О чем говорят каналы

– She's a fine one, – he said. – You can always get money from her. As rich as a Jew – she can hand over five thousand right away, yet she won't look down on taking a single-rupee pledge. Many of our lot have dealt with her. But she's a terrible old hag... And he began describing how cruel and whimsical she was, how if you were just one day late on a pledge, your item was lost for good. She'd give you a quarter of an item's worth, yet charge five or even seven percent monthly interest, and so on. The student got carried away and added that the old woman had a sister, Lizaveta, whom she – such a tiny, nasty creature – beat constantly and kept in complete bondage like a little child, although Lizaveta was at least eight vershoks tall... – Now there's a phenomenon! – cried the student and burst into laughter.

At a nearby table sat a student he didn't know at all and barely remembered, along with a young officer. They had just finished a game of billiards and were sipping tea. Suddenly, he heard the student telling the officer about Alyona Ivanovna, the moneylender and collegiate secretary, and giving him her address. This struck Raskolnikov as strange: he had just come from there, and now they were talking about the very same person. Of course, it was a coincidence, but he was already gripped by an unusual feeling, and now it seemed as if someone were handing him exactly what he needed—the student suddenly began sharing various details about this Alyona Ivanovna with his companion.

But Raskolnikov had lately grown superstitious. Traces of superstition remained in him for a long time afterwards, almost indelibly. And in the whole affair, he would always later perceive a certain oddness, a kind of mystery, as if there were some special influences and coincidences at play. Back in winter, a fellow student of his, Pokorev, leaving for Kharkov, had once casually mentioned to him the address of the old woman, Alyona Ivanovna, in case he ever needed to pawn something. He hadn't gone to her for a long while, as he was giving lessons and somehow managing to get by. About a month and a half ago, he remembered the address. He had two items suitable for pawning: his late father's old silver watch and a small gold ring with three odd red stones, a parting gift from his sister, kept as a keepsake. He decided to take the ring. After finding the old woman, he felt an irresistible repulsion toward her at first glance—though he knew nothing special about her yet—collected two small banknotes from her, and on his way out stopped at a shabby little tavern. He ordered tea, sat down, and fell into deep thought. A strange idea was beginning to hatch in his mind, like a chick from an egg, and it gripped him intensely, profoundly.

Later, Raskolnikov happened to learn why the townsman and the woman had invited Lizaveta to their place. It was a simple, common matter with nothing particularly unusual about it. A poor, visiting family was selling household items, clothing, and other women's things. As selling at the market was not profitable, they were looking for a woman trader, and Lizaveta did such work—she took commissions, ran errands, and had plenty of experience, because she was extremely honest and always quoted the true price: whatever price she named, that's what it was. Generally, she spoke very little, and, as already mentioned, was humble and timid by nature…

Certainly, even if he had to wait for years for a suitable opportunity, having conceived the plan, he could hardly count on a more obvious step towards its success than the one that had suddenly presented itself now. At any rate, it would have been difficult to know the day before, with certainty, greater precision, and minimal risk—without any dangerous questioning or inquiries—that tomorrow, at such-and-such an hour, the old woman targeted for the attack would be home entirely alone.

Only a few steps remained to his flat. He entered as one condemned to death. He reasoned about nothing, could reason about nothing; but suddenly, with his whole being, he felt that he had no more freedom of mind, no will of his own, and that everything had suddenly been decided once and for all.

"Yes, this time don't say a word to Alyona Ivanovna," interrupted the husband, "that's my advice. Just drop by our place unannounced. It'll be convenient. Later, your sister will understand on her own." "Should I come over?" "At seven o'clock tomorrow; the others will have arrived by then; you can decide matters in person." "We'll even have the samovar ready," added the wife. "Alright, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still thinking it over, and slowly began to move away. Raskolnikov had already passed by and heard no more. He walked quietly, unnoticed, careful not to miss a single word. His initial surprise gradually gave way to horror, as if a chill had run down his spine. He had found out—he had suddenly, completely unexpectedly discovered—that tomorrow, exactly at seven in the evening, Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and her only companion, would be out of the house, and therefore, the old woman would be alone exactly at seven in the evening.

– You should decide for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna, – said the townsman loudly. – Do come tomorrow, around seven o'clock. They'll be there too. – Tomorrow? – Lizaveta said slowly and thoughtfully, as if she couldn't make up her mind. – My word, how frightened Alena Ivanovna has made you! – chattered the trader's wife, a sharp-tongued woman. – Just look at you, you're as timid as a little child. She's not even your real sister, only a step-sister, and yet see how she bosses you around!

It was about nine o'clock when he walked past Sena Square. Shopkeepers at stalls, tables, and shops were shutting up, packing away their wares, and heading home, just like their customers. Around the eating houses on the ground floors, in the dirty and smelly courtyards of Sena Square buildings—and especially near the liquor shops—crowds of workers and ragged people of all sorts gathered. Raskolnikov particularly liked these places and the nearby lanes when he wandered the streets without any purpose. Here, his tattered clothes drew no haughty glances, and one could walk about in any state without offending anyone. Near K- Lane, at the corner, a petty trader and his wife were selling goods—thread, ribbons, cotton handkerchiefs, and such—from two tables. They were packing up to go home but had paused to chat with an acquaintance who had just arrived. The woman was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or simply Lizaveta, as everyone called her—the younger sister of that very Alena Ivanovna, the retired clerical officer and moneylender, at whose place Raskolnikov had been the day before to pawn his watch and make a certain inquiry. He had long known everything about this Lizaveta, and she, in fact, knew a little about him too. She was a tall, clumsy, timid, and meek girl, almost considered simple-minded, aged thirty-five, completely enslaved by her sister, working for her day and night, trembling in fear of her, and even enduring beatings from her. She stood there pondering, holding a bundle, in front of the trader and his wife, listening attentively. They were explaining something to her with unusual earnestness. When Raskolnikov suddenly saw her, a strange sensation, something like profound astonishment, came over him—though there was really nothing astonishing in this meeting.

As if someone had been lying in wait for him on purpose!

Precisely: he simply couldn't understand or explain to himself why he, tired and worn out as he was, for whom it would have been most convenient to return home by the shortest and most direct route, had instead gone back via Sennaya Square, where he had absolutely no need to go. The detour was small, yet clearly unnecessary. Of course, dozens of times he had returned home without remembering the streets he'd taken. But why, he always asked himself, why did such a significant, such a decisive encounter for him—yet at the same time so utterly accidental—occur at Sennaya, a place he didn't even need to pass through, just now, at this particular hour, at this very moment in his life, exactly when his state of mind and his circumstances were such that only then could this meeting have the most decisive and final impact on his entire fate?

Crossing the bridge, he quietly and calmly looked at the Neva, at the brilliant sunset of a bright red sun. Despite his weakness, he did not even feel tired. It was as if a sore that had been festering in his heart for a whole month had suddenly burst. Freedom, freedom! He was now free from those spells, from the sorcery, charm, and enchantment! Later, when he recalled that time and everything that had happened to him during those days—moment by moment, point by point, detail by detail—there was always one circumstance that struck him superstitiously, though in reality it was not very extraordinary, yet which afterwards seemed to him to be somehow like a predestination of his fate.

He stood up, looked around in surprise, as though astonished at having come here, and walked towards the T– bridge. He was pale, his eyes were burning, and exhaustion weighed upon every limb; but suddenly he felt as though breathing more easily. He sensed that he had at last cast off the terrible burden that had long oppressed him, and his soul became suddenly light and peaceful. "Lord!" he prayed, "show me my path, and I renounce this accursed... dream of mine!"

"But what is wrong with me! — he continued, speaking again, almost in deep amazement — I myself knew I couldn't bear it, so why have I kept torturing myself all this time? I realised it clearly yesterday, yes, even yesterday when I went to carry out that... I understood only yesterday that I wouldn't be able to endure it... Why am I still hesitating now? Why did I doubt for so long? Even yesterday, as I was coming down the stairs, I myself said it was base, despicable, vile, utterly contemptible... The very thought made me sick and filled me with horror... No, I can't bear it, I simply can't endure it! Let it be — let there be no doubt at all in all these calculations, let every plan made over this past month be as clear as daylight, as certain as arithmetic. But my God, I still won't have the courage! I still won't be able to go through with it! I can't endure it, I can't bear it!... Then why, why have I still... until now..." <|endoftext|>

His whole body felt shattered; his soul was clouded and dark. He rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in both hands. "God!" he cried, "Could it really be? Could I really pick up an axe, strike her on the head, crush her skull, slip in the sticky, warm blood, break open the lock, steal, tremble—hide myself, drenched all over in blood—with an axe in hand? Lord, is this really possible?" He trembled like a leaf as he spoke.

