'How can we expect a cultured man not to commit a murder, if he is in need of money.' But these are only the first fruits.
The Russian God has already been vanquished by cheap vodka.

The peasants are drunk, the mothers are drunk, the children are drunk, the churches are empty, and in the peasant courts one hears, 'Two hundred lashes or stand us a bucket of vodka.' Oh, this generation has only to grow up.
It's only a pity we can't afford to wait, or we might have let them get a bit more tipsy! Ah, what a pity there's no proletariat! But there will be, there will be; we are going that way...." "It's a pity, too, that we've grown greater fools," muttered Stavrogin, moving forward as before.
"Listen.

I've seen a child of six years old leading home his drunken mother, whilst she swore at him with foul words.

Do you suppose I am glad of that?
When it's in our hands, maybe we'll mend things...

if need be, we'll drive them for forty years into the wilderness....