Part 1 · Chapter 4

His mom’s letter had been a total drag, but about the main thing, he hadn’t hesitated even while reading it. The big question was settled, and permanently settled, in his head: "No way a marriage like that while I’m alive, and Mr. Luzhin can just forget about it!"

"It’s crystal clear," he muttered, a nasty grin spreading across his face, already picturing himself winning.

"No, Mom, no, Dounia, you can’t pull a fast one on me! And then they apologize for not asking my opinion and for making a decision without me! Seriously? They think it's a done deal and can't be stopped? We’re gonna see about that!"

A perfect excuse: ‘Pyotr Petrovitch is so busy even his wedding has to be rushed, practically overnight.’

No, Dounia, I see what’s going on, and I know what you’re trying to say to me; and I know what you were thinking about, pacing around all night, and what your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in Mom’s bedroom. It’s a brutal climb to... you know... the hard part.

So, it’ll finally happen; you’re determined to marry a sensible businessman, Avdotya Romanovna, one who’s got money (already made his fortune, which is way more impressive), holds two government jobs and who shares the ideas of our up-and-coming generation, Mom writes, and who seems nice, according to Dounia herself.

That’s just... wow! And that very Dounia is marrying him for that ‘seems’?! Awesome! awesome!

"...But I gotta know why Mom wrote about ‘our up-and-coming generation’? Just to set the scene, or to get me on board with Mr. Luzhin? Ugh, the sneakiness! I gotta know one more thing: how much did they really talk about it those days and nights and all this time?"

Was everything said out loud, or did they both know what they wanted and didn’t need to spell it out, and it was better not to? Most likely it was a bit of both, from Mom’s letter it’s clear: he came across as a little rude, and Mom, being so simple, told Dounia about it.

And she was probably furious and ‘answered her angrily. You bet she was! Who wouldn’t be angry when it was so obvious and when it was clear there was no point arguing? And why does she write, ‘love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more than herself’?

"Does she have a guilty conscience for sacrificing her daughter to her son? ‘You are our one comfort, you are everything to us.’ Oh, Mom!"

His anger grew stronger and stronger, and if he's run into Mr. Luzhin at that moment, he could have seriously hurt him.

"Hmm... yeah, that’s true," he continued, chasing the crazy ideas swirling around in his head, "it’s true that ‘it takes time and effort to really get to know someone,’ but there’s no doubt about Mr. Luzhin. The main thing is he’s ‘a businessman and seems nice,’ which is something, right?"

Sending the bags and that big box for them! A nice guy, no doubt after that! But his bride and her mom are going to ride in a farmer’s cart covered in burlap (I know, I’m been in one). No biggie!

It’s only about sixty miles, and then they can ‘travel pretty comfortably, in coach,’ for six hundred miles! Totally right. You gotta work with what you’ve got, but what about you, Mr. Luzhin? She’s your bride... And you gotta know her mom has to borrow money from her pension to pay for the trip.

Of course, it’s a business deal, a partnership for both of them to benefit, with equal shares and expenses - food and drinks are covered, but you pay for your own tobacco. The businessman totally played them. The luggage will cost less than their tickets, and it might even be free.

How come they don’t see that, or do they just not want to? And they’re happy, totally stoked! And to think this is just the beginning, and the real stuff is coming! But what really matters isn’t the cheapness, isn’t the meanness, but the vibe of the whole thing.

That’s gonna be the vibe after marriage, it's a sneak peek. And Mom too, why is she being so stingy? What’s she gonna have when she gets to St. Petersburg? Three silver rubles or a couple of ‘paper ones,’ as she says... that old woman... hmm.

What does she expect to live on in St. Petersburg afterwards? She already has her reasons for guessing she couldn’t live with Dounia after the marriage, not even for the first few months. The good guy probably let something slip on that subject, even though Mom would deny it: ‘I’ll refuse,’ she says.

Who is she banking on then? Is she counting on what’s left of her hundred and twenty rubles of pension when Afanasy Ivanovitch’s debt is paid? She knits wool scarves and decorates cuffs, ruining her old eyes.

And all her scarves don’t add up to more than twenty rubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I know that. So she’s building all her hopes on Mr. Luzhin’s generosity; ‘he’s gonna offer it, he’s gonna push it on me. You might be waiting a long time for that!