But the poor boy no longer remembers himself. Shouting, he pushes through the crowd toward the mare, throws his arms around her dead, bloodied face, and kisses her, kisses her eyes, her lips… Then suddenly he jumps up and in a frenzy hurls his little fists at Mikolka. At that moment, his father—who had been chasing after him for a long while—finally catches him and carries him out of the crowd. – Come on! Come on! – he tells him. – Let’s go home! – Daddy! Why did they… kill the poor horse! – he sobs, but his breath catches, and the words burst out in screams from his tight, aching chest. – Drunkards, they’re up to mischief, nothing to do with us, let’s go! – says the father. The boy clings to his father, but his chest feels so tight, so constricted. He tries to catch his breath, to cry out—and wakes up. He woke up drenched in sweat, his hair soaked, gasping for air, and sprang up in terror. – Thank God, it was only a dream! – he said, sitting up under the tree and breathing deeply. – But what was that? Could it be a fever coming on? Such a dreadful dream!

"My property!" shouts Mikolka, standing with a crowbar in hand and bloodshot eyes, as if regretting there's no one left to beat. "Indeed, you must have no cross on you!" many voices from the crowd now shout back.

– She'll drop any moment now, mates, this is the end of her! – shouts one spectator from the crowd. – Give her a blow with an axe, why don't you! Finish her off at once! – yells another. – Arre, bloody mosquitoes! Get out of the way! – roars Mikolka furiously, throws down the shaft, bends into the cart again, and pulls out an iron crowbar. – Watch out! – he shouts, and brings the bar down with full force on his poor nag. The blow lands heavily; the mare staggers, sags down, tries to pull forward, but the bar swings again and crashes onto her back—she collapses to the ground as if all four legs had been chopped off at once. – Finish her off! – screams Mikolka, leaping out of the cart like a madman. Several lads, flushed and drunk, grab whatever they can find—whips, sticks, the shaft—and rush toward the dying mare. Mikolka positions himself at her side and starts beating her back senselessly with the crowbar. The horse stretches out her muzzle, heaves a deep groan, and dies. – He's done her in! – cry voices from the crowd. – What use was she anyway, couldn't even gallop!

– Beat her, beat her! Why have you stopped? – voices from the crowd shout. And Mikolka swings again, bringing down another full-force blow on the back of the wretched mare. The horse sinks down completely on her haunches, but leaps up and pulls, pulls with all her failing strength in every direction to move forward; but from all sides she is met with six whips at once, and the shaft rises again and falls for the third time, then the fourth, steady and hard with full force. Mikolka is furious that he cannot kill her with a single blow. – Tough one! – people cry all around.

– A song, brothers! – someone shouts from the cart, and everyone in it joins in. A boisterous song rings out, a tambourine jingles, whistles pierce through the chorus. A little woman cracks nuts and giggles. …He runs beside the mare, darts ahead, sees her being lashed right in the eyes, straight in the eyes! He weeps. His heart swells, tears stream down. One of the men strikes him across the face; he doesn't feel it. He wrings his hands, screams, rushes to an old grey-bearded man shaking his head and condemning it all. A woman grabs his hand, tries to pull him away, but he breaks free and runs back to the mare. She's making her final efforts, yet still kicks out once more. – May the devil take you! – roars Mikolka in fury. He throws down the whip, bends over and pulls from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, grips it with both hands at one end, and swings it heavily over the dun mare. – He'll do it! – voices shout around. – He'll kill her! – It's my property! – screams Mikolka, bringing the shaft down with full force. A heavy thud echoes through the air.

Suddenly, a loud burst of laughter erupts and drowns everything: the poor mare, unable to bear the repeated blows, begins kicking helplessly. Even the old man can't hold back and smirks. Indeed, such a wretched creature, yet still it kicks! Two young men from the crowd grab whips and rush to flog the horse from either side. Each runs to strike from their own flank. "Hit her in the face, in the eyes—lash her in the eyes!" shouts Mikhalka.

– Let me in too, brothers! – shouts a tipsy young man from the crowd. – Get on, everyone get on! – yells Mikolka. – I'll give a ride to all! I'll whip her! – And he thrashes and lashes wildly, no longer knowing what or why he's hitting in his fury. – Papa, papa! – the child cries to his father. – Papa, what are they doing? Papa, they're beating the poor horse! – Come on, come on! – says the father. – They're drunk, acting mad, fools! Let's go, don't look! – He tries to pull the child away, but the boy breaks free and, beside himself, runs straight to the horse. But the poor animal is already in bad shape. She's gasping, stumbles, jerks forward again, nearly collapsing. – Beat her to death! – screams Mikolka. – That's what she's here for! I'll whip her down! – Don't you fear God, you demon! – shouts an old man from the crowd. – Ever seen such a poor horse pull such a load? – adds another. – You'll kill her! – yells a third. – Hands off! She's mine! I can do what I like! Get on, more of you! Everyone get on! I want her to gallop, I tell you—gallop!

Laughter in the cart and among the onlookers doubles, but Mikolka grows angry and, in a furious rage, lashes the mare harder and faster, as if really believing she’ll suddenly break into a gallop.

One by one, everyone climbs into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and cracking jokes. Six men are already in, and there’s still room for more. They take along a woman—plump and rosy-faced, dressed in bright cotton, wearing a beaded headdress, with woolen socks on her feet, cracking nuts and giggling. The crowd around laughs too, and truly, how could they not? Such a bulky mare being expected to gallop under such a load! Two lads in the cart grab whips right away to help Mikolka. A shout of “Now!” goes up, the poor mare strains with all her might, but galloping is out of the question—she can barely manage a slow shuffle, her legs trembling, groaning and buckling under the hail of lashes from three whips raining down on her like peas.

– Sit, I’ll take everyone! – Mikolka shouts again, jumping into the cart first, grabbing the reins and standing upright on the front seat. – The bay’s gone with Matvey, – he yells from the cart, – but this mare here, brothers, only breaks my heart: I’d kill her right now, the way she eats bread for nothing. I said, sit down! I’ll make her gallop! She’ll go full speed! – And he takes the whip in his hand, eagerly preparing to lash the skinny horse. – Come on, sit! – the crowd laughs. – Hear that? Full gallop! – She hasn’t galloped in ten years, probably. – She’ll start now! – Don’t spare her, brothers, grab your whips, get ready! – That’s right! Flog her!

– This old nag will surely pull! – Hey, Mikolka, have you lost your mind? Yoking such a mare to a cart like that! – That chestnut horse must be at least twenty years old, mates!

Yet each time he visited the cemetery, he would devoutly and respectfully make the sign of the cross over the tiny grave, bow deeply before it, and kiss it. And now in his dream: he is walking with his father along the road to the cemetery, passing by the tavern. He holds his father’s hand and turns fearfully to look at the tavern. Something unusual catches his attention: this time, it seems to be a celebration, a crowd of townspeople and women in their festival clothes, their husbands, and all sorts of riffraff. Everyone is drunk, singing songs, and near the tavern porch stands a cart—but a strange one. It is one of those large carts meant for big dray horses, the kind used to haul goods and wine casks. He had always loved watching those enormous draft horses, long-maned, with thick legs, walking slowly and steadily, pulling mountainous loads without strain, as if they found it easier to go with a load than without. But now, oddly enough, a tiny, thin, scrubby peasant nag was harnessed to this large cart—one of those poor beasts he had often seen straining desperately under a high load of firewood or hay, especially when the cart got stuck in mud or a rut, and then beaten cruelly, so painfully, by peasants with whips, sometimes even across the face and eyes. The sight always made him feel so sorry, so heartbroken, that he nearly cried; and his mother would usually turn him away from the window. But suddenly, all became noisy and chaotic: from the tavern burst out drunken, wildly drunk men in red and blue shirts, wearing loose coats over their shoulders. "Come on, get in, all of you!" shouted one, still young, with a thick neck and a heavy, beet-red face. "I'll take everyone, hop in!" Immediately, laughter and cries broke out:

Raskolnikov had a terrible dream. He dreamt he was a child again, just seven years old, walking with his father outside their little town on a holiday evening. The sky was dull, the air heavy and close, and the landscape looked exactly as it had remained in his memory—though actually, in memory, it had faded far more than it now appeared in his dream. The town lay open, bare as the palm of a hand, with no poplars around; far, far away, right at the edge of the sky, a small forest loomed darkly. A few steps beyond the last town garden stood a tavern, a large one, which had always frightened him dreadfully whenever he passed it with his father. There was always such a crowd there, such shouting, laughter, swearing, such ugly, hoarse singing, and frequent fights. Drunk, terrifying faces wandered about the tavern, and whenever he saw them, he would press close to his father and tremble all over. Alongside the tavern ran a country path, always dusty, and the dust was always so black. The path wound on ahead and about three hundred paces farther turned right towards the town cemetery. In the middle of the cemetery stood a stone church with a green dome—only twice a year he had visited it with his parents for memorial services for his grandmother, who had died long ago and whom he had never seen alive. They always brought kutia on a white plate wrapped in a napkin—sweet rice with raisins pressed into it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, its old icons mostly without casings, and the elderly priest with his trembling head. Near his grandmother’s grave, marked by a slab, was a small grave of his little brother who had died at six months old—someone had told him about the brother, though he had never known or remembered him.

