Текст книги "Crime and Punishment"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

“Who came?” Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recall.

“I came, that is. I did you a bad turn.”

“You're from that house, then?”

“But I was standing with them in the gateway that time, don't you remember? We have our handcraft there, from old times. We're furriers, tradespeople, we work at home...but most of all I felt bad . . .”

And all at once Raskolnikov clearly recalled the whole scene in the gateway two days ago; he realized that besides the caretakers several other people had been standing there, and women as well. He recalled one voice suggesting that he be taken straight to the police. He could not recall the speaker's face, and even now he did not recognize him, but he remembered that he had even made him some reply then, and turned to him . . .

So this was the solution to yesterday's horror. Most horrible was the thought that he had really almost perished, almost destroyed himself, because of such a worthlesscircumstance. So except for the renting of the apartment and the talk about blood, this man had nothing to tell. So Porfiry also had nothing, nothing except this delirium,no facts except for psychology,which is double-ended,nothing positive. So if no more facts emerged (and they must not emerge, they must not, they must not!), then...then what could they possibly do to him? How could they expose him finally, even if they should arrest him? And so Porfiry had learned about the apartment only now, only that day, and knew nothing before.

“Was it you who told Porfiry today...that I went there?” he cried, struck by the sudden idea.

“What Porfiry?”

“The chief investigator.”

“Yes, me. The caretakers wouldn't go that time, so I went.”

“Today?”

“I was there just a minute before you. And I heard everything, everything, the way he was tormenting you.”

“Where? What? When?”

“But, right there, behind the partition, I was sitting there the whole time.”

“What? So the surprise was you? But how could it have happened? For pity's sake!”

“Seeing as the caretakers didn't want to go on my words,” the tradesman began, “because they said it was late by then and he might even be angry that they came at the wrong time, I felt bad, and lost my sleep, and began finding things out. And having found out yesterday, I went today. The first time I came, he wasn't there. I tarried an hour longer, and then he couldn't see me. The third time I came, they let me in. I began reporting to him everything as it was, and he began rushing around the room and beat himself on the chest with his fist: 'What are you doing to me, you robbers?' he said. 'If I'd known anything of the sort, I'd have gone and brought him in under guard!' Then he ran out, called someone, and began talking to him in the corner, and then he came back to me, and began questioning and chiding me. And he reproached me very much; and I informed him of everything, and said that you didn't dare answer anything to my words yesterday, and that you didn't recognize me. And here he began running around again, and kept beating himself on the chest, and he was angry, and running around, and when you were announced– 'Well,' he said, 'get behind the partition, sit there for now, don't move, no matter what you hear,' and he himself brought me a chair there and locked me in; 'I may ask for you,' he said. And when they brought Nikolai, he took me out, just after you: 'I'll want you again,' he said, 'I'll question you again' . . .”

“And did he ask Nikolai any questions while you were there?” “As soon as he took you out, he immediately took me out as well, and began questioning Nikolai.”

The tradesman stopped and suddenly bowed again, touching the floor with his finger.

“For my slander and my wickedness, forgive me.” “God will forgive,” Raskolnikov replied, and as soon as he uttered it, the tradesman bowed to him, not to the ground this time but from the waist, turned slowly, and walked out of the room. “Everything's double-ended, now everything's double-ended,” Raskolnikov kept repeating, and he walked out of the room more cheerful than ever.

“The struggle's not over yet,” he said with a spiteful grin, on his way down the stairs. The spite was directed at himself: with scorn and shame he looked back on his “faintheartedness.”

