“Leave off, leave off your vile, low jokes, you depraved, base, lustful man!”
“Schiller, yes, our Schiller, Schiller! Où va-t-elle la vertu se nicher? You know, I’ll deliberately tell you such things just to hear your outcries. Delightful!”
“Of course, isn’t it ridiculous to myself at this very moment?” Raskolnikov muttered bitterly. Svidrigailov laughed heartily; then he called Philip, paid him, and began to stand up. “Well, I am drunk indeed, assez causé!” he said, “delightful!”
“It’s no wonder you feel delight,” Raskolnikov shouted, also rising, “isn’t it a pleasure for a worn-out debauchee to talk about such escapades,”—meaning some monstrous intention of the same kind—“especially under these circumstances and for a man like me… It ignites.”
They accepted with enthusiasm, considered it an honour, and we’re still acquainted… Want to go? — but not now.”
No carrying children around!’
Well, I didn’t care, didn’t matter to me — they were comforting themselves with logic, whether it made sense or not! I immediately found my place, sat beside the mother, and started talking about how I was new here, how rude everyone was, how they couldn’t recognize true worth or show proper respect. I let them know I had plenty of money; I invited them to ride in my carriage; I took them home and got acquainted (they lived in a small room rented from tenants, they had just arrived). They told me that both she and her daughter considered my acquaintance an honour; I learned they had no home or property and had come to petition some authority; I offered my help and money. I found out they had gone to that evening by mistake, thinking it was really a dance lesson; I offered to help with the young girl’s education, French language, and dancing.
I ended up at one so-called dance evening — a horrible cesspool (and I do love cesspools, especially the filthy kind), and of course, there was can-can dancing, different from anything in my time. Yes, that’s progress. Suddenly, I see a girl of about thirteen, nicely dressed, dancing with one virtuoso; another one was opposite her. And by the wall on a chair sat her mother. You can imagine what kind of can-can it was! The girl got embarrassed, blushed, then took offense and started crying. The virtuoso caught her up, started spinning her and showing off in front of her. Everyone was laughing around — and I love the crowd at moments like this, even if it’s a can-can crowd — they laughed and shouted, ‘That’s right! That’s how it should be!
“I do love children, actually, I really do,” Svidrigailov laughed. “I can even tell you a very curious story about it, which is still going on. On the very first day after I arrived, I started wandering through all those cesspools — well, after seven years, I just plunged right in. You probably notice that I’m not in a hurry to mix with my old friends and acquaintances, nor do I plan to for as long as possible. You see, at Marfa Petrovna’s village, I was tormented to death by memories of all those mysterious places where, if you know them, you can find a lot. Damn it! People are drunkards, the educated youth burn out from idleness with unreal dreams and fantasies, getting twisted up in theories; somewhere, the Jews came, hiding their money, and everything else is just depravity. That’s the kind of smell this city hit me with from the very first hours — a familiar stench.
– In short, this monstrous difference in age and development in you arouses lust! And do you really intend to marry like that? – Well, why not? Absolutely. Everyone looks out for themselves, and the happiest is the one who can fool others best. Ha-ha! Why are you all so obsessed with virtue? Have mercy, father, I am a sinful man. He-he-he! – Yet, you did arrange a match for Katerina Ivanovna’s children. However… however, you must have had your reasons… now I understand everything.
Everyone left for a minute, and when we were alone, she suddenly threw herself around my neck (for the first time), hugged me with both little hands, kissed me, and vowed she’d be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, that she’d make me happy, that she’d devote her whole life, every minute, sacrifice everything for me, and for all this, she asked for nothing, nothing at all—no gifts! Admit it yourself, to hear such a confession alone from such a sixteen-year-old angel in a tulle dress, with little curls, with the blush of maidenly modesty and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes—admit it, it’s quite tempting. Tempting, isn’t it? It’s worth something, huh? Well, then listen… come with me to see my fiancée… but not now!
It’s what they call La nature et la vérité! Ha-ha! I talked with her twice—she’s no fool; sometimes she steals a glance at me that could burn you through. And you know, her face is like a Raphael Madonna. The Sistine Madonna’s face is fantastic, the face of a sorrowful holy fool, didn’t you notice? Well, something like that. Just after the blessing, I brought her gifts the next day worth fifteen hundred: a diamond set, a pearl one, and a silver lady’s vanity box—such a size and with all sorts of things—that even her, the Madonna’s, face flushed. Yesterday I put her on my lap, maybe too boldly—she blushed and tears came, but she doesn’t want to be given away; she’s burning inside.
She comes out, sits down—you can imagine—in a short dress, a bud yet to bloom, blushing, glowing like dawn (they told her, of course). I don’t know about you and women’s faces, but to me, those sixteen years, those still-childish eyes, that shyness and tears of modesty—that’s better than beauty, and she’s a picture besides. Light hair, curled in little ringlets like lamb’s wool, lips plump and rosy, legs—simply charming! We got acquainted, I said I had to hurry back home, and the very next day, the third day actually, they gave their blessing. Since then, when I arrive, I put her on my lap and don’t let her go… She glows like dawn, and I kiss her every minute; the mother, of course, insists this is her husband and it’s how it should be—in short, paradise! And this present engagement state, honestly, might be even better than marriage.
She says there’s this loose father, a retired official, sitting in his chair, hasn’t moved his legs for three years. There’s a sensible mother, a proper lady. The son serves somewhere in the province, does not help. The daughter married and doesn’t visit. And she has two little nephews to care for (few children of her own), and they took a girl from the gymnasium before she finished—her youngest daughter, who will turn sixteen in a month, so in a month she can be married off. That’s for me. We went there; how funny it was with them. I introduced myself: landlord, widower, from a well-known family, with connections and capital—so what if I’m fifty and she’s not yet sixteen? Who cares? But it’s tempting, isn’t it? Tempting, ha-ha! You should have seen how I chatted with the father and mother! They’d pay just to watch me at that moment.
– You’re not really leaving? We’ll see about that! I’ll take you there, that’s true, I’ll show you my fiancée, but not now—now it’s almost time for you to go. You head right, I’ll go left. Do you know that Resslich? The very same Resslich I live with now—huh? Hear me? No? You think I mean that Resslich, the one they say is a tough girl, can swim, even in winter—well, listen here! She made all this up for me; said, “You’re bored, so entertain yourself.” And I’m a gloomy, dull man. You think I’m cheerful? No, gloomy: I don’t harm anyone, just sit in the corner; sometimes I don’t talk for three days. But that Resslich is a sly one, I tell you. She’s thinking: I’ll get bored, leave my wife, and run away, and the wife will be hers to use—within our circle, that is, or even higher.
“No, I won’t leave now.”
— Did I say? I forgot. But back then, I couldn’t speak for sure, because I hadn’t even seen the bride yet; I was only planning. Well, now I have a fiancée, and it’s settled, and if it weren’t for urgent matters, I would definitely take you and go to them right away — that’s why I want to ask your advice. Hey, damn! Only ten minutes left. See, look at the clock; but anyway, I’ll tell you, because it’s an interesting thing, my marriage, in its own way. — Where are you going? Leaving again?
