suddenly to Razumihin again. "You know that . . . what's his name . . . Porfiry Petrovitch?" "I should think so! He is a relation. Why?" added the latter, with interest. "Is not he managing that case . . . you know, about that murder? . . . You were speaking about it yesterday." "Yes . . . well?" Razumihin's eyes opened wide. "He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some pledges there, too--trifles--a ring my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father's silver watch--they are only worth five or six roubles altogether . . . but I value them. So what am I to do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of Dounia's watch. It is the only thing of father's left us. She would be ill if it were lost. You know what women are. So tell me what to do. I know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think? The matter might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before dinner." "Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry," Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement. "Well, how glad I am. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him." "Very well, let us go." "And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that's it! It is all turning out splendidly. . . . Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna . . ." "Sofya Semyonovna," corrected Raskolnikov. "Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a good man." "If you have to go now," Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed. "Let us go," decided Raskolnikov. "I will come to you to-day, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live." He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went out together. "Don't you lock up?" asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs. "Never," answered Raskolnikov. "I have been meaning to buy a lock for these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks," he said, laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway. "Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the way?" he added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy. "Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday." "Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister? Did I give her the address?" "Why, had you forgotten?" "No, I remember." "I had heard my father speak of you . . . only I did not know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came . . . and as I had learnt your name, I asked to-day, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?' I did not know you had only a room too. . . . Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna." She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening before her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her that day, perhaps at once! "Only not to-day, please, not to-day!" she kept muttering with a sinking heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. "Mercy! to me . . . to that room . . . he will see . . . oh, dear!" She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman who was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing, started on hearing Sonia's words: "and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov lived?" He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though waiting for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and that Sonia was going home. "Home? Where? I've seen that face somewhere," he thought. "I must find out." At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept two or three yards behind her. He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore good and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with grey, and his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkedly well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years. When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner. "Bah!" muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the third storey, turned down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, "Kapernaumov, Tailor." "Bah!" the stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart. "You lodge at Kapernaumov's," he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. "He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at Madame Resslich's. How odd!" Sonia looked at him attentively. "We are neighbours," he went on gaily. "I only came to town the day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present." Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy. ***** On the way to Porfiry's, Razumihin was obviously excited. "That's capital, brother," he repeated several times, "and I am glad! I am glad!" "What are you glad about?" Raskolnikov thought to himself. "I didn't know that you pledged things at the old woman's, too. And . . . was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?" "What a simple-hearted fool he is!" "When was it?" Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. "Two or three days before her death it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the things now," he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about the things. "I've not more than a silver rouble left . . . after last night's accursed delirium!" He laid special emphasis on the delirium. "Yes, yes," Razumihin hastened to agree--with what was not clear. "Then that's why you . . . were stuck . . . partly . . . you know in your delirium you were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes . . . that's clear, it's all clear now." "Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it /cleared up/ why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have on all of them!" "Shall we find him?" he asked suddenly. "Oh, yes," Razumihin answered quickly. "He is a nice fellow, you will see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished manners, but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas. . . . He is incredulous, sceptical, cynical . . . he likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial method. . . . But he understands his work . . . thoroughly. . . . Last year he cleared up a case of murder in which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your acquaintance!" “什么少女，妈妈？” “就是这个，就是刚刚在他那儿的索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜……” “怕什么呢？” “我有这么一种预感，杜尼娅。嗯，信不信由你，她一进来，当时我就想，这就是主要的……” “根本不是！”杜尼娅遗憾地高声说。“您和您的预感都不对，妈妈！他昨天刚认识她，刚才她一进来，他都没认出来。” “嗯，你会看到的！……她让我心慌意乱，你会看到的，你会看到的！我觉得那么害怕：她瞅着我，瞅着我，一双眼睛是那样的，你记得吗，他开始介绍她的时候，我在椅子上都坐不住了？我觉得奇怪：彼得·彼特罗维奇在信上是那样写的，他却把她介绍给我们，甚至介绍给你！可见在他眼里，她是很珍贵的！” “管他信上写什么呢！我们也让人议论过，人家也在信上谈论过我们，您忘记了吗？可我相信，她……是个好姑娘，这些话都是胡扯！” “愿上帝保佑她！” “彼得·彼特罗维奇却是个卑鄙的造谣中伤的家伙，”杜涅奇卡突然毫无顾忌地说。 普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜立刻不再作声了。谈话中断了。 “是这样，我有这么一件事要跟你谈谈……”拉斯科利尼科夫把拉祖米欣拉到窗边，对他说…… “那么我就告诉卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，说您一定来……”索尼娅急忙说，于是告辞，就想走了。 “等一等，索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，我们没有秘密，您不会妨碍我们……我还要跟您说两句话……是这么回事，”话还没说完，仿佛给打断了，他突然又对拉祖米欣说。“你认识这个……他叫什么来着？……波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇，是吗？” “当然！是我的亲戚。有什么事吗？”他补充说，突然产生了好奇心。 “现在这个案子……就是这件凶杀案……就是你们昨天谈的……不是他在办吗？” “是啊…怎么呢？”拉祖米欣突然瞪大了眼睛。 “他在询问抵押东西的人，可那里也有我抵押的两件东西，东西不值钱，不过有我妹妹的一只戒指，是我到这里来的时候她送给我作纪念的，还有我父亲的一块银表。总共只值五、六个卢布，可是对我来说，都很珍贵，因为是纪念品。现在我该怎么办呢？我不愿让这些东西遗失，特别是那块表。刚才我谈起杜涅奇卡的表的时候，我生怕母亲会问起，要看看我那块表，吓得我心在怦怦地跳。这是父亲死后完整无损保存下来的唯一一件东西。如果丢了，她准会病倒的！女人嘛！那么该怎么办呢，你给出个主意！我知道，得去分局登记。不过直接跟波尔菲里谈是不是更好呢，啊？你看该怎么办？这事得快点儿办妥。你等着瞧，午饭前妈妈准会问起！” “绝对不要去分局，一定得找波尔菲里！”拉祖米欣异常激动地叫喊。“啊，我多么高兴！干吗在这儿谈，咱们马上就走，只几步路，准能找到他！” “好吧……咱们走……” “他会非常、非常、非常、非常高兴和你认识！我跟他讲过很多关于你的事，在不同的时候……昨天也谈过。咱们走！……那么你认识那个老太婆？这就是了！……这一切都弄清了！……啊，对了……索菲娅·伊万诺芙娜……” “索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，”拉斯科利尼科夫纠正他。“索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，这是我的朋友，拉祖米欣，他是个好人……” “如果你们现在要走……”索菲娅说，对拉祖米欣连一眼也没看，可是这样倒更加不好意思了。 “咱们走吧！”拉斯科利尼科夫决定了，“今天我就去您那儿一趟，索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，不过请告诉我，您住在哪儿？” 他倒不是感到不知所措，而是好像急于出去，而且避开了她的目光。索尼娅给他留下了地址，这时她脸红了。大家一起出去了。 “难道不锁门吗？”拉祖米欣问，边说，边跟着他们下楼去。 “从来不锁！……不过两年来我一直想要买把锁，”他漫不经心地补上一句。“用不着锁门的人不是很幸福吗？”他笑着对索尼娅说。 在街上，他们在大门前站住了。 “索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，您往右去，是吗？顺带问一声：您是怎么找到我的？”他问，似乎他想对她说的完全是什么别的事情。他一直想看着她那双温和而明亮的眼睛，可不知为什么总是做不到…… “昨天您不是把地址告诉波列奇卡了吗。” “波莉娅？啊，对了……波列奇卡！这是个……小姑娘…… 是您妹妹？这么说，我给她留下了地址了？” “难道您忘了吗？” “不……我记得……” “我也听先父谈起过您……不过那时候还不知道您的姓名，连他也不知道……现在我来……因为昨天知道了您姓什么，……所以今天就问：拉斯科利尼科夫先生住在这儿什么地方？……我不知道，你也是租二房东的房子……别了…… 我就对卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜说……” 她终于走了，为此感到非常高兴；她低着头，急急忙忙地走着，好尽快走出他们的视野，尽快走完这二十步路，到达转弯的地方，往右一拐，到大街上，终于只剩下她一个人，于是匆匆忙忙地走着，既不看任何人，也不注意任何东西，只是在想，在回忆，思索着说过的每一句话，每一种情况。她从来，从来没有过类似的感觉。一个全新的世界神秘地、模模糊糊地进入她的心灵。她突然想起，他想今天到她那儿去，也许是早晨，也许现在就去！ “不过可不要今天去，请不要今天去！”她喃喃地自言自语，心都揪紧了，就像一个惊恐的小孩子在恳求什么人似的。 “上帝啊！上我那儿去……去那间屋里……他会看到……噢，上帝啊！” 这时她当然不会发觉，有一个她不认识的先生正留心注意着她，在后面紧紧地跟着她。一出大门，他就在跟踪她。当他们三个，拉祖米欣，拉斯科利尼科夫和她站在人行道上又说了几句话的时候，这个过路的人从他们身边绕过去，无意中听到索尼娅说的这句话：“我就问，拉斯科利尼科夫先生住在这儿什么地方？”好像突然颤抖了一下。他很快，然而很细心地把这三个人打量了一番，特别留心看了看索尼娅跟他说话的那个拉斯科利尼科夫；然后看了看那幢房子，并且记住了它。这一切都是他过路时一瞬间的事，这个过路的人甚至竭力不引人注意，继续往前走去，可是放慢了脚步，好像是在等着什么人。他在等着索尼娅；他看到他们分手了，现在索尼娅就要回家去了。 “她回哪儿去呢？我在什么地方见过这张面孔，”他想，一边在回忆索尼娅的面容……“得去弄清楚。” 到了转弯处，他穿过马路走到街道对面，回头一看，看到索尼娅已经跟着他走了过来，走的也是那同一条街道，可是她什么也没发觉。走到转弯处，她也恰好折到这条街上来了。他跟在她后面，从对面人行道上目不转睛地盯着她；走了五十来步以后，他又穿过马路，回到索尼娅走的那一边，追上了她，跟在她后面，保持着五步远的距离。 这是个五十岁左右的人，比中等身材略高一些，相当粗壮，肩膀很宽，而且向上拱起，所以看上去有点儿像是驼背。他衣着考究而且舒适，神气十足，完全是一副老爷派头。他手提一根很漂亮的手杖，每走一步，都用手杖在人行道上轻轻地拄一拄，手上还戴着一副崭新的手套。他那张颧骨突出的脸相当讨人喜欢，他的脸色红润，不像彼得堡人的脸。他的头发还很浓密，完全是淡黄色的，只是稍有几根银丝，他那部又宽又浓的大胡子像一把铲子，颜色比头发还淡一些。他的眼睛是淡蓝色的，看人的时候目光冷冰冰的，凝神逼视，若有所思；嘴唇颜色是鲜红的。总之，这是一个保养得很好的人，看上去比他的实际年龄年轻得多。 索尼娅走到运河边的时候，他们两人都到了人行道上。他在用心观察她，发觉她神情若有所思，心不在焉。索尼娅走到她住的那幢房子，转弯进了大门，他跟在她后面，好像有点儿惊讶的样子，进了院子，她往右边那个角落走去，通往她住房的楼梯就在那个角落上。“咦！”那个陌生的老爷喃喃地说，也跟在她后面上了楼梯。这时索尼娅才注意到他。她上到三楼，转进一条走廊，拉了拉九号的门铃，房门上用粉笔写着：“裁缝卡佩尔纳乌莫夫”。那个陌生人又说了一声“咦！”对这奇怪的巧合感到惊讶，他拉了拉旁边八号的门铃。 两道门只隔着五、六步远。 “您住在卡佩尔纳乌莫夫家啊！”他望着索尼娅，笑着说。 “昨天他给我改过一件坎肩。我住在这儿，紧挨着您的房子，住在列斯莉赫，盖尔特鲁达·卡尔洛芙娜太太的房子里。多巧啊！” 索尼娅留心看了看他。 “我们是邻居，”不知为什么他特别愉快地接着说。“要知道，我来到城里总共才两天多。好，再见。” 索尼娅没有回答；房门开了，她溜进了自己的房子里。她不知为什么害羞了，好像感到害怕…… 在去波尔菲里家的路上，拉祖米欣异常兴奋。 “老兄，这真好极了，”这句话他重复了好几次，“我也觉得高兴！我很高兴！” “你高兴什么呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫心中暗想。 “以前我不知道你也在老太婆那儿抵押过东西。这……这……很久了吗？也就是说，你去她那儿是很久以前的事吗？” “好一个天真的傻瓜！” “什么时候吗？……”拉斯科利尼科夫停顿了一下，他在回忆，“她死前三天我好像去过她那儿。不过，现在我并不是去赎回那些东西，”他赶快接着说，好像对这些东西特别关心，“因为我又只剩下一个银卢布了……由于昨天那该死的神智不清！……” 神智不清几个字他说得特别有力。 “嗯，对，对，对，”拉祖米欣连忙说，不知是附和他的哪一句话，“所以那时候……你有点儿吃惊了……你知道吗，你说胡话的时候老是提到什么戒指和表链！……嗯，对了，对了……清楚了，现在一切都清楚了。” “原来如此！嘿，原来这个想法已经在他们当中传播开来了！这个人将要代我去受极刑；我很高兴，在我说胡话的时候为什么提到戒指，现在已经弄清楚了！他们大家对此已经深信不疑了！……” “我们能见到他吗？”他大声问。 “能见到，能见到，”拉祖米欣连忙说，“老兄，他是个好小伙子，你见到他就知道了！有点儿笨，也就是说，他是个文质彬彬的人，我说他笨，是指另一方面。是个聪明人，聪明，甚至是聪明过人，不过思想方法跟别人不一样……疑心重，怀疑一切，厚颜无耻，……喜欢骗人，也就是说，不是骗人，而是愚弄别人……他的侦查方法还是老一套，只重证据……不过很懂行，精通业务……去年他也经办过这样一件凶杀案，几乎所有线索都断了，可是他却破了案！他非常，非常，非常想跟你认识认识。” "On what grounds is he so anxious?" "Oh, it's not exactly . . . you see, since you've been ill I happen to have mentioned you several times. . . . So, when he heard about you . . . about your being a law student and not able to finish your studies, he said, 'What a pity!' And so I concluded . . . from everything together, not only that; yesterday Zametov . . . you know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk . . . I am afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, you see." "What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right," he said with a constrained smile. "Yes, yes. . . . That is, pooh, no! . . . But all that I said (and there was something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense." "But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however. "I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One's ashamed to speak of it." "If you are ashamed, then don't speak of it." Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had just said about Porfiry. "I shall have to pull a long face with him too," he thought, with a beating heart, and he turned white, "and do it naturally, too. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No, /carefully/ would not be natural again. . . . Oh, well, we shall see how it turns out. . . . We shall see . . . directly. Is it a good thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating, that's what's bad!" "In this grey house," said Razumihin. "The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old hag's flat yesterday . . . and asked about the blood? I must find that out instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise . . . I'll find out, if it's my ruin." "I say, brother," he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly smile, "I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously excited. Isn't it so?" "Excited? Not a bit of it," said Razumihin, stung to the quick. "Yes, brother, I assure you it's noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair in a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be writhing all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One moment you were angry, and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed awfully." "Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?" "But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there he's blushing again." "What a pig you are!" "But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I'll tell of you to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I'll make mother laugh, and someone else, too . . ." "Listen, listen, listen, this is serious. . . . What next, you fiend!" Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. "What will you tell them? Come, brother . . . foo! what a pig you are!" "You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how you've washed to-day--you cleaned your nails, I declare. Eh? That's something unheard of! Why, I do believe you've got pomatum on your hair! Bend down." "Pig!" Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch's flat. This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing in the passage. "Not a word here or I'll . . . brain you!" Razumihin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder. “他为什么非常想呢？” “就是说，并不是……你要知道，最近一个时期，自从你病了以后，我经常跟他谈起你，谈了你的很多情况……嗯，他听着，……听说你在法律系学习，可是由于家境的关系，没能毕业，于是说：‘多么可惜！’所以我就断定……也就是说，这一切凑到一起，而不单是这一点；昨天扎苗托夫……你要知道，罗佳，昨天我喝醉了，送你回家的时候，跟你说了些没意思的话……所以我，老兄，我担心，你可别把我的话夸大了，你要知道……” “你指的是什么？是说他们把我看作疯子吗？是的，也许这是对的。” 他勉强笑了笑。 “是的……是的……也就是说，别睬它，不！……嗯，而且我所说的一切（旁的话也一样），全都是醉话，胡说八道。” “你干吗道歉呢！这一切都让我烦透了！”拉斯科利尼科夫用夸张的气愤语调高声喊道。其实他是有点儿装出来的。 “我知道，我知道，我理解。请相信，我是理解的。就连说出来，都觉得不好意思……” “如果不好意思，那就别说！” 两人都不说话了。拉祖米欣十分高兴，拉斯科利尼科夫感觉到了这一点，对此感到厌恶。拉祖米欣刚才讲的关于波尔菲里的那番话又使他感到担心。 “对这个人也得唱拉撒路之歌①，”他想，面色苍白，心在怦怦地狂跳，“而且要唱得自然些。不唱，是最自然的了。要尽可能什么也别唱！不，尽可能又不自然了……嗯，看情况吧……咱们走着瞧……现在……我去，这好，还是不好呢？飞蛾扑火。心在跳，这可不好！……” -------- ①意思是：装作不幸的人，向人诉苦。圣经上有这么一个寓言：拉撒路是个穷人，躺在铁石心肠的富人门前求乞。 “就在这幢灰色的房子里，”拉祖米欣说。 “最重要的是，波尔菲里知道不知道昨天我去过这个巫婆的住宅……还问起过那摊血？这一点得马上弄清楚，一进去就弄清楚，从他的脸上看出来；不—然—的—话……哪怕我要完蛋，也一定要弄清楚！” “你知道吗？”他突然对拉祖米欣说，脸上带着狡猾的微笑，“老兄，今天我发觉，从早上你就特别激动，对吗？” “什么激动？我根本就不激动，”拉祖米欣不由得颤抖了一下。 “不，老兄，真的，这看得出来。刚才你坐在椅子上的姿势就跟往常不一样，不知为什么坐在椅子边上，而且一直很不自然地动来动去，好像在抽筋。还无缘无故地忽然跳起来。一会儿爱发脾气，一会儿不知为什么脸上的表情变得那么甜，甜得像冰糖。你甚至脸都红了；特别是请你去吃午饭的时候，你脸红得好厉害。” “根本没有这么回事；你胡说！……我说这话是什么意思？” “你怎么像小学生一样躲躲闪闪的！嘿，见鬼，你脸又红了！” “不过，你真是头猪猡！” “可你干吗不好意思了？罗密欧①啊！你先别忙，今天我可要在什么地方把这些都说出来，哈——哈——哈！让妈妈开心开心……还要让另一个人……” -------- ①莎士比亚名剧《罗密欧与朱丽叶》中的男主人公。 “你听我说，你听我说，你听我说，这可不是开玩笑的事，因为这……你要说，那会怎样呢，见鬼！”拉祖米欣已经彻底惊慌失措，吓得浑身发冷。“你要对她们说什么？我，老兄…… 呸，你真是头猪猡！” “你简直是一朵春天的玫瑰！你要知道，这个比方对你是多么合适；两俄尺十俄寸高的罗密欧！啊，今天你洗得多么干净，手指甲也洗干净了，是吗？什么时候有过这样的事？啊，真的，你的头发搽过油了？你低下头来！” “猪猡！！！” 拉斯科利尼科夫笑得那么厉害，好像怎么也忍不住了，于是就这样大笑着走进了波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇的寓所。拉斯科利尼科夫正需要这样：从屋里可以听到，他们是笑着进来的，在前室里还一直在哈哈大笑。 “在这里一个字也别提，要不，我就……打碎你的脑袋！” 拉祖米欣抓着拉斯科利尼科夫的肩膀，狂怒地低声说。

第五章 Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself: his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received this "spontaneous" mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose. "Fool! You fiend," he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent flying and crashing. "But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the Crown," Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily. Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch's, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the visitors' entrance and was standing in expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov's unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly. "I've got to think of that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he began, affecting extreme embarrassment. "Raskolnikov." "Not at all, very pleasant to see you . . . and how pleasantly you've come in. . . . Why, won't he even say good-morning?" Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at Razumihin. "Upon my honour I don't know why he is in such a rage with me. I only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo . . . and proved it. And that was all, I think!" "Pig!" ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round. "There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at the word," Porfiry laughed. "Oh, you sharp lawyer! . . . Damn you all!" snapped Razumihin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though nothing had happened. "That'll do! We are all fools. To come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?" "What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily. Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so. "Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday," he said easily. "Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out without me. Where is your tobacco?" Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, mawkish light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight. As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest. "Fool," Raskolnikov swore to himself. "You have to give information to the police," Porfiry replied, with a most businesslike air, "that having learnt of this incident, that is of the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them . . . or . . . but they will write to you." "That's just the point, that at the present moment," Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, "I am not quite in funds . . . and even this trifling sum is beyond me . . . I only wanted, you see, for the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money. . . ." "That's no matter," answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, "but you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and such as your property, you beg . . ." "On an ordinary sheet of paper?" Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the question. "Oh, the most ordinary," and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov's fancy, for it all lasted but a moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why. "He knows," flashed through his mind like lightning. "Forgive my troubling you about such trifles," he went on, a little disconcerted, "the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I was alarmed when I heard . . ." "That's why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!" Razumihin put in with obvious intention. This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately recollected himself. "You seem to be jeering at me, brother?" he said to him, with a well- feigned irritability. "I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious about such trash; but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver watch, though it's not worth a cent, is the only thing left us of my father's. You may laugh at me, but my mother is here," he turned suddenly to Porfiry, "and if she knew," he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, "that the watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!" "Not a bit of it! I didn't mean that at all! Quite the contrary!" shouted Razumihin distressed. "Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?" Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that about women?" "Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovitch inquired. "Yes." "When did she come?" "Last night." Porfiry paused as though reflecting. "Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and coldly. "I have been expecting you here for some time." And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin's cigarette. "What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges /there/?" cried Razumihin. Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov. "Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on which you left them with her . . ." "How observant you are!" Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly added: "I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges . . . that it must be difficult to remember them all. . . . But you remember them all so clearly, and . . . and . . ." "Stupid! Feeble!" he thought. "Why did I add that?" "But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn't come forward," Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony. "I haven't been quite well." "I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still." "I am not pale at all. . . . No, I am quite well," Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting, he could not repress it. "And in my anger I shall betray myself," flashed through his mind again. "Why are they torturing me?" 拉斯科利尼科夫已经进到屋里了。他进来时，脸上的神情好像是在竭力忍着，免得噗嗤一下笑出声来。怪不好意思的拉祖米欣跟在他后面走了进来，显得很窘，怒气冲冲，脸红得像芍药一样，笨手笨脚，神情十分尴尬。这时他全身的姿势当真都很好笑，说明拉斯科利尼科夫的笑并不是没有道理。拉斯科利尼科夫还没被介绍给主人，就向站在房屋当中疑问地望着他们的主人点了点头，伸出手去，和他握手，看得出还在竭力抑制着自己的快乐情绪，好至少能用三言两语来作自我介绍。但是他刚竭力做出一本正经的样子，含糊不清地不知说了些什么，——突然，好像不由自主地又朝拉祖米欣看了一眼，立刻又忍不住了：强忍住的笑声突然爆发，在这以前越是忍得厉害，这时就越发抑制不住了。听到这“发自内心”的笑声，拉祖米欣气得发狂，他的愤怒为目前的情景增添了最真诚的愉快气氛，主要的是，使它显得更自然了。 拉祖米欣还好像故意帮忙，使这幕喜剧演得更加真实。 “呸，见鬼！”他高声怒吼，一挥手，刚好打在一张小圆桌上，桌上放着一只茶已经喝完了的玻璃杯。所有东西都飞了起来，发出叮叮噹噹的响声。 “为什么要摔坏椅子呢①，先生们，公家可要受损失了！” 波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇愉快地叫嚷。 -------- ①这是果戈理的《钦差大臣》里第一幕第一场中市长的一句话。 于是出现了这样一个场面：拉斯科利尼科夫还在笑着，忘了自己的手握在主人的手里，但也知道分寸，所以在等着这一瞬间快点儿而且较为自然地结束。小桌子倒了，玻璃杯打破了，这使得拉祖米欣更加不好意思，完全不知所措，他神情阴郁地看了看玻璃碎片，啐了一口，急遽地转过身去，走到窗前，背对着大家，可怕地皱起眉头，阴沉着脸望着窗外，可是什么也没看见。波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇在笑，也愿意笑，然而他显然需要对这作出解释。墙角落里一把椅子上坐着扎苗托夫，客人一进来，他就欠起身来，咧开嘴微笑着，站在那儿等着，然而困惑不解地、甚至是怀疑地看着这个场面，而看拉斯科利尼科夫的时候，甚至是感到局促不安。扎苗托夫也在场，这是拉斯科利尼科夫没有预料到的，这使他吃了一惊，感到不快。 “这还得考虑考虑！”他想。 “请原谅，”他很不好意思地说，“拉斯科利尼科夫……” “哪儿的话，非常高兴，您这样进来，我也很高兴……怎么，他连打个招呼也不愿意吗？”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇朝拉祖米欣那边点了点头。 “真的，我不知道他为什么对我大发脾气。我只不过在路上对他说，他像罗密欧，而且……而且证明的确如此，好像再没有别的原因了。” “猪猡！”拉祖米欣头也不回地回答。 “为了一句话大发脾气，这么说，是有很重要的原因了，” 波尔菲里大笑起来。 “哼，你呀！侦查员！……哼，你们都见鬼去！”拉祖米欣很不客气地说，突然，他自己也大笑起来，脸上带着愉快的神情，好像什么事也没发生似地走到波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇跟前。 “够了！大家都是傻瓜；谈正经的：这是我的朋友，罗季昂·罗曼内奇·拉斯科利尼科夫，第一，久闻大名，想和你认识一下，第二，有件小事要找你谈谈。啊！扎苗托夫！你怎么会在这里？难道你们认识？早就是朋友了？” “这又是怎么回事！”拉斯科利尼科夫不安地想。 扎苗托夫好像不好意思，不过不是很窘。 “昨天在你家里认识的，”他很随便地说。 “这么说，老天帮忙，省得我来操心：波尔菲里，上星期你一个劲儿地求我给你介绍，可是不用介绍，你们就搞到一起了……你的烟呢？” 波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇一副家常打扮，穿着长袍，十分干净的内衣，脚上是一双已经穿坏的便鞋。这是个约摸三十五岁左右的人，中等以下身材，胖胖的，甚至腆着个大肚子，脸刮得光光滑滑，既没蓄唇髭，也没有络腮胡子，一头浓密的头发剪得短短的，滚圆的大脑袋，不知怎么后脑勺却特别突出。肥胖的圆脸上长着个稍有点儿向上翘着的鼻子，脸色暗黄，好像有病，但很有精神，甚至流露出嘲讽的神情。他的脸甚至是和善的，要不是眼神起了破坏性作用的话，那双眼睛闪射着暗淡无色的微弱的闪光，遮着眼睛的睫毛几乎是白的，不停地眨动着，仿佛是在向什么人使眼色。不知怎地，他的目光和他那甚至有点儿像女人的整个体形很不协调，因此使他这个人显得比乍看上去所能预料的要严肃得多。 波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇一听到客人有件“小事”要找他谈谈，立刻请客人坐到长沙发上，他自己则坐到沙发的另一头，凝神注视着客人，迫切地等待着叙述事情的原委，而且那么聚精会神，严肃得似乎太过分了，第一次来找他的人，特别是素不相识的人，特别是如果您认为您所说的事情值不得如此特别重视，值不得给予如此认真对待的话，那么他这种认真的态度甚至会让您感到难堪，让您不知所措。但是拉斯科利尼科夫用几句简短而条理分明的话，清楚和准确地说明了自己的事情，因此他对自己十分满意，甚至相当仔细地把波尔菲里打量了一番。在谈话的全部时间里，波尔菲里也一直目不转睛地看着他。拉祖米欣坐在桌子对面，热心而又急不可耐地留心听着他说明事情的原委，不时把目光从这一个的身上转移到那一个的身上，又从那一个身上转移到这一个身上，做得已经有点儿失去分寸了。 “傻瓜！”拉斯科利尼科夫暗自骂了一声。 “您应该向警察局声明，”波尔菲里完全是一副公事公办的样子，认真地回答说，“就说，得悉发生了这么一件事情，也就是这件凶杀案，——您也要请求通知经办此案的侦查员，有这么几件东西是属于您的，您希望把它们赎回来…… 或者那里……不过会书面通知您的。” “问题就在这里了，目前我，”拉斯科利尼科夫尽可能装作很尴尬的样子，“手头不怎么宽裕……就连这么几件小东西也没法赎回来……我，您要知道，我想现在只声明一下，说这些东西是我的，一旦有了钱……” “这反正一样，”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇回答，冷冷地听着他对经济状况所作的解释，“不过，如果您愿意，直接给我写个报告也行，也是那个意思：就说，得知那件案子，声明有这么几件东西是我的，请……” “就写在普通的纸上？”拉斯科利尼科夫连忙打断了他的话，又想谈经济方面的问题。 “噢，就写在最普通的纸上！”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇不知为什么突然眯缝起眼睛，带着明显的嘲讽神情看了看他，好像是对他眨了眨眼。不过，也许只是拉斯科利尼科夫的感觉，因为这只持续了一瞬间。至少是有过这么一种神情。拉斯科利尼科夫发誓，他对他眨过眼，天知道是为什么。 “他知道！”这想法像闪电般在他脑子里忽地一闪。 “请原谅我为这样一些小事来麻烦您，”他接着说下去，有点儿心慌意乱，“我那些东西总共只值五个卢布，不过对我却特别珍贵，因为对于我从他们那儿得到这些东西的人来说，这是纪念品，说实在的，一听说的时候，我甚至大吃一惊……” “怪不得昨天我和佐西莫夫谈起，波尔菲里在询问那些抵押东西的人，你显得那么激动了！”拉祖米欣怀着明显的意图插嘴说。 这可已经让人太难堪了。拉斯科利尼科夫忍不住了，用那双燃起怒火的黑眼睛恶狠狠地瞪了他一眼。但立刻又冷静下来。 “老兄，你好像是在嘲笑我吧？”他狡猾地装出生气的样子对拉祖米欣说。“我同意，在你看来，对这些毫无用处的东西，也许我是太关心了；但是既不能为此把我看作自私自利的人，也不能把我看作吝啬鬼，在我看来，这两件微不足道的东西也许绝非毫无用处。刚才我已经跟你说过，这块不值钱的银表是先父留下的唯一一件东西。你嘲笑我吧，可是我母亲来看我了，”他突然转过脸去，对波尔菲里说，“如果她知道，”他又赶快回过头来对拉祖米欣说，特别竭力让声音发抖，“这块表丢了，那么，我发誓，她一定会悲痛欲绝的！女人嘛！” “根本不是这么回事！我完全不是这个意思！我的意思恰好完全相反！”感到不快的拉祖米欣大声叫嚷。 “这样好不好呢？自然吗？没太夸张吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫心怦怦地跳着，暗自想。“我干吗要说‘女人嘛’？” “令堂到您这儿来了？”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇不知为了什么问。 “是的。” “这是什么时候的事？” “昨天晚上。” 波尔菲里不说话了，仿佛在思考。 “您的东西无论如何也丢不了，”他安详而冷静地接下去说。“要知道，我早就在这里等着您了。” 他若无其事地、很关心地把烟灰缸放到毫不爱惜地把香烟灰弹到地毯上的拉祖米欣面前。拉斯科利尼科夫颤抖了一下，但是波尔菲里似乎没看着他，一直还在为拉祖米欣的香烟灰感到担心。 “什—么？你在等着？难道你知道他也在那儿抵押过东西吗？”拉祖米欣叫嚷。 波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇直接对拉斯科利尼科夫说： “您那两件东西，戒指和表，都在她那儿，包在一张纸里，纸上用铅笔清清楚楚写着您的名字，还写着她从您那里收到这些东西的月份和日期……” “您怎么这样细心？……”拉斯科利尼科夫不恰当地笑了笑，竭力想毫不回避地看着他的眼睛，但是忍不住了，突然补充说：“刚才我所以这么说，是因为，抵押东西的人大概很多……您难以记住所有人的名字……可您，恰恰相反，这么清楚地记得所有的人，而且……而且……” “愚蠢，不高明！我干吗要加上这些话呢！” “几乎所有抵押过东西的人，现在我们都已经清楚了，只有您一个人还没来过，”波尔菲里用稍有点儿勉强可以察觉的嘲讽口吻回答。 “前几天我身体不大好。” “这我也听说了。甚至还听说，不知为了什么，您的心情很不好。就是现在，您的脸色好像也很苍白？” “一点儿也不苍白……恰恰相反，现在我完全健康！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然改变了语气，粗鲁而又气愤地、毫不客气地说。他满腔怒火，再也无法压制。“可是在气头上我准会说漏了嘴！”这想法又在他脑子里一闪而过。“他们为什么要折磨我呢？……” “他并不完全健康！”拉祖米欣赶紧接着说，“尽说傻话！到昨天他还几乎昏迷不醒，在说胡话……你相信吗，波尔菲里，他连站都站不稳，可是我们，我和佐西莫夫，昨天刚一转身，他就穿上衣服，悄悄地溜出去，不知在哪儿闲逛，几乎直到半夜，而且是在完全，我告诉您，是在完全神智不清的情况下，这您能想象得出吗！太不可思议了！” "Not quite well!" Razumihin caught him up. "What next! He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!" "Really delirious? You don't say so!" Porfiry shook his head in a womanish way. "Nonsense! Don't you believe it! But you don't believe it anyway," Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem to catch those strange words. "But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious?" Razumihin got hot suddenly. "What did you go out for? What was the object of it? And why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all danger is over I can speak plainly." "I was awfully sick of them yesterday." Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, "I ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn't find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious yesterday; settle our dispute." He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his expression and his silence to him. "In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were extremely irritable," Zametov pronounced dryly. "And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day," put in Porfiry Petrovitch, "that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been run over." "And there," said Razumihin, "weren't you mad then? You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all the twenty-five at once!" "Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that's why I was liberal yesterday. . . . Mr. Zametov knows I've found a treasure! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such trivialities," he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling lips. "We are boring you, aren't we?" "Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you interest me! It's interesting to look on and listen . . . and I am really glad you have come forward at last." "But you might give us some tea! My throat's dry," cried Razumihin. "Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn't you like . . . something more essential before tea?" "Get along with you!" Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea. Raskolnikov's thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation. "The worst of it is they don't disguise it; they don't care to stand on ceremony! And how if you didn't know me at all, did you come to talk to Nikodim Fomitch about me? So they don't care to hide that they are tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face." He was shaking with rage. "Come, strike me openly, don't play with me like a cat with a mouse. It's hardly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I won't allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll see how I despise you." He could hardly breathe. "And what if it's only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry and don't keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it's all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there is something about them. . . . It all might be said, but there is something. Why did he say bluntly, 'With her'? Why did Zametov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the tone. . . . Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of course it's nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it's ill fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude. . . . Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it's my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits with his back to him. They're as thick as thieves, no doubt, over me! Not a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they'd make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a flat he let it pass. . . . I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may be of use afterwards. . . . Delirious, indeed . . . ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last night! He didn't know of my mother's arrival! The hag had written the date on in pencil! You are wrong, you won't catch me! There are no facts . . . it's all supposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn't a fact but delirium. I know what to say to them. . . . Do they know about the flat? I won't go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now, maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that's right; to play the invalid. . . . He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come?" All this flashed like lightning through his mind. Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial. "Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather. . . . And I am out of sorts altogether," he began in quite a different tone, laughing to Razumihin. "Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who got the best of it?" "Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space." "Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off." "What is there strange? It's an everyday social question," Raskolnikov answered casually. "The question wasn't put quite like that," observed Porfiry. "Not quite, that's true," Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and hurried as usual. "Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told them you were coming. . . . It began with the socialist doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social organisation and nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes admitted! . . ." "You are wrong there," cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever. "Nothing is admitted," Razumihin interrupted with heat. "I am not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is 'the influence of environment,' and nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it's not supposed to exist! They don't recognise that humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process! That's why they instinctively dislike history, 'nothing but ugliness and stupidity in it,' and they explain it all as stupidity! That's why they so dislike the /living/ process of life; they don't want a /living soul/! The living soul demands life, the soul won't obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is retrograde! But what they want though it smells of death and can be made of India-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won't revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery--it wants life, it hasn't completed its vital process, it's too soon for the graveyard! You can't skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort! That's the easiest solution of the problem! It's seductively clear and you musn't think about it. That's the great thing, you mustn't think! The whole secret of life in two pages of print!" "Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!" laughed Porfiry. "Can you imagine," he turned to Raskolnikov, "six people holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No, brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in crime; I can assure you of that." "Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a child of ten; was it environment drove him to it?" "Well, strictly speaking, it did," Porfiry observed with noteworthy gravity; "a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of environment." Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. "Oh, if you like," he roared. "I'll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the Church of Ivan the Great's being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?" "Done! Let's hear, please, how he will prove it!" "He is always humbugging, confound him," cried Razumihin, jumping up and gesticulating. "What's the use of talking to you? He does all that on purpose; you don't know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy!" “难道是在完全神智不清的情况下吗？您倒说说看！”波尔菲里像女人似地摇摇头。 “唉，胡说八道！请别相信他！其实您本来就不相信！”拉斯科利尼科夫太恼怒了，不觉脱口而出。可是波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇似乎没听清这些奇怪的话。 “如果不是神智不清，你怎么会出去呢？”拉祖米欣突然发火了。“你干吗出去？去干什么？……而且为什么偏偏是悄悄地溜走呢？当时你思想清楚吗？现在，所有危险都已经过去了，我可以直截了当地对你说了！” “昨天他们让我腻烦透了，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然对波尔菲里说，脸上露出放肆无礼和挑衅的微笑，“我从他们那儿逃走，想去租间房子，叫他们再也找不到我，而且随身带了许多钱。喏，扎苗托夫先生看到过这些钱。扎苗托夫先生，昨天我神智清醒，还是不清醒呢？请您来评判一下吧。” 这时他似乎真想把扎苗托夫掐死。扎苗托夫的目光和沉默，他都很不喜欢。 “照我看，昨天您说话很有理智，甚至相当巧妙，只不过太爱生气了，”扎苗托夫冷冷地说。 “今天尼科季姆·福米奇对我说，”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇插嘴说，“昨天很晚遇到了您，在一个被马踩死的官员家里……” “好，就拿这个官员的事情来说吧！”拉祖米欣接过话茬说，“你说，你在那个官员家的行为像不像个疯子？把剩下的最后一点儿钱都送给那个寡妇做丧葬费了！好吧，你要帮助她也行——给她十五个卢布，二十个卢布，也就是了，哪怕给自己留下三个卢布也好，可是，不，把二十五卢布全都这么慷慨地送给她了！” “也许我在什么地方找到了宝藏，你却不知道呢？于是我昨天就慷慨起来了……喏，扎苗托夫先生知道，我找到了宝藏！……请您原谅，”他嘴唇颤抖着对波尔菲里说，“我们用这种无关紧要的闲话打搅了您半个小时。您厌烦了，是吗？” “没有的事，恰恰相反，恰——恰——相反！要是您能知道，您使我多么感兴趣就好了！看着和听着都很有意思…… 而且，说实在的，您终于来了，我是那么高兴……” “喂，至少给拿杯茶来嘛！嗓子都干了！”拉祖米欣突然高声叫嚷。 “好主意！也许大家会陪你一道喝。要不要……喝茶之前，先来点儿更重要的①？” -------- ①指酒。 “去你的！” 波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇去吩咐送茶来。 各种想法在拉斯科利尼科夫的脑子里像旋风样飞速旋转。他气得要命。 “主要的，是他们毫不掩饰，也不想客气！如果你根本不知道我，为什么要和尼科季姆·福米奇谈起我呢？可见他们不想隐瞒，像群狗一样在跟踪我！这样毫无顾忌，这样瞧不起我！”他气得发抖。“好吧，要打，就对准了打，可别玩猫逗老鼠的游戏。这可是不礼貌的。波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇，要知道，也许我还不允许这样！……我会站起来，对着你们把实情全都说出来；您会看到，我是多么瞧不起你们！……”他困难地喘了口气。“如果只不过是我觉得好像是这样呢？如果这是幻象，如果我全弄错了，如果是由于我没有经验而发火，如果是我演不了这个卑鄙的角色呢？也许这一切都没有什么意图吧？他们的话都很普通，不过其中有某种含意……这些话随时都可以说，不过有某种含意。为什么他直截了当地说‘在她那儿’？为什么扎苗托夫补充说，我说得巧妙？为什么他们用这样的语气说话？对了……语气……拉祖米欣也坐在这儿，为什么他什么也没察觉呢？这个天真的傻瓜永远什么也不会察觉！又发热病了！……刚才波尔菲里对我眨眼了，还是没有呢？大概，没有这回事；他为什么要眨眼呢？是想刺激我的神经，还是在戏弄我？要么一切都是幻象，要么是他们知道！……就连扎苗托夫也很无礼……扎苗托夫是不是无礼呢？扎苗托夫一夜之间改变了看法。我就预感到他会改变看法！他在这儿像在家里一样，可还是第一次来这里。波尔菲里不把他当作客人，背对着他坐着。他们勾搭上了！一定是为了我勾搭上的！我们来以前，他们一定是在谈论我！……他们知道租房子的事吗？但愿快点儿！……当我说昨天我跑出去租房子的时候，他忽略过去了，没有就此发挥什么……而我插进这句关于租房子的话，巧妙得很：以后会有用处！……就说，是在神智不清的时候！……哈，哈，哈！那天晚上的事他全都知道！我母亲来了，他不知道！……那巫婆连日子都用铅笔记上了！……您胡说，我决不屈服！因为这还不是事实，这只不过是幻象！不，请你们拿出真凭实据来！租房子也不是证据，而是我的呓语；我知道该对他们说什么……他们知道租房子的事吗？不摸清楚，我就不走！我干吗要来？可是现在我在发火，这大概是个证据吧！唉，我多么容易光火啊！不过也许这是好事；我在扮演一个病人的角色嘛…… 他在试探我。他会把我搞糊涂的。我来干什么？” 这一切犹如闪电一般掠过他的脑海。 波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇一转眼的工夫就回来了。不知为什么他突然变得快活起来。 “老兄，昨天从你那儿回来以后，我的头……就连我整个儿这个人都好像管不住自己了，”他用完全不同的另一种语气笑着对拉祖米欣说。 “怎么，有意思吗？昨天我可是在谈到最有趣的问题的时候离开你们的，不是吗？谁赢了？” “当然，谁也没赢。我们渐渐谈到了一些永恒的问题，谈论起学术性的问题来了。” “罗佳，你想想看，我们昨天谈到了什么：到底有没有犯罪？我说过，我们都争论得快发疯了！” “这有什么好奇怪的？一个普通的社会问题嘛，”拉斯科利尼科夫心不在焉地回答。 “问题不是这样简单地提出来的，”波尔菲里说。 “不完全是这样提出来的，的确如此，”和往常不一样，拉祖米欣匆忙而性急地立刻就同意了。“喂，罗佳，你听听，然后谈谈你的意见。我想听听你的看法。昨天我拼命跟他们争，并且在等着你；我还跟他们谈起你，说你今天会来……我们是从社会主义者的观点谈起的。这观点大家都知道：犯罪是对社会制度不正常的一种抗议——仅仅是抗议，再也不是什么旁的，再也不允许去找任何别的原因，——仅此而已！ ……” “这你可是胡说了！”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇高声叫喊。看来，他活跃起来了，一直瞅着拉祖米欣笑，这就使后者变得更激动了。 “再不允许去找任何别的原因！”拉祖米欣情绪激昂地打断了他的话，“我没胡说！……我可以把他们的书拿给你看：照他们的看法，一切都是‘环境所迫’——再没有别的原因！这是他们爱说的一句话！由此直接得出结论：如果社会组织得正常，那么所有犯罪就一下子都会消失，因为再没有什么可以抗议的了，转瞬间所有的人就都会变成正直的人。不考虑天性，天性给排除了，天性是不应该存在的！按照他们的理论，不是人类沿着历史发展的实际道路向前发展，到最后自然而然形成一个正常的社会，而是相反，社会制度从任何一个数学头脑里产生出来以后，立刻会把全人类组织起来，比任何实际发展过程都快，毋需经过历史发展的实际道路，转眼之间就会使全人类都变得正直和纯洁无瑕！正是因此，他们本能地不喜欢历史：‘历史上只有丑恶和愚蠢’——一切都仅仅是因为愚蠢！因此他们才不喜欢现实生活的实际发展过程：不需要活人！活人需要生活，活人不听从机械的支配，活人是可疑的，活人是反动的！他们那儿所需要的人虽然有点儿死尸的臭味，可以用橡胶做成，——然而不是活的，没有意志，像奴隶一般驯服，不会造反！结果是，他们把一切仅仅归结为用砖头砌成墙，在法朗吉大厦①里配置一条条走廊和一间间房间！法朗吉大厦倒是建成了，可是适应法朗吉大厦的天性还没形成，天性想要生活，它尚未结束生活进程，要进坟墓还早着呢！单从逻辑出发，不可能超越天性！逻辑只能预见到三种情况，而情况却有上百万种！摒弃百万种不同情况，把一切仅仅归结为一个舒适问题！这是解决问题的最简单办法！显然这是很诱人的，根本用不着动脑筋！主要的是，用不着动脑筋！全部生活秘密都容纳在两张印刷页上了！” “他突然大发宏论，反来复去讲个没完没了，得制止他了，”波尔菲里笑了。“您想想看，”他转过脸去，对拉斯科利尼科夫说，“昨天晚上也是这样，在一间房间里，六个人各抒己见，争论不休，而且在这以前大家都灌了一肚子五味酒②，——您想象得出来吗？不，老兄，你说得不对：‘环境’对犯罪的确有重大影响；这我可以向你证明。” -------- ①法朗吉大厦是法国空想社会主义者傅立叶（一七七二——一八三七）幻想的社会主义社会的宿舍。 ②一种用果汁、香料、茶、酒等制成的混合饮料。 “我也知道，有重大影响，可是请你说说看：一个四十岁的男人败坏一个十岁小姑娘的名誉，——是环境迫使他这么做的吗？” “这又有什么呢，严格地说，大概也是受环境影响，”波尔菲里说，态度高傲得令人吃惊，“对一个小姑娘的犯罪行为，很可能用‘环境’来解释，甚至非常可能。” 拉祖米欣几乎气得发狂了。 “好吧，如果你想听的话，我这就给你解释，”他吼叫起来，“你的睫毛所以是白的，唯一原因就是因为伊凡大帝钟楼①高三十五沙绳，而且我能解释得明白，确切，进步，甚至还带有自由主义色彩，怎么样？我承担这个任务！喂，要打赌吗？” -------- ①伊凡大帝钟楼在莫斯科克里姆林宫，始建于一五○五——一五○八年，一六○○年接高。钟楼高八十一米。一沙绳（俄丈）等于二·一三四米。 “好，我打赌！咱们倒要听听他怎么解释！” “哼，他总是装模作样，鬼东西！”拉祖米欣高声叫嚷，跳起来，挥了挥手。“跟你说话，不值得！他是故意捉弄人，罗季昂，你还不了解他呢！昨天他站在他们那一边，只不过是为了愚弄大家。上帝啊，昨天他说了些什么啊！可他们却高兴得不得了！……可他能这样谈它两个星期。去年，不知为了什么目的，他想让我们相信，他要出家去作修士：一连两个月坚持说，他要这么做！不久前又突然想要让人相信，他要结婚了，结婚的一切东西都已准备就绪。连新衣服也做好了。我们都已经向他道喜了。可是不但还没有新娘，而且什么都没有：一切都不过是空中楼阁！” "Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you in." "Are you such a good dissembler?" Raskolnikov asked carelessly. "You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time. 'On Crime' . . . or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the /Periodical Review/." "My article? In the /Periodical Review/?" Raskolnikov asked in astonishment. "I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the /Weekly Review/." "But it came out in the /Periodical/." "And the /Weekly Review/ ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't printed at the time." "That's true; but when it ceased to exist, the /Weekly Review/ was amalgamated with the /Periodical/, and so your article appeared two months ago in the latter. Didn't you know?" Raskolnikov had not known. "Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strange person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern you directly. It's a fact, I assure you." "Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!" cried Razumihin. "I'll run to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? It doesn't matter though, I will find it. Think of not telling us!" "How did you find out that the article was mine? It's only signed with an initial." "I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know him. . . . I was very much interested." "I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after the crime." "Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but . . . it was not that part of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the article which I regret to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain persons who can . . . that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them." Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his idea. "What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the influence of environment?" Razumihin inquired with some alarm even. "No, not exactly because of it," answered Porfiry. "In his article all men are divided into 'ordinary' and 'extraordinary.' Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?" "What do you mean? That can't be right?" Razumihin muttered in bewilderment. Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge. "That wasn't quite my contention," he began simply and modestly. "Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like, perfectly so." (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) "The only difference is that I don't contend that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an 'extraordinary' man has the right . . . that is not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep . . . certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You say that my article isn't definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound . . . to /eliminate/ the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all . . . well, legislators and leaders of men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed--often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law--were of use to their cause. It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals--more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are /in general/ divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter /a new word/. There are, of course, innumerable sub- divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood--that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There's no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me--and /vive la guerre eternelle/--till the New Jerusalem, of course!" "Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?" "I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet. "And . . . and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity." "I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry. "And . . . do you believe in Lazarus' rising from the dead?" "I . . . I do. Why do you ask all this?" "You believe it literally?" "Literally." "You don't say so. . . . I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the contrary . . ." "Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and then . . ." "They begin executing other people?" "If it's necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty." "Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn't they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to 'eliminate obstacles' as you so happily expressed it, then . . ." "Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other." "Thank you." "No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, 'destroyers,' and to push themselves into the 'new movement,' and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really /new/ people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovelling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn't necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others chastise themselves with their own hands. . . . They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you've nothing to be uneasy about. . . . It's a law of nature." "Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but there's another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it's alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?" "Oh, you needn't worry about that either," Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. "People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something /new/, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps--I speak roughly, approximately--is born with some independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of chance." "Why, are you both joking?" Razumihin cried at last. "There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?" Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and /discourteous/ sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face. "Well, brother, if you are really serious . . . You are right, of course, in saying that it's not new, that it's like what we've read and heard a thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed /in the name of conscience/, and, excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism. . . . That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that sanction of bloodshed /by conscience/ is to my mind . . . more terrible than the official, legal sanction of bloodshed. . . ." "You are quite right, it is more terrible," Porfiry agreed. "Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You can't think that! I shall read it." "All that is not in the article, there's only a hint of it," said Raskolnikov. "Yes, yes." Porfiry couldn't sit still. "Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . excuse me for my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you've removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but . . . there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet--a future one of course--and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles. . . . He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it . . . and tries to get it . . . do you see?" Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him. "I must admit," he went on calmly, "that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially." "Yes, you see. Well then?" "What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that's not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief." "And what if we do catch him?" "Then he gets what he deserves." "You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?" "Why do you care about that?" "Simply from humanity." "If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment--as well as the prison." "But the real geniuses," asked Razumihin frowning, "those who have the right to murder? Oughtn't they to suffer at all even for the blood they've shed?" "Why the word /ought/? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up. "Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry Petrovitch began again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it." "Very good, tell me your little notion," Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him. "Well, you see . . . I really don't know how to express it properly. . . . It's a playful, psychological idea. . . . When you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have helped, he-he! fancying yourself . . . just a little, an 'extraordinary' man, uttering a /new word/ in your sense. . . . That's so, isn't it?" "Quite possibly," Raskolnikov answered contemptuously. Razumihin made a movement. "And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship or for some service to humanity--to overstep obstacles? . . . For instance, to rob and murder?" And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as before. "If I did I certainly should not tell you," Raskolnikov answered with defiant and haughty contempt. "No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point of view . . ." "Foo! how obvious and insolent that is!" Raskolnikov thought with repulsion. "Allow me to observe," he answered dryly, "that I don't consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell you how I should act." "Oh, come, don't we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?" Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity. Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice. "Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last week?" Zametov blurted out from the corner. Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go. "Are you going already?" Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. "Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two . . . to-morrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be /there/, you might perhaps be able to tell us something," he added with a most good-natured expression. "You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov asked sharply. "Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and . . . I've talked with all who had pledges. . . . I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last. . . . Yes, by the way," he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, "I just remember, what was I thinking of?" he turned to Razumihin, "you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay . . . of course, I know, I know very well," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too. . . . This is the point, this is all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn't it?" "Yes," answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke that he need not have said it. "Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see in a flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember? two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn't you notice them? It's very, very important for them." "Painters? No, I didn't see them," Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. "No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like that open. . . . But on the fourth storey" (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant) "I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna's. . . . I remember . . . I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters . . . no, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I don't think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn't." "What do you mean?" Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realised. "Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you asking?" "Foo! I have muddled it!" Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. "Deuce take it! This business is turning my brain!" he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. "It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something. . . . I quite muddled it." "Then you should be more careful," Razumihin observed grimly. The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them to the door with excessive politeness. They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath. “这你就是说谎了！事先我是做了一套衣服。因为做了新衣服，才有了哄骗你们的想法。” “您当真是这样一个善于伪装的人吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫很随便地问。 “您却认为不是吗？您等着吧，我也会让您上当受骗的，——哈，哈，哈！不，您要知道，对您我要全说实话。由于什么犯罪啦，环境啦，小姑娘啦，由于所有这些问题，现在我倒想起您的一篇论文来了，——其实，对这篇论文我一直很感兴趣。《论犯罪》……还是叫什么呢，题目我忘了，记不得了。两个月前在《定期评论》上拜读了您的大作，看得津津有味。” “我的论文？在《定期评论》上？”拉斯科利尼科夫惊讶地问，“半年前，我从大学退学以后，因为看了一本书，的确写过一篇论文，不过当时我是送到《每周评论》报去，而不是投寄给《定期评论》。” “可是被《定期评论》采用了。” “因为《每周评论》停刊了，所以当时没有发表……” “这倒是真的；不过《每周评论》停刊以后，与《定期评论》合并了，所以您那篇论文两个月前就登在《定期评论》上了。您不知道？” 拉斯科利尼科夫的确一点儿也不知道。 “怎么会呢，您可以去问他们要稿费呀！不过，您这个人性格真怪！离群索居，像这样和您直接有关的事竟会毫不知情。这是事实，不是吗。” “好哇，罗季卡！连我也不知道！”拉祖米欣叫喊起来。 “今天我就去阅览室，借这一期杂志来看看！两个月以前的吗？日期呢？反正我会找得到！真有你的！可他什么也不说！” “不过您怎么知道那篇论文是我的？这篇文章的署名只是一个字母。” “是偶然知道的，而且是前两天才知道的。通过编辑；我的一个熟人……我非常感兴趣。” “我记得，我是分析罪犯在犯罪的全过程中的心理状态。” “不错，您坚持说，犯罪经常是与疾病同时发生的。非常，非常新奇，不过……使我特别感兴趣的倒不是您论文中的这一部分，而是在文章结尾提出的一种观点，可惜，对这一点您只是模模糊糊地作了一些暗示……总之，如果您还记得的话，文章作了某种暗示，似乎世界上有这么一些人，他们能够……也就是说，不是能够，而是有充分的权利胡作非为和犯罪，似乎他们是不受法律约束的。” 拉斯科利尼科夫冷笑了一声，因为对他的观点竟这样夸张地故意予以曲解了。 “怎么？这是什么意思？犯罪的权利？不过不是由于‘环境所迫’吧？”拉祖米欣甚至有点儿惊恐地问。 “不，不，完全不是这个原因，”波尔菲里回答。“问题在于，在他那篇论文里，不知为什么，所有的人都被分成了‘平凡的’和‘不平凡的’两类。平凡的人必须听话，没有犯法的权利，因为，您要知道，他们是平凡的人。不平凡的人却有权犯各式各样的罪，有权任意违法，为非作歹，而这只是因为，他们是不平凡的人。如果我没误解的话，您的意思好像就是这样吧？” “怎么能这样呢？这决不可能！”拉祖米欣困惑不解地含糊不清地说。 拉斯科利尼科夫又冷笑了一声。他一下子就明白了，这是怎么回事，他们想促使他做什么；他记得自己的文章。他决定接受挑战。 “我的文章里不完全是这样讲的。”他简单而谦逊地说。 “不过，说实在的，您几乎是忠实地叙述了我的论点，也可以说，甚至完全忠实……（他似乎乐于承认，完全忠实。）唯一的区别只在于，我根本没有像您所说的那样，坚持说，不平凡的人一定、而且必须经常胡作非为，无恶不作。我甚至认为，报刊上根本就不会发表这样的文章。我只不过暗示，‘不平凡的’人有权……也就是说，并不是官方给予的正式权利，而是自己有权允许自己越过自己的良心这道障碍……越过其他障碍，而且这仅仅是在为了让他的思想（有时也许是可以拯救全人类的思想）得以实现，必须这么做的情况之下。您说，我的文章说得不清楚；我愿意尽可能给您解释清楚。我认为，您好像希望我这样做，也许我并没猜错吧；那么请您听着。照我看，如果由于某些错综复杂的原因，开普勒①和牛顿的发现无论如何也不能为世人所知，除非牺牲一个、十个、百个、甚至更多妨碍或阻碍这一发现的人的生命，那么为了让全人类都能知道自己的发现，牛顿就有权，甚至必须……消灭这十个或一百个人。不过，绝不应由此得出结论，认为牛顿有权任意杀人，或者每天在市场上偷窃。我记得，我还在自己的文章里对此加以发挥，说所有……嗯，例如，即使是那些立法者和人类社会的创始人，从远古时代的，到后来的莱喀古士②、梭伦③穆罕默德④、拿破仑等等，无一例外，都是罪人；单单由于这一点，他们就都是罪人，因为他们都制订了新法律，从而破坏了社会公认、神圣不可侵犯的、由祖先传下来的古代法律，而且，当然啦，如果流血（有时是为维护古代法律英勇献身而流的完全无辜的血）能帮助他们达到自己的目的，他们决不会在鲜血前止步。甚至令人奇怪的是，绝大部分这些人类的恩人和创始人都是特别可怕的、杀人如麻的刽子手。总而言之，我得出结论，所有这些人，不仅是那些伟大的，就连那些稍稍越出常轨的人，也就是说，就连那些稍微能提出点儿什么新见解来的人，就其天性来说，必然是罪人，——当然，只是在一定程度上。不然，他们就难以越出常轨；而让他们循规蹈距，不越雷池一步，他们当然不会同意，这又是由于他们的天性，而照我看，他们甚至有责任不同意。总而言之，您可以看出，到此为止，我的观点中并没有任何特别新鲜的东西。这些已经在报刊上发表过上千次，人们也看过上千遍了。至于说到我把人分为平凡的和不平凡的两类，那么我同意，这样划分有点儿武断，不过我并没有坚持说，这两类人各有一个精确的数字。我只是相信自己的主要观点。这观点就是：按照自然规律，人一般可以分作两类：一类是低级的（平凡的），也就是，可以这么说吧，仅仅是一种繁殖同类的材料；另一类是名副其实的人，也就是有天赋或天才、能在自己的社会上发表新见解的人。当然，这样的分类，可以无尽止地划分下去，但是区分这两类人的界线却相当明显：第一类，也就是那些材料，就其天性来说，一般都是些保守的人，他们循规蹈距，驯服听话，也乐于听话。照我看，他们有义务驯服听话，因为这是他们的使命，对于他们来说，这完全不是什么有伤尊严的事情。第二类人却都会违法，都是破坏者，或者倾向于违法和破坏，这要根据他们的能力而定。这些人的犯罪当然是相对的，而且有很多区别；他们绝大多数都在各种不同的声明中要求为了更好的未来，破坏现有的东西。但是为了自己的思想，如果需要，哪怕是需要跨过尸体，需要流血，那么在他内心里，凭他的良心，照我看，他可能允许自己不惜流血，——不过这要看他思想的性质和规模而定，——这一点请您注意。仅仅是就这个意义来说，我才在自己的文章里谈到了他们犯罪的权利。（请您记住，我们是从法律问题谈起的。）不过用不着有过多的担心：群众几乎永远不承认他们有这种权利，总是会处决或绞死他们（或多或少地），而且这也是完全公正的，这样也就完成了他们保守的使命，然而到了以后几代，这样的群众又把那些被处死的人捧得很高，把他们供奉起来，向他们顶礼膜拜（或多或少地）。第一类人永远是当代的主人，第二类却是未来的主人。第一类人保全世界，增加人的数量；第二类人则推动世界向前发展，引导它达到自己的目的。无论是这一类人，还是那一类人，都有完全同等的生存权利。总之，我认为他们都有同等的权利，而且——vivelaguerreéternelle⑤，——当然啦，直到新耶路撒冷从天而降⑥！ -------- ①开普勒（一五七一——一六三○），德国著名天文学家，现代天文学的奠基人。 ②莱喀古士（纪元前九世纪），古斯巴达的立法者。 ③梭伦（约纪元前六三八——约纪元前五五九），古希腊的立法者。 ④稀罕默德（约五七○——六三二），伊斯兰教的创始人。 ⑤法文，意为永恒的斗争万岁！ ⑥见《圣经·新约全书·启示录》：“我又看见圣城新耶路撒冷由上帝那里从天而降”（《启示录》第二十一章，第二节）。这里“新耶路撒冷”的意思是人间的天堂。 “那么您还是相信新耶路撒冷了？” “我相信，”拉斯科利尼科夫坚决地回答；他说这句话以及继续发表自己这冗长的谈话的时候，他为自己在地毯上选中了一点，一直在看着它。 “您也—也—相信上帝？请原谅我如此好奇。” “我相信，”拉斯科利尼科夫又说了一遍，说着抬起眼来看了看波尔菲里。 “也—也相信拉撒路复活①？” -------- ①见《圣经·新约全书·约翰福音》第十一章，四十——四十四节。 “我相—信。您问这些干吗？” “真的相信？” “真的。” “您瞧……我是这么好奇。请原谅。不过，对不起，——我又回到刚才的话题上来了，——要知道，并不总是处死他们；有些人恰恰相反……” “活着的时候就获得了胜利？嗯，是的，有些人活着的时候就获得成功了，于是……” “他们自己开始处决别人？” “如果需要的话，而且，您要知道，甚至大多数都是如此。 一般说，您的评论很机智。” “谢谢。不过请您谈谈：用什么来把这些不平凡的人与平凡的人区分开来呢？是不是一生下来就有这种标记？我的意思是，这需要更准确些，也可以这么说吧，要在外表上能更明显地看得出来：请原谅我作为一个讲求实际和有着善良意愿的人极其自然的担心，可是不能，譬如说，不能置备什么特殊的衣服，或者戴上个什么东西，打上印记什么的吧？……因为，您得同意，如果混淆不清，这一类人当中就会有人认为自己属于另一类人，于是他就会‘排除一切障碍’，正如您十分巧妙地所说的那样，那么这……” “噢，这倒是经常有的！您的这一评论甚至比刚才的还要机智……” “谢谢……” “不必客气；不过您要注意到，错误只可能出在第一类人，也就是‘平凡的’人（也许我这样称呼他们很不妥当）那里。尽管他们生来就倾向于听话，但是由于某种连母牛也不会没有的顽皮天性，他们当中有很多人都喜欢自命为进步人士，自以为是‘破坏者’，竭力想要发表‘新见解’，而且他们这样做是完全真诚的。而同时他们对真正的新人却往往视而不见，甚至瞧不起他们，把他们看作落后的人，认为他们的想法是有失尊严的。不过，照我看，这并不会有太大的危险，真的，您用不着担心，因为这种人永远不会走得太远。当然，如果他们忘其所以，有时也可以拿鞭子抽他们一顿，让他们安于本分，但也仅此而已；甚至不需要有什么人去执行这一任务：他们自己就会鞭打自己，因为他们都是品德优良的人；有些人是互相提供这样的帮助，另一些是自己亲手惩罚自己……在这种情况下，他们会以各种形式公开悔过，——结果十分美妙，而且很有教育意义，总而言之，您用不着担心……有这样的规律。”