Part Five

I

The morning that followed his fatal talk with Dunechka and Pulcheria Alexandrovna had its sobering effect on Pyotr Petrovich as well. To his greatest displeasure, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact, accomplished and irreversible, that which even yesterday had seemed to him an almost fantastic event, which, though real, was still somehow impossible. The black serpent of stung vanity had sucked all night at his heart. Having gotten out of bed, Pyotr Petrovich at once looked in the mirror. He feared the bile might have risen in him during the night. So far, however, all was well in that regard, and, having considered his white and noble aspect, grown slightly fat of late, Pyotr Petrovich even took comfort for a moment, feeling quite sure of finding a bride for himself somewhere in another place, and perhaps even a cut above this one; but he came to his senses at once and spat aside vigorously, thereby evoking a silent but sarcastic smile in his young friend and cohabitant, Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov. Pyotr Petrovich noticed this smile, and inwardly set it down at once against his young friend's account. Of late he had managed to set a lot against his account. He grew doubly spiteful at the sudden realization that he ought not to have informed Andrei Semyonovich yesterday about yesterday's results. That was his second mistake yesterday, made in the heat of the moment, from overexpansiveness, in irritation...Then, throughout the morning, as if by design, nuisance followed nuisance. Some trouble even awaited him in the Senate, in connection with a case he was pleading there. But he was especially irritated with the owner of the apartment he had rented with a view to his impending marriage and decorated at his own expense: the owner, some German craftsman grown rich, would in no way agree to break the just concluded contract, and demanded the full forfeit mentioned in it, notwithstanding that Pyotr Petrovich would be turning the apartment back to him almost entirely done over. In the same way, the furniture store refused to return even a single rouble of the deposit for furniture bought but not yet delivered to the apartment. “I'm not going to get married just for the sake of the furniture!” Pyotr Petrovich snarled to himself, and at the same moment a desperate hope flashed in him once more: “But can it all be so irrevocably lost and finished? Can't I try one more time?” Again the thought of Dunechka needled his heart seductively. He endured this moment with pain, and certainly, had it been possible right then to kill Raskolnikov merely by wishing, Pyotr Petrovich would immediately have voiced this wish.

“Moreover, it was also a mistake not to give them any money at all,” he was thinking, as he sadly made his way back to Lebezyatnikov's closet. “Devil take it, why did I turn into such a Jew? There wasn't even any calculation in it! I thought I'd keep them on a short tether for a bit, and get them to see me as their Providence, and now look! ... Pah! ... No, if I'd handed them, say, fifteen hundred meanwhile, for the trousseau, and for presents, for all sorts of little boxes, toilet cases, trinkets, fabrics, and all that trash from Knop's, and from the English store, <sup>[106]106
  Knop was the owner of a toiletry shop on Nevsky Prospect in Petersburg. The English Shop also sold imported toiletries, among other things.


[Закрыть]</sup> things would be better now...and firmer! They wouldn't have refused me so easily! They're of such mold that they'd be sure to regard it as their duty, in case of refusal, to return the gifts and the money; and to return them would be a bit difficult, and a pity! And conscience would prick them: how can you suddenly chase a man out like this, when all along he's been so generous and rather delicate?...Hm! I missed that one!” And snarling once more, Pyotr Petrovich told himself then and there—but only himself, naturally—that he was a fool.

Having come to this conclusion, he returned home twice as angry and irritated as when he had left. The preparations for the memorial meal in Katerina Ivanovna's room partly drew his curiosity. He had already heard something about this memorial meal yesterday; he even had some memory of having been invited himself; but, busy with his own troubles, he had passed over all these other things without notice. Hastening to inquire of Mrs. Lippewechsel, who in Katerina Ivanovna's absence (she was at the cemetery) was bustling about the table that was being laid, he learned that the memorial meal was to be a grand affair, that nearly all the tenants had been invited, among them even those unknown to the deceased, that even Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov had been invited, in spite of his past quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, and finally that he himself, Pyotr Petrovich, not only was invited but was even expected with great impatience, since he was perhaps the most important guest among all the tenants. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great honors, in spite of all past unpleasantnesses, and was therefore now hustling and bustling about, almost taking a delight in it; moreover, she was quite dressed up, in mourning but all of it new, silk, frills and fancies, and she was proud of it. All these facts and details gave Pyotr Petrovich a certain idea, and he went to his room—that is, to Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov's room—somewhat thoughtful. The thing was that, as he had learned, Raskolnikov was also among the invited guests.

