I
The morning after his fateful conversation with Dunechka and Pulkheria Alexandrovna had a sobering effect on Pyotr Petrovich as well. He, to his very greatest displeasure, was obliged, little by little, to accept as an accomplished and irrevocable fact an event that only yesterday had seemed to him almost fantastical and, though it had already happened, still somehow impossible. All night long the black serpent of wounded pride had sucked at his heart.
Getting out of his bed, Pyotr Petrovich immediately looked in the mirror. Might he have had an attack of bile overnight? No, there were no concerns on that score for the time being, and after a glance at his noble, white and lately somewhat flabby countenance Pyotr Petrovich even cheered up a little, fully determined to find himself a bride somewhere else and, perhaps, a rather better one; but he instantly came to his senses and spat vigorously over his shoulder, thereby eliciting a silent but sarcastic smile from his young friend and room-mate Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov. Pyotr Petrovich noted the smile and immediately held it against him. He’d been holding a lot of things against his young friend recently. His spite was redoubled when he suddenly realized how unwise it had been of him yesterday to inform Andrei Semyonovich of the outcome of the conversation. That had been his second mistake, made in the heat of the moment, from an excess of candour and irritation . . . And the rest of the morning, as ill luck would have it, was one unpleasantness after another. There was even a setback waiting for him in the Senate, on some case he was working on. Especially irritating was the landlord of the apartment which he’d rented with a view to his imminent marriage and done up
at his own expense: nothing could persuade this landlord, some German craftsman flush with money, to rescind their freshly signed contract; in fact, he demanded full payment of the penalty stipulated therein, despite the fact that Pyotr Petrovich was returning to him an almost entirely redecorated apartment. Similarly, the furniture shop refused to return a single rouble of the deposit on the goods that had been bought but not yet delivered. ‘I can hardly get married just for a few tables and chairs!’ thought Pyotr Petrovich, grinding his teeth, and as he did so a desperate hope flashed across his mind once more: ‘Is the situation really so irretrievable? Is it really all over?
Surely I can have one more go?’ The delicious thought of Dunechka pricked his heart once more. This moment was sheer agony and if he had only been able, by merely desiring it, to kill Raskolnikov there and then, Pyotr Petrovich would surely have voiced that desire without delay. ‘Another mistake was never giving them any money,’ he thought, returning sadly to Lebezyatnikov’s tiny room. ‘Why did I have to make such a Jew of myself? It didn’t even make any sense! I thought if I treated them meanly enough they’d end up viewing me as Providence itself – so much for that! . . . Pah! . . . No, if only I’d given them fifteen hundred, say, to tide them over, to spend on the trousseau and on gifts, on nice little boxes, toilet cases, cornelians, fabrics and all that tat from Knop’s and the 1 English Shop,everything would have worked out a whole lot better . . . and with far less uncertainty! They wouldn’t have found it so easy to refuse me, then! They’re just the kind of people who always consider it their duty, in the event of a refusal, to return both the gifts and the money; but they’d have been too sorry to part with them! Plus, their conscience would have bothered them: how can we suddenly turn out a man who’s been so generous till now
and actually rather considerate? . . . H’m! What a blunder!’ Grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovich promptly called himself an idiot – under his breath, needless to say.
Reaching this conclusion, he returned home twice as cross and irritated as when he’d left. The preparations for the funeral banquet in Katerina Ivanovna’s room offered some distraction. He’d already heard a little about this banquet yesterday; he even seemed to recall being invited along himself; but with so many worries of his own, he hadn’t paid the slightest attention. Now he lost no time in asking Mrs Lippewechsel – she was fussing around the dining table, making preparations in the absence of Katerina Ivanovna (who was at the cemetery) – and learned that the banquet would be a grand affair, that nearly all the tenants were invited, among them some who had never even met the deceased, that even Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov had been invited, despite his previous row with Katerina Ivanovna, and, finally, that he, Pyotr Petrovich, was not only invited but eagerly awaited, as virtually the most important guest of all the tenants. Mrs Lippewechsel had also been invited with great fanfare, despite all the unpleasant things that had happened, which was why she was now giving orders, fussing about and almost enjoying herself; and though dressed for mourning, she wore brand-new silk from top to toe and wore it proudly. All this information put a thought in Pyotr Petrovich’s mind and he went through to his room – which is to say Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov’s room – in a rather pensive mood: for he’d learned that Raskolnikov, too, was invited.