第六章 "I don't believe it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments. They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about /it/. "Don't believe it, then!" answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile. "You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word." "You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words . . . h'm . . . certainly, I agree, Porfiry's tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov! . . . You are right, there was something about him--but why? Why?" "He has changed his mind since last night." "Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you afterwards. . . . But it was all impudent and careless." "If they had had facts--I mean, real facts--or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage--all ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in his vexation--or perhaps he has some plan . . . he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all. Stop!" "And it's insulting, insulting! I understand you. But . . . since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last--I am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of course the merest hint only--an insinuation--but why an insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach--he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. I'd hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I'd put an end to it. Damn them! Don't be downhearted. It's a shame!" "He really has put it well, though," Raskolnikov thought. "Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?" he said with bitterness. "Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the restaurant. . . ." "Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as for Zametov . . ." "At last he sees through him!" thought Raskolnikov. "Stay!" cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. "Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done /that/, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat . . . and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own it against himself?" "If I had done /that thing/, I should certainly have said that I had seen the workmen and the flat," Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and obvious disgust. "But why speak against yourself?" "Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can't be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation." "But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o'clock. And so he would have caught you over a detail." "Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before." "But how could you forget it?" "Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think. . . ." "He is a knave then, if that is so!" Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from necessity. "I am getting a relish for certain aspects!" he thought to himself. But almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev's. "Go in alone!" said Raskolnikov suddenly. "I will be back directly." "Where are you going? Why, we are just here." "I can't help it. . . . I will come in half an hour. Tell them." "Say what you like, I will come with you." "You, too, want to torture me!" he screamed, with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin's hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence. When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev's, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman's handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him. He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway. "Here he is himself," shouted a loud voice. He raised his head. The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly. "What is it?" Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter. The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word. "What is it?" cried Raskolnikov. "Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he went away. It's funny." The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room. Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word. "You were inquiring for me . . . of the porter?" Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice. The man made no answer; he didn't even look at him. Again they were both silent. "Why do you . . . come and ask for me . . . and say nothing. . . . What's the meaning of it?" Raskolnikov's voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly. The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov. "Murderer!" he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice. Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence. “……我不相信！我不能相信！”感到困惑不解的拉祖米欣反复说，竭力想驳倒拉斯科利尼科夫说的理由。他们已经走到了巴卡列耶夫的旅馆，普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜和杜尼娅早就在那儿等着他们了。他们热烈地谈论着，拉祖米欣不时在路上停下来，单单是因为他们还是头一次明确地谈起这一点，这就使他感到既惶惑，又十分激动了。 “你不相信好了！”拉斯科利尼科夫漫不经心地冷笑着，回答说，“你一向是什么也觉察不到，我可是把每句话都掂量过了。” “你神经过敏，所以才去掂量……嗯哼……真的，我同意，波尔菲里说话的语气相当奇怪，尤其是那个坏蛋扎苗托夫！……你说得对，他心里是有什么想法，——不过为什么呢？为什么呢？” “一夜之间他改变了看法。” “不过恰恰相反，恰恰相反！如果他们有这个愚蠢想法的话，他们准会竭力隐瞒着它，把自己的牌藏起来，才好在以后逮住你……可现在——这是无耻和粗心大意！” “如果他们有了事实，也就是确凿的证据，或者哪怕是只有多少有点儿根据的怀疑，那么他们当真会把他们玩弄的把戏掩盖起来，以期获得更大的胜利（那样的话，他们早就会去搜查了！）。可是他们没有证据，一点儿证据也没有，——一切都是虚幻的，一切都模棱两可，只不过是一个虚无缥缈的想法，——所以他们才竭力想用这种厚颜无耻的方式来把我搞糊涂。也许，因为没有证据，他自己也很生气，心中恼怒，于是就脱口而出了。不过也许是有什么意图……他好像是个聪明人……也许他是故意装作知道的样子，这样来吓唬我……老兄，这也有他自己的某种心理……不过，要解释这一切，让人感到厌恶。别谈了！” “而且是侮辱性的，侮辱性的！我理解你！不过……因为现在我们已经明确地谈起这个问题（这很好，我们终于明确地谈起来了，我很高兴！）——那么现在我坦率地向你承认，我早就发觉他们有这个想法了，当然，在整个这段时间里，这只是一个勉强可以察觉的想法，还不敢公然说出来，不过即使不敢公然说出来吧，可这到底是为什么呢！他们怎么敢？他们这样想的根据在哪里，在哪里呢？要是你能知道我感到多么气愤就好了！怎么：就因为是个穷大学生，因为他被贫穷和忧郁折磨得精神极不正常，在他神智不清、害了重病的头一天，也许已经开始神智不清了（请记住这一点！），他多疑，自尊心很强，知道自己的长处，六个月来躲在自己屋里，没和任何人见过面，身上的衣服破破烂烂，靴子也掉了鞋掌，——站在那些卑鄙的警察局长面前，受尽他们的侮辱；而这时又突然面对一笔意想不到的债务，七等文官切巴罗夫交来的一张逾期不还的借据，再加上油漆的臭味，列氏①三十度的高温，空气沉闷，屋里一大堆人，又在谈论一件凶杀案，而头天晚上他刚到被杀害的老太婆那儿去过，这一切加在一起——可他还没吃饭，饥肠辘辘！这怎么会不昏倒呢！就是根据这个，他们的全部根据就是这些东西！见鬼！我明白，这让人感到愤慨，不过，要叫我处在你的地位上，罗季卡，我就会对着他们大家哈哈大笑，或者最好是啐一口浓痰，吐在他们脸上，越浓越好，还要左右开弓，扇他们二十记耳光，这样做很有道理，得经常这样教训教训他们，打过了，就算完了。别睬他们！精神振作起来！他们这样做太可耻了！” -------- ①法国物理学家列奥缪尔设计的温度计，冰点为零度，沸点为八十度。列氏三十度等于摄氏三十七·五度。 “不过，这一切他说得真好，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。 “别睬他们！可明天又要审问了！”他苦恼地说，“难道我得去向他们解释吗？就连昨天我在小饭馆里竟有失身分地和扎苗托夫说话……我都感到懊悔了。” “见鬼！我去找波尔菲里！我要以亲戚的方式向他施加压力；叫他把心里的想法全都坦白地说出来。至于扎苗托夫……” “他终于领悟了！”拉斯科利尼科夫想。 “等等！”拉祖米欣突然一把抓住他的肩膀，高声叫喊起来，“等等！你说得不对！我再三考虑，认为你说错了！唉，这算什么圈套？你说，问起那两个工人，就是圈套吗？你好好想想看：如果这是你干的，你会不会说漏了嘴，说你看到过在油漆房间……看到过那两个工人？恰恰相反：即使看到过，你也会说，什么都没看见！谁会承认对自己不利的事呢？” “如果那事是我干的，那么我准会说，我看到过那两个工人和那套房子，”拉斯科利尼科夫不乐意地，而且显然是怀着厌恶的心情继续回答。 “为什么要说对自己不利的话呢？” “因为只有乡下人或者是最没有经验的新手，才会在审讯时矢口抵赖。稍为成熟和多少有点儿经验的人，一定尽可能承认那些表面上的和无法隐瞒的事实；不过他会寻找别的理由来说明这些事实，硬给这些事实加上某种独特的、意想不到的特点，使它们具有不同的意义，给人造成不同的印象。波尔菲里可能正是这样估计的，认为我一定会这样回答，一定会说，看到过，而为了说得合情合理，同时又一定会作某种解释……” “不过他会立刻对你说，两天以前那两个工人不可能在那里，可见你正是在发生凶杀案的那一天晚上七点多钟去过那儿。单是这样一件并不重要的小事，就会使你上当受骗！” “而他就正是这么盘算的，认为我一定来不及好好考虑，准会急忙作出较为真实的回答，却忘了，两天前工人们是不可能在那里的。” “这怎么会忘了呢？” “最容易了！狡猾的人最容易在这种无关重要的小事上犯错误。一个人越是狡猾，就越是想不到别人会让他在一件普通的小事上上当受骗。正是得用最普通的小事才能让最狡猾的人上当受骗。波尔菲里完全不像你想得那么傻……” “他这么做，就是个卑鄙的家伙！” 拉斯科利尼科夫不禁笑了起来。但同时他又觉得，作最后这番解释的时候，他那种兴奋和乐于解释的心情是很奇怪的，然而在此以前，他和人谈话的时候，却是怀着忧郁的厌恶心情，显然是为了达到什么目的，不得不说。 “我对某几点发生兴趣了！”他暗自想。 可是几乎就在那一瞬间，不知为什么他又突然感到不安起来，仿佛有一个出乎意外和令人忧虑的想法使他吃了一惊。他心中的不安增强了。他们已经来到了巴卡列耶夫旅馆的入口。 “你一个人进去吧，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，“我这就回来。” “你去哪儿？我们已经到了！” “我需要，一定得去；我有事……过半个钟头回来……你去跟她们说一声。” “随你的便，我跟你一道去！” “怎么，你也想折磨我吗！”他突然高声叫嚷，目光中流露出那样痛苦的愤怒和绝望的神情，使拉祖米欣感到毫无办法了。有一会儿工夫，拉祖米欣站在台阶上，阴郁地望着他朝他住的那条胡同的方向大步走去。最后，他咬紧了牙，攥紧拳头，发誓今天就去找波尔菲里，像挤柠檬样把他挤干，于是上楼去安慰因为他们久久不来、已经感到焦急不安的普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜。 拉斯科利尼科夫来到他住的那幢房子的时候，他的两鬓已经汗湿，呼吸也感到困难了。他急忙上楼，走进自己那间没有上锁的房间，立刻扣上门钩。然后惊恐地、发疯似地冲到墙角落墙纸后面藏过东西的那个窟窿那里，把手伸进去，很仔细地在窟窿里摸了好几分钟，把墙纸上的每个皱褶，每个隐蔽的地方都一一检查了一遍。他什么也没找到，这才站起来，深深地舒了一口气。刚才已经走近巴卡列耶夫旅馆的台阶的时候，他突然想到，不知有件什么东西，一条表链、一个领扣，或者甚至是老太婆亲手做过记号的一张包东西的纸，当时可能不知怎么掉出来，掉进哪儿的一条裂缝里，以后却突然作为一件意想不到和无法反驳的物证，摆在他的面前。 他站在那儿，仿佛陷入沉思，一丝奇怪的、屈辱的、几乎毫无意义的微笑掠过他的嘴角。最后他拿起制帽，轻轻地走出房门。他心乱如麻。他若有所思地下楼，来到了大门口。 “那不就是他吗！”一个响亮的声音叫喊道；他抬起了头。 管院子的站在自己的小屋门口，正在向一个身材不高的人直指着他，看样子那人像是个小市民，身上穿的衣服仿佛是件长袍，还穿着背心，远远看上去，很像个女人。他戴一顶油污的制帽，低着头，好像是个驼背。看他那皮肤松弛、布满皱纹的脸，估计他有五十多岁；他那双浮肿的眼睛神情阴郁而又严厉，好像很不满意的样子。 “有什么事？”拉斯科利尼科夫走到管院子的人跟前，问。 那个小市民皱着眉头、斜着眼睛瞟了他一眼，不慌不忙凝神把他仔细打量了一番；随后转过身去，一言不发，就走出大门，到街上去了。 “这是怎么回事！”拉斯科利尼科夫大声喊。 “刚刚有个人问，这儿是不是住着个大学生，并且说出了您的名字，还说出您住在谁的房子里。这时候您下来了，我就指给他看，可他却走了。您瞧，就是这么回事。” 管院子的也觉得有点儿莫名其妙，不过并不是十分惊讶，又稍想了一下，就转身回到自己的小屋里去了。 拉斯科利尼科夫跟在小市民后面，出去追他，立刻看到他正在街道对面走着，仍然不慌不忙，步伐均匀，眼睛盯着地下，仿佛在思考什么。拉斯科利尼科夫不久就追上了他，不过有一会儿只是跟在他后面，最后走上前去，和他并排走着，从侧面看了看他的脸。小市民立刻看到了他，很快打量了他一下，可是又低下眼睛，他们就这样并排走着，一言不发。 “您跟管院子的……打听我了？”最后拉斯科利尼科夫说，可是不知为什么，声音很低。 小市民什么也不回答，连看也不看他一眼。两人又不说话了。 “您是怎么回事……来打听我……又不说话……这是什么意思？”拉斯科利尼科夫的声音中断了，不知为什么不愿把话说明白。 这一次小市民抬起眼来，用恶狠狠的、阴郁的目光瞅了瞅拉斯科利尼科夫。 “杀人凶手！”他突然轻轻地说，然而说得十分明确、清楚…… 拉斯科利尼科夫在他身旁走着。他的腿突然发软了，背上一阵发冷，有一瞬间心也仿佛停止了跳动；随后又突然怦怦地狂跳起来，好像完全失去了控制。他们就这样并肩走了百来步，又是完全默默不语。 The man did not look at him. "What do you mean . . . what is. . . . Who is a murderer?" muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly. "/You/ are a murderer," the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov's pale face and stricken eyes. They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph. With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour. He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind--faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere. . . . The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant. . . . The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation. He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya's whisper: "Don't disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later." "Quite so," answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head. "Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, that's clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm . . ." continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, "and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door--was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?" He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. "I ought to have known it," he thought with a bitter smile. "And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand. . . . Ah, but I did know!" he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought. "No, those men are not made so. The real /Master/ to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, /forgets/ an army in Egypt, /wastes/ half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so /all/ is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of bronze!" One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed--it's a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it! It's too inartistic. "A Napoleon creep under an old woman's bed! Ugh, how loathsome!" At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. "The old woman is of no consequence," he thought, hotly and incoherently. "The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! The old woman was only an illness. . . . I was in a hurry to overstep. . . . I didn't kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn't overstep, I stopped on this side. . . . I was only capable of killing. And it seems I wasn't even capable of that . . . Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; 'the happiness of all' is their case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don't want to wait for 'the happiness of all.' I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn't pass by my mother starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the 'happiness of all.' I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want. . . . Ech, I am an aesthetic louse and nothing more," he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. "Yes, I am certainly a louse," he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive pleasure. "In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object-- ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse," he added, grinding his teeth, "is that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and /I felt beforehand/ that I should tell myself so /after/ killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and 'trembling' creation must obey! The 'prophet' is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It's for you to obey, trembling creation, and not /to have desires/, for that's not for you! . . . I shall never, never forgive the old woman!" His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "Mother, sister--how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't bear them near me. . . . I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember. . . . To embrace her and think if she only knew . . . shall I tell her then? That's just what I might do. . . . /She/ must be the same as I am," he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. "Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in? . . . It's strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn't killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes. . . . Dear women! Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan? They give up everything . . . their eyes are soft and gentle. . . . Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!" He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't remember how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. "Stay, did he really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. "Does he know I am following him?" thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were at work . . . but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. "So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere." He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful. . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. "It's the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is that cloak here?" he thought, "it wasn't there before. . . ." He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn't see her face; but it was she. He stood over her. "She is afraid," he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move. . . . He tried to scream and woke up. He drew a deep breath--but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently. Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring. "Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him. He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard. Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa. "Come, tell me what you want." "I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself. . . ." 小市民不看着他。 “您说什么……什么……谁是杀人凶手？”拉斯科利尼科夫含糊不清地说，声音勉强才能听到。 “你是杀人凶手，”那人说，每个音节都说得更加清楚，也说得更加庄严有力了，而脸上仿佛露出充满敌意的、洋洋得意的微笑，又对着拉斯科利尼科夫苍白的脸和目光呆滞的眼睛直瞅了一眼。这时两人来到了十字路口。小市民往左转弯，头也不回地走到一条街道上去了。拉斯科利尼科夫却站在原地，好长时间望着他的背影。他看到那人已经走出五十来步以后，回过头来望了望他，他仍然一直站在原地，一动不动。从远处不可能看清楚，可是拉斯科利尼科夫好像觉得，这一次那人又冷冷地、十分憎恨地、洋洋得意地对他笑了笑。 拉斯科利尼科夫双膝簌簌发抖，仿佛冷得要命，有气无力地慢慢转身回去，上楼回到了自己那间小屋。他摘下帽子，把它放到桌子上，一动不动地在桌边站了约摸十分钟的样子。随后浑身无力地躺到沙发上，虚弱地轻轻哼着，伸直了身子； 他的眼睛闭着。就这样躺了大约半个小时。 他什么也不想。就这样，一些想法，或者是某些思想的片断，一些杂乱无章、互不相干的模糊印象飞速掠过他的脑海：一些还是他在童年时看见过的人的脸，或者是在什么地方只见过一次，从来也没再想起过的人的脸；B教堂的钟楼、一家小饭馆里的台球台，有个军官在打台球，地下室里一家烟草铺里的雪茄烟味，一家小酒馆，后门的一条楼梯，楼梯很暗，上面泼满污水，撒满蛋壳，不知从什么地方传来了星期天的钟声……这些东西不停地变换着，像旋风般旋转着。有些东西他甚至很喜欢，想要抓住它们，但是它们却渐渐消失了，他心里感到压抑，不过不是很厉害。有时甚至觉得这很好。轻微的寒颤尚未消失，这也几乎让他感到舒适。 他听到了拉祖米欣匆匆的脚步声以及他说话的声音，闭上眼，假装睡着了。拉祖米欣打开房门，有一会儿工夫站在门口，似乎犹豫不决。随后他轻轻走进屋里，小心翼翼地走到沙发前。听到娜斯塔西娅低声说： “别碰他，让他睡够了；以后他才想吃东西。” “真的，”拉祖米欣回答。 他们两人小心翼翼地走出去，掩上了房门。又过了半个钟头的样子。拉斯科利尼科夫睁开眼，把双手垫在头底下，仰面躺着…… “他是谁？这个从地底下钻出来的人是谁？那时候他在哪儿，看到过什么？他什么都看到了，这是毫无疑问的。当时他站在哪儿，是从哪里观看的？为什么只是到现在他才从地底下钻出来？他怎么能看得见呢，——难道这可能吗？……嗯哼……”拉斯科利尼科夫继续想，身上一阵阵发冷，一直在发抖，“还有尼古拉在门后拾到的那个小盒子：难道这也是可能的吗？物证吗？只要稍有疏忽，就会造成埃及金字塔那么大的罪证！有一只苍蝇飞过，它看到了！难道这可能吗？” 他突然怀着极端厌恶的心情感觉到，他是多么虚弱无力，的确虚弱得厉害。 “我应该知道这一点，”他苦笑着想，“我怎么敢，我了解自己，我有预感，可是我怎么竟敢拿起斧头，用血沾污我的双手呢。我应该事先就知道……唉！我不是事先就知道了吗！ ……”他绝望地喃喃低语。 有时他脑子里只有一个想法，呆呆地只想着某一点： “不，那些人不是这种材料做成的；可以为所欲为的真正统治者，在土伦击溃敌军，在巴黎进行大屠杀，忘记留在埃及的一支部队，在进军莫斯科的远征中白白牺牲五十万人的生命，在维尔纳说了一句语意双关的俏皮话，就这样敷衍了事；他死后，人们却把他奉为偶像①，——可见他能为所欲为。不，看来这些人不是血肉之躯，而是青铜铸就的！” 突然出现的另一个想法几乎使他大笑起来： “一边是拿破仑，金字塔②，滑铁卢③，另一边是一个可恶的十四等文官太太，一个瘦弱干瘪的小老太婆，一个床底下放着个红箱子、放高利贷的老太婆，——这二者相提并论，即使是波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇吧，他怎么会容忍呢！……他岂能容忍！……美学不容许这样，他会说：‘拿破仑会钻到‘老太婆’的床底下去！唉！废话！……’” -------- ①指拿破仑。一七九三年十二月十七日拿破仑在法国南部的土伦击溃了敌军；一七九五年十月十三日拿破仑血腥镇压了巴黎的保皇党起义；一七九九年十月拿破仑为了夺取政权，把一支军队丢在埃及，偷偷地回到巴黎；一八一二年拿破仑在俄国被击败后，曾在波兰的维尔纳说过这么一句话：“从伟大到可笑只有一步之差，让后人去评判吧。” ②一七九八年法军与埃及统治者的军队在埃及亚历山大港附近距金字塔不远的地方作战。战争开始时，拿破仑对士兵们说：“四十个世纪正从这些金字塔上看着我们！” ③一八一五年六月十八日拿破仑在比利时的滑铁卢村附近与英普联军作战，大败；拿破仑被流放到非洲的英属圣赫勒拿岛。 有时他觉得自己好像在说胡话：他陷入了热病发作时的状态，心情兴奋极了。 “老太婆算什么！”他紧张地、感情冲动地想，“老太婆，看来这也是个错误，问题不在于她！老太婆只不过是一种病……我想尽快跨越过去……我杀死的不是人，而是原则！原则嘛，倒是让我给杀了，可是跨越嘛，却没跨越过去，我仍然留在了这边……我只会杀。结果发现，就连杀也不会……原则？不久前拉祖米欣这个傻瓜为什么在骂社会主义者？他们是勤劳的人和做买卖的人；他们在为‘公共的幸福’工作……不，生命只给了我一次，以后永远不会再给我了：我不愿等待‘普遍幸福’。我自己也想活着，不然，最好还是不要再活下去了。怎么？我只不过是不愿攥紧自己口袋里的一个卢布，坐等‘普遍幸福’的到来，而看不见自己的母亲在挨饿。说什么‘我正在为普遍的幸福添砖加瓦，因此我感到心安理得。’哈——哈！你们为什么让我溜掉呢？要知道，我总共只能活一次，我也想……唉，从美学的观点来看，我是一只虱子，仅此而已，”他补充说，突然像疯子样哈哈大笑起来。 “对，我当真是一只虱子，”他接着想，幸灾乐祸地与这个想法纠缠不休，细细地分析它，玩弄它，拿它来取乐，“单就这一点来说，我就是一只虱子，因为第一，现在我认为我是只虱子；第二，因为整整一个月来，我一直在打搅仁慈的上帝，请他作证，说是，我这么做不是为了自己肉体上的享受和满足自己的淫欲，而是有一个让人感到高兴的崇高目的，——哈——哈！第三，因为我决定在实行我的计划的时候，要遵循尽可能公平合理的原则，注意份量和分寸，还做了精确的计算：在所有虱子中挑了一只最没有用处的，杀死了它以后，决定只从她那儿拿走为实现第一步所必须的那么多钱，不多拿，也不少拿（那么剩的钱就可以按照她的遗嘱捐给修道院了，哈——哈！）……因此我彻头彻尾是一只虱子，”他咬牙切齿地补上一句，“因此，也许我本人比那只给杀死的虱子更卑鄙，更可恶，而且我事先就已经预感到，在我杀了她以后，我准会对自己这么说！难道还有什么能与这样的恐惧相比吗！噢，下流！噢，卑鄙！……噢，我对‘先知’是怎么理解的，他骑着马，手持马刀：安拉吩咐，服从吧，‘发抖的’畜生！‘先知’说得对，说得对，当他拦街筑起威—力—强—大的炮垒，炮轰那些无辜的和有罪的人们的时候，连解释都不解释一下！服从吧，发抖的畜生，而且，不要期望什么，因为这不是你的事！……噢，无论如何，无论如何我决不宽恕那个老太婆！” 他的头发都被汗湿透了，发抖的嘴唇干裂了，呆滞的目光死死地盯着天花板。 “母亲，妹妹，以前我多么爱她们啊！为什么现在我恨她们呢？是的，现在我恨她们，肉体上能感觉到憎恨她们，她们待在我身边，我就受不了……不久前我走近前去，吻了吻母亲，我记得……我拥抱她，心里却在想，如果她知道了，那么……难道那时我会告诉她吗？我倒是会这么做的……嗯哼！她也应该像我一样，”他补上一句，同时在努力思索着，似乎在和控制了他的昏迷状态搏斗。“噢，现在我多么憎恨那个老太婆！看来，如果她活过来的话，我准会再一次杀死她！可怜的莉扎薇塔！她为什么偏偏在这时候进来呢！……不过，奇怪，为什么我几乎没去想她，就像我没有杀死她似的？莉扎薇塔？索尼娅！两个可怜的、温顺的女人，都有一双温顺的眼睛……两个可爱的女人！……她们为什么不哭？她们为什么不呻吟呢？……她们献出一切……看人的时候神情是那么温顺，温和……索尼娅，索尼娅！温顺的索尼娅！……” 他迷迷糊糊地睡着了；他觉得奇怪，他竟记不起，怎么会来到了街上。已经是晚上，时间很晚了，暮色越来越浓，一轮满月越来越亮；但不知为什么，空气却特别闷热。人们成群结队地在街上走着；有一股石灰味、尘土味和死水的臭味。拉斯科利尼科夫在街上走着，神情阴郁，满腹忧虑：他清清楚楚记得，他从家里出来，是有个什么意图的，得去做一件什么事情，而且要赶快去做，可到底要做什么，他却忘了。突然他站住了，看到街道对面人行道上站着一个人，正在向他招手。他穿过街道，朝那人走去，但是这个人突然若无其事地转身就走，低下头去，既不回头，也不表示曾经招手叫过他。“唉，算了，他是不是招呼过我呢？”拉斯科利尼科夫想，可是却追了上去。还没走了十步，他突然认出了那个人，不由得大吃一惊：原来这就是刚刚遇到的那个小市民，还是穿着那样一件长袍，还是那样有点儿驼背。拉斯科利尼科夫远远地跟着他；心在怦怦地跳；他们折进一条胡同，那个人一直没有回过头来。“他知道我跟着他吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫想。那个小市民走进一幢大房子的大门里去了。拉斯科利尼科夫赶快走到大门前，张望起来：那人是不是会回过头来，会不会叫他呢？真的，那个人穿过门洞，已经进了院子，突然回过头来，又好像向他招了招手。拉斯科利尼科夫立刻穿过门洞，但是那个小市民已经不在院子里了。这么说，他准是立刻上第一道楼梯了。拉斯科利尼科夫跑过去追他。真的，楼上，隔着两层楼梯，还能听到均匀的、不慌不忙的脚步声。奇怪，这楼梯好像很熟！瞧，那就是一楼上的窗子：月光忧郁而神秘地透过玻璃照射进来；瞧，这就是二楼。啊！这就是那两个工人在里面油漆的那套房子……他怎么没有立刻就认出来呢？在前面走的那个人的脚步声消失了：“这么说，他站下来了，要么是在什么地方躲起来了。”这儿是三楼，要不要再往上走呢？那里多静啊，甚至让人害怕……不过他还是上去了。他自己的脚步声让他感到害怕，心慌。天哪，多么暗啊！那个小市民准是藏在这儿的哪个角落里。啊！房门朝楼梯大敞着；他想了想，走了进去。前室里很暗，空荡荡的，一个人也没有，好像东西都搬走了；他踮着脚尖轻轻地走进客厅：整个房间里明晃晃地洒满了月光；这里一切都和从前一样：几把椅子，一面镜子，一张黄色的长沙发，还有几幅镶着画框的画。一轮像铜盘样又大又圆的火红的月亮径直照到窗子上。“这是由于月亮的关系，才显得这么静，”拉斯科利尼科夫想，“大概现在它正在出一个谜语，让人去猜。”他站在那儿等着，等了好久，月亮越静，他的心就越是跳得厉害，甚至都跳得痛起来了。一直寂静无声。突然听到一声转瞬即逝的干裂的声音，仿佛折断了一根松明，一切又静下来了。一只醒来的苍蝇飞着猛一下子撞到玻璃上，好像抱怨似地嗡嗡地叫起来。就在这时，他看出，墙角落里，一个小橱和窗户之间，似乎一件肥大的女大衣挂在墙上。“这儿为什么挂着件大衣？”他想，“以前这儿没有大衣呀……”他悄悄走近前去，这才猜到，大衣后面仿佛躲着一个人。他小心翼翼地用一只手掀开大衣，看到那儿放着一把椅子，这把放在角落里的椅子上坐着一个老太婆，佝偻着身子，低着头，所以他怎么也看不清她的脸，不过，这是她。他在她面前站了一会儿：“她害怕了！”他心想，悄悄地从环扣上取下斧头，抡起斧头朝她的头顶猛砍下去，一下，又一下。可是奇怪：砍了两下，她连动都不动，好像是木头做的。他觉得害怕了，弯下腰去，凑近一些，仔细看看；可是她把头往下低得更厉害了。于是他俯下身子，完全俯到地板上，从底下看了看她的脸，他一看，立刻吓呆了：老太婆正坐在那儿笑呢，——她止不住地笑着，笑声很轻很轻，几乎听不见，而且她竭力忍着，不让他听到她在笑。突然，他好像觉得，卧室的门稍稍开了一条缝，那里似乎也有人在笑，在窃窃私语。他简直要发疯了：使出全身的力气，猛砍老太婆的脑袋，但是斧头每砍一下，卧室里的笑声和喃喃低语的声音也越来越响，听得越来越清楚了，老太婆更是哈哈大笑，笑得浑身抖个不停。他转身就跑，但穿堂里已经挤满了人，楼梯上一扇扇房门全都大敞四开，楼梯平台上，楼梯上，以及下面——到处站满了人，到处人头攒动，大家都在看，——可是都在躲躲藏藏，都在等着，一声不响！……他的心缩紧了，两只脚一动也不能动，好像在地上扎了根……他想高声大喊，于是醒了。 他很吃力地喘了口气，——可是奇怪，梦境仿佛仍然在继续：他的房门大开着，门口站着一个完全陌生的人，正在凝神细细地打量他。 拉斯科利尼科夫还没完全睁开眼，就又立刻把眼闭上了。他抑面躺着，一动不动。“这是不是还在作梦呢，”他想，又让人看不出来地微微抬起睫毛，看了一眼。那个陌生人还站在那儿，仍然在细细打量他。突然，他小心翼翼地跨过门坎，谨慎地随手掩上房门，走到桌前，等了约摸一分钟光景，——在这段时间里一直目不转睛地瞅着他，——于是轻轻地，一点儿响声也没有，坐到沙发旁边的一把椅子上；他把帽子就放在身旁的地板上，双手撑着手杖，下巴搁在手上。看得出来，他是装作要长久等下去的样子。透过不停眨动的睫毛尽可能细看，隐约看出，这个人已经不算年轻，身体健壮，留着一部浓密的大胡子，胡子颜色很淡，几乎是白的…… 约摸过了十来分钟。天还亮着，但暮色已经降临。屋里一片寂静。就连楼梯上也听不到一点声音。只有一只大苍蝇嗡嗡叫着，飞着撞到窗户玻璃上。最后，这让人感到无法忍受了：拉斯科利尼科夫突然欠起身来，坐到沙发上。 “喂，您说吧，您有什么事？” “我就知道您没睡，只不过装作睡着了的样子，”陌生人奇怪地回答，平静地大笑起来。“请允许我自我介绍：阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇·斯维德里盖洛夫……”

第四部第一章 "Can this be still a dream?" Raskolnikov thought once more. He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor. "Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in bewilderment. His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation. "I've come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me, but with your assistance I reckon on . . ." "You reckon wrongly," interrupted Raskolnikov. "They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?" Raskolnikov made no reply. "It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don't consider it necessary to justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there particularly criminal on my part in all this business, speaking without prejudice, with common sense?" Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence. "That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and 'insulted her with my infamous proposals'--is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But you've only to assume that I, too, am a man /et nihil humanum/ . . . in a word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim? And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone!" "But that's not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. "It's simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don't want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!" Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh. "But you're . . . but there's no getting round you," he said, laughing in the frankest way. "I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right line at once!" "But you are trying to get round me still!" "What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigailov, laughing openly. "But this is what the French call /bonne guerre/, and the most innocent form of deception! . . . But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . ." "You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?" Raskolnikov interrupted rudely. "Oh, you've heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, though. . . . But as for your question, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don't suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing else. But I'll tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on my way here in the train, especially: didn't I contribute to all that . . . calamity, morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the question." Raskolnikov laughed. "I wonder you trouble yourself about it!" "But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with a switch--there were no marks even . . . don't regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that; but I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her first act was to order the carriage to be got out. . . . Not to speak of the fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances of it with everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed that? But it's particularly so with women. One might even say it's their only amusement." At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so finishing the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of prudence made him linger for a moment. "You are fond of fighting?" he asked carelessly. "No, not very," Svidrigailov answered, calmly. "And Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha, ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I've forgotten his name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in those days, that very year I believe, the 'disgraceful action of the /Age/' took place (you know, 'The Egyptian Nights,' that public reading, you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German, I feel no sympathy with him, because after all what need is there for sympathy? But I must say that there are sometimes such provoking 'Germans' that I don't believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that's the truly humane point of view, I assure you." After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again. Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his mind and able to keep it to himself. "I expect you've not talked to anyone for some days?" he asked. "Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an adaptable man?" "No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man." "Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered," he replied, with a surprising expression of simplicity. "You know, there's hardly anything I take interest in," he went on, as it were dreamily, "especially now, I've nothing to do. . . . You are quite at liberty to imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I'll confess frankly, I am very much bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you. . . . Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there's something wrong with you, and now, too . . . not this very minute, I mean, but now, generally. . . . Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't scowl! I am not such a bear, you know, as you think." Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him. "You are not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "I fancy indeed that you are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to behave like one." "I am not particularly interested in anyone's opinion," Svidrigailov answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, "and therefore why not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate . . . and especially if one has a natural propensity that way," he added, laughing again. "But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, 'not without connections.' What can you want with me, then, unless you've some special object?" "That's true that I have friends here," Svidrigailov admitted, not replying to the chief point. "I've met some already. I've been lounging about for the last three days, and I've seen them, or they've seen me. That's a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned not a poor man; the emancipation of the serfs hasn't affected me; my property consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not fallen off; but . . . I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long ago. I've been here three days and have called on no one. . . . What a town it is! How has it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there's a great deal I didn't notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels. . . . My only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!" "Anatomy?" "But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, maybe --well, all that can go on without me," he went on, again without noticing the question. "Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?" "Why, have you been a card-sharper then?" "How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian society the best manners are found among those who've been thrashed, have you noticed that? I've deteriorated in the country. But I did get into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty thousand silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never left the country. And, take note, that all my life she held a document over me, the IOU for thirty thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible in that." “莫非这还是在作梦吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫又不由得想。 