Andrei Semyonovich, for some reason, had stayed at home that whole morning. Between this gentleman and Pyotr Petrovich a certain strange, though somewhat natural, relationship had come about: Pyotr Petrovich despised and hated him, even beyond measure, and had done so almost from the very day he came to stay with him; yet at the same time he was as if a bit wary of him. He was staying with him during his visit to Petersburg not just from miserly economy alone; though this was almost the main reason, there was also another reason here. While still in the provinces, he had heard of Andrei Semyonovich, his former ward, as one of the foremost young progressivists, who was even playing an important role in certain curious and fabled circles. Pyotr Petrovich was struck by this. These powerful, all-knowing, all-despising, and all-exposing circles had long frightened Pyotr Petrovich, with some peculiar, though perfectly undefined, fear. Of course, on his own, and living in the provinces besides, he was unable to form, even approximately, an exact notion of anything of that sort.He had heard, as everyone had, that there existed, especially in Petersburg, certain progressivists, nihilists, exposers, and so on and so forth, but, like many others, he exaggerated and distorted the meaning and significance of these names to the point of absurdity. What he had feared most of all, for several years now, was exposure,and this was the chief ground for his permanent, exaggerated uneasiness, especially when he dreamed of transferring his activities to Petersburg. In this respect he was scared,as they say, the way little children are sometimes scared.Some years ago, in the provinces, when he was just embarking on his career, he had met with two cases in which rather important personages of the province, whom he had latched on to and who until then had been his patrons, were cruelly exposed. One case ended somehow especially scandalously for the exposed personage, and the other even all but ended in real trouble. This was why Pyotr Petrovich decided, upon arriving in Petersburg, to find out at once how matters stood, and, if need be, to head things off just in case and curry favor with “our young generations.” To this end he put his hopes in Andrei Semyonovich, and in any case, as during his visit to Raskolnikov, for example, he already knew how to round off certain phrases he had borrowed somewhere . . .

Of course, he soon managed to discern in Andrei Semyonovich an extremely trite and simple little man. But this did not in the least reassure or encourage Pyotr Petrovich. Even if he were convinced that all progressivists were the same sort of little fools, it would still not have allayed his uneasiness. Properly speaking, these teachings, ideas, systems (with which Andrei Semyonovich simply pounced upon him), were none of his affair. He had his own object. He needed only to find out at once and quickly what went on here,and how. Did these peoplehave any power, or did they not have any power? Was there anything for him to fear personally, or was there not? Would they expose him if he undertook this or that, or would they not expose him? And if they would expose him, then what for, and what exactly was it that one got exposed for nowadays? Furthermore, could he not somehow get in good with them and at the same time hoodwink them a bit, if they were indeed so powerful? Was it the thing to do, or not? Could he not, for instance, bolster his career a bit precisely by means of them? In short, he was faced with hundreds of questions.

This Andrei Semyonovich was a thin-blooded and scrofulous little man, small of stature, who worked as an official somewhere, was strangely towheaded, and had side-whiskers shaped like mutton-chops, which were his great pride. What's more, his eyes were almost constantly ailing. His heart was rather soft, but his speech was quite self-confident and on occasion extremely presumptuous—which, compared with his little figure, almost always came out funny. Amalia Ivanovna, however, counted him among her most honored tenants, meaning that he did not drink and that he paid his rent regularly. In spite of all these qualities, Andrei Semyonovich was indeed a bit stupid.

He subscribed himself to progress and “our young generations” out of passion. He was one of that numerous and diverse legion of vulgarians, feeble miscreates, half-taught petty tyrants who make a point of instantly latching on to the most fashionable current idea, only to vulgarize it at once, to make an instant caricature of everything they themselves serve, sometimes quite sincerely.

However, though he was a very kind little man, Lebezyatnikov was also beginning to find his cohabitant and former guardian, Pyotr Petrovich, partly unbearable. It came about somehow mutually and inadvertently on both sides. Simple as Andrei Semyonovich was, he nevertheless began gradually to realize that Pyotr Petrovich was hoodwinking him and secretly despised him, and that “he was not the right sort of man at all.” He had tried expounding Fourier's system and Darwin's theory to him, but Pyotr Petrovich, especially of late, had begun listening somehow too sarcastically, and most recently had even become abusive. The thing was that he had begun to perceive, by instinct, that Lebezyatnikov was not only a trite and silly little man, but perhaps also a bit of a liar; that he had no connections of any importance even in his own circle, but had only heard things third hand; moreover, he perhaps did not even know his own propagandabusiness properly, because he got too confused; and so it was not for the likes of him to be an exposer! Incidentally, let us note in passing that Pyotr Petrovich, during this week and a half, had willingly accepted (especially at the beginning) some rather peculiar praise from Andrei Semyonovich; that is, he did not object, for example, but remained silent, when Andrei Semyonovich ascribed to him a readiness to contribute to the future and imminent establishing of a new “commune” somewhere in Meshchanskaya Street, or not to hinder Dunechka, for example, if in the very first month of marriage she should decide to take a lover, or not to have his future children baptized, and so on and so forth—all in the same vein. <sup>[107]107
  This passage humorously summarizes some of the issues of concern to radicals of the early 1860s. Communes had begun to appear in Petersburg under the influence of Fourier and of Chernyshevsky's novel What Is to Be Done?(there was in fact a commune on Meshchanskaya Street).