In a state of illness, dreams often have an extraordinary vividness, intensity, and striking resemblance to reality. Sometimes a horrifying scene unfolds, yet the setting and the entire course of the vision are so lifelike, with such subtle, unexpected, yet artistically fitting details, that the very same person who dreamt it could never invent them while awake—even if he were a writer of the calibre of Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, born of illness, are remembered for a long time and leave a powerful impression on a person's weakened and already agitated system.

He finished it again while walking. He hadn't drunk vodka in a very long time, and even that single shot hit him quickly. Suddenly his legs grew heavy, and he felt an overwhelming drowsiness. He headed home; but having reached Petrovsky Island, he collapsed from exhaustion, stepped off the road, entered a thicket, fell onto the grass, and instantly fell asleep.

A feverish tremor seized him, turning into something almost like a chill; despite the heat, he felt cold. Almost involuntarily, as if driven by some inner compulsion, he began to scan every object around him, as though desperately seeking distraction—but it hardly worked, and he kept slipping into deep thought. Whenever he suddenly raised his head, shivering, and looked around, he would immediately forget what he had just been thinking, even where he was walking. In this manner he crossed Vasilevsky Island, crossed the Little Neva by the bridge, and turned towards the Summer Gardens. At first, the greenery and freshness pleased his weary eyes, long accustomed to city dust, brick walls, and the massive, crowded, oppressive buildings. Here, there was no stifling air, no stench, no liquor stalls. But soon even these new, pleasant sensations turned painful and irritating. Occasionally, he stopped before one of the ornate country houses surrounded by greenery, peered through the fence, and saw well-dressed women on balconies and terraces, children running in the garden. He was particularly drawn to the flowers, gazing at them the longest. He also passed luxurious carriages, riders on horseback—men and women—whom he followed with idle curiosity, forgetting them even before they disappeared from sight. Once, he stopped and counted his money: about thirty kopecks. "Twenty for the constable, three for Nastasya for the letter—so I gave Marmeladov yesterday about forty-seven or fifty kopecks," he thought, calculating for some reason, but soon forgot why he had even taken the money from his pocket. He remembered only while passing a small eatery, similar to a roadside tavern, and realized he was hungry. Entering, he drank a shot of vodka and ate a pie filled with something.

He left the bench and began walking, almost running; he thought of turning back, heading home, but suddenly going home felt terribly repulsive—the very place, that corner, that dreadful cupboard where everything had been brewing for over a month—and so he walked on, aimlessly, wherever his eyes led him.

The question of why he was now going to Razumikhin troubled him far more than he had even realised; anxiously, he sought some ominous meaning in what seemed such an ordinary act. "What? Could it be that I wanted to set everything right through Razumikhin alone, and saw my entire way out in Razumikhin?" he asked himself in surprise. He thought, rubbing his forehead, and strangely, almost casually, after a long silence, a most peculiar thought suddenly came to him. "Hm... to Razumikhin," he said suddenly, quite calmly, as if reaching a final decision, "yes, I will go to Razumikhin—that's certain... but—not now. I'll go to him... the day after, once it's all done, when everything begins anew..." And suddenly he came to his senses. "After!" he cried out, jumping up from the bench. "But will it even happen? Can it really happen?"

V "I did recently think of asking Razumikhin for work—maybe he could find me some tutoring or something," mused Raskolnikov. "But how can he possibly help me now? Suppose he does get me some lessons. Suppose he even shares his last penny—if he has a penny—and I can buy new shoes, mend my clothes to look presentable for the classes... hmmm. But then what? What good will a few paise do me? Is that really what I need now? Honestly, it's ridiculous that I even came to Razumikhin."

Razumikhin saw him, but passed by without stopping, not wanting to trouble him.

For some reason, he had grown closer to Razumikhin—though not exactly “closer,” but simply more communicative and open with him. Still, it was nearly impossible to have any other kind of relationship with Razumikhin. He was an extraordinarily cheerful and talkative young man, kind to the point of simplicity. Yet beneath this simplicity lay depth and dignity. The best of his classmates understood this, and everyone liked him. He was far from foolish, though he could indeed seem naïve at times. His appearance was striking—tall, thin, always poorly shaved, with dark hair. Occasionally, he could be rowdy and was known as a strong man. Once, at night during a gathering, he knocked down a watchman twelve vershoks tall with a single punch. He could drink endlessly, but could also abstain completely; sometimes he'd behave outrageously, yet at other times he wouldn't misbehave at all. What also made Razumikhin remarkable was that no misfortune ever disturbed him, and no hardship seemed capable of crushing his spirit. He could live even on a rooftop, endure terrible hunger and extreme cold. He was very poor and entirely on his own, supporting himself through odd jobs. He knew countless ways to earn a little money. One winter, he didn't heat his room at all and insisted it was even more pleasant, because one slept better in the cold. At present, he had also been forced to leave the university, though only temporarily, and was now doing everything possible to improve his situation so he could resume his studies. Raskolnikov hadn't visited him in nearly four months, and Razumikhin didn't even know where he lived. Once, about two months earlier, they had met on the street, but Raskolnikov turned away and even crossed to the other side so as not to be noticed.

He was surprised at himself. Razumikhin was one of his former university classmates. It was remarkable that during his time at the university, Razumikhin had hardly any companions—Raskolnikov kept aloof from everyone, never visited anyone, and found it difficult to receive guests. Gradually, others also drifted away from him. He took no part in group gatherings, conversations, amusements, or anything of the sort. He studied intensely, without sparing himself, and for this he was respected—but not liked. He was very poor, and had a kind of proud, aloof manner, rarely speaking about himself. It seemed to some of his fellow students that he looked down on all of them as if they were children, as though he were far ahead of them in development, knowledge, and convictions, and regarded their beliefs and interests as something inferior.

Where am I even going?—he suddenly wondered. Strange. I set out for some reason. The moment I read the letter, I just went... I went to Vasilyevsky Island, to Razumikhin—that's where. Now I remember. But why, exactly? And how did the thought of going to Razumikhin occur to me just now? That's remarkable.

A certain percentage, they say, must vanish every year... somewhere... to the devil, probably, so the rest can stay fresh and untroubled. Percentage! How clever their little words are—so soothing, so scientific. Say 'percentage,' and there's nothing to worry about. If only some other word were used, then... well, perhaps it would trouble us more. But what if Dunya too ends up in that percentage somehow!... Not this one, then another?..."

Poor little girl!..." he said, looking at the empty corner of the bench. "She'll come to, cry a while, and then her mother will find out... First she'll beat her, then thrash her painfully and shamefully—perhaps even turn her out. And if not turned out, still Darya Frantsevna will get wind of it, and then my poor girl will start sneaking around here and there... Then straight to the hospital (that's always the way with those girls who live so decently and quietly under their mothers' roofs, then go astray). And from there—back to hospital again... Then liquor... Taverns... and yet another hospital... In two or three years—crippled, her whole life gone, though she's only eighteen or nineteen years old... Haven't I seen such cases? And how did they end up like that? Exactly like this... Pah! Let it be. They say this is how it should be.

– Aiyyo! – exclaimed the clerk, waving his hand dismissively, and walked off after the dandy and the girl, clearly taking Raskolnikov either for a lunatic or something even worse. "He took my twenty kopecks," Raskolnikov muttered bitterly, left alone. "Well, let him take her too, and be done with it—let that be the end. What did I go meddling for? Am I the one to help? Do I even have the right to help? Let them devour each other alive—what’s it to me? And how dared I give away those twenty kopecks? Are they even mine?" Despite these strange words, he felt extremely heavy-hearted. He sat down on the abandoned bench. His thoughts were scattered... In fact, it was painful for him to think of anything at that moment. He wished he could just lose consciousness, forget everything, then wake up and begin anew, completely from scratch...