他小心谨慎而又怀疑地细细端详这位不速之客。 “斯维德里盖洛夫？多么荒唐！这不可能！”最后，他困惑不解地说出声来。 对这一惊呼，客人似乎一点儿也不感到奇怪。 “我来找您有两个原因，第一，想和您认识一下，因为我已久仰大名，我听到的都是关于您的好话，而且很有意思；第二，我希望，也许您不会拒绝帮助我做一件事，而这件事直接关系到令妹阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜的利益。由于她对我抱有成见，没人引见，我独自去找她，现在她可能根本不让我进门，而有您帮助，情况就完全不同了，我估计……” “您估计错了，”拉斯科利尼科夫打断了他的话。 “请问，她们不是昨天刚到吗？” 拉斯科利尼科夫没有回答。 “是昨天，我知道。因为我也不过是前天才到。嗯，至于这件事嘛，罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇，请您听我说：为自己辩解，我认为那是多余的，不过请您告诉我：在这件事情上我真的犯了那么严重的大罪吗，也就是说，如果不带偏见，客观公正地评判的话？” 拉斯科利尼科夫继续默默地仔细打量他。 “我在自己家里追求一个无力自卫的少女，‘卑鄙地向她求婚，从而侮辱了她’，——是这样吗？（我自己先说了吧！）不过您只要想想看，我也是人，etnihilhumanum……①总之，我也能堕入情网，我也会爱上人（这当然是由不得我们的意志决定的），于是就用最自然的方式表达出来了。这儿的全部问题就是：我是个恶棍呢，还是牺牲者？嗯，怎么会是牺牲者呢？要知道，我向我的意中人提议，要她和我一道私奔，逃往美国或瑞士的时候，我可能是怀着最大的敬意，而且想让我们两个人都能获得幸福！……因为理智总是供爱情驱使；我大概是更害了自己！……” -------- ①拉丁文，引自古罗马剧作家杰连齐亚（约纪元前一九五——一五九）的喜剧《自我折磨》。引文不正确，原文是：“我是人，凡是人所具有的东西，没有一样是我所没有的。”这句话已经成为箴言。 “问题完全不在这里，”拉斯科利尼科夫厌恶地打断了他，“您只不过是让人感到讨厌，不管您对，还是不对，哼，她们不愿跟您来往，会把您赶走，您请走吧！……” 斯维德里盖洛夫突然哈哈大笑起来。 “不过您……您倒不会上当受骗啊！”他非常坦率地笑着说：“我本想耍点儿手腕，可是，不成，您恰好一下击中了要害！” “就是现在，您也还是在耍手腕。” “那又怎样？那又怎样呢？”斯维德里盖洛夫坦率地笑着说：“要知道，这是所谓bonneguerre①，兵不厌诈，耍这样的花招是可以的嘛！……不过您还是打断了我；不管怎么着，我要再说一遍：要不是发生了花园里的那档子事，什么不愉快的事都不会有。玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜……” -------- ①法文，“真正的战争”之意。 “就连玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜，据说也是让您给害死的？”拉斯科利尼科夫粗暴地打断了他的话。 “这您也听说了？不过怎么会听不到呢……嗯，对于您提出的这个问题，说真的，我不知道该怎么对您说才好，虽说在这件事情上，我绝对问心无愧。也就是说，请不要以为我怕什么：一切都完全正常，无可怀疑：医生检查，发现是死于中风，这是因为她午饭吃得过饱，把一瓶酒几乎全喝光了，饭后立刻就去进行浴疗，此外没能查出任何别的原因……不，后来我考虑了一段时间，特别是在路上，坐在火车车厢里的时候：这件不幸的事……是不是我促成的，是不是我使她精神上受了刺激，或者是由于什么别的诸如此类的情况？可是我得出结论，这也绝不可能。” 拉斯科利尼科夫笑了。 “那您何必这样不安呢！” “您笑什么？您想想看：我总共才不过抽了她两鞭子，连伤痕都看不出来……请您别把我看作犬儒主义者；因为我完全知道，我这么做是多么卑鄙，而且我还做过其他卑鄙的事；不过我也确实知道，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜好像也喜欢我的这种，也可以说是风流韵事吧。关于令妹的那件事已经完全结束了。玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜不得不待在家里，已经是第三天了；已经没有必要再进城去，她拿去的那封信，大家都已经听厌了（念信的事您听说了吗？）。突然这两鞭子好似天赐的良机！她的头一件事就是吩咐套上马车！……女人有时候非常、非常乐于受侮辱，尽管表面上看上去十分气愤，——这我就不去说它了。所有的人都有这种情况；一般说，人甚至非常、非常喜欢受侮辱，这您发觉没有？不过女人尤其是这样。甚至可以说，这是她们唯一的消遣。” 有那么一会儿，拉斯科利尼科夫想要站起来，出去，这样来结束这次会见。但是某种好奇心，甚至似乎是有某种打算。暂时留住了他。 “您喜欢打架吗？”他心不在焉地问。 “不，不很喜欢，”斯维德里盖洛夫平静地回答。“我和玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜几乎从来不打架。我们在一起过得很和睦，她对我总是十分满意。在我们七年共同生活中，我用鞭子的情况总共只有两次（如果不算另一次，也就是第三次的话，不过那一次有另外的含意）：第一次是我们结婚两个月以后，刚一来到乡下的时候，还有现在这一次，也就是最后一次。您却以为，我是个恶棍，是个顽固落后的家伙，农奴制的拥护者吗？嘿——嘿……顺便说一声，罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇，您记得吗，几年前，还是在带来良好效果的广开言路的时期①，有个贵族——我忘了他姓什么了！——还在火车上鞭打过一个德国女人呢，可是激起了公愤，遭到我们全民谴责，所有报刊也纷纷予以抨击，弄得他名誉扫地②，这件事您还记得吗？当时，好像就在那一年，还发生了《〈世纪〉杂志岂有此理的行为》③（喏，当众朗诵《埃及之夜》，您记得吗？一双乌黑的眼睛！噢，你在哪里，我们青春的黄金时期！）。嗯，那么，这就是我的意见：对那个鞭打德国女人的先生，我并不深表同情，因为，说实在的……有什么好同情的呢！不过同时我也不能不声明，有时就是有这样一些非揍不可的‘德国女人’，我觉得，没有一个进步人士能够完全担保，自己绝对不会动怒。当时谁也没从这个观点来看这个问题，然而这个观点才是真正人道主义的观点，的确如此！” -------- ①指为废除农奴制作准备的那段时间（一八五六——一八六一）。在这段时间里，俄国报刊可以公开揭露警察当局滥用职权等社会弊端。 ②一八六○年初，报纸上在议论一个地主在火车上鞭打一个里加女人的事。陀思妥耶夫斯基的《时代》杂志上也为此发表过文章，抨击地主的专横。 ③这是诗人米哈依洛夫（一八二九——一八六五）一篇文章的题目。他这篇文章是对《世纪》杂志一八六一年第八期一篇叫作《俄罗斯的怪现象》的小品文的回答。那篇小品文攻击积极参加女权运动的托尔马乔夫在彼尔姆市的一次文学——音乐晚会上朗诵普希金的《埃及之夜》。为支持米哈依洛夫，并为托尔马乔夫辩护，陀思妥耶夫斯基曾写过一篇题为《光明磊落的范例》的文章，发表在《时代》杂志一八六一年第三期上。 说完了这些以后，斯维德里盖洛夫突然又大笑起来。拉斯科利尼科夫看得很清楚，知道这是个主意坚决、十分狡猾、决不会暴露自己意图的人。 “您大概是，一连几天没跟人说话了吧？”他问。 “差不多是这样。怎么：我是个这么随和的人，您大概觉得奇怪了吧？” “不，我觉得奇怪的是，您这个人太随和了。” “是因为您提的问题粗暴无礼，可我并不见怪吗？是这样吗？是的……有什么好见怪的呢？您怎么问，我就怎么回答，”他带着令人惊讶的天真神情补充说。“因为我几乎对什么也不特别感兴趣，真的，”他不知为什么沉思地接着说下去。“尤其是现在，我很空，什么事也没有……不过您可以认为，我奉承您，是因为我有什么企图，何况我自己也说过，我有事要找令妹。不过我坦白地跟您说吧：我很寂寞！尤其是这三天，所以很高兴找您谈谈……请别生气，罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇，不过，不知为什么，我觉得您很奇怪。不管您认为怎样，反正您心里有什么心事；就是现在，也就是说，并不是指此时此刻，而是一般说的现在……好，我不说了，不说了，请您别皱眉！要知道，我可不是像您所想象的那样的一头熊。” 拉斯科利尼科夫神情阴郁地看了看他。 “您也许甚至根本就不是熊，”他说，“我甚至觉得，您很有教养，或者至少在必要的时候也能做一个正派人。” “要知道，无论是谁的意见，我都不怎么特别感兴趣，”斯维德里盖洛夫冷冷地回答，语气甚至好像有点儿傲慢，“这就是我为什么没成为一个庸俗的人的缘故，尽管在我们这个社会上，戴上顶庸俗的帽子倒是挺舒服的……尤其是如果你天生就喜欢戴这顶帽子的话，”他补充说，又哈哈大笑起来。 “不过我听说您在这儿有很多熟人。您可是个所谓‘并不是没有朋友’的人。在这种情况下，要不是有什么目的，您来找我干吗？” “您说我有熟人，这倒是真的，”斯维德里盖洛夫接住话茬说，却没回答主要问题，“我已经碰到过了；因为我已经闲荡了两天多；我会去打听他们，看来，他们也会来打听我。这还用说吗，我穿得体面，不能算是穷人；就连农民改革①也没影响我：我的财产大都是汛期淹水的森林和草地，收入没受损失；不过……我不会上他们那儿去；早就腻烦了：我已经来了两天多，可是熟人当中谁也没碰到过……还有这座城市！您瞧，我们这座城市是怎么建立的！一座公务员和各种教会学校学生的城市！不错，早先，八年前我住在这儿的时候，这儿有好多东西我都没注意……现在我只把希望寄托在构造上，真的！” -------- ①一八六一年的农民改革废除了农奴制，但未触及地主的利益，根据有关规定，可耕地、森林和草地都留给了地主。 “什么构造？” “至于这些俱乐部啊，杜索①啊，你们这些普安特②啊，或者，大概还有什么进步啊——这些，没有我们也行，”他继续说，又没注意向他提出的问题。“可是倒乐意作赌棍吗？” "If it hadn't been for that, would you have given her the slip?" "I don't know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I didn't want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad, seeing I was bored, but I've been abroad before, and always felt sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea--you look at them and it makes you sad. What's most revolting is that one is really sad! No, it's better at home. Here at least one blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole, because /j'ai le vin mauvais/ and hate drinking, and there's nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I've been told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?" "Why, would you go up?" "I . . . No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigailov really seeming to be deep in thought. "What does he mean? Is he in earnest?" Raskolnikov wondered. "No, the document didn't restrain me," Svidrigailov went on, meditatively. "It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my name- day and made me a present of a considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you know. 'You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch'-- that was actually her expression. You don't believe she used it? But do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid of my over-studying." "You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?" "Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe in ghosts?" "What ghosts?" "Why, ordinary ghosts." "Do you believe in them?" "Perhaps not, /pour vous plaire/. . . . I wouldn't say no exactly." "Do you see them, then?" Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly. "Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile. "How do you mean 'she is pleased to visit you'?" "She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone." "Were you awake?" "Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the door--always at the door. I can almost hear her." "What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?" Raskolnikov said suddenly. At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much excited. "What! Did you think so?" Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. "Did you really? Didn't I say that there was something in common between us, eh?" "You never said so!" Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat. "Didn't I?" "No!" "I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut, pretending, I said to myself at once, 'Here's the man.'" "What do you mean by 'the man?' What are you talking about?" cried Raskolnikov. "What do I mean? I really don't know. . . ." Svidrigailov muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled. For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other's faces. "That's all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. "What does she say when she comes to you?" "She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and--man is a strange creature--it makes me angry. The first time she came in (I was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and began to think), she came in at the door. 'You've been so busy to-day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining- room clock,' she said. All those seven years I've wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I'd been asleep, tired out, with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her hands. 'Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?' She was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, besides, the bell rang. I was sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. 'Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my dress? Aniska can't make like this.' (Aniska was a dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress, and then I looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. 'I wonder you trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.' 'Good gracious, you won't let one disturb you about anything!' To tease her I said, 'I want to get married, Marfa Petrovna.' 'That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a bride when you've hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good choice, at least, but I know it won't be for your happiness or hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.' Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn't it nonsense, eh?" "But perhaps you are telling lies?" Raskolnikov put in. "I rarely lie," answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, apparently not noticing the rudeness of the question. "And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?" "Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting 'Filka, my pipe!' He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought 'he is doing it out of revenge,' because we had a violent quarrel just before his death. 'How dare you come in with a hole in your elbow?' I said. 'Go away, you scamp!' He turned and went out, and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed." "You should go to a doctor." "I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know what's wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn't ask you whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that they exist." "No, I won't believe it!" Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger. "What do people generally say?" muttered Svidrigailov, as though speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. "They say, 'You are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.' But that's not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they don't exist." "Nothing of the sort," Raskolnikov insisted irritably. "No? You don't think so?" Svidrigailov went on, looking at him deliberately. "But what do you say to this argument (help me with it): ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the more seriously ill one is, the closer becomes one's contact with that other world, so that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could believe in that, too." "I don't believe in a future life," said Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov sat lost in thought. "And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort," he said suddenly. "He is a madman," thought Raskolnikov. "We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it's one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that's all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that." "Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?" Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish. "Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it's what I would certainly have made it," answered Svidrigailov, with a vague smile. This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing. "Only think," he cried, "half an hour ago we had never seen each other, we regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us; we've thrown it aside, and away we've gone into the abstract! Wasn't I right in saying that we were birds of a feather?" "Kindly allow me," Raskolnikov went on irritably, "to ask you to explain why you have honoured me with your visit . . . and . . . and I am in a hurry, I have no time to waste. I want to go out." "By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitch?" "Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her name? I can't understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if you really are Svidrigailov." "Why, but I've come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning her?" "Very good, speak, but make haste." "I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the sake of . . . for the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the match could be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you personally, I am convinced of it." “您还是个赌棍？” “怎么能不是呢？我们有这么一伙人，都是最体面的人，这是八年前的事了；大家在一起消磨时间；您要知道，都是些最有风度的人，有诗人，也有资本家。一般说，在我们俄国社会里，只在那些常受打击的人最有风度，——这点您注意到了吗？现在我不修边幅了，因为我是住在乡下。而当时，因为我欠了涅任市③一个希腊人的债，终于进了监狱。这时碰到了玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜，经过讨价还价，用三万银币把我赎了出来。（我总共欠了七万卢布的债。）我和她结了婚，她立刻把我当宝贝似的带回乡下她家里去了。因为她比我大五岁。她非常爱我。七年来我没从乡下出来过。您要注意，她一生都握有一张对付我的借据，也就是以别人名义出借的那三万卢布，所以我只要稍一违背她的意旨，——立刻就会落入她的圈套！她准会这么做的！要知道，女人就是这样，爱你也是她，害你也是她，两者并行不悖。” -------- ①杜索——当时彼得堡一家著名饭店的老板。 ②普安特：法语Pointe，意思是“海岬”；这里指涅瓦河各小岛上的时髦娱乐场所。 ③乌克兰的一个城市。 “要不是有那张借据，您就会逃走？” “我不知道该怎么对您说。这张借据几乎没有使我感到拘束。我哪里也不想去，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜看到我觉得无聊，曾两次邀请我出国！这有什么意思呢！以前我曾不止一次出国，可总是感到厌恶。倒不是厌恶，可不知怎的，旭日东升，朝霞满天，还有什么那不勒斯海湾和大海啊，看着都让人感到忧郁！最让人讨厌的是，当真是在想念什么，所以感到忧愁！不，还是在祖国好：在这儿至少可以把什么都归咎于别人，认为自己什么都对。现在我也许想去北极探险，因为j’ailevinmauvais①。