community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of
wives raised from destitution and owing everything to their husband’s
bounty--who propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted
that he ‘let it slip,’ though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it
was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon as
possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands the man, of course, but
she will have to live with the man. Why! she’d live on black bread
and water, she would not sell her soul, she would not barter her moral
freedom for comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein,
much less Mr. Luzhin’s money. No, Dounia was not that sort when I knew
her and... she is still the same, of course! Yes, there’s no denying,
the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It’s a bitter thing to spend one’s
life a governess in the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know
she would rather be a nigger on a plantation or a Lett with a German
master than degrade her soul, and her moral dignity, by binding herself
for ever to a man whom she does not respect and with whom she has
nothing in common--for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had been of
unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would never have consented to
become his legal concubine. Why is she consenting then? What’s the
point of it? What’s the answer? It’s clear enough: for herself, for her
comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for someone
else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one she adores, she will
sell herself! That’s what it all amounts to; for her brother, for her
mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everything! In such cases,
‘we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,’ freedom, peace, conscience
even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if only my
dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become casuists, we learn
to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves, we can
persuade ourselves that it is one’s duty for a good object. That’s just
like us, it’s as clear as daylight. It’s clear that Rodion Romanovitch
Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one else. Oh,
yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university, make him
a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he may
even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his
life a famous man! But my mother? It’s all Rodya, precious Rodya, her
first born! For such a son who would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh,
loving, over-partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink even
from Sonia’s fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long
as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both
of you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in
it? And let me tell you, Dounia, Sonia’s life is no worse than life with
Mr. Luzhin. ‘There can be no question of love,’ mother writes. And what
if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary there is aversion,
contempt, repulsion, what then? So you will have to ‘keep up your
appearance,’ too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness
means? Do you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same
thing as Sonia’s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case,
Dounia, it’s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it’s
simply a question of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be
paid for, Dounia, this smartness. And what if it’s more than you can
bear afterwards, if you regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the
curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa
Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy,
she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes,
indeed, what have you taken me for? I won’t have your sacrifice, Dounia,
I won’t have it, mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it
shall not, it shall not! I won’t accept it!”

He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.

“It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You’ll
forbid it? And what right have you? What can you promise them on your
side to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you
will devote to them _when you have finished your studies and obtained a
post_? Yes, we have heard all that before, and that’s all _words_, but
now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And
what are you doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their
hundred roubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs. How are
you going to save them from Svidrigaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch
Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who would arrange their lives for
them? In another ten years? In another ten years, mother will be blind
with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a
shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may have
become of your sister in ten years? What may happen to her during those
ten years? Can you fancy?”

So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and
finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not
new ones suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was
long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long
ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and
gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken
the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured
his heart and mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his
mother’s letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear
that he must not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved
questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it
quickly. Anyway he must decide on something, or else...

“Or throw up life altogether!” he cried suddenly, in a frenzy--“accept
one’s lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in
oneself, giving up all claim to activity, life and love!”

“Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have
absolutely nowhere to turn?” Marmeladov’s question came suddenly into
his mind, “for every man must have somewhere to turn....”

He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday,
slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought
recurring to him, for he knew, he had _felt beforehand_, that it must

with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of

wives raised from destitution and owing everything to their husband’s

bounty--who propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted

that he ‘let it slip,’ though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it

was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon as

possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands the man, of course, but

she will have to live with the man. Why! she’d live on black bread

and water, she would not sell her soul, she would not barter her moral

freedom for comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein,

much less Mr. Luzhin’s money. No, Dounia was not that sort when I knew

her and... she is still the same, of course! Yes, there’s no denying,

the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It’s a bitter thing to spend one’s

life a governess in the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know

she would rather be a nigger on a plantation or a Lett with a German

master than degrade her soul, and her moral dignity, by binding herself

for ever to a man whom she does not respect and with whom she has

nothing in common--for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had been of

unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would never have consented to

become his legal concubine. Why is she consenting then? What’s the

point of it? What’s the answer? It’s clear enough: for herself, for her

comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for someone

else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one she adores, she will

sell herself! That’s what it all amounts to; for her brother, for her

mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everything! In such cases,

‘we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,’ freedom, peace, conscience

even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if only my

dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become casuists, we learn

to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves, we can

persuade ourselves that it is one’s duty for a good object. That’s just

like us, it’s as clear as daylight. It’s clear that Rodion Romanovitch

Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one else. Oh,

yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university, make him

a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he may

even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his

life a famous man! But my mother? It’s all Rodya, precious Rodya, her

first born! For such a son who would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh,

loving, over-partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink even

from Sonia’s fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long

as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both

of you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in

it? And let me tell you, Dounia, Sonia’s life is no worse than life with

Mr. Luzhin. ‘There can be no question of love,’ mother writes. And what

if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary there is aversion,

contempt, repulsion, what then? So you will have to ‘keep up your

appearance,’ too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness

means? Do you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same

thing as Sonia’s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case,

Dounia, it’s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it’s

simply a question of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be

paid for, Dounia, this smartness. And what if it’s more than you can

bear afterwards, if you regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the

curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa

Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy,

she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes,

indeed, what have you taken me for? I won’t have your sacrifice, Dounia,

I won’t have it, mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it

shall not, it shall not! I won’t accept it!”

He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still.

“It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You’ll

forbid it? And what right have you? What can you promise them on your

side to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you

will devote to them _when you have finished your studies and obtained a

post_? Yes, we have heard all that before, and that’s all _words_, but

now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And

what are you doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their

hundred roubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs. How are

you going to save them from Svidrigaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch

Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who would arrange their lives for

them? In another ten years? In another ten years, mother will be blind

with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a

shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may have

become of your sister in ten years? What may happen to her during those

ten years? Can you fancy?”

So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and

finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not

new ones suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was

long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long

ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and

gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken

the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured

his heart and mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his

mother’s letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear

that he must not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved

questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it

quickly. Anyway he must decide on something, or else...

“Or throw up life altogether!” he cried suddenly, in a frenzy--“accept

one’s lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in

oneself, giving up all claim to activity, life and love!”

“Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have

absolutely nowhere to turn?” Marmeladov’s question came suddenly into

his mind, “for every man must have somewhere to turn....”

He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday,

slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought

recurring to him, for he knew, he had _felt beforehand_, that it must