– From some of the words and phrases you used during your story, I notice you still have your own plans and most urgent intentions towards Dunya, of course, despicable ones. – What! Did such words and phrases slip out of me? – Svidrigailov suddenly asked, pretending to be naive and afraid, without paying the slightest attention to the insult attached to his intentions. – They still slip out now. Why are you so afraid, for example? Why have you suddenly gotten scared? – Am I afraid and scared? Scared of you? You should be the one afraid of me, cher ami. What nonsense… But then again, I’m drunk, I see that; I almost let something slip again. To hell with the wine! Hey, water! He grabbed the bottle and without ceremony threw it out the window. Filipp brought water. – It’s all nonsense, – said Svidrigailov, wetting a towel and pressing it to his head, – and with just one word I can stop you and crush all your suspicions to dust. Do you know, for example, that I’m getting married? – You’ve told me that before.
– And are you sure she cannot? (Svidrigailov squinted and smiled mockingly.) You are right, she does not love me; but never be too certain about matters between husband and wife or lover and mistress. There is always a corner that remains unknown to the whole world and is known only to the two of them. Are you sure that Avdotya Romanovna looked at me with disgust?
Svidrigailov impatiently struck the table with his fist. His face flushed. Raskolnikov clearly saw that the glass or one and a half of champagne he had been quietly sipping had affected him painfully – and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Svidrigailov was very suspicious to him. "Well, after this, I am completely convinced that you came here with my sister in mind," he said directly to Svidrigailov, without hiding it, to provoke him even more. "Ah, come now," Svidrigailov suddenly seemed to realize, "I told you… and besides, your sister cannot stand me."
"Yes, I am convinced of that too, that she cannot. But that’s not the point now."
Right? Right? Isn’t that so? I notice you have been listening very closely… an interesting young man…
Counting on the fact that Avdotya Romanovna is essentially poor (ah, excuse me, I did not mean that… but is it not the same thing, if it means the same?), in short, that she lives by her own work, and has both her mother and you to support (ah, damn, you frown again…), I dared to offer her all my money (up to thirty thousand I could have managed even then) so that she would run away with me, even here, to Petersburg. Of course, I would have sworn eternal love, bliss, and so on and so forth. Believe me, I was so mad then that if she had said, “Kill or poison Marfa Petrovna and marry me,” it would have been done immediately! But it all ended in catastrophe, as you know, and you can judge how furious I became when I learned that Marfa Petrovna had brought in that vile official, Luzhin, and almost arranged the wedding — which, in fact, would have been the same as what I proposed.
I mocked all these conversions and appeals in the crudest way; Parasha appeared again on the scene, and not only she — in short, chaos began. Oh, if you had seen, Rodion Romanovich, even once in your life, how your sister’s eyes can flash sometimes! It does not matter that I am drunk now and have already had a whole glass of wine, I tell the truth; I assure you that I dreamed of that look; I could no longer bear the rustle of her dress. Truly, I thought I would have a seizure; I never imagined I could reach such frenzy. In short, we had to reconcile; but that was already impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what degree madness can dull a man! Never do anything in madness, Rodion Romanovich.
And how angry she got at me when I finally told her, sincerely, that she sought pleasures just as much as I did. Poor Marfa Petrovna was also terribly susceptible to flattery, and if I had wanted, I could have had her entire estate signed over to me while she was still alive. (But I drink far too much wine and talk too much.) I hope you will not be angry if I now mention that the same effect began to happen with Avdotya Romanovna. Yes, I was foolish and impatient and spoiled everything. Avdotya Romanovna disliked the expression in my eyes several times before (once especially). Believe it or not, some fire began to burn more strongly and recklessly in them, which scared her and eventually made her hate me. There is no need to go into details, but we parted ways. Then I made another mistake.
And ordinary people, needless to say. I cannot help but laugh recalling how once I seduced a lady devoted to her husband, children, and virtues. How cheerful it was, and how little work it took! And the lady was truly virtuous, at least in her own way. My entire tactic was simply to be crushed every minute and fall at her feet in awe of her chastity. I flattered shamelessly, and when I managed to get a handshake or even a glance, I reproached myself for having taken it by force, because she resisted so much that I probably would have gotten nothing if I were not so depraved myself; that she, in her innocence, did not foresee the deceit and yielded unintentionally, unknowingly, and so on. In short, I achieved everything, and the lady remained utterly convinced that she was innocent and chaste, fulfilling all duties and obligations, and yet was ruined quite unintentionally.
That is how strong the passion for proselytizing can be in some young women! Of course, I blamed it all on my fate, pretended to be hungry and thirsty for light, and finally used the greatest and most infallible means of conquering a woman’s heart, a method that never fails anyone and works effectively on every single one, without exception. This method is well known — flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than sincerity, and nothing easier than flattery. If sincerity has even one hundredth of a false note, a discord immediately arises, followed by scandal. But if flattery is false to the last note, it is still pleasant and accepted with pleasure; even if the pleasure is crude, it is still pleasure. And however crude flattery may be, at least half of it always seems true. This applies to all levels and classes of society. Even a Vestal virgin can be seduced by flattery.
She is chaste, perhaps to the point of illness, despite her broad intellect, and that will harm her.) We had a girl here, Parasha, dark-eyed Parasha, just brought from another village, a hay-gatherer, whom I had never seen before — very pretty, but unbelievably stupid: she burst into tears, raised a howl all over the courtyard, and a scandal broke out. Once, after lunch, Avdotya Romanovna deliberately found me alone in the garden alley and, with sparkling eyes, begged me to leave poor Parasha alone. That was almost our first conversation alone. Naturally, I took it as an honor to satisfy her wish, tried to pretend to be struck, embarrassed — in short, I played the part well. Then began the secret meetings, mysterious conversations, moral lessons, entreaties, supplications, even tears — believe it or not, even tears!
That’s exactly what she craves and demands — to take on some kind of suffering for someone else quickly; if she cannot have that suffering, she might even jump out the window. I heard something about a certain Mr. Razumikhin. They say he is a sensible young man (which his name suggests — probably a seminarian), so let him look after your sister. In short, I think I understand her, which I count as an honor. But at the beginning of an acquaintance, you know, one is always somewhat more frivolous and foolish, sees things wrongly, mistakes appearances. Damn it, why is she so good? It’s not my fault! In brief, it started with the most uncontrollable passionate impulse. Avdotya Romanovna is terribly, incredibly, and extraordinarily chaste. (Note, I tell you this about your sister as a fact.
I immediately realized the little bird was flying into the trap herself, and I prepared accordingly. You seem to frown, Rodion Romanovich? No matter, as you know, it all ended up trivial. (Damn, how much wine I drink!)
You know, I have always felt sorry, from the very beginning, that fate did not allow your sister to be born in the second or third century AD, as a daughter of a ruling prince or some governor or proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who suffered martyrdom and would surely have smiled when her chest was burnt with red-hot pincers. She would have gone willingly, and in the fourth or fifth century, would have retreated to the Egyptian desert to live for thirty years, sustained by roots, raptures, and visions.
— This is the very one. I can see that all this interests you greatly as well, and I shall, at the earliest opportunity, satisfy your curiosity in every detail. Damn it! I see I might actually appear to someone as a romantic figure. Imagine to what extent I must thank the late Marfa Petrovna for telling your sister so many mysterious and intriguing things about me. I dare not judge the impression it made; but in any case, it worked to my advantage. Despite Avdotya Romanovna’s natural aversion to me and my perpetually gloomy and repulsive appearance, she finally felt pity for me, a lost soul. And when a young woman’s heart feels that way, of course, it becomes all the more dangerous for her. Then she wants to “save,” to enlighten, to revive, to call to nobler purposes, to bring back to life and activity — well, you know what dreams can arise from that.