我讨厌喝酒，可是除了酒，就什么也没有了。我试过。据说星期天别尔格②要在尤苏波夫花园乘一个大汽球飞上天去，出一笔巨款征求和他一道飞行的旅伴，这是真的吗？” -------- ①法文。“我没有酒德”之意。 ②别尔格是彼得堡一些娱乐设施的所有者。 “怎么，您想去飞行？” “我？不……我不过这么问问……”斯维德里盖洛夫含糊不清地说，当真好像在沉思。 “他怎么，是当真吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫想。 “不，借据并不让我感到拘束，”斯维德里盖洛夫沉思默想地继续说，“是我自己不从乡下出来。而且，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜已经在我的命名日把这张借据还给了我，还送给我一大笔钱，数目相当可观，这大概都快有一年了吧。因为她很有钱。‘您要明白，阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇，我是多么相信您啊’，真的，她就是这么说的。您不相信她这么说过？可您要知道，在乡下，我已经变成了一个很正派的主人；附近的人都知道我。我还订购了一些图书。玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜起初是赞成的，后来却担心我用功过度，会伤害身体。” “您好像很想念玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜？” “我吗？也许是。真的，也许是。顺便说说，您相信鬼魂吗？” “什么鬼魂？” “普通的鬼魂呗，还有什么别的呢？” “可您相信吗？” “是的，大概，也不相信，pourvousplaire①……也就是说，并不是根本不信……” -------- ①法文，“为了让您满意’之意。 “经常出现吗，还是怎么呢？” 斯维德里盖洛夫不知为什么很奇怪地看了看他。 “玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜来看过我，”他说，把嘴一撇，露出奇怪的微笑。 “来看您，这是什么意思？” “她已经来过三次了。我第一次看到她，就是在安葬的那一天，从墓地回来一个钟头以后。这是在我动身上这儿来的头一天。第二次是前天，在路上，天刚亮的时候，在小维舍拉车站上；第三次就在两个钟头以前，在我下榻的寓所，就在屋里；只有我一个人。” “醒着的时候吗？” “完全醒着。三次都是醒着的时候。她来了，说了大约一分钟的话，就往门口走去；总是从房门出去。甚至好像能听到开门关门的声音。” “不知为什么，我就想过，您一定会常常发生这一类的事！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然说，但立刻又为自己说了这句话而感到惊讶。他非常激动。 “是——吗？您这么想过？”斯维德里盖洛夫诧异地问，“难道真的想过？嗯，我是不是说过我们之间有什么共同点呢，啊？” “您从来没说过这样的话！”拉斯科利尼科夫很不客气而且十分激动地回答。 “我没说过？” “没有！” “我却觉得，我说过了。我刚才一进来，看到您闭着眼躺着，可是假装睡着了的样子，——我立刻就对自己说：‘这就是那个人！’” “就是那个人，这是什么意思？您这话是指的什么？”拉斯科利尼科夫突然高声大喊。 “指的什么？真的，我不知道是指什么……”斯维德里盖洛夫诚恳地、低声含糊地说，有点儿前言不搭后语。 大约有一分钟，两人都不说话。两人都睁大眼睛，你看着我，我看着你。 “这全都是胡说八道！”拉斯科利尼科夫懊恼地高声叫喊。 “她来的时候，跟您说些什么？” “她吗？请您想想看，她谈的都是些最无关重要的小事，这个人真让您觉得奇怪：也正是这一点让我生气。第一次她进来（您要知道，我累了：举行葬礼，为死者祈祷，然后是安灵，办酬客宴，——终于书房里只剩了我一个人，我点起一支雪茄，沉思起来），她走进门来，说：‘阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇，饭厅里的钟您忘记上了。’真的，七年来，每星期我都亲自上这个钟，要是忘了，她总是提醒我。第二天，我已经上路，到这里来。黎明的时候，我进站去了，这一夜我只打了个盹儿，精疲力竭，睡眼惺忪，——我要了杯咖啡；我一看——玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜突然坐到我身边，手里拿着一副牌：‘阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇，要不要给您算算，一路上是不是平安无事？’她是个用纸牌算命的行家。唉，我没算一卦，为了这件事，我不会原谅自己的！我吓坏了，赶紧逃跑，不错，这时候开车的铃也响了。今天在一家小饭馆里吆了一顿糟透了的午饭，肚子里装满了不好消化的东西，我正坐着抽烟，突然，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜又进来了，她打扮得很漂亮，穿一件绿绸子的新连衫裙，裙裾长得要命，拖在后面：‘您好！阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇！您喜欢我这件连衫裙吗？做工这么好，阿尼西卡可做不出来。’（阿尼西卡是我们村里的一个女裁缝，农奴出身，在莫斯科学过缝纫，是个好姑娘。）她站在我面前，转动着身子。我仔细看了看连衫裙，随后留心看了看她的脸，我说‘玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜，您倒有兴致为了这样一些小事来找我。‘哎哟，天哪，我的爷，都不能来打搅您了！’为了逗她，我说：‘玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜，我想结婚。‘您完全可能干得出这种事来，阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇；刚刚埋葬了妻子，马上又去结婚，这可不会给您带来什么好名声。要挑个好姑娘才好，不然的话，无论对她，还是对您，都没有好处，只会让好心的人笑话。’说罢，她就走了，拖在地上的裙裾好像发出窸窸窣窣的响声。真是胡说八道，是吗？” “不过，说不定您一直是在说谎吧？”拉斯科利尼科夫回答。 “我很少说谎，”斯维德里盖洛夫若有所思地回答，似乎根本没注意到问题提得那么无礼。 “从前，在这以前，您从来没见过鬼魂吗？” “嗯……不，见过，一生中只见过一次，是在六年以前。菲利卡是农奴制时期我们家的一个仆人；刚刚埋葬了他，我忘了，又喊了一声：‘菲利卡，拿烟斗来！’他进来，一直朝放烟斗的架子走去。我坐在那里，心想：‘他是来向我报仇了，’因为就在他死以前，我们刚刚大吵了一场。我说：‘你的衣服胳膊肘上破了，你怎么胆敢这样进来见我，滚出去，坏蛋！’他转身走了出去，以后再没来过。当时我没跟玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜说，本想为他作安魂弥撒，又觉得不好意思。” “去看看医生吧。” “您不说，我也明白，我身体不好，虽说，真的，我不知道害的是什么病；照我看，我的身体大概比你好四倍。我问您的不是这个，——您信不信鬼魂出现？我问您的是：您信不信有鬼？” “不，无论如何也不相信！”拉斯科利尼科夫甚至是恶狠狠地高声叫嚷。 “通常人们都是怎么说来的？”斯维德里盖洛夫仿佛自言自语似地说，稍稍低下头，望着一边。“他们说：‘你有病，这就是说，你的错觉只不过是根本不存在的幻象。’不过这话并没有严密的逻辑性。我同意，只有病人才会看见鬼魂；但这只不过证明，鬼魂只能让病人看见，而不能证明，鬼魂并不存在。” “当然不存在！”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地坚持说。 “不存在吗？您这么认为？”斯维德里盖洛夫慢慢地看了看他，接着说下去。“嗯，如果这样来考虑呢（请您指教）：‘鬼魂——这就是，可以这样说吧，是另外一些世界的碎片和片断，是这些世界的一种因素。健康的人当然用不着看到它们，因为健康的人完全是属于这个世界的，所以为了这个世界的完满，也为了维护这个世界上的秩序，他们理应只过这个世界上的生活。可是一旦稍微有了点儿病，身体上尘世的正常秩序稍一遭到破坏，那么立刻就会出现接触另一个世界的可能，病得越厉害，与另一个世界的接触也就越多，所以，当一个人完全死了的时候，他就直接转入另一个世界去了。’我早就作过这样的论断。如果您相信来世，那也就会相信这个论断了。” “我不相信来世，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。 斯维德里盖洛夫坐着，陷入沉思。 “如果那里只有蜘蛛或者这一类的东西，那又怎样呢，”他突然说。 “这是个疯子，”拉斯科利尼科夫想。 “我们一直想象，永恒就好像一个无法理解的概念，是一个硕大无朋、其大无比的东西！可为什么一定是其大无比呢？万一它并不是这样呢，您要知道，它也许是一间小房子，就像农村里的澡堂，熏得漆黑，各个角落都是蜘蛛，而这就是永恒。您要知道，有时我觉得它大致就是这样的。” “难道，难道您想象不出什么比这让人快慰、也更加真实一些的东西吗！”拉斯科利尼科夫感到十分痛苦地大声喊道。 "All this is very naive . . . excuse me, I should have said impudent on your part," said Raskolnikov. "You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don't be uneasy, Rodion Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly. I am not quite a fool. I will confess something psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me tell you that I've no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel something . . ." "Through idleness and depravity," Raskolnikov put in. "I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them. But that's all nonsense, as I see myself now." "Have you seen that long?" "I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin." "Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out . . ." "With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and determining on a certain . . . journey, I should like to make some necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided for; and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too! I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That's enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point. Before the journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It's not that I detest him so much, but it was through him I quarrelled with Marfa Petrovna when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you like in your presence, to explain to her that in the first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then, begging her pardon for all past unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it." "You are certainly mad," cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as astonished. "How dare you talk like that!" "I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in some more foolish way. That's the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive. You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna and you will know. The point is, that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and unpleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want--not to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of self-interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly; and I should not have offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I offered her more, Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just the same, only from another man. Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly." Svidrigailov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying this. "I beg you to say no more," said Raskolnikov. "In any case this is unpardonable impertinence." "Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour in this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities. That's absurd. If I died, for instance, and left that sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn't refuse it?" "Very likely she would." "Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case I beg you to repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna." "No, I won't." "In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her myself and worry her by doing so." "And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?" "I don't know really what to say. I should like very much to see her once more." "Don't hope for it." "I'm sorry. But you don't know me. Perhaps we may become better friends." "You think we may become friends?" "And why not?" Svidrigailov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat. "I didn't quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning on it . . . though I was very much struck by your face this morning." "Where did you see me this morning?" Raskolnikov asked uneasily. "I saw you by chance. . . . I kept fancying there is something about you like me. . . . But don't be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on all right with card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael's /Madonna/ in Madam Prilukov's album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna's side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at Viazemsky's house in the Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps." "Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?" "What travels?" "Why, on that 'journey'; you spoke of it yourself." "A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that's a wide subject. . . . if only you knew what you are asking," he added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. "Perhaps I'll get married instead of the journey. They're making a match for me." "Here?" "Yes." "How have you had time for that?" "But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it. Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes. I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Rodion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will and left her three thousand roubles. That's absolutely certain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or three weeks." "Are you telling the truth?" "Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you." As he went out, Svidrigailov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway. “更真实些？那怎么知道呢，说不定这就是真实的，您要知道，我倒想一定故意让它成为这个样子！”斯维德里盖洛夫似笑非笑地回答。 听到这岂有此理的回答，拉斯科利尼科夫突然感到一阵发冷。斯维德里盖洛夫抬起头来，凝神看了看他，突然哈哈大笑起来。 “不，这您想得到吗”，他高声叫喊起来，“半个钟头以前我们还没见面，彼此把对方看作仇敌，我们之间有一件还没解决的事情；我们撇开这件事情，瞧，我们谈了些什么啊！喏，我说我们是一样的人，说得对吧？” “劳您驾，”拉斯科利尼科夫气愤地接下去说，“您屈尊就教，到底有何贵干，就请快点儿告诉我吧……而且……而且……我忙得很，我没空，我要出去……” “请吧，请吧。令妹，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜，是要嫁给卢任，彼得·彼特罗维奇先生吗？” “您能不能设法不谈舍妹的问题，也别提她的名字呢。我甚至不明白，您怎么胆敢当着我的面说出她的名字，如果您真是斯维德里盖洛夫的话？” “可我就是来谈她的问题的，怎么能不提她的名字呢？” “好吧；您说吧，不过请快一点儿！” “如果您已经见过这位卢任先生，也就是我内人的亲戚，哪怕只跟他在一起待过半个钟头，或者听到过有关他的确实可靠的事情，我相信，对这个人，您就已经形成自己的看法了。他可配不上阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜。照我看，在这件事情上，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜是未经慎重考虑、过于慷慨地牺牲了自己，而她这样做是为了……为了自己的家庭。由于我听到的关于您的那些话，我觉得，如果这门亲事能够吹掉，而又不损害令妹的利益，您一定会非常满意。现在，认识了您本人以后，我甚至已对此深信不疑。” “从您那方面来说，这些话是十分天真的；请您原谅，我是想说：无耻，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。 “也就是说，您的意思是，我在谋求自己的利益。请您放心，罗季昂·罗曼诺谁奇，如果我是为自己谋求什么好处的话，那就不会这么直截了当地说出来了，我还不完全是个傻瓜。关于这一点，我要告诉您一个心理上的奇怪的情况。刚才我为我对阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜的爱情辩解的时候，说我自己是牺牲者。那么请您听我说，现在我已经感觉不到这种爱情了，一点儿也感觉不到了，这连我自己也觉得奇怪，因为以前我的确是感觉到的……” “由于游手好闲和道德败坏，”拉斯科利尼科夫打断了他。 “是的，我是个道德败坏和游手好闲的人。不过令妹有那么多优点，所以我不可能不受她的某种影响。不过，现在我自己也明白，这全都是废话。” “早就明白了吗？” “还在以前就有所发觉了，到前天，几乎是到达彼得堡的时候，才对此完全深信不疑。不过，在莫斯科的时候，我还曾经想，要设法赢得阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜的芳心，和卢任先生竞争一下。” “请原谅我又要打断您了，劳您驾：您能不能说得简短些，直截了当谈谈您来访的目的呢。我有急事，我得出去……” “非常高兴。来到这儿以后，现在我决定作一次……旅行，我想事先做一些必要的安排。我的孩子都留在他们姨妈家里了，他们生活都很富裕，他们不需要我。再说我哪像个做父亲的呢！我自己只拿了玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜一年前送给我的那笔财产。这也就足够我用的了。对不起，我这就要谈正经的了。去旅行之前，也许这次旅行会实现的，我想把和卢任先生的事了结掉。倒不是我根本不能容忍他，然而当我知道这门婚事是玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜搞出来的，可真把我惹火了，所以正是因为他，我才跟她发生了争吵。现在我想通过您跟阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜见见面，就这样吧，您也在场，我想向她说明，第一，从卢任先生那儿她不仅得不到丝毫好处，而且甚至定会受到明显的损害。其次，请她原谅不久前发生的所有不愉快的事情，然后再请求她允许我送给她一万卢布，这样可以使她更容易下决心和卢任先生决裂，我相信，只要有可能，她自己是不会反对与他决裂的。” “不过您当真，当真是个疯子！”拉斯科利尼科夫高声叫喊起来，与其说他很生气，倒不如说他十分惊讶。“您怎么竟敢这样说呢！” “我就知道您会大喊大叫的；不过，第一，虽说我并不富有，可是这一万卢布在我这儿却没有什么用处，也就是说，我完全，完全不需要这笔钱。如果阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜不接受，我大概会以更愚蠢的方式把它挥霍掉。这是一。第二，我完全问心无愧；我提出这个建议，没有任何个人打算。信不信由您，不过以后您和阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜都会知道的。问题在于，我的确给极为尊敬的令妹带来了一些麻烦和不愉快的事；所以，我真心诚意地感到懊悔，由衷地希望，——不是赎罪，也不是为那些不愉快的事赔偿损失，而只不过是想做点儿对她有益的事，而我这样做的理由就是：我实在没有只干坏事的特权。如果我的建议中哪怕有百万分之一的私心杂念，那我就不会提出只送给她一万卢布了，而只不过五个星期以前，我曾经提出过，要送给她更多的钱。此外，我也许很快、很快就要和一位少女结婚了，所以，关于我对阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜抱有什么企图的一切怀疑，也就应该不复存在了。最后我还要说一句：如果阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜嫁给卢任先生，同样也是拿钱，只不过拿的是另一个人的钱罢了……您别生气，罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇，请您心平气和地、冷静地考虑考虑。” 说这番话的时候，斯维德里盖洛夫本人非常冷静，而且心平气和。 “请您别说了”，拉斯科利尼科夫说。“无论如何，您这样说是十分无礼，不可原谅的。” “根本不是。如果是这样的话，在这个世界上，人对人就只能做坏事，因为拘泥于某些习以为常的形式，反倒没有权利去做一了点儿好事了。这是荒谬的。譬如说，如果我死了，立下遗嘱，把这笔钱赠送给令妹，难道她也要拒绝吗？” “很可能。” “嗯，这不可能。不过，不，实在不要嘛，也就算了。不过在必要的时候，一万卢布到底是一笔可观的数目。无论如何请把我的话转告阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜。” “不，我不转告。” “这样的话，罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇，我就不得不设法自己去见她，那么也就不得不打搅她了。” “如果我转告她，您就不设法亲自见她了吗？” “我不知道，真的，我不知道该怎么跟您说。我倒很希望和她见一次面。” “还是别存这样的希望吧。” “很遗憾。不过您不了解我。也许我们会更接近些的。” “您认为我们会更接近些吗？” “为什么不会呢？”斯维德里盖洛夫微微一笑，说，站起身来，拿起帽子，“要知道，我倒不是那么很想来打搅您，到这儿来的时候，甚至也没抱多大希望，不过，不久前，早上的时候，您的脸色让我十分吃惊……” “不久前，早上的时候，您在哪儿见过我？”拉斯科利尼科夫不安地问。 “偶然看到的……我总觉得，您有什么对我有用的地方……请别担心，我不会让人觉得腻烦的；我跟赌棍们在一起，也曾和睦相处，斯维尔别依公爵，我的一个远亲，是个大官，我也没让他觉得讨厌过，我还曾经在普里鲁科娃夫人的纪念册上题词，谈论拉斐尔的圣母像①，和玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜在一起过了七年，从来没离开过她，从前我常在干草广场上维亚泽姆斯基的房子②里过夜，说不定还会和别尔格一道乘汽球飞上天去呢。” -------- ①指拉斐尔的杰作《西斯庭圣母像》。拉斐尔（一四八三——一五二○），意大利著名画家，文艺复兴三杰之一。 ②彼得堡一家著名的客店。内设饭店、酒馆、赌窟……。 “好了，很好。请问，您不久就要去旅游吗？” “什么旅游？” “就是这个‘旅行’啊……您自己说过的嘛。” “去旅行？啊，对了！……真的，我是跟您说过关于旅行的事……嗯，这是个含义很广的问题……如果您能知道，您问的是什么就好了！”他补上一句，突然短促地高声大笑起来。 “说不定我不去旅行，而要结婚；有人正在给我说亲。” “在这儿吗？” “是的。” “您是什么时候找到一位未婚妻的？” “不过我很想和阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜见一次面。我郑重其事地请求您。好，再见……啊，对了！看我把什么给忘了！罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇，请您转告令妹，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜的遗嘱上提到，送给她三千卢布。我完全肯定，千真万确。玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜是在死前一个星期这样安排的，当时我也在场。再过两三个星期，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜就可以得到这笔钱了。” “您说的是实话？” “实话。请转告。好吧，您的仆人。要知道，我就住在离您这儿不太远的地方。” 斯维德里盖洛夫出去的时候，在门口正好碰到了拉祖米欣。