For some reason, Andrei Semyonovich had spent the whole morning at home. The relationship Pyotr Petrovich had established with this gentleman was somewhat strange, though in some ways also quite natural: Pyotr Petrovich despised and loathed him beyond measure, almost from the day he’d moved in, yet at the same time he
felt a kind of wariness towards him. A tight wallet wasn’t the only reason he’d decided to stay with Andrei Semyonovich on arriving in Petersburg, though it was more or less the main one; there was another reason, too. Even back in the provinces he’d heard Andrei Semyonovich, his former charge, being spoken of as a leading young progressive, even as a major player in certain intriguing and legendary circles. This had come as a shock to Pyotr Petrovich. It was just these circles – powerful, all-knowing, all-despising, all-unmasking – that had long filled Pyotr Petrovich with some special, though utterly obscure, terror.
Of course, there was no way that he – in the provinces, to boot – could have formed an accurate notion, even approximately, about anythingof this sort. Like everyone else he’d heard of the existence, especially in Petersburg, of progressivists, nihilists and so on, but, like many, he’d exaggerated and distorted the meaning and significance of these words to the point of absurdity. What had scared him most, for several years now, wasto be shown up, and this was the chief cause of his constant, disproportionate anxiety, especially when dreaming of his professional relocation to Petersburg. In this respect he was, as they say,frightened to bits, in the way that little children are sometimesfrightened to bits. Several years earlier, in the country, when his career was only just getting started, he’d encountered two incidents in which fairly important local individuals, to whose patronage he’d clung, were cruelly shown up. One ended in a manner that was quite unusually scandalous for the person in question, while the other almost proved very troublesome indeed. So Pyotr Petrovich had resolved, on arriving in Petersburg, to find out right away what was behind it all and, if necessary, to get ahead of the game just in case by currying favour with ‘our young generations’. For this, he relied on Andrei Semyonovich, and by the time he visited Raskolnikov, he’d already
learned to get his tongue around a few well-worn, borrowed phrases . . .
Of course, it didn’t take him long to identify Andrei Semyonovich as an exceptionally crass and simple-minded individual. But this did nothing to reassure or hearten Pyotr Petrovich. Even if he had managed to convince himself that all progressivists were equally stupid, it would have done nothing to relieve his anxiety. Frankly, he couldn’t care less about all the doctrines, philosophies and systems which Andrei Semyonovich was in such a hurry to share with him.
He had his own goal in mind. The only thing that mattered to him was to find out right away: what had happenedhere and how had it come about? Werethese people in the ascendant or were they not? Did he himself have anything to fear or did he not? Would he be shown up if he undertook this or that, or would he not? If yes, then what for exactly? Whatwere people shown up for nowadays?
And another thing: couldn’t he butter them up somehow and then trick them, if they really were in the ascendant?
Or maybe he shouldn’t? Mightn’t he even use them to make some headway in his own career? In short, hundreds of questions confronted him.
This Andrei Semyonovich was an under-nourished, scrofulous little man with a job in some department, peculiarly blond hair and mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. On top of that his eyes were almost always sore. He was soft-hearted enough, but he spoke with great confidence and sometimes exceptional arrogance – the effect of which, given his stature, was almost always comical. Still, Mrs Lippewechsel numbered him among her more distinguished tenants – i.e., he didn’t get drunk and he paid on time. For all these qualities Andrei Semyonovich really was rather dense. He’d signed up to progress, together with ‘our young generations’, out of mere enthusiasm. He was one of that numberless and motley legion of crass, wilting halfwits – half-educated, pig-headed
fools – who are always the first to jump on the latest intellectual bandwagon, so as to cheapen every idea right away and reduce to ridicule whatever they venerate, however sincerely.