“I heard. Luzhin accused you of even causing the death of a child. Is that true?”
“Please, spare me all this nonsense,” Svidrigailov replied with disgust and grumbling. “If you really want to hear all this rubbish, I might tell you one day, but for now…”
“They also spoke about some servant of yours in the village and that you were supposedly responsible for something there as well.”
“Please, enough!” Svidrigailov interrupted again, clearly impatient. “Is that the same servant who used to come and refill your pipe after you died… that’s what you yourself told me?” Raskolnikov became increasingly irritated. Svidrigailov looked carefully at Raskolnikov, and it seemed to him that a cruel smile flashed like lightning in his eyes, but Svidrigailov controlled himself and answered very politely:
In our quarrels, I mostly kept silent and did not get angry, and this gentlemanly behaviour almost always worked; it affected her and she even liked it. There were times when she was even proud of me. But she never tolerated your sisters. And how did it happen that she risked taking such a beauty into her house as a governess? I explain it by saying that Marfa Petrovna was a passionate and impressionable woman and simply fell in love — literally fell in love — with your sister. Well, and Avdotya Romanovna too! I understood
About the last point, Marfa Petrovna was quite calm all along; she was a smart woman and so could only see me as a libertine and scoundrel, incapable of serious love. But a smart woman and a jealous woman are two different things, and therein lay the trouble. However, to judge some people fairly, one must first give up certain prejudices and the usual habit of judging ordinary people and things around us. I hope to rely on your judgment more than anyone else’s. Perhaps you have already heard many ridiculous and absurd things about Marfa Petrovna. Indeed, she had some rather funny habits; but I will tell you frankly that I sincerely regret the countless sorrows I caused her. Well, that should be enough of a rather decent oraison funèbre for the tender wife of the tenderest husband.
That confession drove her mad, but it seems my rough frankness pleased her somehow: ‘So you don’t want to deceive me since you’re admitting it beforehand,’ she said — and for a jealous woman, that’s everything. After many tears, we made a verbal contract: first, I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always remain her husband; second, I would never go anywhere without her permission; third, I would never have a permanent mistress; fourth, in return, Marfa Petrovna allowed me to glance occasionally at village girls, but only with her secret knowledge; fifth, God forbid I fall in love with a woman from our own class; sixth, if by some chance — God forbid — a great and serious passion came upon me, I must confess it to Marfa Petrovna.
“You know, perhaps (though I may have told you myself),” Svidrigailov began, “that I was once locked up here in a debtors’ prison, owing a huge sum, and without the slightest means to pay it off. No need to go into details about how Marfa Petrovna bailed me out then; you understand to what extent a woman can sometimes love in a sort of daze? She was an honest woman, quite clever (though completely uneducated). Just imagine, this very woman, jealous and honest, after many terrible outbursts and reproaches, agreed to some kind of contract with me, which she kept throughout our marriage. The thing was, she was much older than me and always kept a clove in her mouth. I had enough wickedness in my soul and a certain kind of honesty to tell her straight out that I could never be completely faithful to her.
Raskolnikov began to get up. He suddenly felt heavy, suffocated, and somewhat uneasy about having come here. With Svidrigailov, he had seen him as the most empty and insignificant villain in the world. “Eh, sit down, stay a while,” Svidrigailov pleaded, “and let me bring you some tea at least. Come, sit, I won’t talk nonsense—about myself, I mean. I’ll tell you something. Would you like me to tell you how a woman, in your own words, ‘saved’ me? That will even answer your first question, because that lady is your sister. May I tell you? It will also pass the time.”
“Go ahead, but I hope you…”
“Oh, don’t worry! Besides, Avdotya Romanovna can inspire only the deepest respect even in a wretched and worthless person like me.”
"Well, by God, no!" Svidrigailov laughed. "But then again, I won't argue—let him be a braggart; after all, why not boast a little when it’s harmless? I lived for seven years in the village with Marfa Petrovna, so now, turning to a smart man like you—a very smart and extremely curious man—I’m just glad to have a chat. Besides, I’ve had half a glass of wine and it’s already gone a little to my head. But most importantly, there’s one thing that really bothered me, though I... will keep quiet about it. Where are you going?" Svidrigailov suddenly asked, alarmed.
— Forget them, don’t mention it; it hasn’t happened in Petersburg yet; and to hell with them! — he exclaimed with a kind of irritated look. — No, let’s talk about something else… but then again… Hmm! Ah, there’s little time, I can’t stay with you long, what a pity! I had something to tell. — And what about you, madam? — Yes, madam, just one accidental incident… no, I don’t mean that. — Well, hasn’t the filth of this whole situation affected you? Have you already lost the strength to stop? — And do you even claim to have strength? Ha-ha-ha! You’ve surprised me now, Rodion Romanovich, though I knew in advance it would be like this. You talk to me about debauchery and aesthetics! You are Schiller, you are an idealist! Of course, that’s how it should be, and it would be strange if it were otherwise, but still, somehow, it’s all rather strange in reality… Ah, it’s a pity there’s so little time, because you yourself are a most fascinating person! By the way, do you like Schiller? I love him terribly. — But what a braggart you are! — Raskolnikov said with some disgust.
“Well, there you go!” Svidrigailov retorted with disgust. “Do me a favour, don’t talk about it,” he added hastily, without any of the usual bravado that marked his earlier words. Even his face seemed to change. “I admit to an unforgivable weakness, but what can I do? I fear death and dislike when it’s spoken of. You know, I am partly a mystic.”
“Ah! The ghosts of Marfa Petrovna! Well, do they keep coming?”
– So what if it’s indulgence! Let them have their indulgence. I do appreciate a straightforward question, at least. In this indulgence, there is something constant, something even based on nature and not subject to fancy, something like an ever-burning ember in the blood, always igniting, which for a long time, and maybe even as years go by, you cannot easily extinguish. You must agree, it’s a kind of occupation, isn’t it? – What is there to be happy about? It’s a disease, and a dangerous one at that. – Ah, I see where you’re going! I agree it’s a disease, like anything taken beyond measure — and here, you inevitably cross the line — but first, it’s different for everyone, and second, of course, in everything keep measure and calculation, even if it’s dirty business, what can you do? Without it, one might just as well shoot oneself, perhaps. I agree that a decent person must feel boredom, but still…
– Could you shoot yourself?
— To debauchery! So that's where you are headed! But first, let me answer you about women in general; you know, I am in the mood to talk. Tell me, why should I hold myself back? Why give up women if I am a hunter after them? At least it’s an occupation. — So you are here hoping only for debauchery?
– Who are you and why have you come here? – Who am I? You know: a nobleman, served two years in the cavalry, then wandered around here in Petersburg, then married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the village. That’s my story! – You seem to be a gambler? – No, I’m not a gambler. A card sharp is not a gambler. – Were you a card sharp then? – Yes, I was a card sharp. – Were you beaten for it? – Sometimes. Why? – Well, that means you could have been challenged to a duel… and anyway, it livens things up. – I don’t argue with you, and I’m no master at philosophy either. I admit, I came here mostly because of women. – You just buried Marfa Petrovna? – Yes, – Svidrigailov smiled with a victorious openness. – So what? Do you think there’s something wrong with the way I talk about women? – Do I find anything wrong in debauchery or not?