[Закрыть]</sup> Pyotr Petrovich, as was his custom, did not object to such qualities being ascribed to him, and allowed himself to be praised even in such a way—so pleasant did he find every sort of praise.

Pyotr Petrovich, who for some reason had cashed several five percent bank notes that morning, sat at the table and counted through the bundles of hills and series. Andrei Semyonovich, who almost never had any money, was pacing the room, pretending to himself that he looked upon all those bundles with indifference, and even with contempt. Pyotr Petrovich would in no way have believed, for example, that Andrei Semyonovich could indeed look upon so much money with indifference; and Andrei Semyonovich, in his turn, reflected bitterly that Pyotr Petrovich was indeed capable of having such thoughts about him, and, furthermore, was perhaps glad of the chance to prod and tease his young friend with the laid-out bundles of bills, reminding him of his nonentity and all the difference supposedly existing between the two of them.

He found him, this time, unprecedentedly irritable and inattentive, even though he, Andrei Semyonovich, had begun to develop for him his favorite theme about the establishment of a new, special “commune.” The brief objections and remarks that escaped Pyotr Petrovich in the intervals between the clicking of beads on the abacus, breathed the most obvious and deliberately impolite mockery. But the “humane” Andrei Semyonovich ascribed Pyotr Petrovich's state of mind to the impression of yesterday's break with Dunechka, and was burning with the desire to take up the subject at once: he had something progressive and propagandizing to say on that account, which would comfort his honorable friend and “undoubtedly” be useful in his further development.

“What is this memorial meal that this...widow is arranging?” Pyotr Petrovich asked suddenly, interrupting Andrei Semyonovich at the most interesting point.

“As if you didn't know; I spoke with you on the subject just yesterday, and developed my thought about all these rites...But she invited you, too, I heard it. You spoke with her yourself yesterday . . .”

“I never expected the destitute fool would dump on this one meal all the money she got from that other fool... Raskolnikov. I was even amazed as I passed by just now; the preparations, the wines! ... A number of people have been invited—devil knows what's going on!” Pyotr Petrovich continued, inquiring and driving at the conversation as if with some purpose. “What? You say I was invited, too?” he suddenly added, raising his head. “When was that? I don't remember it, sir. I won't go, however. Why should I? I just talked with her yesterday, in passing, about the possibility of her receiving a year's salary in a lump sum, as the destitute widow of an official. Maybe that's why she invited me? Heh, heh!”

“I don't intend to go either,” said Lebezyatnikov.

“Surely not! You gave her a thrashing with your own hands. Naturally, you're ashamed, heh, heh, heh!”

“Who gave a thrashing? To whom?” Lebezyatnikov became all flustered, and even blushed.

“Why, you did; you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna, about a month ago, didn't you? I heard it yesterday, sir...So much for your convictions! ... And it leaves the woman question a bit lame. Heh, heh, heh!”

And, as if feeling better, Pyotr Petrovich began clicking his abacus again.

“That is all nonsense and slander!” Lebezyatnikov flared up, always fearful of being reminded of this story. “It wasn't like that at all! It was different... You heard it wrong; it's gossip! I merely defended myself then. She attacked me first with her claws...She plucked out one whole side of my whiskers...Every human being, I hope, is allowed to defend his own person. Besides, I will not allow anyone to use violence against me...On principle. Because it amounts to despotism. What was I to do: just stand there? I only pushed her away.”

“Heh, heh, heh!” Luzhin went on chuckling maliciously.

“You're picking at me because you're angry and irritated yourself...But it's nonsense, and has nothing to do with the woman question at all, not at all! You don't understand it rightly; I even thought that if it's so well accepted that woman is the equal of man in everything, even in strength (as has already been affirmed), then there ought to be equality here as well. Of course, I reasoned later that essentially there should be no such question, because there also should be no fighting, and that instances of fighting are unthinkable in the future society...and it's strange, of course, to look for equality in fighting. I'm not that stupid...although fighting, by the way, is...that is, later there won't be any, but now there's still...pah! the devil! You throw a man off! I won't go to the memorial meal, but it's not on account of that trouble; I won't go on principle, so as not to participate in the vile prejudice of such a meal, that's why! However, it would even be possible to go, just like that, to laugh...A pity there won't be any priests. Otherwise, I'd certainly go.”