But Lebezyatnikov, for all his niceness, was also beginning to find his room-mate and former guardian, Pyotr Petrovich, a touch unbearable. On both sides this process had somehow just happened of its own accord. Andrei Semyonovich may have been somewhat simple, but even he had begun, little by little, to see that Pyotr Petrovich was playing him for a fool and secretly despised him; that ‘this man is not what he seems’. He’d wanted to introduce him 2 to Fourier’s system and Darwin’s theory,but Pyotr Petrovich, especially recently, had started listening with a little too much sarcasm, and more recently still, had actually become quite abusive. By instinct more than anything, it was beginning to get through to him that Lebezyatnikov was not just a crass and rather stupid little man but possibly a fibber to boot, and that he had no connections worth talking about at all, not even in his own circle, but merely heard this or that at third hand; not only that: he didn’t even seem to be much good at this propaganda of his, to judge by all the muddles he kept getting himself into; as if he could show anyone up! We should note in passing that, in the course of these ten days, Pyotr Petrovich had (especially at the beginning) gladly accepted all manner of strange compliments from Andrei Semyonovich, never correcting him or objecting if, say, Andrei Semyonovich ascribed to him a willingness to facilitate the imminent construction of a newcommune 3 somewhere on Meshchanskaya Street,or a refusal to stand in Dunechka’s way if she, in the very first month of marriage, felt like taking a lover, and to have his future children baptized, and so on and so forth – all in the same vein. Pyotr Petrovich, as was his habit, did not object to
such qualities being ascribed to him and found even this sort of praise acceptable – indeed, any compliment at all was music to his ears.
Having cashed several five per cent bonds that morning for some purpose or other, Pyotr Petrovich was sitting at the table and counting bundles of banknotes and Treasury notes. Andrei Semyonovich, almost always penniless, was walking around the room pretending (to himself) that he was observing all these bundles with indifference and even disdain. Nothing, of course, would ever have persuaded Pyotr Petrovich that Andrei Semyonovich could observe so much money with indifference; and Andrei Semyonovich, for his part, was reflecting bitterly on the fact that Pyotr Petrovich was more than capable of entertaining such thoughts about him and was probably only too glad to have the chance to tickle and taunt his young friend with this display of banknotes, the better to put him in his place and remind him of the gulf that was meant to lie between them.
On this occasion he found him quite exceptionally irritable and inattentive, despite the fact that he, Andrei Semyonovich, had launched into his favourite topic: the founding of a new and special ‘commune’. The terse objections and remarks that escaped Pyotr Petrovich in the intervals between the clinking of abacus beads exuded the most blatant and deliberately discourteous scorn. But Andrei Semyonovich, being so very ‘humane’, put Pyotr Petrovich’s mood down to the effects of yesterday’s rift with Dunechka, and had a burning desire to broach this subject as quickly as possible: he had something progressivist and propagandicist to say about it, something that would console his esteemed friend and ‘undoubtedly’ advance his subsequent development. ‘What’s all this about some funeral banquet over at that . . . widow’s?’ Pyotr Petrovich suddenly asked, interrupting Andrei Semyonovich at the most interesting point.
‘As if you don’t know. Only yesterday I was discussing this very subject with you and gave you my opinion of all these rites and rituals . . . Anyway, she’s invited you along, too. I heard as much. You spoke with her yesterday yourself . . .’ ‘I could never have imagined that this fool of a beggar would go and fritter away all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov, on a banquet. I was quite amazed as I walked past just now: so many preparations, so much wine! Several people have been invited – whatever next?’ continued Pyotr Petrovich, who seemed to be driving at something with all his comments and questions. ‘What?
She’s invited me along too, you say?’ he suddenly added, lifting his head. ‘When was that? Can’t say I remember.
Anyway, I won’t go. Me, there? Yesterday, in passing, I merely mentioned to her the possibility of her receiving, as the destitute widow of a civil servant, a year’s salary as a lump-sum payment. Surely that’s not why she’s inviting me, is it? Heh-heh!’ ‘I don’t intend to go, either,’ said Lebezyatnikov. ‘I dare say! Not after that pummelling. No wonder you’re ashamed, heh-heh-heh!’ ‘Who pummelled who?’ asked Lebezyatnikov, suddenly flustered and even turning red. ‘You pummelled Katerina Ivanovna a month or so ago, I believe! I heard about it, sir, just yesterday . . . So much for all those convictions of yours! . . . And so much for the Woman Question, heh-heh-heh!’ Cheering up a bit, Pyotr Petrovich set about clicking his beads again. ‘Hogwash and slander, all of it!’ flared Lebezyatnikov, always fearful of any allusion to this episode. ‘That’s not how it was at all! It was quite different . . . You got the wrong end of the stick. Sheer gossip! I was merely defending myself. She was the one who went at me with her claws . . . Barely left a whisker in place . . . All men, I
trust, are permitted to defend their person. Moreover, I will not permit anyone to use force against me . . . On principle.