That’s how it always is with these dramatic, noble hearts; until the very end every underdog seems like a champion, until the very end, they hope for the best and won’t see anything wrong, and even though they have a feeling about the other side of the story, they won’t face the truth until they’re forced to; just thinking about it makes them shudder; they push the truth away with both hands, until the guy they dress up in fake colors puts a fool’s cap on them with his own hands.

I wonder if Mr. Luzhin has any fancy medals; I bet he’s got the Anna on his lapel and he wears it when he goes to dinner with contractors or merchants. He’s definitely gonna have it for his wedding, too! Enough about him, seriously!

"Well,... Mom, I get it, it’s totally her vibe, God love her, but seriously, how could Dounia? Dounia, my sweetie, like I didn’t know you! You were practically nineteen the last time I saw you: I totally understood you then. Mom writes that ‘Dounia can handle a lot.’"

I know that, like, two and a half years ago, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since, just that - that ‘Dounia can handle a lot.’ If she could deal with Mr. Svidrigaïlov and all that, she can definitely handle a lot.

And now Mom and she have decided she can put up with Mr. Luzhin, who’s got this theory that wives are better off when they’re down on their luck and owe everything to their husband - who throws that out there almost right away.

Okay, maybe he slipped up, even though he thinks he’s smart, (but maybe it wasn’t a slip at all, maybe he wanted to make it clear ASAP) but Dounia, Dounia? She gets the guy, of course, but she’s gotta live with the guy. Seriously!

She’d live on bread and water, she wouldn’t sell out, she wouldn't compromise her values, she wouldn't trade it for all of Schleswig-Holstein, let alone Mr. Luzhin’s money. Nope, Dounia wasn’t that type of person when I knew her, and... she’s still the same, of course!

Yeah, there’s no denying, the Svidrigaïlovs are a tough pill to swallow!

It’s rough spending your life as a governess in the middle of nowhere for like, two hundred bucks, but I know she’d rather be a farmhand or a nanny for a German family than sell her soul, or her sense of right and wrong, by forever tying herself to a guy she doesn’t respect and has nothing in common with - just for her own benefit.

And even if Mr. Luzhin was made of pure gold, or a giant diamond, she’s never going to become his legal girlfriend. So why is she considering it? What’s the deal? It’s pretty clear: for herself, for her comfort, to save her life, she wouldn’t sell herself out, but for someone else she’s doing it!

For someone she loves, someone she adores, she’ll sell herself! That’s what it all comes down to; for her brother, for her mom, she’s selling herself! She’s selling everything!

In situations like that, ‘we push aside our conscience if we have to,’ freedom, peace, even her own beliefs, all go up for grabs. Let my life go, as long as my loved ones are happy!

More than that, we become rationalizers, we learn to be manipulative, and for a while, maybe we can convince ourselves that it’s the right thing to do for a good cause. That’s just how we are, it's as obvious as day.

It’s clear that Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the main player here, and no one else.

Oh, yeah, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in college, make him a partner at the office, secure his whole future; maybe he’ll even be a rich man later on, successful, respected, and maybe even end his life a famous man! But what about my mom? It’s all about Rodya, precious Rodya, her firstborn!

What daughter wouldn’t sacrifice for a son like that? Oh, loving, overly-devoted hearts! We’d even go as far as Sonia’s fate for his sake.

Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, seriously, she's always the one getting the short end of the stick, forever. Have you guys thought this through? Is it even the right move? Can you handle it? Is it worth it? Does it even make sense?

And listen, Dounia, Sonia’s life isnn't any worse than living with Mr. Luzhin.

"There’s no way there’s any love involved," Mom writes.

But what if there’s no respect either? What if he just disgusts you, or you find him repulsive? Then what? You'll have to "keep up appearances," too, right? Do you even get what that means?

That "Luzhin smartness" is just like Sonia’s, and honestly, it could be way worse, even more messed up, because for you, Dounia, it’s basically trading for a fancy lifestyle. But for Sonia, it’s just about not starving. It has to be paid for, Dounia, seriously, this whole act.

And what if you can’t handle the fallout later, if you totally regret it ? The bitterness, the misery, the hidden curses and tears - you're not Marfa Petrovna. And how will Mom feel then? She’s already stressed, she’s worried, but what happens when she really sees what’s going on? And me?

"Yeah, seriously, what do you take me for? I won’t let you make this sacrifice, Dounia, I won’t, Mom! It’s not happening, not while I’m around, it’s not, it’s not!"