The other day, I hid away like a schoolboy because I thought you might disturb me; but now (he took out his watch), I can stay with you for an hour—it’s half past four. You know, I wish I had something—like being a landlord, a father, a soldier, a photographer, a journalist… but no, nothing, no profession at all! Sometimes it’s even boring. Honestly, I thought you’d tell me something new.
– What can I tell you? How should I know? See, I spend all my time in some small roadside eatery, and that’s enough for me—not that I’m really satisfied, just somewhere to sit down. Well, take that poor Katya, have you seen her? Suppose I were, say, a glutton or a club gourmet, but look what I can eat! (He pointed to a corner where on a small table, on a tin plate, were the remains of a terrible beefsteak with potatoes.) By the way, have you had lunch? I just had a bite and don’t want more. I don’t drink wine at all, except champagne—and even then, only one glass in the whole evening, and it gives me a headache. Now, I asked for some to be served just to prepare myself, because I’m about to leave, and as you see, I’m in a special mood.
– What do you mean by borrowing?
"Just as a curious subject for observation. I was fascinated by the fantastic nature of your situation – that’s what! Besides, you are the brother of a person who interests me greatly, and finally, I have heard a lot and often about you from this very person herself, from which I concluded that you have great influence over her; isn't that enough? He-he-he! However, I admit, your question is quite difficult for me, and I find it hard to answer you. Well, for example, you came to me not only on business but also looking for something new, right? Isn't that so? Isn’t it?" Svidrigailov insisted with a sly smile, "Now imagine this: even on my way here, in the train carriage, I was counting on you to tell me something and hoping to borrow something from you! Look at us, how rich we are!"
"Why are you in such a hurry?" Svidrigailov asked, looking at him curiously. "Everyone has their own pace," Raskolnikov said darkly and impatiently. "You just invited me to be frank, and now you refuse to answer my first question," Svidrigailov remarked with a smile. "You keep thinking I have some hidden agenda, so you look at me suspiciously. Well, that's quite understandable given your situation. But no matter how much I want to connect with you, I won’t bother trying to convince you otherwise. Honestly, it’s not worth the trouble, and I wasn’t planning to talk to you about anything special anyway."
"Then why did I become so important to you? After all, you were courting me," Raskolnikov asked.
“Do I really have to deal with you as well?” Raskolnikov suddenly said, stepping out with a restless urgency into the open. “Although you might be the most dangerous person if you decide to cause harm, I don’t want to break myself any further. I’ll show you now that I don’t value myself as much as you probably think. Know this: I have come straight to tell you that if you still hold your old intention about my sister, and if you plan to use anything that has recently come to light for that, I will kill you before you put me behind bars. You know my word is true—I can keep it. Secondly, if you want to tell me something—because all this time I felt like you wanted to say something—then say it quickly, because time is precious and very soon it might be too late.”
“Heh-heh! And why was it that when I stood at your doorstep back then, you were lying on your sofa with your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, when you were actually wide awake? I noticed that very clearly.”
“I might have had… reasons… you know that yourself.”
“And I might have had my reasons too, though you won’t find out what they are.”
Raskolnikov rested his right elbow on the table, propping his chin with the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigailov. He studied his face for a moment — a face that had always struck him before. It was a strange face, almost like a mask: pale, flushed, with rosy, crimson lips, a light blond beard, and still quite thick light blond hair. His eyes were strangely blue, and their gaze was oddly heavy and motionless. There was something terribly unpleasant about that handsome and remarkably youthful-looking face, considering his age. Svidrigailov’s clothes were stylish, summery, and light; especially noticeable was his fine linen. On his finger, he wore a huge ring set with an expensive stone.
“Do you know that someone is watching me?” Raskolnikov asked, looking at him intently. “No, I don’t know anything about that,” Svidrigailov replied, as if surprised. “Well then, leave me alone,” Raskolnikov muttered, frowning. “All right, we will leave you alone.”
“Better tell me this—if you come here to drink and even asked me twice to come here, then why did you hide and try to leave when I was looking out the window from the street? I noticed that very clearly.”
—I believe you. I told you twice already. The address has been stamped into your memory mechanically. You turned this way mechanically, strictly following the address, without even realizing it. When I spoke to you then, I didn’t expect you to understand me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovich. Also, I am convinced that many people in Petersburg walk around talking to themselves. It is a city of half-mad people. If we had proper sciences, doctors, lawyers, and philosophers could conduct invaluable studies on Petersburg, each in their own field. Rarely anywhere else do you find so many gloomy, sharp, and strange influences on a person’s soul as here. Just the climatic effects alone are something! Yet, this is the administrative centre of all Russia, and its character should reflect on everything. But that’s not the point now. The point is, I have watched you from the side several times. When you leave the house, you still hold your head straight. After twenty steps, you lower it and fold your hands behind your back. You look around but clearly see nothing ahead or to the sides. Finally, you start moving your lips and talking to yourself, sometimes freeing one hand to recite aloud, and then you stop in the middle of the street for a long time. This is very bad. Maybe some people notice you besides me, and that’s not good for you. To be honest, I don’t care much, and I won’t cure you, but of course, you understand me.
– Well, that was a different matter then. Everyone has their own ways. And about the miracle, I must say, it seems you have been asleep for the last two or three days. I myself chose that inn for you, and there was no miracle in you coming straight here; I explained the whole route, told you the place where it stands, and the hours when you could find me here. Remember? – I forgot, – Raskolnikov answered with surprise.
– What a character this whole crowd has! – Svidrigailov laughed. – They won’t admit it, even if deep down they believe in a miracle! You yourselves say that only chance is “maybe.” And you can’t imagine how many cowards there are when it comes to their own opinion, Rodion Romanovich! I’m not talking about you. You have your own opinion and weren’t afraid to hold it. That’s what caught my curiosity. – Nothing else? – That’s enough. Svidrigailov was clearly excited, but only just a bit; he had drunk only half a glass of wine. – It seems to me you came to me before you knew that I am capable of having what you call my own opinion, – Raskolnikov remarked.
“I was coming to find you,” Raskolnikov began, “but why did I suddenly turn onto –sky Avenue from Sennaya? I never turn here or come this way. I always turn right from Sennaya. And the road to you isn’t this way. Yet I turned, and here you are! It’s strange!”
“Why not just say it’s a miracle?”
“Because it might just be a coincidence.”
“As you wish, I’m not here for you. Drink, Katya! You won’t need anything else today, off you go!” He poured her a whole glass of wine and placed a small yellow ticket beside it. Katya drank the glass in one go, like women do—without pausing, in about twenty sips. She took the ticket, kissed Svidrigailov’s hand, which he allowed to be kissed quite seriously, and left the room. Behind her, the boy with the organ followed. Both of them had been brought in from the street. Svidrigailov hadn’t even lived in Petersburg for a week, yet everything around him was on some kind of patriarchal footing. The tavern’s footman, Philip, was already a “familiar” and acted obsequiously. The door to the hall was locked; Svidrigailov felt at home in that room and might have spent whole days there. The tavern was dirty, shabby, and not even of average quality.
The girl immediately stopped and waited respectfully. She sang her rhymed servant’s song with a serious and respectful expression on her face. "Hey, Philip, a glass!" called Svidrigailov. "I will not drink wine," said Raskolnikov.
