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