“You mean, to sit at someone else's table and immediately spit upon it, as well as upon those who invited you. Is that it?”

“Not at all to spit, but to protest. With a useful purpose. I might contribute indirectly to development and propaganda. It's the duty of every man to develop and propagandize, and the sharper the better, perhaps. I might sow an idea, a seed...From this seed a fact will grow. How am I offending them? They'll be offended at first, but then they'll see for themselves that I've been useful. Didn't they accuse Terebyeva at first (the one who is now in a commune) because, when she walked out on her family and...gave herself, she wrote to her mother and father that she did not want to live among prejudices and was entering into a civil marriage, and it was supposedly all too rude—towards fathers, that is—and she could have spared them and written more gently? That's all nonsense, in my opinion, and it shouldn't have been any gentler; on the contrary, on the contrary, it's here that one needs to protest. Take Varents, now; she lived for seven years with her husband, abandoned her two children, snapped out at once in a letter to the husband: 'I realized that I could not be happy with you. I will never forgive you for deceiving me, by concealing from me the existence of a different social order, by means of communes. I recently learned all about it from a magnanimous man to whom I have given myself, and together we are setting up a commune. I say it directly, because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Remain as you choose. Do not hope to bring me back, you are too late. I wish you happiness.' That's how such letters are written!”

“And is this the same Terebyeva you told me about, the one who is now in her third civil marriage?”

“Only the second, if you're really counting! But even if it were the fourth, or the fifteenth, it's all nonsense! And if ever I've regretted that my father and mother are dead, it's certainly now. I've even dreamed several times of how I'd smack them with a protest, if only they were alive! I'd set it all up on purpose...A 'severed member' and all that—pah! who cares! I'd show them! They'd get a surprise! Really, it's too bad I haven't got anybody!”

“To surprise, you mean? Heh, heh! Well, be that as you like,” Pyotr Petrovich interrupted, “but tell me something: you do know this dead man's daughter, the frail one? Is it completely true what they say about her, eh?”

“What if it is? In my opinion—I mean, according to my personal conviction—that is the most normal condition for a woman. And why not? I mean, distinguons. <sup>[108]108
  "Let's distinguish" (French).


[Закрыть]</sup> In today's society it is, of course, not quite normal, because it's forced, but in the future it will be perfectly normal, because free. But now, too, she had the right: she was suffering, and this was her reserve, her capital, so to speak, which she had every right to dispose of. Naturally, there will be no need of reserves in the future society; but her role will be designated by a different significance, it will be conditioned harmoniously and rationally. As far as Sofya Semyonovna personally is concerned, at present I look upon her actions as an energetic and embodied protest against the social order, and I deeply respect her for it. I even rejoice to look at her!”

“Yet I was told that it was you who drove her out of this house!”

Lebezyatnikov even became furious.

“That is more gossip!” he shouted. “It was not like that at all, not at all! It really was not like that! That's all Katerina Ivanovna's lies, because she understood nothing! I was not making up to Sofya Semyonovna at all! I was simply developing her, quite disinterestedly, trying to arouse a protest in her...The protest was all I was after, and anyway, Sofya Semyonovna couldn't have gone on staying in the house as she was!”

“Were you inviting her to a commune?”

“You keep laughing, and very inappropriately, if I may say so. You don't understand anything! There are no such roles in a commune. Communes are set up precisely so that there will be no such roles. In a commune, the present essence of this role will be entirely changed, and what is stupid here will become intelligent there, what is unnatural here, under the present circumstances, will there become perfectly natural. Everything depends on what circumstances and what environment man lives in. Environment is everything, and man himself is nothing. And even now I'm on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna, which may serve you as proof that she never regarded me as her enemy and offender. Yes! I'm now enticing her into a commune, only on a totally, totally different basis! What's so funny? We want to set up our own commune, a special one, only on a much broader basis than the previous ones. We've gone further in our convictions. We negate more! If Dobrolyubov rose from the grave, I'd argue with him. As for Belinsky, I'd pack him away! <sup>[109]109
  Nikolai A. Dobrolyubov (1836-61) was a radical literary critic and associate of Chernyshevsky. His career was cut short by consumption. Vissarion Belinsky (1811-1848), a liberal critic of the previous and more idealistic generation, achieved great prominence in his time. He was among the earliest to recognize Gogol's genius, and championed Dostoevsky's first novel, Poor Folk(1846).