“Well, well! Come in if you want; I’m here!” he shouted from the window. Raskolnikov went up to the tavern. He found him in a very small back room, with one window, adjoining the large hall where, at about twenty small tables, merchants, clerks, and all sorts of people were drinking tea amid the cries of a desperate choir of singers. From somewhere came the sound of billiard balls striking. On the table in front of Svidrigailov stood an opened bottle of champagne and a glass half full of wine. In the little room there was also a boy playing a small barrel organ and a healthy, rosy-cheeked girl in a tucked-up striped skirt and a Tyrolean hat with ribbons, a singer about eighteen years old, who, despite the choral song in the other room, was singing along with the organ player in a rather husky contralto voice, some kind of servant’s song…
“That’s enough!” Svidrigailov interrupted her as Raskolnikov entered.
Something like the scene of their first encounter at Raskolnikov’s place during his sleep happened between them. A sly smile appeared on Svidrigailov’s face and grew wider. Both of them knew that they saw and were watching each other. Finally, Svidrigailov burst out laughing loudly.
He wanted to turn back, wondering why he had turned onto –sky Prospect, when suddenly, in one of the farthest open windows of the tavern, he saw Svidrigailov sitting right by the window, at a tea table, with a pipe in his teeth. This struck him terribly, almost with horror. Svidrigailov watched him silently, and what immediately struck Raskolnikov as well was that he seemed to be about to get up quietly and leave before being noticed. Raskolnikov immediately pretended not to have noticed him and looked thoughtfully to the side, but continued to watch him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating anxiously. That was it: Svidrigailov clearly did not want to be seen. He took the pipe away from his lips and was already about to hide; but, standing up and pushing the chair aside, he probably suddenly noticed that Raskolnikov was watching him.
Raskolnikov was so exhausted after all this time, after the whole month, that he could no longer resolve such questions in any other way than by a single decision: "Then I will kill him," he thought in cold despair. A heavy feeling squeezed his heart; he stopped in the middle of the street and looked around: which road was he on and how far had he come? He was on –sky Prospect, about thirty or forty steps from Sennaya, which he had just passed. The entire second floor of the building to the left was occupied by a tavern. All the windows were wide open; judging by the moving figures in the windows, the tavern was packed. Songbooks were being passed around in the hall, the clarinet and violin were ringing out, and a Turkish drum was beating. Female shrieks could be heard.
"In any case, I must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible," he finally decided to himself. "Thank God, here the details are not as important as the essence of the matter; but if, if only he is capable, if Svidrigailov is plotting something against Dunia—then..."
This thought sometimes tormented him, even in his dreams, but never before had it appeared so clearly and consciously as now, when he was going to Svidrigailov. The very idea filled him with a dark fury. First of all, everything would change then, even his own situation: he must immediately reveal the secret to Dunya. Perhaps he should even betray himself to distract Dunya from some reckless step. A letter? This morning, Dunya had received some letter! From whom in Petersburg could she be getting letters? (Luzhin, maybe?) True, Razumikhin was watching over her there; but Razumikhin knew nothing. Perhaps he should open up to Razumikhin as well? Raskolnikov thought of this with disgust.
Well, still, what could they possibly have in common? Even their wickedness couldn’t be the same. This man was also unpleasant, clearly extremely depraved, certainly cunning and deceitful, perhaps very cruel. There are such stories about him. True, he did help Katerina Ivanovna’s children; but who knows why, and what that really means? This man is always up to some schemes and plans. All these days, another thought kept flashing through Raskolnikov’s mind, and it troubled him terribly, though he tried to drive it away because it weighed so heavily on him! Sometimes he thought: Svidrigailov was always lurking around him, and still is; Svidrigailov knows his secret; Svidrigailov has schemes against Dunya. And what if he still does? It is almost certain to say so — what if now, having learned his secret and thus gaining power over him, he wants to use it as a weapon against Dunya?
Meanwhile, he was still hurrying to Svidrigaïlov; wasn’t he expecting some kind of guidance or a way out from him? People clutch at straws, after all! Was it not fate, some instinct, that brought them together? Maybe it was just fatigue, despair; maybe he needed someone else, and Svidrigaïlov just happened to be there. Sonia? Why would he go to Sonia now? To beg her for her tears again? Sonia also frightened him. She was like an unyielding sentence, a decision without change. Here — it was either her way or his. Especially at this moment, he was unable to face her. No, wouldn’t it be better to try Svidrigaïlov: what was he about? And deep down, he could not deny that, somehow, he had needed that man for a long time already.
And was it really worth it now, after everything that had happened, to struggle against all these new, petty difficulties? Was it worth, for example, trying to scheme so that Svidrigailov wouldn’t visit Porfiry; to study, to find out, to waste time on some Svidrigailov! Oh, how tired he was of it all!
For now, it seemed to him that he would not go. Why? He could not explain this either, but even if he could, he would not have bothered to think much about it now. All of this troubled him, and at the same time, he was somehow indifferent to it. It was a strange thing—perhaps no one would believe it—but he cared only weakly and absentmindedly about his immediate fate. What tormented him was something else, something far more important and urgent—about himself, and no one else, yet something different, something essential. Besides, he felt an overwhelming moral exhaustion, even though his mind worked better that morning than it had in all the days before.
Porfiry came out, somewhat bent over and as if avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov went to the window and, with irritated impatience, waited for the time when, by his calculation, Porfiry would step outside and move away. Then he hurriedly left the room himself. III
He was rushing to Svidrigailov. What he could hope from this man, he did not even know himself. But there was some kind of power this man held over him. Once he realised it, he could no longer calm down, and now the time had come. One dear question tormented him especially: had Svidrigailov been with Porfiry? As far as he could judge, and whatever he might swear by – no, he had not! He thought over and over, recalled the entire visit to Porfiry, and concluded: no, he had not, certainly not! But if he had not been yet, would he go to Porfiry or not?
– Yes, yes, I understand, I’ll remember, – he said, even trembling a little. Don’t worry, my dear fellow; it’s your choice. Take a little walk, but not too much. Just in case, I have one more small request for you, – he added in a lower voice, – it’s a delicate matter, but important: if, just in case (though I don’t believe it and think you are quite capable), if by any chance, – well, just in case – you feel like ending things in these next forty or fifty hours in some other way, some strange way – like raising your hands against yourself (an absurd idea, but please forgive me for saying it) – then leave a short but detailed note. Just two lines, only two short lines, and mention the stone: that would be more noble. Well then, goodbye… Good thoughts and good beginnings!
Raskolnikov stood up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich rose as well. “Going for a walk? The evening looks promising, though I hope there won’t be a storm. But then again, a little rain might be refreshing…”
He also reached for his cap. “Please, Porfiry Petrovich,” Raskolnikov said with stern insistence, “don’t get it into your head that I confessed anything to you today. You are a strange man, and I listened to you out of mere curiosity. But I haven’t confessed to you about anything… Remember that.”
I’m even sure you’d ‘decide to accept suffering’; you don’t believe me now, but you’ll settle on that yourself. Because suffering, Rodion Romanovich, is a great thing; don’t mind that I’ve grown fat, there’s no need, but I know. Don’t laugh at it – there is meaning in suffering. Mikolka is right. No, you won’t run away, Rodion Romanovich.”