– Oh, the kind of debauchery going on these days! – he repeated aloud, sighing. At that moment, something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant, he felt completely transformed. – Hey, you there! – he shouted after the moustached man. The man turned around. – Leave it, what do you want? Mind your own business! Let him enjoy himself (he pointed at the dandy). What's it to you? The policeman didn't understand and stared wide-eyed. Raskolnikov burst out laughing.

– The main thing is, don't let this scoundrel get near her! Who knows what more he might do to her! You can see clearly what he's after—look at the rogue, won't leave her alone! Raskolnikov was speaking loudly and pointing straight at him. The man heard this and almost got angry, but then thought better of it and merely gave a contemptuous look. Slowly, he walked away about ten paces and stopped again. – We could certainly prevent them, sir, – replied the non-commissioned officer thoughtfully. – If only they'd say where they'd like to be taken, but as it is… Miss, miss! – he leaned down again. Suddenly, she opened her eyes fully, looked at him attentively as if understanding something, stood up from the bench, and started walking back in the direction she had come from. – Ugh, shameless men, bothering me! – she muttered, waving her hand once more. She walked quickly, but still staggered badly as before. The dandy followed her, though staying on the other pathway, his eyes fixed on her. – Don't worry, sir, I won't let him, – said the moustached officer firmly, and set off after them.

– Oh, what shame there is in the world these days, Lord! Such a simple girl, and already drunk! Clearly she's been deceived! Look, her dress is all torn… Oh, how immorality has spread these days!... But she might well be from a decent family, perhaps poor gentry... So many such girls these days. Outwardly delicate, like a proper young lady – and again he bent over her. Perhaps he, too, had daughters growing up like that – "delicate as young ladies," genteel in manner, already picking up fashionable airs and graces.

"Listen," said Raskolnikov, "here—" (he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out twenty kopecks; he had just enough) "—take a cab and have her delivered to her address. Only we need to find out the address first!" "Miss, miss!" the policeman began again, accepting the money, "I'll arrange a cab for you straight away and accompany you myself. Where to, miss? Where's your residence?" "Go away... stop bothering!" muttered the girl, waving her hand again. "Oh, how improper! How shameful, miss, how very shameful indeed!" He shook his head in disapproval, pity, and indignation. "Now what a situation!" he said to Raskolnikov, quickly glancing him over from head to toe. The man certainly looked strange: dressed in rags, yet handing out money! "How far from here did you find her?" he asked. "Just told you—she was walking ahead of me, staggering, right here on the boulevard. When she reached the bench, she just collapsed."

The policeman instantly understood and figured it out. The stout gentleman was clear enough—now only the girl remained. The officer bent closer to take a proper look at her, and genuine pity showed on his face. "Ah, what a pity!" he said, shaking his head. "Still just a child. Been deceived, that's plain. Excuse me, madam," he began calling to her, "where do you live?" The girl opened her tired, dull eyes, stared blankly at those questioning her, and waved her hand dismissively.

Look here, see that woman—dead drunk, just walking along the boulevard. Nobody knows who she is or where she's from, doesn't seem like she's in the trade. Most likely someone got her drunk, deceived her—probably her first time, you understand?—then just threw her out onto the street. Look at her dress, torn to pieces. See how it's put on? Someone dressed her, not herself—clumsy hands, a man's hands, clearly. Just watch now—this dandy over there, the one I nearly fought with, I've never seen him before. But he's spotted her too, sees she's drunk, helpless, not even aware of herself, and now he's desperate to go up, grab her, take her somewhere… And it's certain, I'm telling you—believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I saw him watching her closely, following her steps, but I got in his way. Now he's just waiting for me to leave. See, he's stepped back a little, standing there pretending to roll a cigarette… How can we stop him? How can we get her home safely—just think about it!

And, grabbing the policeman by the arm, he dragged him towards the bench.

"Hey, Svidrigailov! What do you want here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing through lips foaming with rage. "What is the meaning of this?" asked the gentleman sternly, frowning and looking down at him in astonishment. "Get out, that's what!" "How dare you, you rascal?!" And he raised his whip. Raskolnikov flew at him with bare fists, without even considering that the sturdy man could easily handle two like him. But just then someone firmly seized Raskolnikov from behind, and a police constable stepped between them. "That's enough, gentlemen! No fighting in public places. What's going on? Who are you?" the constable demanded sharply, eyeing Raskolnikov's ragged clothes. Raskolnikov looked at him closely. It was a smart soldier's face, with grey moustache and side-whiskers, and a sensible expression. "It's you I need," Raskolnikov cried, grabbing his arm. "I'm a former student, Raskolnikov... This you may also know," he turned to the gentleman, "but come with me—I'll show you something..."

Raskolnikov did not sit down and had no intention of leaving; he stood before her, puzzled. The embankment was usually deserted, but now, at two o'clock in such scorching heat, there was almost no one around. Yet, off to the side, about fifteen paces away at the edge of the path, stood a gentleman who clearly had his own intentions towards the girl. He, too, had probably spotted her from afar and chased after her, but Raskolnikov had spoiled his plans. He kept shooting angry glances at him, trying not to be noticed, impatiently waiting for the annoying ragamuffin to go away. The situation was obvious. The man was about thirty, stout, plump, with a healthy glow, rosy lips, a small moustache, and dressed very smartly. Raskolnikov grew furious; suddenly, he felt an urge to somehow insult this well-dressed, well-fed dandy. For a moment, he left the girl and walked straight up to the man.

The girl appeared to understand very little; she had tucked one leg behind the other in a way that exposed it far more than proper, and clearly had little awareness that she was out on the street.

As he looked out for a bench, he noticed a woman walking about twenty paces ahead of him, but at first paid no attention to her—just as he had disregarded all the other things passing before him so far. He had often walked home before without remembering the route he had taken, and had grown used to such absent-minded walking. But there was something strange about this woman, something immediately noticeable, so that gradually his attention began to fix on her—first unwillingly and almost irritably, then more and more insistently. He suddenly felt a strong desire to understand what exactly was so odd about her. For one thing, she must have been a very young girl, walking in such heat without a hat, umbrella, or gloves, oddly swinging her arms. She wore a silk dress made of light fabric ("cotton-like"), but it was put on in a peculiar way—scarcely fastened, and torn at the waist in the back, right at the start of the skirt; a whole flap hung loose and dangled. A small kerchief was thrown over her bare neck, but it stuck out crookedly and sideways. To cap it all, the girl walked unsteadily, stumbling and even swaying from side to side. This encounter finally captured Raskolnikov’s full attention. He drew near the girl just as she reached the bench, but when she got to it, she simply collapsed into a corner, threw her head back against the bench’s backrest, and closed her eyes, clearly from extreme exhaustion. Looking closely at her, he immediately realized she was completely drunk. It was strange and shocking to see such a sight. He even wondered if he could be mistaken. Before him was an extremely youthful face—about sixteen years old, perhaps even only fifteen—small, fair-haired, pretty, but flushed all over and seemingly swollen.

He quickly looked around, searching for something. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a bench; he was walking along K. Boulevard at the time. A bench was visible ahead, about a hundred paces away. He hurried towards it as fast as he could. But on the way, a small incident occurred, which for a few minutes captured his entire attention.

"Or to give up life altogether!" he suddenly cried out in anguish, "to meekly accept one's fate as it is, once and for all, and to crush everything within oneself, renouncing every right to act, to live, to love!" "Do you understand, do you understand, sir," a thought suddenly flashed back to him—the question Marmeladov had asked yesterday—"what it means when there is nowhere left to go? For every man must have at least some place he can go..." Suddenly he shuddered: another thought, also from yesterday, darted through his mind. But he shuddered not merely because the thought had come—he knew it would come, had been expecting it. Indeed, this thought was not really from yesterday at all. The difference was that a month ago, even yesterday, it had still been just a dream. But now—now it had suddenly appeared not as a dream, but in some new, terrifying, and utterly unfamiliar form, and he had suddenly become fully aware of it... His heart pounded, and darkness clouded his eyes.

He tormented himself with these questions, even teasing himself with them, almost with a kind of pleasure. Yet, all these questions were not new, not sudden, but old, painful, long-standing ones. They had long been tormenting him, tearing at his heart. This present anguish had taken root in him long ago, gradually growing, gathering strength until recently, when it had ripened and become focused into a terrible, wild, and fantastic question that now haunted his heart and mind, demanding an answer he could not escape. And now, his mother's letter had struck him like a bolt from the blue. It was clear that he could no longer afford to merely brood or suffer passively, debating that the questions were unsolvable—he must act, and immediately, without delay. He had to make a decision at all costs, one way or another.