Because that’s tyranny, more or less. What was I supposed to do, just stand there? All I did was push her away.’ ‘Heh-heh-heh!’ Luzhin continued to scoff. ‘You’re only picking on me because you’re angry and peeved yourself . . . But this is pure hogwash and has nothing whatsoever to do with the Woman Question! You’ve got it all wrong. I even used to think that if women really are men’s equal now, even in strength (as some are already claiming), then there should be equality here as well. Later, of course, I reasoned that, in essence, such a question should not arise, because fights should not arise, and that fights in the society of the future are inconceivable . . . and that it’s rather strange, of course, to demand equality in fighting. I’m not that stupid . . . although fighting is . . . I mean, there won’t be any later, but as of now there still is . . . Ugh! Dammit! Anyone would get in a muddle talking to you! I’m not not going to the banquet on account of that unpleasantness. I’m not going on principle, simple as that. I want no part in the vile preconception of funeral banquets!
Although, I suppose one might go just to laugh . . . A shame there won’t be any priests. Otherwise I’d have been there like a shot.’ ‘So you would enjoy someone’s hospitality while insulting it and those who invited you. Is that what you mean?’ ‘Not insulting – protesting. For a useful cause: I may thereby be of indirect benefit to the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. Every man has a duty to enlighten and propagandize, and the harsher the message, perhaps, the better. I can thereby scatter ideas, seeds . . . From the seed will grow a fact. In what way am I offending them? First they’ll take offence, then they’ll see for themselves that I’ve done them a favour. Take Terebyeva (she’s in the commune now), only recently she was being criticized for how, when she left her family and . . . gave herself . . . she wrote a
letter to her mother and father saying she didn’t want to live among preconceptions and was entering into a civil 4 marriage;apparently this was too rude, writing to your parents like that, and she should have spared their feelings and been a little more gentle. Utter hogwash, if you ask me.
You shouldn’t be gentle, far from it – you should protest.
Look at Varents: spent seven years with her husband, abandoned her two children and fired off a letter to her husband: “I realized that with you I could never be happy. I will never forgive you for deceiving me by concealing the fact that a different social order exists, via the commune. I learned all this recently from a certain high-minded man, to whom I gave myself, and together we will start a commune.
I speak frankly because I think it dishonourable to deceive you. Carry on as you see fit. Do not hope to get me back.
You are too late for that. I wish you happiness.” Now that’s the way to write ’em!’ ‘This Terebyeva, isn’t she the one you said was in her third civil marriage?’ ‘Only her second proper one, as it happens! But anyway, fourth, tenth or fifteenth, so what? And if there was ever a time I regretted the death of my father and mother, then, of course, it’s now. I keep dreaming about how, if only they were still alive, I’d really give it to them hot! When they were least expecting it . . . Another young man who’s 5 “flown the nest”,they’d say. H’m! I’d show them what protest means! I’d shock them! Such a shame there’s no one left!’ ‘No one left to surprise, you mean? Heh-heh! Well, have it your way,’ Pyotr Petrovich interrupted. ‘But tell me this: I believe you know the daughter of the late departed, that slip of a girl! Well, is it really true what they say about her, eh?’ ‘What are you saying? My opinion – my personal conviction, I mean – is that there can be no more normal
6 state for a woman. And why not? Well,distinguons.In today’s society, of course, it is not quite normal, because it is forced, but in the future it will be entirely normal, because it will be free. But even now she had the right: she was suffering and this was her fund, her capital, as it were, which she had every right to dispose of. In the society of the future, of course, there’ll be no need for funds; but her role will signify a different significance – it will be elegantly and rationally determined. As for Sofya Semyonovna, at the present time I view her actions as a vigorous and embodied protest against the social order and I respect her deeply for it. I am overjoyed just to look at her!’ ‘But I was told it was you who forced her out of this
building!’ Lebezyatnikov went positively berserk. ‘More gossip!’ he shrieked. ‘That’s not how it was at all!
Not at all! I mean, really! It was all Katerina Ivanovna’s invention – she hadn’t understood a thing! I wasn’t making up to Sofya Semyonovna in the slightest! I was simply enlightening her, without a thought for myself, striving to rouse her to protest . . . That was all I was after! And anyway, Sofya Semyonovna could hardly have stayed on here.’ ‘Invited her into the commune, did you?’ ‘These jokes of yours are pretty feeble, if you don’t mind my saying so. You don’t understand a thing! In the commune, this role does not exist. That’s why people found communes in the first place. In the commune, the essence of this role will be completely transformed: what is stupid here will become clever there, and what, in the current circumstances, is unnatural here will be entirely natural there. Everything depends on a man’s circumstances and environment. Environment is everything, man is nothing.