“No, you won’t run away. A common man will run away, a fashionable sectarian will run away – a lackey of foreign ideas – because all you need to do is show him the tip of your finger, like with Midshipman Dyrka, and he’ll believe anything for life. But you don’t really believe in your theory anymore, do you? So what will you run away with? And what’s the point of running away? Life on the run is nasty and hard, and what you need most is a settled life and position, and proper air to breathe. But is that air really yours? You’ll run away and come back yourself. If I locked you up in prison – a month, two months, three months – then maybe, mark my words, you’d come out yourself, and perhaps even unexpectedly to yourself. You wouldn’t even know an hour before that you’d come to confess.
— When do you plan to arrest me? — I can give you another day, maybe a day and a half or two, to roam around. Think it over, my dear fellow, pray to God. Honestly, it’s better this way, truly better. — What if I run away? — Raskolnikov asked with a strange smile.
You, Rodion Romanovich, probably shouldn’t believe me on my word, maybe never fully believe me – that’s just my nature, I agree; but here’s what I’ll add: how lowly a man I am and how honest, you can judge for yourself!"
"Who am I? I am a finished man, nothing more. A man who perhaps feels and sympathizes, maybe knows a thing or two, but is completely finished. And you – you are of a different kind: God has prepared life for you (and who knows, maybe it will just pass like smoke for you, nothing will happen). Well, so what if you move to another class of people? It's not comfort you should pity, not with your heart. So what if maybe no one sees you for a long time? It's not about time, but about yourself. Become the sun, and everyone will see you. A sun must first and foremost be the sun. Why are you smiling again? That I am some kind of Schiller? And I bet you think I am flattering you now! Well, maybe I am flattering you a bit, he-he-he!
Raskolnikov even flinched. “Who do you think you are?” he cried out. “What kind of prophet are you? From what height of calm grandeur are you delivering these wise prophecies to me?”
I know you don’t believe it, but truly, life will carry you through. You will fall in love with it yourself afterward. Now you only need air, air, air!
I know it’s hard to believe—so don’t overthink it; surrender to life directly, without reasoning; don’t worry—it will carry you straight to the shore and set you on your feet. Which shore? How do I know? I only believe you have a long life ahead. I know you take my words now as a rehearsed speech; yes, maybe you will remember them someday, they might come in handy; that’s why I say them. It’s also good you only killed the old woman. If you had invented another theory, perhaps you would have done something a hundred million times worse! Maybe you should thank God; how do you know? Maybe God is protecting you for a reason. Have a great heart and fear less. Are you afraid of the great justice to come? No, it’s shameful to be afraid now. If you’ve taken such a step, then be strong. Here is justice. Now fulfill what justice demands.
– That’s why you don’t care! You’ve become cruel and think I’m flattering you roughly; but how much have you really lived yet? How much do you really understand? You made up a theory, then felt ashamed it failed, that it turned out unoriginal! It came out mean, that’s true, but you’re still not a hopeless scoundrel. Not that kind of scoundrel at all! At least, you didn’t fool yourself for long; you reached the bottom all at once. Who do you think I take you for? I take you for one of those men who, even if their guts were cut out, would stand and smile at their tormentors—if only they had faith or found God. Well, find it, and you will live. First of all, you need a change of air, long overdue. Still, suffering is also a good thing. Suffer, then. Maybe Mikolka is right to want suffering.
— Life! What kind of prophet are you, how much do you really know? Seek and you shall find. Maybe God was waiting for you at this moment. And the chain isn’t forever, after all…
— There will be a reduction… — Raskolnikov laughed. — Oh, are you afraid of some bourgeois shame? It’s possible you are scared but don’t even realize it — that’s youth for you! But still, you shouldn’t be the one to fear or be ashamed of confessing. — Eh, I don’t care! — Raskolnikov whispered with contempt and disgust, as if not wanting to speak. He straightened up again, as if wanting to leave somewhere, but then sat back down in visible despair.
“Ah, no need!” he said, as if no longer trying to hide from Porfiry. “No need! I don’t want any of your leniency at all!”
“Well, that’s exactly what I was afraid of!” Porfiry exclaimed warmly and almost involuntarily, “That you don’t want our leniency.”
Raskolnikov looked at him sadly and seriously. “Hey, don’t despise life!” Porfiry continued, “There’s still plenty of it ahead. How can you say you don’t want leniency? How can you say that! You’re an impatient man!”
“What do you mean, plenty ahead?”
“Ah, Rodion Romanovich, don’t put too much trust in words; maybe it won’t be exactly as said. After all, it’s just theory, and my own at that — and what kind of authority am I to you? Perhaps I’m even hiding a few things from you now. I can’t just lay everything out for you, heh-heh! Another matter: what’s the benefit? Do you know what kind of setback you might face because of this? When will you actually come forward? Think about that! When someone else has already taken the blame and muddled the whole case? But I swear to you by God, I’ll forge and arrange things ‘over there’ so that your coming forward looks completely unexpected. We’ll destroy all that psychology, wipe out all suspicion against you, so your crime will seem like some kind of madness — and honestly, it is madness. I’m an honest man, Rodion Romanovich, and I’ll keep my word.”
Raskolnikov fell silent, his head bowed sadly; he thought for a long time, and finally smiled again, but this smile was gentle and sorrowful.
– I won’t say what, Rodion Romanovich. And anyway, now I have no right to delay any longer; I will go to prison. So you decide: it’s all the same to me, and therefore, I do it only for you. By God, it will be better, Rodion Romanovich! Raskolnikov sneered angrily. – It’s not just funny, it’s downright shameless. Even if I were guilty (which I’m not saying at all), why should I come to you confessing, when you yourself say I’ll end up there anyway?
– Well, yes, secondly? (Raskolnikov was still gasping for breath.)
– Because, as I already said the other day, I feel obliged to explain myself to you. I don’t want you to think of me as a monster, especially since I am genuinely inclined towards you, believe it or not. For this reason, thirdly, I came to you with an open and straightforward proposal – to confess. It will be infinitely more beneficial for you, and also for me – the burden will be off my shoulders. So, tell me honestly, am I being frank or not? Raskolnikov thought for a moment. – Listen, Porfiry Petrovich, you yourself say it’s all psychology, yet you’ve gone into mathematics. Well, what if you’re mistaken now? – No, Rodion Romanovich, I’m not mistaken. I have a certain mark. That mark I found even then; God sent it! – What mark?
And although I will still put you in jail and even came myself (which is not very humane) to tell you everything in advance, I’m telling you straight (also not very humane) that this will not be to my advantage. Well then, secondly, that’s why I came to you…"
"Hey, so what if I’m convinced? After all, all this is still just my dreams for now. And why would I put you there? You know well enough, since you came on your own. For example, I bring someone to accuse you of being a petty bourgeois, and you tell him, ‘Are you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I just took you for drunk, and you were drunk,’ — what can I say to that? Especially since your story sounds even more believable than his, because his statement is just psychology — his face is even shameful to look at — but you hit the mark exactly, because the scoundrel drinks hard liquor and is too well known for it. And I have honestly admitted to you several times already that this psychology has two sides and that the other side is stronger and much more believable, and that besides this, I have nothing against you yet.