He suddenly stopped staring at himself and froze.

"It’s not going to happen? But what are you going to do to stop it? Are you just going to forbid it? And what makes you think you have the right? What can you even promise them to give you that right? You’ll devote your whole life, your entire future, to them after you finish school and get a job?"

Yeah, we’ve heard all that before, and it's just empty promises. But now? Now something has to be done, right now, do you get it? And what are you doing right now? You’re living off them. They're borrowing money on their tiny pensions. They’re even going to Svidrigaïlov.

How are you going to save them from Svidrigaïlov, from Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, that future millionaire who’s going to control their lives? In another ten years? In ten years, Mom will be blind from knitting shawls, maybe even crying too.

"She’s going to be worn down, a shadow, from barely eating. And my sister? Just imagine what could happen to your sister in ten years. What could happen to her during those ten years? Can you even picture it?"

He was seriously stressing himself out, kind of enjoying the anxiety, honestly. But these weren’t new questions popping up suddenly - they were old, familiar aches. It had been a long time since they first started gripping and tearing at his heart.

His current pain had been brewing for ages, growing stronger, maturing, concentrating into a terrifying, frantic, and totally wild question that was driving him crazy, demanding an answer. Then his mom’s letter hit him like a bolt from the blue.

It was clear he couldn’t just sit around worrying about stuff he couldn’t solve. He had to do something, do it right away, and do it fast. He had to decide on something, or else...

"Or just give up on life!" he suddenly yelled, in a frenzy - "Accept things as they are, once and for all, and shut everything down inside you, giving up on being active, on life, on love!"

"Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it’s like when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?" Marmeladov’s question popped into his head.

"Every man needs somewhere to turn..."

He jumped. Another thought he’s had yesterday came rushing back. But he wasn't shocked by the thought returning; he knew it was coming, he's been expecting it. It wasn't just yesterday’s thought either.

The difference was that a month ago, even yesterday, it was just a vague dream: but now... now it wasn't a dream at all, it had taken on a new, threatening, and totally unfamiliar form, and he suddenly realized it. He felt a pounding in his head, and everything went dark before his eyes.

He looked around quickly, searching for something. He wanted to sit down and was hunting for a seat; he was walking along K - - Boulevard. There was a bench about a hundred steps ahead.

He headed toward it as fast as he could, but on the way, he ran into a little drama that totally grabbed his attention.

Looking for the bench, he’d noticed a girl walking about twenty steps ahead, but at first, he didn’t really pay her any mind - just like he barely noticed other people crossing his path.

It had happened to him a bunch of times walking home, zoning out and not even registering the route, and he was used to doing that. But there was something seriously weird about this girl, and gradually, he couldn’t look away, at first reluctantly, almost annoyed, and then more and more intensely.

He suddenly needed to know what was so strange about her. First off, she looked super young, and she was walking in the crazy heat bareheaded and without a hat or gloves, waving her arms around in a totally awkward way.

She was wearing a dress made of some light, silky material, but it was thrown on wrong - not properly hooked up, and ripped open at the top of the skirt, right near her waist. A little scarf was draped around her bare neck, but it was hanging crookedly to one side.

The girl was walking unsteady, too, stumbling and staggering from side to side. She totally caught Raskolnikov’s attention. He caught up to her at the bench, but when he got there, she just plopped down in the corner, let her head sink against the back, and closed her eyes, looking totally exhausted.

Looking at her closely, he realized right away that she was completely drunk. It was a bizarre and shocking sight. He could hardly believe he wasn’t mistaken.

He saw a really young, fair-haired girl - sixteen, maybe not even fifteen, years old, a cute little face, but flushed and heavy-looking, almost swollen.

The girl seemed barely aware of what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other, showing a little leg, and gave no sign that she knew she was out in the street.

Raskolnikov didn’t sit down, but he didn’t want to leave her, and stood facing her, looking confused. This boulevard wasn’t really busy anyway, and now, at two o’clock, in the sweltering heat, it was totally deserted.

And yet, across the boulevard, about fifteen steps away, a guy was standing on the edge of the sidewalk. He, too, probably wanted to approach the girl for some reason. He, too, had probably seen her from a distance and had been following her, but found Raskolnikov blocking his way.