[Закрыть]</sup> And meanwhile I'm continuing to develop Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful nature!”

“So you're finding a use for this beautiful nature, eh? Heh, heh!”

“No, no! Oh, no! Quite the contrary!”

“Come now, quite the contrary! Heh, heh, heh! What a phrase!”

“No, believe me! What reasons do I have for concealing it from you, pray tell? On the contrary, I even find it strange myself: with me she's somehow especially, somehow fearfully chaste and modest!”

“And, of course, you're developing her...heh, heh! ... by proving to her that all these modesties are nonsense? . . .”

“Not at all! Not at all! Oh, how crudely, even stupidly—forgive me—you understand the word development! You really understand n-nothing! Oh, God, you're still so...unready! We seek woman's freedom, and you have only one thing on your mind...Setting aside entirely the question of chastity and womanly modesty as in themselves useless and even prejudicial, I fully, fully allow for her chastity with me, because—it's entirely her will, entirely her right. Naturally, if she herself said to me: 'I want to have you,' I would regard myself as highly fortunate, because I like the girl very much; but for now, for now at least, certainly no one has ever treated her more politely and courteously than I, or with more respect for her dignity...I wait and hope—that's all!”

“Well, you'd better give her some present. I bet you haven't thought of that.”

“You understand n-nothing, I tell you! She's in that sort of position, of course, but the question here is different! Quite different! You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly consider worth despising, you deny her any humane regard as a person. You still don't know her nature! Only it's a great pity that lately she has somehow ceased reading altogether and no longer takes any books from me. And she used to. It's a pity, too, that with all her energy and determination to protest—which she has already proved once—she still seems to have too little self-sufficiency, or independence, so to speak, too little negation, to be able to break away completely from certain prejudices and . . . stupidities. In spite of that, she has an excellent understanding of certain questions. She understood splendidly the question of kissing hands, for instance—that is, that a man insults a woman with inequality if he kisses her hand. <sup>[110]110
  Lebezyatnikov is alluding to Vera Pavlovna's argument in Chernyshevsky's What Is to Be Done?The question of "freedom of entry into rooms" is also discussed in the same novel.


[Закрыть]</sup> The question was debated among us, and I immediately told her. She also listened attentively about the workers' associations in France. Now I'm explaining to her the question of freedom of entry into rooms in the future society.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“The question was being debated recently, whether a member of a commune has the right to enter another member's room, either a man's or a woman's, at any time...well, and it was decided that he does...”

“Well, and what if he or she is occupied at the moment with vital necessities, heh, heh!”

Andrei Semyonovich even became angry.

“And you just keep at it, at these cursed 'necessities'!” he cried out with hatred. “Pah, I'm so angry and annoyed with myself for mentioning these cursed necessities prematurely, when I was explaining the system to you that time! Devil take it! It's a stumbling block for all your kind, and worst of all—they start tossing it around even before they know what it's about! And just as if they were right! Just as if they were proud of something! Pah! I've insisted several times that this whole question cannot be explained to novices except at the very end, once he's already convinced of the system, once the person has already been developed and directed. And what, pray tell, do you find so shameful and contemptible even in cesspits? I, first, I'm ready to clean out any cesspits you like! There isn't even any self-sacrifice in it! It's simply work, a noble activity, useful for society, as worthy as any other, and certainly much higher, for example, than the activity of some Raphael or Pushkin, because it's more useful!” <sup>[111]111
  An allusion to arguments about art and usefulness propounded by certain radical critics of the day, particularly D. I. Pisarev (1840-68), a great disparager of Pushkin, who is said to have wept when he read C&P,before hastening to write a critical review of the novel.


[Закрыть]</sup>

“And more noble, more noble, heh, heh, heh!”

“What do you mean by 'noble'? I don't understand such expressions as ways of defining human activity. 'More noble,' 'more magnanimous'—it's all nonsense, absurdities, old prejudicial words, which I negate! What is noble is whatever is usefulfor mankind! I understand only the one word: useful!Snigger all you like, but it's true!”