“Hey, come on, what’s the use of games now! It would be different if there were witnesses around; but here we are, just the two of us whispering. You see for yourself, I didn’t come to you to chase or catch you like a hare. Whether you confess or not – at this moment, it’s all the same to me. I’m convinced on my own anyway. “Well then, why did you come?” Raskolnikov asked irritably. “I’m asking you the same question as before: if you consider me guilty, why don’t you put me in jail? “Well, that’s a question! I’ll answer you point by point: first of all, it’s not in my interest to arrest you outright. “How is it not in your interest? If you’re convinced, then you must…”
They both fell silent, and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov leaned on the table and silently ruffled his hair with his fingers. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly, waiting. Suddenly, Raskolnikov looked at Porfiry with contempt. "Back to your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich! How do you not get tired of it, honestly?"
"Who killed?..” he muttered, as if unable to believe his own ears, “it was you, Rodion Romanovich! You did kill...,” he added almost in a whisper, with a voice full of certainty. Raskolnikov jumped up from the sofa, stood still for a few seconds, and then sat down again without saying a word. Small convulsions suddenly passed over his face. “Your lip is trembling again, just like before,” Porfiry Petrovich murmured, almost with sympathy. “I think you misunderstood me, Rodion Romanovich,” he added after a short pause, “that’s why you were so surprised. I came exactly to say everything openly and bring this matter to light.”
“It wasn’t me who killed,” Raskolnikov whispered, like frightened little children caught red-handed. “No, it was you, Rodion Romanovich, only you,” Porfiry whispered firmly and with conviction.
These last words, after everything else said that sounded like a renunciation, were too unexpected. Raskolnikov trembled all over, as if struck through. “So… who… killed?..” he asked, unable to bear it, his voice choking. Porfiry Petrovich even recoiled against the back of his chair, as if he too was truly surprised by the question.
He answered some questions quite smoothly—obviously got the needed information, prepared cleverly; but on others he knows absolutely nothing, not a thing, and doesn’t even suspect his ignorance! No, father Rodion Romanovich, this is not Mikolka! This is a fantastic, dark, modern case, a case of our times, when the human heart is clouded; when they quote phrases like ‘blood refreshes’; when life is preached in comfort. Here are bookish dreams, a theoretically irritated heart; here you see determination for the first step, but a special kind of determination—it’s like deciding and then falling from a mountain or a bell tower, not even coming to the crime on one’s own feet. Forgot to close the door behind him, yet killed—killed two, according to theory. Killed but couldn’t take the money, and what he managed to grab he threw under a stone. It wasn’t enough for him that he endured torment while sitting behind the door, with people banging and the doorbell ringing—no, later, in a half-delirium, he comes to remember that bell and needed to feel the cold down his spine again… Well, that’s, let’s say, sickness, but here’s more: he killed, yet considers himself an honest man, despises people, walks like a pale angel—no, this is no Mikolka, dear Rodion Romanovich, this is not Mikolka!”
I know that an artist here took a liking to him, and Mikolka started visiting him—then this incident happened! Well, he got scared—thought of hanging himself! Running away! What to do with the reputation our legal system has among people? Some are terrified just by the word ‘convicted.’ Who’s to blame? Let’s see what the new courts say. Oh, God willing! Then, while in jail, he must have remembered the honest elder; the Bible appeared again too. Do you know, Rodion Romanovich, what ‘to suffer’ means for some of them? It’s not really for someone else, but just ‘to suffer’—to accept suffering, and especially from the authorities. I once had a very humble prisoner in jail for a whole year; at night he read the Bible on the stove and got so absorbed that one day, out of nowhere, he grabbed a brick and threw it at the chief—not out of anger or offense. And how he threw it! He aimed deliberately an inch wide to miss, to cause no harm! But you know what happens to a prisoner who attacks the authorities with a weapon: he ‘accepted the suffering.’ So now I suspect Mikolka wants to ‘accept the suffering’ or something like that. I probably know this from the facts. He just doesn’t know I know. What, you don’t believe that such fantastic people can come from such folk? They do! The elder began acting again, especially after the noose incident. But he’ll tell me everything himself when he comes. You think he’ll hold out? Wait, he’ll still resist! I’m waiting any moment for him to refuse his testimony. I’ve come to like Mikolka and I’m studying him thoroughly. And guess what!
“Mr. Razumikhin!” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, as if relieved by the question from the usually silent Raskolnikov. “He-he-he! That gentleman Razumikhin should definitely have been taken away—two can handle it, but the third only causes trouble. Mr. Razumikhin isn’t quite right, and he’s an outsider, came running to me all pale… But well, never mind him interfering here! Now, about Mikolka—would you like to know what kind of story this is, as I understand it? First of all, he’s still a minor, not exactly a coward, but more like some kind of artist. Honestly, don’t laugh at how I explain it. He’s innocent and sensitive. He has a heart; a dreamer. He sings, dances, and they say he tells stories so well that people come from other places just to listen. He goes to school, laughs till he falls just because someone shows a finger, and drinks till he loses sensibility—not out of vice, but just childishly, when he’s given alcohol in streaks. And that’s when he stole, though he doesn’t even know it himself; so they say, ‘If he picked it up from the ground, what did he steal?’ Do you know he’s from a sect called the Raskolniks—not exactly Raskolniks, but sectarians? His family had fugitives, and until recently he spent two whole years in a village, under the spiritual guidance of some elder. I learned all this from Mikolka and his friends from Zaraisk. And more than that! He just wanted to run away into the wilderness! He was zealous, prayed to God at night, read old ‘true’ books and got obsessed. St. Petersburg affected him badly, especially women, and wine too. He’s impressionable, and forgot both the elder and everything else.
"Razumikhin was just telling me that you still accuse Nikolai and even Razumikhin himself of that..."
He was breathless and stopped short. He listened in indescribable agitation as the man who had seen through him completely was disowning himself. He was afraid to believe it and yet did not believe. In the ambiguous words, he eagerly searched and grasped for something more definite and final.
‘No,’ I thought, ‘I’d better have a dash!’ But when I heard about those little bells, I froze, I even shivered. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘there’s the dash! That’s it!’ I didn’t reason then, I simply didn’t want to. I would have given a thousand roubles right then, my own money, just to see you: how you walked a hundred steps with that petty citizen beside you, after he called you a ‘murderer’ to your face, and you didn’t dare ask him anything for a whole hundred steps! And that coldness in your spine? Those bells ringing in sickness, in half-delirium? So, Rodion Romanovich, is it any wonder I joked with you like that then? And why did you come yourself at that very moment? It seemed as if someone pushed you, I swear, and if Mikolka hadn’t stirred us up, then… and do you remember Mikolka then? Well remembered? It was thunder! Thunder crashing from a cloud, a thunderbolt! And how did I meet him? I didn’t trust the thunderbolt at all — you saw it yourself! No way! Afterwards, after you, when he answered some points quite smoothly, I was surprised myself, but I didn’t trust him for a penny! That’s what it means to become adamant. No, I thought, morgen frei! What Mikolka, indeed!”