Sofya Semyonovna and I get on well to this day, which you may take as proof that she never took offence at me or
thought me her enemy. Yes! I may be tempting her into the commune, but my grounds for doing so are quite different, quite different! What’s so funny? We want to found our own commune, a special commune, on broader grounds than the previous ones. We’ve gone further in our convictions.
We reject even more! Were Dobrolyubov to rise from his 7 grave, I’d argue with him. Not to mention Belinsky– I’d pulverisehim! But meanwhile I’ll carry on enlightening Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!’ ‘And you make good use of her beautiful character, I
suppose? Heh-heh!’ ‘No! Goodness, no! On the contrary!’ ‘On the contrary, my foot! Heh-heh-heh! Well said!’ ‘Believe me! What reasons could I possibly have to lie to you? Tell me that! On the contrary, I myself find it strange: with me she’s somehow even chaster and coyer than usual!’ ‘And you, needless to say, enlighten her . . . heh-heh . . . and tell her how silly it is to be coy?’ ‘Not at all! Not at all! Oh, how crudely, how stupidly even – do forgive me – you understand the word “enlightenment”! You don’t understand a thing about it!
Goodness me, how very . . . immature you are! We want women’s freedom, but you have only one thing on your mind . . . Leaving completely to one side the question of chastity and female coyness, as things that are useless in themselves and even preconceived, I fully, fully accept her chastity towards me, because that is her freedom, that is her right. Of course, if she were to say to me, “I want to have you,” I’d think myself a very lucky man, because I like the girl very much: but for now, at the very least, could anyone have treated her more courteously or considerately than I, or with greater respect for her dignity . . . ? I wait and hope – that’s all!’
‘You’d be better off giving her something. I dare say the thought’s never even crossed your mind.’ ‘You don’t understand a thing, I say! Her situation is what it is, but I’m talking about something different here!
Quite different! You have nothing but contempt for her.
Seeing a fact which you mistakenly deem worthy of contempt, you refuse to view a person with any humanity.
You know nothing of her character! Only one thing upsets me: recently, for some reason, she’s completely stopped reading and no longer borrows books from me. She certainly used to. And it’s also a shame that with all her vigour and determination to protest – which she’s proved once already – there still doesn’t seem to be quite enough self-sufficiency about her, enough independence, as it were, enough negation, so as to make a clean break with various preconceptions and . . . idiocies. Nevertheless, there are some questions she understands extremely well. She grasped the question of hand-kissing superbly well, for example: how a man insults a woman through the unequal 8 gesture of hand-kissing.We’d had a debate about it and I immediately informed her of what was said. She also listened attentively when I told her about workers’ 9 associations in France.Now I’m explaining the question of 10 open doorsin the society of the future.’ ‘And what on earth’s that?’ ‘Recently there was a debate on the question: does a member of a commune have the right to enter another member’s room, a man’s or a woman’s, at any time he or she chooses . . . ? Well, it was decided that yes, the member does . . .’ ‘And what if he or she happens to be attending to their essential needs? Heh-heh!’ Andrei Semyonovich became positively angry. ‘Is that all you can talk about, these blasted “needs”?’ he cried with loathing. ‘Ugh, I’m so furious and annoyed with
myself for mentioning them to you when I was explaining the system that time – I should have waited! Damn it! It’s always a sticking point for people like you. Not only that – they don’t even know what they’re making fun of! And they think they’re right! They’re even proud of themselves! Ugh!
Haven’t I stated several times that this whole question should be explained to novices only at the very end, once they are already convinced about the system, once they’ve already been enlightened and guided? And anyway, pray tell me what you find so shameful and despicable about, 11 say, cesspits?I’d be the first to clean out any cesspit you care to mention! And without the slightest self-sacrifice!
It’s just work; a noble, socially useful activity, as good as any other and certainly far better, say, than the activity of some Raphael or Pushkin. Why? Because it’s more
12useful!’ ‘And noble, nobler – heh-heh-heh!’ ‘What does “nobler” mean? I don’t understand such expressions when applied to human activity. “Nobler”, “more high-minded”, etcetera – it’s all hogwash, mere absurdities, the old preconceived language which I reject!