He suddenly woke up and stopped. "Not going to happen? But what will you do to prevent it? Forbid it? And what right do you have to do that? What can you promise them in return, to have such a right? To devote your whole life, your entire future to them? We’ve heard that before, but what about now? Something must be done right now—you understand that, don’t you? And what are you doing now? You’re only robbing them yourself. Those very hundred-rouble pensions, those very pledges taken under the name of landlords like Svidrigailov—they come from the likes of Svidrigailov, from Afanasy Ivanovich Vahrushin! How will you protect them from such people, you future millionaire, you Zeus who thinks he controls their fate? In ten years? But in ten years, your mother will have gone blind from stitching kerchiefs, perhaps even from weeping; she’ll have wasted away from fasting. And your sister? Come on, imagine—what could happen to her in the next ten years, or even within these ten years? Figured it out?"

Do you understand that Luzhin’s “purity” is no different from Sonetchka’s, and perhaps even worse, filthier, baser—because you, Dounia, at least stand to gain some extra comfort, whereas there, it’s simply a matter of starving to death! “It costs dearly, dearly, Dounia, this purity!” What if later it becomes too much, and you regret it? How much sorrow, grief, curses, how many tears hidden from everyone—because you’re not Marfa Petrovna, after all! And what will happen to Mother then? She’s already uneasy, tormented now—what will she do when she sees everything clearly? And what about me?… What did you really think of me? I don’t want your sacrifice, Dounia, I won’t have it, Mother! It shall never happen, as long as I live—never, never! I won’t allow it!”

How could she not sacrifice even such a daughter for such a son? Oh, dear, misguided hearts! Tell me, would we perhaps even accept Sonetchka’s fate? Sonetchka, Sonetchka Marmeladova, eternal Sonetchka, as long as the world stands! But have you measured the full cost of this sacrifice? Have you weighed it properly? Is it within your strength? Will it truly bring good? Is it even reasonable? Do you know, Dounia, that Sonetchka’s fate is no worse than marrying Mr. Luzhin? “There can be no love here,” Mother writes. But what if, apart from love, there’s no respect either—only disgust, contempt, revulsion? Then what? Then, it seems, the sacrifice must still be made. Isn’t that so? Do you understand—do you truly understand what your purity means?

At such a moment, we’ll crush our moral sense; we’ll take our peace of mind, even our conscience—everything, absolutely everything—and haul it off to the marketplace. Let life be ruined—so long as our beloved ones are happy! And worse, we’ll invent our own sophistry, learn from the Jesuits, perhaps even temporarily pacify ourselves, convince ourselves that it must be so, truly must be for a noble cause. That’s exactly what we are, and everything is as clear as daylight. It’s clear that no one else is at the center of this but Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. Why, of course—his happiness can be secured, he can be supported through university, made a clerk in an office, his whole future assured; later, he may even become wealthy, respected, honoured—perhaps end his days as a famous man! And Mother? Why, Rodya, precious Rodya, her firstborn!

It’s hard to wander the provinces as a governess for two hundred rubles a year, but I still know that my sister would rather go as a slave to a plantation owner in the Americas, or serve a Baltic German landlord, than debase her spirit and moral conscience by binding herself for life to a man she doesn’t respect and has nothing in common with—just for personal comfort! She’d refuse to become the lawful mistress of Mr. Luzhin, even if he were made entirely of purest gold or solid diamonds! So why then is she agreeing now? What’s the trick? What’s the explanation? The answer’s clear: she won’t sell herself for her own comfort, not even to save her life, but she’ll sell herself for another! For someone dear, beloved! That’s the whole trick—it’s for her brother, for her mother she sells herself! She’ll sacrifice everything!

Well, let’s suppose he “let it slip,” though he’s a rational man (so perhaps it wasn’t a slip at all, but a deliberate move to clarify his position quickly)—but Dounia, Dounia? She sees the man clearly, yet she’s meant to live with him? She’d rather eat dry bread and drink water than sell her soul, never surrender her moral freedom—not even for all of Schleswig-Holstein, let alone for Mr. Luzhin! No, Dounia was never that sort, as far as I’ve known her, and… well, of course, she hasn’t changed now! What’s there to say! Svidrigailovs are hard enough to bear.

…Well, let my mother be—so be it, God bless her, she's always been like that—but what about Dunya? Dounia, my dear, I know you! I understood your character even two years ago, when we last met. Mother writes that “Dounia can endure much.” I knew that. I’ve known it for two and a half years, and ever since then I've thought—exactly this—that “Dounia can endure much.” If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigailov, with all that entailed, then indeed, she can endure a great deal. And now, together with Mother, you’ve gone and imagined she can also endure Mr. Luzhin, who preaches a theory about the advantages of marrying women from poverty who are beholden to their husbands for their prosperity—and preaches it, mind you, almost at their very first meeting!

What does she hope to live on in Petersburg later? Has she already guessed, for some reason, that she'll be living with Dunya after the marriage, even at first? Surely that 'dear man' must have revealed himself somehow, although mother waves it off with both hands: 'I'll refuse it myself,' she says. But what, then, does she rely on? On her one hundred and twenty roubles pension, after repaying Afanasy Ivanovich? Knitting winter shawls there, embroidering cuffs, ruining her old eyes. But I know for certain that shawls add only twenty roubles a year to her one hundred and twenty. So they still hope in Mr. Luzhin's noble feelings: 'He'll offer it himself, beg us to accept.' Keep dreaming! This is always how these Shillerian noble souls behave: right up to the last moment, they dress a man in peacock feathers, hope for the best till the very end; though they sense the other side of the coin, they refuse to utter the truth even to themselves—just the thought of it disgusts them; with both hands they push reality away, until the very man they've decorated slaps them in the face himself. And I wonder, does Mr. Luzhin have any decorations? I'd bet my last rupee he's got the Order of Anna in his lapel, and wears it at contractors' and merchants' banquets. Perhaps even at his own wedding! Well, never mind him!..."

"Hm, it's true," he went on, following the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his head, "it's true that one must 'approach a person gradually and cautiously to understand them'; but Mr. Luzhin is clear enough. Most importantly, he's a 'man of business and kind-hearted'—is that a small thing? Taking responsibility upon himself, sending a big trunk at his own expense! Well, how could he not be kind? And yet, both of them—the mother and sister—are arranging for a peasant's cart, covered with a tarpaulin (I remember travelling like that myself)! Never mind! Only ninety versts, and then 'we shall travel comfortably in third class'—a thousand versts. And how prudent: stretch your legs according to your blanket! But you, Mr. Luzhin, what about you? This is your fiancée after all! Could you possibly not know that the mother has taken a loan against her pension for the journey? Of course, here you've got a joint business arrangement, a venture built on mutual benefits and equal shares—so expenses should be split. Bread and salt together, but tobacco separately, as the saying goes. And even here, this 'man of business' has slightly swindled them: the cost of sending the luggage is less than their travel fare, perhaps even free. Don't they see it, or are they deliberately ignoring it? And yet they're happy, perfectly happy! And when you think of it—these are just the first blossoms, the real fruits are yet to come! What matters here isn't just stinginess or meanness, but the whole attitude. This sets the tone for life after marriage, a prophecy of sorts. And what about mother herself—what extravagance is this? What will she arrive in Petersburg with? Three whole roubles? Or two 'little notes', as that old woman—hmm!—what old woman?

When the matter is already understood without naïve questions, and it’s decided there’s no point discussing it anymore. And why does she write to me: "Love Dunya, Rodya, she loves you more than herself"? Could it be secret pangs of guilt tormenting her for agreeing to sacrifice her daughter for her son? "You are our hope, you are our everything!" Oh, Mother!... Anger rose within him, stronger and stronger, and had Mr. Luzhin met him now, he might well have murdered him!

…But it's interesting, though, why Mother wrote to me about the "new generation"? Was it simply to describe the man's character, or with some ulterior motive—to win me over in favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, how cunning they are! I wonder how frank the two of them were with each other—at that time, that day and night, and in all the days after. Did they say everything openly, or did each understand that they both had the same thing in their hearts and minds, so there was no need to speak it aloud and risk saying too much? Probably it was partly like that. From the letter, it’s clear the man seemed harsh to Mother, and the simple-hearted Mother went straight to Dunya with her observations. Naturally, Dunya got angry and "replied with annoyance." Well, who wouldn’t be furious?