He glared at him, even though Raskolnikov tried to ignore him, and stood impatiently, waiting for the sketchy guy in rags to move on. His intentions were obvious. The guy was a plump, well-built man, about thirty, dressed fashionably, with a rosy complexion, red lips, and moustaches.

Raskolnikov felt furious; he suddenly wanted to trash-talk this chubby pretty boy somehow. He left the girl for a sec and walked towards the guy.

"Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What’s your deal here?" he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, sputtering with rage.

"What do you mean?" the guy asked sharply, scowling in haughty surprise.

"Beat it, that’s what I mean."

"How dare you, you loser!"

He raised his cane. Raskolnikov charged at him with his fists, not thinking that this sturdy guy was a match for two guys like himself. But at that moment, someone grabbed him from behind, and a police officer stood between them.

"That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What’s going on? Who are you?" he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his ragged clothes.

Raskolnikov stared at him intently. He had a straightforward, sensible, soldierly face, with gray moustaches and whiskers.

"You’re exactly who I need," Raskolnikov blurted out, grabbing his arm.

"I’m a student, Raskolnikov... you might as well know that too," he added, addressing the gentleman, "come on, I’ve got something to show you."

And taking the policeman by the hand, he drew him toward the bench.

"Check it out, totally wasted, and she just came down the boulevard. Who she is, what she’s about, I have no clue. She’s not a pro, you know? It’s more likely she was drugged and played for a fool somewhere... for the first time... get it? And then dumped out on the street like that."

Look at her dress, all ripped up, and how it's put on: someone dressed her, she didn't dress herself, and someone clumsy, a guy’s hands, it’s obvious.

And look there: I don’t know that dude I was about to fight, I’m seeing him for the first time, but he’s seen her too, just now, drunk, clueless about what she’s doing, and now he’s really eager to grab her, to get her somewhere while she’s like this... that’s for sure, believe me, I’m not wrong.

"I saw him watching her, following her, but I stopped him, and he’s just waiting for me to leave. Now he’s walked off a bit, pretending to light a cigarette... Think about how to keep her out of his clutches, and how we’re gonna get her home?"

The policeman instantly got it. The burly gentleman was easy to figure out, so he turned to look at the girl. The policeman leaned over to examine her more closely, and his face was filled with genuine concern.

"Oh, this is awful!" he said, shaking his head. "She’s just a kid! She’s been taken advantage of, you can see that right away. Listen, sweetheart," he began addressing her, "where do you live?"

The girl opened her tired, sleepy-looking eyes, stared blankly at the speaker, and waved her hand.

"Here," said Raskolnikov, feeling in his pocket and finding twenty copecks, "here, call a cab and tell him to take her home. The only thing is to figure out her address!"

"Missy, missy!" the policeman began again, taking the money.

"I’ll get you a cab and take you home myself. Where should I take you, huh? Where do you live?"

"Leave me alone," the girl muttered, and once more waved her hand.

"Oh, this is so messed up! It’s a disgrace, sweetheart, it’s really unfair!"

He shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic, and angry.

"This is going to be tricky," the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he did so, he gave him a quick look-over.

He must have seemed like a strange sight to him too: dressed in rags and handing him money!

"Did you meet her far from here?" he asked him.

"I’m telling you, she was walking in front of me, stumbling, right here, on the boulevard. She just got to the bench and collapsed on it."

"Ah, the terrible things people do these days, God have mercy on us! An innocent girl like that, already drunk! She’s been taken advantage of, that’s a sure thing. Look at her dress, torn too... Ah, the vice you see these days! And she probably belongs to a decent family too, maybe struggling..."

"there are a lot like that these days. She looks refined, too, like a lady," and he leaned over her again.

Maybe he had daughters growing up like that, "looking like ladies and refined," trying to be classy and put-together...

"The main thing is," Raskolnikov insisted, "to keep her out of this jerk’s hands! Why would he take advantage of her! It’s as clear as day what he’s after; ah, the creep, he’s not going anywhere!"

Raskolnikov spoke up and pointed at him. The guy heard him and looked like he was about to lose it, but then thought better of it and just gave him a nasty look. He then walked another ten paces and stopped again.

"We can keep her out of his hands," the constable said, thinking out loud. "If only she’d tell us where to take her, but as it is... Hey, missy! Hey, missy!"

he bent over her again.

She suddenly opened her eyes wide, looked at him intently, like she realized something, got up from the seat, and walked back the way she’s come.

"Oh, you awful creeps, you won’t leave me alone!" she said, waving her hand.