13 Whatever isuseful to humanity is thereby noble!That’s the only word I understand:useful! Snigger all you like, but that’s how it is!’ Pyotr Petrovich just couldn’t stop laughing. He’d finished counting the money and put it away. Some of it, though, remained on the table. This wasn’t the first time that the ‘cesspit question’, for all its vulgarity, had caused rifts and disagreements between Pyotr Petrovich and his young friend. The stupidest thing was that Andrei Semyonovich really did get angry. Pyotr Petrovich found it all a pleasant distraction and right now he had a particular urge to rile his friend. ‘You’re still cross about yesterday’s setback – that’s why you’re so tetchy,’ Lebezyatnikov finally snapped. On the
whole, for all his ‘independence’ and for all his ‘protests’, he didn’t quite dare stand up to Pyotr Petrovich, and, from long-established habit, continued to treat him with respect. ‘Tell you what,’ Luzhin interrupted in a haughty, irritated tone, ‘would you be able . . . or rather, are you really on close enough terms with the aforementioned young person to ask her to come over, right now, just for a minute, to this room? It seems they’re already all back from the cemetery . . . I can hear people walking around . . . I need to see her, the one we mentioned, I mean.’ ‘You? But why?’ Lebezyatnikov asked in amazement. ‘I just do, sir. I’ll be leaving in the next day or two, which is why I’d like to tell her . . . But why don’t you stay here while we’re having our talk? That would be even better.
Otherwise, God knows what you might think.’ ‘I wouldn’t think anything . . . I was merely asking. Of course I can call her over if you have business with her. I’ll go now. And rest assured, I won’t get in the way.’ Sure enough, some five minutes later Lebezyatnikov came back with Sonechka. She entered the room in complete astonishment, as shy as ever. She was always shy at moments like these and had a great fear of new faces and new acquaintances; she’d always had it, even as a child, but now more than ever . . . Pyotr Petrovich greeted her ‘warmly and courteously’, though not without a hint of the kind of light-hearted familiarity which he deemed appropriate to such a distinguished and respectable man as himself in relation to such a young and, in a certain sense, interesting creature. He hastened to ‘reassure’ her and sat her opposite him. Sonya sat down and looked around – at Lebezyatnikov, at the money lying on the table, then suddenly back at Pyotr Petrovich again, her eyes never leaving him from that moment on, as if riveted.
Lebezyatnikov moved towards the door. Pyotr Petrovich got up, gestured to Sonya to stay seated and stopped Lebezyatnikov in the doorway.
‘Is that Raskolnikov there? Has he come?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘Raskolnikov? Yes. What about him? Yes, yes . . . He arrived just now, I saw . . . What about it?’ ‘Well in that case I must ask you to stay here, with us, and not leave me alone with this . . . young girl. It’s a trivial matter, but God knows what conclusions people may jump to. I don’t want Raskolnikov talking about itover there . . .
Do you follow?’ ‘Ah yes, yes!’ said Lebezyatnikov, suddenly grasping the point. ‘Yes, you have every right . . . Your fears may be rather far-fetched, if you ask me, but still . . . you have every right. Very well, I’ll stay. I’ll stand here by the window and I won’t get in your way . . . In my opinion, you have every right . . .’ Pyotr Petrovich returned to the couch, made himself comfortable opposite Sonya, looked at her closely and suddenly assumed a very imposing, even stern, air, as if to say, ‘Now don’t you go thinking anything, young miss.’ Sonya’s embarrassment was complete. ‘First of all, Sofya Semyonovna, please apologize on my behalf to your much-esteemed mama . . . That’s right, isn’t it? Katerina Ivanovna is like a mother to you, is she not?’ Pyotr Petrovich began imposingly, though not without warmth. It was clear he had the friendliest of intentions. ‘Yes, just so, sir. Like a mother, sir,’ came Sonya’s hurried and timid reply. ‘Well, miss, please explain to her that, as a result of circumstances beyond my control, I am obliged to absent myself and shan’t be joining you for the pancakes . . . I mean banquet, despite your mama’s kind invitation.’ ‘Yes, sir. I will, sir. At once, sir.’ Sonechka fairly leapt from her chair. ‘But that’s notall,’ Pyotr Petrovich stopped her, smiling at her simple-minded ignorance of social niceties. ‘You clearly don’t know me very well, Sofya Semyonovna, if you
think that such a trivial matter, concerning no one but me, could be enough to induce me to trouble such a person as you. I have a different purpose.’ Sonya hurriedly sat down. The grey and rainbow- 14 coloured banknotesthat had not been cleared from the table flashed before her eyes once more, but she quickly turned her face away and raised it to Pyotr Petrovich: it suddenly struck her as dreadfully unseemly, especiallyfor her, to look at another person’s money. She began to fix her gaze on Pyotr Petrovich’s gold lorgnette, which he was holding in his left hand, and also at the large, hefty, exceptionally beautiful ring with a yellow stone on the middle finger of this hand – then suddenly looked away from that, too, and, not knowing what to do with herself, ended up staring straight into Pyotr Petrovich’s eyes again.