"Because it's such a straightforward matter," he muttered to himself, smirking and already savagely triumphing in advance over his decision. "No, mother dear, no, Dounia, you won't deceive me!... And still they apologise for not consulting me and deciding the matter without me! Of course! They think it's all settled now, impossible to break off—but we'll see whether it's possible or not! What a splendid excuse: 'Such a busy man, Pyotr Petrovich, so extremely busy that he can't even get married except on postal terms, almost by railway mail!' No, Dounetchka, I see and understand everything you're planning to say to me; I know too what you thought through all night, pacing the room, and what you prayed about before the Kazan Mother of God, standing in mother's bedroom. It's hard climbing the Mount of Calvary. Hm... So then, it's finally decided: you're marrying a practical, rational man, Avdotya Romanovna, one with means (with means—that sounds more solid, more respectable), holding two positions and sharing the views of our newest generation (as mother writes), and 'kind-hearted' too, as Dounetchka herself observes. That's simply magnificent! And Dounetchka herself is marrying for exactly that!... Magnificent! Magnificent!..."

The letter from his mother had distressed him. But as for the most important, crucial point, he hadn't a moment's doubt, not even while he was reading the letter. The main issue had already been settled in his mind—decisively and finally: "This marriage shall never happen, as long as I live, and to hell with Mr. Luzhin!"

Yours till death, Pulcheria Raskolnikov. Almost throughout the time Raskolnikov was reading the letter, from the very beginning, his face was wet with tears; but by the time he finished, it had grown pale, twisted by a spasm, and a heavy, bitter, malicious smile crept across his lips. He laid his head on his thin, worn-out pillow and thought—long and deeply. His heart throbbed violently, and his thoughts were in turmoil. At last, the yellow cramped room, like a cupboard or a chest, began to feel suffocatingly narrow and oppressive. His gaze and his thoughts craved space. He snatched up his hat and went out, this time no longer fearing to meet anyone on the staircase—he had simply forgotten about it. He headed towards Vasilievsky Island, along V Prospect, as though hurried there on some urgent business, yet, true to habit, walked without noticing the way, muttering to himself, even speaking aloud, which greatly astonished passers-by. Many took him for a drunkard. IV

I embrace you tightly, tightly, and send you countless kisses.

Enough for now—I’ve filled both sides of two sheets, and there’s no space left. That’s our whole story. But so much has happened! Now, my priceless Rodya, I embrace you in anticipation of our soon meeting and bless you with a mother’s blessing. Love Dunya, your sister, Rodya. Love her as she loves you, and know that she loves you boundlessly, more than herself. She is an angel. And you, Rodya, you are our only hope, our entire future. If only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do you still pray to God, Rodya, as you used to? Do you still believe in the kindness of our Creator and Redeemer? In my heart, I fear you may have been touched by the modern fashion of disbelief. If so, I pray for you. Remember, my dear, how, as a child, when your father was alive, you used to murmur your prayers on my lap, and how happy we all were then! Farewell, or rather, until we meet!

I’d send more, but I must be cautious about our travel expenses. Though Pyotr Petrovich has kindly agreed to cover part of our journey to the capital—specifically, he volunteered to arrange, at his own expense, the transport of our luggage and large trunk (through some connection he has)—still, we must account for our arrival in St. Petersburg, where one cannot appear without even a single rupee, even for the first few days. Dunyasha and I have carefully calculated everything, and it turns out the journey will cost only a little. From here to the railway station is just ninety versts, and we’ve already arranged with a familiar peasant driver as a precaution. From there, Dunyasha and I will travel quite comfortably in third class. So perhaps I’ll manage to send you not twenty-five, but certainly thirty rubles.

Once, jokingly, she said she would agree to marry Pyotr Petrovich just for the sake of seeing you again. She’s an angel! She sends no letter of her own now, but asked me to write that she has so much to say to you—so very much—that she can’t even bring herself to pick up the pen, as nothing meaningful can be said in a few lines, and only her emotions would be stirred. She sends you her warmest embrace and countless kisses. Yet, despite the likelihood of meeting you in person very soon, I shall still send you some money in the coming days—whatever I can manage. Now that everyone knows Dunyasha is to marry Pyotr Petrovich, my credit has suddenly improved. I’m certain Aphanasy Ivanovich will now advance me, against my pension, even up to seventy-five rubles. So I may be able to send you twenty-five, or even thirty rubles.

For now, the most pleasant news I’ve saved for the end: You see, my dear, it’s quite possible we may soon reunite and embrace all three of us again after nearly three years apart! It’s already decided that Dunya and I will travel to St. Petersburg. I don’t yet know the exact date, but certainly very, very soon—perhaps even in a week. Everything depends on Pyotr Petrovich’s arrangements. As soon as he settles in St. Petersburg, he will inform us immediately. For certain practical reasons, he wishes to expedite the wedding ceremony and even plans to have the marriage solemnized during the current meat-eating season, or, if time is too short, immediately after Lent. Oh, with what joy I shall press you to my heart! Dunya is overcome with excitement at the thought of meeting you.

Tell me, my dearest Rodya—based on certain reflections (not at all related to Pyotr Petrovich, but personal, perhaps even old-fashioned, womanly whims of my own)—I feel I might do better living separately after their marriage, just as I do now, rather than under the same roof. I’m fully confident he will be so noble and considerate as to invite me himself and suggest I never part from my daughter again. If he hasn’t mentioned it yet, it’s surely because it’s assumed without words. But I will decline. In life, I’ve often noticed that mothers-in-law are not always welcome in their sons-in-law’s eyes. And I not only wish to be a burden to no one, even in the smallest way, but also desire to remain entirely free, as long as I have even a modest means of support and such children as you and dear Dunyasha. If possible, I’ll settle near both of you.

We’ve avoided this for two reasons: First, it will naturally happen later, and he will surely offer it without needing to be asked (how could he refuse anything to dear Dunyasha?), especially since you could become his right-hand man at the office and receive such support not as charity, but as earned salary. That’s how Dunyasha wants it arranged, and I fully support her. Second, I particularly wanted to place you on equal footing with him during our upcoming meeting. When Dunya spoke of you with great enthusiasm, he replied that one must first see and get to know a man personally before passing judgment, and that he reserves the right to form his own opinion after meeting you.

Despite Pyotr Petrovich’s current understandable hesitation (since he hasn’t met you yet), Dunya is firmly convinced that through her kind influence over her future husband, she will achieve everything. She is certain of this. Of course, we have been careful not to reveal to Pyotr Petrovich any of our further dreams, especially the idea of your becoming his partner. He is a practical man and might take it rather coldly, as it could appear to him mere fantasy. Likewise, neither Dunya nor I have mentioned a word to him about our strong hope that he will financially assist you during your time at university.

He responded cautiously, saying that of course, as he cannot manage without a secretary, it would naturally be better to pay a relative than a stranger, provided that the relative proves capable for the role (as if you wouldn’t be capable!). However, he also expressed doubt whether your university studies would leave you enough time to work in his office. For now, the matter ended there. But Dunya thinks of nothing else these days. For several days now, she has been practically feverish with excitement and has already drawn up a full plan whereby, in time, you could become not only an assistant but even a partner to Pyotr Petrovich in his legal practice, especially since you yourself are studying law. Rodya, I fully agree with her and share all her hopes and plans, seeing in them every likelihood of success.

I mentioned earlier that Pyotr Petrovich is now leaving for St. Petersburg. He has important matters there and plans to open a public legal practice in the city. He has long been involved in handling various lawsuits and recently won a significant case. His presence in St. Petersburg is also essential due to an important matter pending before the Senate. Thus, dear Rodya, he could be extremely helpful to you—indeed, in every way—and Dunya and I have already decided that you could, from this very day, begin shaping your future career and consider your path clearly laid out. If only this could come true! It would be such a blessing that we can only regard it as direct mercy from the Almighty. Dunya dreams of nothing else. We even ventured to mention this matter briefly to Pyotr Petrovich.

As for minor differences in temperament, old habits, or even some disagreement in views—things impossible to avoid even in the happiest marriages—Dunya assured me she has full confidence in herself. There’s no need to worry, she said, and she can endure much, provided their future relationship remains honest and fair. For example, he seemed somewhat abrupt to me at first. But this likely stems from his straightforward nature—and surely it is so. For instance, on his second visit, already having received our consent, he remarked in conversation that he had long decided, even before knowing Dunya, to marry an honest girl without a dowry—one who had already experienced hardship. As he explained, a husband should owe nothing to his wife, and it is far better if the wife regards her husband as her benefactor. I must add that he expressed himself somewhat more gently and kindly than I’ve written here, as I’ve forgotten his exact words and only recall the idea. Moreover, he said this not deliberately, but clearly slipped in the heat of conversation—and even tried afterward to correct and soften it. Still, it struck me as slightly harsh, and I later told Dunya. But she replied with irritation that “words are not deeds,” and indeed, that is fair. Before deciding, Dunya did not sleep all night. Thinking I was asleep, she rose from her bed and paced the room all night. At last, she knelt before the icon and prayed long and fervently. In the morning, she told me she had made her decision."