Do you remember how Mr. Razumikhin started to tell you things? We arranged that to unsettle you, so we deliberately let the rumour spread so he would speak to you, and Mr. Razumikhin is such a person that he couldn’t stand indignation. What struck Mr. Zametov most was your anger and your boldness looking him straight in the eyes: how could you suddenly blurt out in the tavern: ‘I killed!’ Too bold, too daring, and if, I thought, he is guilty, then he is a fierce fighter! That’s what I thought then. I’m waiting! I’m waiting with all my strength, and you simply crushed Zametov then and… that’s the trick with this cursed psychology cutting both ways! Well, I waited, I watched, and God gave you — you came! That’s when my heart started pounding. Ah! Why did you have to come then? Your laughter, your laughter when you came in — I swear, I guessed everything through the glass at that moment, and if I hadn’t waited for you in that special way, I wouldn’t have noticed anything in your laughter. That’s what it means to be in the right mood. And Mr. Razumikhin then — ah! The stone, the stone, remember, the stone under which the things were hidden? I can still see it somewhere in the garden — you told Zametov it was in the garden, and then to me the second time? Then when we started going over your article, and you began to explain — every word of yours I took twice as seriously, as if something else was hidden beneath! So, Rodion Romanovich, that’s how I got to the last posts and bumped my head, and came to my senses. No, I said, it can’t be me! Because if you want, all this can be explained in another way, even more naturally. Torment!
I’m familiar with all those feelings, and I read your article as something familiar. It was conceived in sleepless nights and frenzy, with a pounding heart and suppressed enthusiasm. And suppressed, proud enthusiasm in youth is dangerous! I mocked it then, but now I tell you: I truly love, as a kind of admirer, that first, youthful, fiery attempt at writing. Smoke, fog, a string vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there shines a sincere spirit in it, youthful and incorruptible pride, the boldness of despair; it’s a dark article, yes, but that’s good. I read your article, set it aside, and thought: ‘No, this person won’t get away with it!’ So, tell me, how could I not get carried away later, after all that? Oh Lord! Am I saying something now? Am I claiming anything? I only noticed back then. What’s here, I thought? Nothing, exactly nothing, and maybe absolutely nothing. And for me to get carried away like that, as an investigator, is quite improper: I have Mikolka in my hands, with facts — facts you can’t deny! And there’s also psychology to consider; we must deal with that — this is a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining all this to you now? So that you know, and with your mind and heart, you won’t accuse me of being cruel in my behaviour back then. Not cruel, I say sincerely, heh-heh! Do you think I didn’t come to search your place then? I did, I did, heh-heh, I did, when you were lying sick in that bed here. Not officially, and not in my own name, but I was there. Every last hair in your apartment was examined, by the earliest traces — but all for nothing! I thought: now this man will come himself, very soon; if he’s guilty, he will definitely come. No one else will, but he will.
“To tell everything in order, how it suddenly began back then, is hardly necessary,” Porfiry Petrovich continued. “I think it might even be superfluous. And I doubt I could explain it properly anyway. How to explain it thoroughly? At first, rumours started. What those rumours were, who spread them, when, and why they even reached you — that, too, I think, is unnecessary. For me personally, it began by chance, a completely accidental chance that could very well have happened or not — what kind? Hmm, I think there’s no need to say. All these rumours and accidents came together in my mind as one thought. To be honest, since we’re confessing, I was the first to attack you back then. Those marks on the old woman’s belongings and so on — all nonsense. You could find hundreds of such things. I also had a chance, quite by accident, to learn details about the scene at the district office — not just casually, but from a special, reliable source who, unknowingly himself, managed to describe the scene remarkably well. All of it matched perfectly, one to one, one to one, Rodion Romanovich, my dear fellow! How could I not turn in the right direction? A hundred rabbits will never make a horse, a hundred suspicions never make proof, as one English proverb says — and that’s just common sense. But try to handle passions — that’s why an investigator is a human being. I even remembered your article in that little magazine, you remember, from your first visit, we talked about it in detail then. I mocked it at the time, but that was to invite you for further talk. I repeat, you are very impatient and troubled, Rodion Romanovich. I already knew you were bold, arrogant, serious and… you felt much, far too much.
Porfiry Petrovich stopped with dignity. Raskolnikov felt a sudden wave of a new kind of fear. The thought that Porfiry might consider him innocent began to frighten him.
– Why do I speak like this? Well, I have come to explain myself, as it were, considering it a sacred duty. I want to tell you everything in full, how it all happened, the whole story of that time, so to say, the dark period. I have made you suffer much, Rodion Romanovich. I am not a villain. I understand well how hard it is for a man burdened with sorrow, yet proud, powerful, and impatient—especially impatient! At least, I consider you a most noble person, even with a touch of generosity, though I do not agree with all your beliefs, which I think it my duty to say openly and with complete sincerity, because first of all, I do not wish to deceive. Knowing you, I felt a certain attachment to you. Perhaps you will laugh at my words? You have every right. I know you did not like me at first sight, and, in truth, there was little reason to. But think as you will; now, from my side, I wish by all means to make amends for the impression I have made and to prove that I too am a man with heart and conscience. I speak sincerely.
“You… why now do you say all this?” Raskolnikov finally muttered, without fully understanding the question. “What is he talking about?” he wondered to himself, “Could he really think I am innocent?”
So, I thought, if the man is guilty, then surely you can expect at least something substantial from him; you can even hope for the most unexpected result. I was counting on your character then, Rodion Romanovich — mostly on your character! I was really hoping in you then.”
“I figured it would be better for us to be straightforward now,” Porfiry Petrovich continued, leaning his head back slightly and lowering his eyes, as if not wanting to embarrass his former victim with his gaze, and seeming to disregard his usual tricks and tactics. “Yes, such suspicions and scenes can’t go on for too long. Back then, Mikolka let us off, otherwise, who knows what might have happened between us. That cursed petty bourgeois sat behind the partition with me — can you imagine that? Of course, you know this already; and I myself know he came to see you afterward. But what you guessed back then, that wasn’t the case: I didn’t send anyone after anyone, nor did I give any other orders at the time. You might ask why I didn’t give any orders? How can I explain — it was like something struck me then. I barely managed to send the sweepers. (You probably noticed the sweepers passing by.) The thought flashed through my mind just once, quickly, like lightning; I was very sure then, Rodion Romanovich. I thought, well, even if I miss one thing for now, at least I’ll catch another by the tail — I won’t miss my own, at least. You are very irritable by nature, Rodion Romanovich; even too much, considering all the other main qualities of your character and heart, which I flatter myself I partly understand. Surely, I could reason even then that it doesn’t always happen that a person just stands up and spills all their secrets to you. It does happen, especially when you push someone to their last limit, but it’s rare. That, too, I could reason. No, I thought, I’d like at least a little sign! Just a tiny little sign, only one, but one that you could really hold in your hands, something real, not just this psychology stuff.
"What does he take me for?" Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and staring wide-eyed at Porfiry.
“I’ve come to explain myself, dear Rodion Romanovich, to explain myself indeed!” he continued with a smile, even lightly tapping Raskolnikov’s knee. But almost at the same moment, his face suddenly took on a serious, troubled expression; as if a shadow of sadness crossed it, much to Raskolnikov’s surprise. He had never before seen or suspected such a look on his face. “A strange scene happened between us last time, Rodion Romanovich. And perhaps there was also a strange scene at our very first meeting; but then… well, now it’s exactly the same! Here’s the thing: maybe I am very much at fault before you; I feel it so. Remember how we parted last time? Your nerves were all on edge and your knees trembling, and mine too, all shaken. And you know, somehow it was even improper between us then, not very gentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, or at least gentlemen above all else; that must be understood. Remember how far it went… it became quite improper indeed.”