After an even more imposing silence than before, the latter continued: ‘It so happened that yesterday, in passing, I exchanged a few words with the unfortunate Katerina Ivanovna. These few words were sufficient to ascertain that her current condition is, if one may use the term, unnatural . . .’ ‘Yes, sir . . . unnatural, sir,’ Sonya hurriedly echoed. ‘Or, to put it more simply, she’s ill.’ ‘Yes, sir, to put it . . . Yes, sir, she’s ill.’ ‘Quite. Well then, from a humane and, as it were, compassionate impulse, so to speak, I would, for my part, like to be of some use, in anticipation of her inevitable fate.
It would seem that this poor, destitute family now depends on you and you alone.’ ‘May I ask,’ said Sonya, suddenly rising, ‘what it was you kindly said to her yesterday about the possibility of a pension? Because she told me yesterday that you have taken it upon yourself to see to a pension for her. Is that true, sir?’
‘Not at all, miss. In fact, that’s almost absurd. I merely alluded to temporary assistance for the widows of civil servants who die while still in service – assuming, of course, they have a patron – but it appears that not only did your late parent not serve his time, but recently he wasn’t even serving at all. In short, what hope there was has proved highly ephemeral, because, in essence, no grounds for assistance exist in this case. In fact, just the opposite . . . And she’s already thinking about a pension, heh-heh-heh!
She’s a plucky one!’ ‘Yes, sir, a pension . . . She’s gullible and good, you see, so good she believes everything and . . . and . . . and . . . what a mind she has . . . Yes, sir . . . sorry, sir,’ said Sonya
and again got up to leave. ‘That’s not all, miss.’ ‘No, sir, not all, sir,’ muttered Sonya. ‘Well sit down, then.’ Terribly abashed, Sonya sat down once again, for a third time. ‘Seeing the nature of her plight, and her unfortunate infants, I should like – as I have already said – to make myself, insofar as my means permit, useful in some way; as I say, only insofar as my means permit, miss, no more than that. One could, for example, collect contributions for her or, say, organize a lottery . . . or something of the kind – as is always done in such cases by friends and family or by outsiders who simply wish to help. Now that is what I intended to tell you about. It could be done, miss.’ ‘Yes, sir, very good, sir . . . May God . . . ,’ babbled Sonya, staring at Pyotr Petrovich. ‘Could be done, miss . . . but that’s for later . . . Actually, why don’t we make a start today? We could meet this evening, come to an arrangement and establish, as it were, a foundation. Come and find me here at about seven.
Andrei Semyonovich, I hope, will also join us . . . But . . . one particular circumstance needs to be mentioned in
advance and in detail. Indeed, Sofya Semyonovna, it is for this reason that I have troubled you now. Specifically, miss, it would be unwise, in my view, to give money to Katerina Ivanovna directly; today’s banquet is proof of the fact.
Without, as it were, one crust of daily food for tomorrow, without . . . well, shoes and all of that, she goes and purchases Jamaican rum for today and even, if I’m not mistaken, Madeira and coffee. I noticed while walking past.
But tomorrow it’ll be you picking up the pieces, down to the last crumb of bread. It’s just absurd, miss. Which is why the contributions, in my personal view, should be collected in such a way that the unfortunate widow, as it were, would not know about the money, and you, for example, would be the only one who did. Am I right?’ ‘I don’t know, sir. It’s only today she’s like that, sir . . .
Just once in all her life . . . She so much wanted to do something in his honour, in his memory . . . and she’s so clever, sir. But as you wish, sir, and I will be very, very . . .