True, he is forty-five, but he has a pleasant appearance and can still appeal to women. Overall, he is very respectable and proper, though somewhat stern and slightly proud. But perhaps this is only how he appears at first glance. I must warn you, my dear Rodya, that when you meet him soon in Petersburg, do not judge too hastily or passionately, as is your nature, if something about him doesn’t immediately please you. I say this just in case, though I am confident he will make a pleasant impression on you. Besides, to truly understand any person, one must proceed gradually and cautiously, to avoid error and prejudice—mistakes that are very hard to correct later. At least by many signs, Pyotr Petrovich appears to be a highly respectable man. On his very first visit, he announced to us that he is a practical man, but, as he put it, “shares the views of our newest generation” and despises all prejudices. He said much more, somewhat vain and eager to be listened to—which is hardly a vice. I understood little, but Dunya explained that he is not highly educated but intelligent, and seems kind-hearted. You know your sister’s character, Rodya. She is strong-willed, sensible, patient, and noble, though she has a passionate heart, which I know well. Of course, there is no great love on either side, but Dunya, being not only intelligent but noble as an angel, will regard it as her duty to make her husband happy, who in turn will care for her happiness—a prospect in which we, for now, see little reason to doubt, though the matter moved quickly, I admit. He is a very practical man and, surely, will realize that his own marital happiness depends on Dunya’s well-being.

At every reading, people gathered once more—even those who had already heard it multiple times, both at home and at friends’ houses, in rotation. In my opinion, much of this was unnecessary, but Marfa Petrovna is of such a character. At least, she fully restored Dunya’s honour, and all the disgrace of this affair fell irrevocably upon her husband, the chief culprit. So much so that I even feel pity for him—he was treated too harshly for such an eccentric man. Dunya was immediately invited to give lessons in several homes, but she declined. Generally, people now treated her with special respect. This greatly contributed to the unexpected event that has now changed, one might say, our entire destiny. Know this, my dear Rodya: a suitor has proposed to Dunya, and she has already accepted. I hasten to inform you at once. Though this matter proceeded without your advice, you surely won’t hold it against me or your sister, for you will see from the circumstances that waiting for your reply was impossible. After all, you could not have judged the matter accurately from afar. Here’s how it happened. The gentleman is Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin, a Collegiate Assessor, and a distant relative of Marfa Petrovna, who greatly assisted in this. He began by expressing through her a desire to meet us, was properly received, had tea, and the very next day sent a letter, most politely making his proposal and asking for a prompt and definite answer. He is a busy, career-oriented man, now heading to Petersburg, and values every minute. Naturally, we were quite taken aback, as it all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We discussed it together all that day. He is a reliable, well-established man, holding two official positions and already possessing personal wealth.

After Dunya’s departure, the letter remained in Mr. Svidrigailov’s possession. In it, she passionately and indignantly rebuked him for his dishonourable behaviour toward Marfa Petrovna, reminded him of his responsibilities as a father and husband, and condemned him for tormenting and making unhappy a girl already unfortunate and defenceless. In short, my dear Rodya, the letter was so noble and moving that I wept while reading it, and even now I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, in Dunya’s defence, the servants eventually testified—people who had seen and known far more than Mr. Svidrigailov himself suspected, as often happens. Marfa Petrovna was utterly shocked and “struck anew,” as she confessed to us, but she now fully believed in Dunya’s innocence. The very next day, on Sunday, she went straight to the cathedral, fell to her knees, and, in tears, begged the Virgin to give her strength to endure this new trial and fulfil her duty. Then, directly from the cathedral and without stopping anywhere else, she came to us, told us everything, wept bitterly, and, in complete repentance, embraced Dunya and begged her forgiveness. That same morning, without delay, she went from house to house across town. Everywhere, in the most flattering terms for Dunya, shedding tears, she restored her innocence and the nobility of her character and conduct. Not only that, she showed and even read aloud Dunya’s handwritten letter to Mr. Svidrigailov and allowed copies to be made (which, I think, was already excessive). Thus, she spent several days visiting everyone in town, as some became offended that others were favoured, leading to queues—people were already waiting in each household, knowing that on such-and-such a day, Marfa Petrovna would come to read this letter.

I did not dare write the truth, knowing you would be heartbroken, distressed, and enraged—and what could you have done? You might have only ruined yourself, and Dunya forbade it. But how could I fill a letter with trivialities, while carrying such sorrow in my heart? For a whole month, gossip about the incident spread throughout the town. It became so bad that Dunya and I couldn’t even go to church without facing scornful glances and whispers, even open remarks made in our hearing. All our acquaintances turned away from us; no one even greeted us. I learned for certain that some shop clerks and certain clerks from offices had planned to humiliate us further by tarred our doorposts, so that our landlords began demanding we vacate the apartment. The cause of all this was Marfa Petrovna, who managed to defame Dunya in every household. She knows everyone here and, that entire month, visited town frequently. Being somewhat talkative and fond of sharing family matters—especially complaining about her husband to anyone and everyone, which is not at all proper—she spread the story far and wide, not only across town but throughout the district. I fell ill. Dunya, however, was stronger than me. If only you could see how she endured it all and still comforted and encouraged me! She is an angel. But, by God’s mercy, our suffering was cut short. Mr. Svidrigailov came to his senses, repented, and, likely out of pity for Dunya, presented Marfa Petrovna with full and undeniable proof of Dunya’s innocence—specifically, a letter Dunya had been forced to write and hand to him *before* Marfa Petrovna caught them in the garden. Dunya had written it to discourage personal conversations and secret meetings, which he had insisted upon.

At last, he could contain himself no longer and dared to make Dunya an open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of rewards and even offering to abandon everything and elope with her to another village, or even abroad. You can imagine her anguish! Leaving her position was impossible—not only because of the financial debt, but also out of consideration for Marfa Petrovna, who might have suddenly suspected the truth and thus brought discord into the household. It would have caused a major scandal for Dunya, with no doubt as to the consequences. There were many such reasons, so Dunya could not hope to escape from that dreadful house for at least six weeks. You know Dunya well—her intelligence, her strength of character. She can endure much and, even in the direst circumstances, finds within herself such nobility as to remain steadfast. She didn’t even write to me about it all, not wanting to upset me, though we regularly exchanged news. The resolution came unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband pleading with Dunya in the garden and, misunderstanding everything, blamed Dunya entirely, thinking she was the cause of it all. A terrible scene erupted right there in the garden: Marfa Petrovna even struck Dunya, refused to listen to anything, screamed for a full hour, and then ordered Dunya to be immediately taken to me in town—on a simple peasant cart. They threw all her belongings—clothes, linen—into it, haphazardly and unpacked. And then came a downpour. Humiliated and disgraced, Dunya had to travel seventeen versts in an open cart with a peasant driver. Now, imagine what I could have written to you in response to your letter, received two months ago? I was in despair myself.

I know your nature and temperament—you would never allow your sister to be wronged. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? At the time, I did not even know the full truth. The main difficulty was that last year, when Dunya joined the Svidrigailovs as a governess, she had received in advance a sum of 100 rupees, with the condition that it be deducted monthly from her salary, so she was unable to quit without first repaying the debt. And that very amount (now, my priceless Rodya, I can finally tell you the truth) she sent you—sixty rupees, which you so desperately needed and actually received from us last year. We deceived you then, claiming it came from Dunya’s past savings, but it was not so. Now I reveal everything, because, by God’s grace, circumstances have suddenly changed for the better, and so you may know how deeply Dunya loves you and what a noble heart she possesses. Indeed, Mr. Svidrigailov treated her very rudely at first, making discourteous remarks and mocking her at the dinner table. But I shall not dwell on these painful details, so as not to unnecessarily distress you, now that all is over. In short, despite the kind and honourable conduct of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigailov’s wife, and the rest of the household, Dunya found it extremely difficult, especially when Mr. Svidrigailov—following his old military habits—indulged excessively in drink. But what happened later? Imagine, this eccentric man had long harboured a passion for Dunya, though he concealed it under a mask of harshness and scorn. Perhaps he was ashamed and horrified at his own feelings, given his age and position as a family man, and so he unconsciously resented Dunya. Or perhaps he used his rudeness and mockery to conceal his true intentions from others.