She walked quickly, though still stumbling a bit. The dandy followed her, but down a different street, keeping an eye on her.

"Don’t worry, I won’t let him have her," the policeman said firmly, and he took off after them.

"You see the kind of stuff people do these days!" he repeated, sighing.

Just then, something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; suddenly, he felt completely repulsed.

"Hey, wait!" he shouted after the policeman.

The latter turned around.

"Leave them alone! What’s it to you? Let her go! Let him have his fun."

He pointed at the dandy, "What’s it to you?"

The policeman was confused and stared at him wide-eyed. Raskolnikov laughed.

"Seriously!" the policeman said, waving his hand dismissively, and he walked after the dandy and the girl, probably thinking Raskolnikov was crazy or even worse.

"He stole my twenty copecks," Raskolnikov muttered angrily when he was alone.

"Fine, let him take as much from someone else so he can have the girl and that’s that. Why did I even bother getting involved? Is it my job to help? Do I even have the right to help? Let them tear each other apart - what’s it to me? How did I let myself give him twenty copecks? Were they even mine?"

Despite his strange words, he felt terrible. He sat down on the empty bench. His thoughts drifted aimlessly... He couldn't focus on anything at that moment. He just wanted to forget everything, to wake up and start over...

"Poor girl!" he said, looking at the corner where she’s been sitting - "She’s going to come to her senses and cry, and then her mom will find out... She’s going to give her a beating, a horrible, awful beating, and then maybe kick her out..."

And even if she doesn’t, the Darya Frantsovnas will hear about it, and the girl will start sneaking around, here and there.

Then, straight to the hospital (that’s always how it goes with girls who have respectable moms and go wrong on the sly), and then... again the hospital... drinking... the bars... and more hospital, in two or three years - a wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen...

Haven’t I seen cases like that? And how did they end up like that? Because they all ended up like that. Ugh! But what does it matter? That’s just the way things are, they say.

A certain percentage, they say, has to every year go... to the devil, I guess, so that the rest can stay pure and not be messed with. A percentage! What great words, they’re so scientific, so comforting... Once you’re saying ‘percentage’ there’s nothing more to worry about.

"If we had another word... maybe we’d feel more uneasy... But what if Dounia were one of the percentage? Or another one, if not that one?"

"But where am I even going?" he thought suddenly.

"Weird, I came out for something. As soon as I’d read the letter, I came out... I was heading to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That’s what it was... now I remember. But why, though? And what put the idea of going to Razumihin into my head just now? That’s strange."

He was totally tripping on himself. Razumihin was an old buddy from college. It was wild that Raskolnikov barely had any friends back then - he kept to himself, didn't hang out, and wasn’t really welcoming to anyone who came around.

He didn't join in with the student parties, jokes, or conversations. He worked super hard, practically burning himself out, and people respected that, but nobody really liked him. He was broke, and there was this air of snobby pride and distance about him, like he was hiding something.

Some of his classmates thought he looked down on them, like he thought he was way more advanced, smarter, and had stronger beliefs than them - like their interests were beneath him.

With Razumihin, things were different - or, at least, he felt more open and talked more freely with him. Honestly, you couldn't not be chill with Razumihin. He was seriously good-humored and straightforward, nice to a fault, even though he had some real depth hidden underneath.

His friends totally got that and loved him. He was super smart, even though he could be a total goofball sometimes. He stood out - tall, skinny, dark hair, and always needed a shave. He could get really loud and was known to be seriously strong.

Once, when they were out celebrating, he knocked a huge cop flat on his back with one punch. He could drink like a fish, but he could also quit cold turkey. He sometimes went too far with his jokes, but he could also just chill.

What was also striking about Razumihin was that nothing really bummed him out, and it seemed like nothing could bring him down. He could crash anywhere and handle freezing temperatures and hunger. He was poor, but he always managed to earn enough to get by. He knew a ton of ways to make money.

He even spent one whole winter without heating his place, saying he slept better in the cold. He’d also had to drop out of college for now, but he was working his tail off to save up enough to go back. Raskolnikov hadn’t seen him in four months, and Razumihin didn’t even know where he lived.

About two months ago, they bumped into each other on the street, but Raskolnikov just turned away and crossed to the other side so he wouldn’t be spotted. Even though Razumihin noticed him, he just ignored him, because he didn’t want to bother him.