They will all be very, very . . . And may God . . . and the orphans, sir . . .’ Sonya didn’t finish and burst into tears. ‘I see. Well, miss, bear that in mind; and now kindly accept, in your relative’s interests and as my means permit, this initial sum from me personally. I do most sincerely hope that my name shall not be mentioned in this connection. Here you are, miss . . . Having, as it were, preoccupations of my own, this is as much as I . . .’ With that, Pyotr Petrovich held out a ten-rouble banknote, unfolding it with great care. Sonya took it, flushed, leapt to her feet, muttered something and began hastily taking her leave. Pyotr Petrovich accompanied her solemnly to the door. Eventually she all but ran out of the room, overwhelmed and exhausted, and returned to Katerina Ivanovna in a state of the most extreme confusion.
Andrei Semyonovich spent the duration of the scene either standing by the window or walking around the room,
reluctant to interrupt the conversation; but just as soon as Sonya left, he walked up to Pyotr Petrovich and solemnly extended his hand. ‘I heard everything and Isaw everything,’ he said, laying particular emphasis on the penultimate word. ‘How noble . . . I mean to say, how very humane! You wished to avoid being thanked, I saw! And while I admit that I am unable, on principle, to approve of private charity, which not only fails to eradicate evil at its core but actually provides it with further sustenance, nevertheless I am unable not to admit that it was a pleasure to observe your action – yes indeed, a pleasure.’ ‘Pah, what nonsense!’ muttered Pyotr Petrovich, who was somewhat restless and kept stealing glances at Lebezyatnikov. ‘No it isn’t! Here you are, a man insulted and exasperated by yesterday’s incident, yet still able to consider the misfortune of others – such a man, sir . . . though he may be committing a social error with his actions . . . is, nevertheless, worthy of respect! In fact, you’ve surprised me, Pyotr Petrovich, especially since your own ideas – oh! How these ideas of yours still hold you back! How upset you are, for example, by yesterday’s setback!’ exclaimed Andrei Semyonovich with his customary niceness, feeling another surge of goodwill towards Pyotr Petrovich. ‘And why, why are you so set on this marriage, on thislawful marriage, most noble, most courteous Pyotr Petrovich? Why must you have this lawfulness in marriage? Well, punch me if you wish, but I’m so glad it didn’t come off, that you’re free, that you’re not yet entirely lost to humanity. Yes, I’m glad . . . There, I’ve said my piece!’ ‘For the simple reason, sir, that I have no wish, in this civil marriage of yours, to wear horns and raise other people’s children – that’s why I need a lawful marriage,’
said Luzhin by way of an answer. He was, for some reason, especially preoccupied and pensive. ‘Children? Did I hear you say children?’ asked Andrei Semyonovich with a start, like a warhorse hearing the battle trumpet. ‘Children are a social question and a question of prime importance, I agree, but this question will have a different solution. Some go so far as to reject children entirely, together with any allusion to family life.
We’ll talk about children later, but first let’s deal with the horns! It’s my weak point, I’ll admit. This vile, hussarish 15 Pushkinismis inconceivable in the lexicon of the future.
What are horns anyway? Oh, what a fallacy! Which horns?
Why horns? What nonsense! On the contrary, in a civil marriage there won’t be any horns! Horns are merely the natural consequence of any lawful marriage, its corrective, a protest, so in this sense they aren’t even remotely demeaning . . . And if I ever – to take an absurd example – find myself in a lawful marriage, I’ll be only too glad to wear your sodding horns, and I’ll tell my wife: “My dear, 16 before I merely loved you, but now I respect you,because you’ve managed to protest!” You’re laughing? Only because you’re unable to abandon your preconceptions! I understand perfectly well how unpleasant it is to be cuckolded in a lawful marriage, dammit; but this is merely the lousy consequence of a lousy fact, whereby both parties are demeaned. When horns are on open display, as they are in a civil marriage, they no longer exist, they’re inconceivable and can no longer even be described as horns. On the contrary, your wife will simply be showing you how much she respects you by deeming you incapable of standing in the way of her happiness and enlightened enough not to seek revenge for her new husband. Dammit, I sometimes dream of how, were I to be married off – sorry, I mean were I ever to marry (be it a civil or a lawful marriage) – I’d bring my wife a lover myself, if she were
slow to take one. “My dear,” I would say to her, “I love you, but on top of that I would like you to respect me – so here you go!” I’m right, am I not?’ Pyotr Petrovich tittered as he listened, but without any great enthusiasm. He wasn’t even really listening. He had something else on his mind and even Lebezyatnikov eventually noticed. In fact, Pyotr Petrovich was quite excited about something, rubbing his hands and lost in thought. Only later did Andrei Semyonovich remember this and piece it all together . . .