"My dear Rodya," wrote his mother, "it has been over two months since I last wrote to you, and I myself have suffered greatly during this time, even losing sleep at night, thinking of you. But surely you won't blame me for this involuntary silence. You know how much I love you. You are all we have, you and Dunya—our only hope and support. What pained me when I learned you had left the university months ago due to lack of funds, and that your tutoring and other means of earning had dried up! How could I, with my annual pension of merely 120 rupees, possibly help you? The 15 rupees I sent you four months ago, as you yourself know, I borrowed in advance against that same pension from Aфанasiya Ivanovich Vakhrushin, a kind local merchant here who was also an acquaintance of your late father. Since I had to assign him the right to collect my pension until the debt was cleared—which only just happened—I could not send you anything during this period. But now, thank God, I believe I can send you some money again, and indeed, our fortunes have taken such a turn for the better that I must share the good news with you at once. First of all, can you guess, my dear Rodya, that your sister has been living with me for the past six weeks, and we shall never part again. Praise God, her trials have ended. But let me tell you everything in order, so you may understand fully what has occurred—what until now we kept from you. Two months ago, when you wrote asking for an explanation about rumours you'd heard that Dunya was suffering from harsh treatment in Mr. Svidrigailov’s household, what could I possibly answer? Had I written the full truth, you might have dropped everything and walked all the way to be with us.

The letter trembled in his hands; he didn't want to open it in her presence—he longed to be alone with this letter. When Nastasya left, he quickly raised it to his lips and kissed it; then for a long time gazed at the handwriting on the address, at the familiar, dear, small, slanting script of his mother, who had once taught him to read and write. He hesitated; it was as though he were afraid of something. Finally, he broke the seal: the letter was thick, heavy, weighing about two lots; two large postal sheets were covered with tiny, closely-written handwriting.

– Yes, the entire capital, – he replied firmly after a pause. – Oh, take it easy, or you'll get frightened; it's really quite scary. Shall I go fetch some tea or not? – Whatever you like. – Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday while you were out. – A letter! For me? From whom? – I don't know who from. I paid the postman three kopecks myself. Will you repay me? – Then bring it, for God's sake, bring it at once! – cried Raskolnikov, trembling with agitation. – Good Lord! A minute later, the letter appeared. Just as he thought – from his mother, posted from the R. province. He actually turned pale as he took it. He hadn't received a letter in ages; but now, something else suddenly gripped his heart. – Nastasya, please, for God's sake, go away! Here are your three kopecks – but, I beg you, leave quickly!

Nastasya burst into uncontrollable laughter. She was one of those easily amused souls who, once tickled, would laugh silently, her whole body shaking and jiggling until she almost felt sick. – Thinking of making a lot of money, are you? – she finally managed to say. – Can't teach children without shoes. Not that I care. – Don't spit into the well. – They pay in copper coins for teaching children. What can you do with pennies? – he went on reluctantly, as if answering his own thoughts. – And you'd want the whole fortune at once? He looked at her strangely.

– I'll bring you the bread in a moment. Would you like some soup instead of sausage? Good soup, made yesterday. I kept some aside for you yesterday itself, but you came late. Really nice soup. When the soup arrived and he began eating, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and started chatting. She was a village woman, and very talkative. – Praskovya Pavlovna wants to file a complaint against you at the police station, – she said. He frowned deeply. – To the police? What does she want? – You haven't paid the rent, and you never leave the room. What else would she want, of course? – Oh, this is just what I needed now! – he muttered, grinding his teeth. – No, this couldn't come at a worse time... She's a fool, – he added aloud. – I'll go and talk to her today. – She may be a fool, but so am I, just like her. But you, Mr. Wise Man, why do you just lie there like a sack? Earlier you used to go out to teach children. Now why aren't you doing anything? – I am doing something... – Raskolnikov replied reluctantly and sternly. – What? – Work... – What kind of work? – Thinking, – he answered seriously after a pause.

– Is this tea from the landlady? – he asked, slowly and painfully raising himself on the couch. – From the landlady indeed! She placed before him her own chipped teapot with weak tea and two yellowish pieces of sugar. – Here, Nastasya, please take this – he said, fumbling in his pocket (he had slept fully dressed) and pulling out a handful of copper coins – go and buy me a roll. And get a little sausage from the butcher's, something cheap.

It was hard to sink lower or become more slovenly; but Raskolnikov actually found it pleasant in his present frame of mind. He had withdrawn completely from everyone, like a tortoise into its shell, and even the sight of the maid, who was supposed to serve him and occasionally peeked into his room, filled him with irritation and convulsions. This often happens with certain monomaniacs who are overly absorbed in one thing. His landlady had stopped serving him meals two weeks ago, yet he hadn't even thought of going to talk to her about it, although he'd been going without lunch. Nastasya, the cook and the landlady's only servant, was partly pleased by the lodger's mood and stopped cleaning his room altogether, sweeping only once a week, and even then only by chance. She was the one who woke him now. "Get up, why are you sleeping?" she shouted over him. "It's ten o'clock. I've brought you tea; want some tea? You must be starving by now?" The lodger opened his eyes, shuddered, and recognised Nastasya.

Often he would fall asleep on it fully clothed, without even a sheet, wrapping himself in his old, threadbare student coat, using a small pillow he stuffed with whatever underclothes he owned—clean or worn out—to raise his head a little higher. A small table stood in front of the sofa.

He woke up late the next day, after a restless sleep that had done nothing to refresh him. He awoke feeling bitter, irritable, angry, and looked with hatred at his tiny room. It was a cramped little cubicle, about six paces long, with a wretched appearance: the pale yellow wallpaper was dusty and peeling off the walls in several places. The ceiling was so low that even a slightly tall person would feel uneasy, as though one might bump one’s head at any moment. The furniture matched the room perfectly: three old chairs, somewhat rickety; a painted table in the corner, piled with a few notebooks and books—so thickly covered in dust that it was clear no one had touched them in ages; and finally, a bulky, awkward sofa that stretched nearly the entire length of one wall and took up half the room’s width. Once upholstered in calico, it was now in tatters and served as Raskolnikov’s bed.

"What nonsense I've done," he thought, "they've got Sonia already, yet here I go giving my own money." But after reasoning that it was too late to take it back, and that he wouldn't have anyway, he shrugged and headed back to his room. "Sonia needs pomade too," he went on as he walked down the street, giving a bitter smile— "this purity of hers costs money... Hmm! And who knows, Sonia herself might go bankrupt today, since she's taking the same risk, hunting the red beast... gold mining... so tomorrow they'll all be left high and dry without my money. Good old Sonia! What a well they've managed to dig! And how they use it! Just look how they use it! And how they've grown used to it. A good cry, and then back to business. Man, the scoundrel, gets used to anything!" He fell into thought. "Well, what if I was right?" he suddenly cried out involuntarily. "What if man truly is not a man at all— the whole breed, I mean— then everything else is prejudice, mere artificial terrors, and there are no barriers at all. That's how it ought to be!"

As he left, Raskolnikov managed to slip his hand into his pocket, scoop up all the coppers he had received as change from the rouble he'd exchanged at the tavern, and quietly place them on the window ledge. But on the staircase, he suddenly paused and thought of turning back.

The young man hurried away without uttering a word. By then, the inner door had swung wide open, and several curious faces peeped out. Impudent, laughing heads with cigarettes and pipes, wearing skullcaps, stretched forward. Figures in robes, some wide open, dressed in summer outfits bordering on indecency, others holding playing cards, began to appear. They laughed all the more when Marmeladov, being dragged by the hair, cried out that it gave him pleasure. Some even started entering the room. Finally, a shrill, ominous screech was heard—Amalia Lippeveschel herself was pushing her way through, determined to take matters into her own hands and, for the hundredth time, terrify the poor woman with a foul-mouthed order to vacate the room by tomorrow.

– Where’s the money? – she screamed. – Oh God, has he drunk it all again? There were twelve whole roubles left in the chest! – And suddenly, in a fury, she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov himself eased her efforts, meekly crawling after her on his knees. – It brings me delight! Yes, delight, not pain but de-light, your good-ness! – he shouted, his hair being yanked, even hitting his forehead against the floor once. The child sleeping on the floor woke up crying. The little boy in the corner could bear it no longer, trembled, shrieked, and, terrified almost to a fit, rushed to his sister. The elder girl shook like a leaf, still dazed from sleep. – He’s drunk it all! Everything, everything gone! – cried the wretched woman in despair. – And her clothes in rags! Starving, starving! (And wringing her hands, she pointed at the children.) Oh, cursed life! And you, you ought to be ashamed – she suddenly turned on Raskolnikov – coming from the tavern! You were drinking with him? You’ve been drinking with him too? Get out!

– A! – she screamed in frenzy, – you're back! Convict! Monster!... Where's the money? What's in your pockets? Show me! And that's not the same clothes! Where's your old outfit? Where's the money? Tell me!... She pounced on him to search his pockets. Marmeladov at once obediently and meekly spread his arms wide on either side to make the search easier. Not a single penny was found.