2. CHAPTER II
Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o'clock, troubled and
serious. He found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for
perplexities. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling
like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew
that a perfectly novel experience had befallen him, that he had
received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the
same time he recognised clearly that the dream which had fired his
imagination was hopelessly unattainable--so unattainable that he felt
positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more
practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that "thrice
The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had
shown himself "base and mean," not only because he had been drunk, but
because he had taken advantage of the young girl's position to abuse
her /fiance/ in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual
relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And
what right had he to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner?
Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature
as Avdotya Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So
there must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all how could
he know the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat . . .
Foo! how despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he
was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading! In wine is
truth, and the truth had all come out, "that is, all the uncleanness
of his coarse and envious heart"! And would such a dream ever be
permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl--he, the
drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so
absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed desperately at
the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon
him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady
would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna . . . that was simply
intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove,
hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying.
"Of course," he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of
self-abasement, "of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out
or smoothed over . . . and so it's useless even to think of it, and I
must go to them in silence and do my duty . . . in silence, too . . .
and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing . . . for all is lost now!"