“You see, Sonya, I thought it might actually be more advantageous this way. There’s a certain circumstance… Well, it’s a long story, and not much point in telling it. But you know what really annoys me? It’s frustrating that all those stupid, brutish faces will crowd around me now, staring with their dull eyes, asking me their foolish questions that I’ll have to answer—they’ll be pointing fingers… Ugh! You know, I’m not going to Porfiry; I’m fed up with him. I’d rather go to my friend Porokh—that’ll surprise him, that’ll have its effect in its own way. But I should be more calm; I’ve become too bitter lately. Believe it or not, I just almost threatened my sister with my fist, just because she turned around to look at me one last time. Such a disgraceful state! Ah, where have I come to! Well, what now, where are the crosses?”
Sonya looked at him in amazement. The tone seemed strange to her; a cold shiver ran through her body, but after a moment she realized that both the tone and the words were all put on. He was speaking to her, yet his eyes were fixed somewhere in the corner, as if avoiding looking her straight in the face.
A joyful cry burst from her chest. But, looking closely at his face, she suddenly turned pale. "Well, yes!" Raskolnikov said with a smirk, "I’m after your crosses, Sonya. You were the one who sent me to the crossroads; so now, when it comes to the matter, you’ve chickened out?"
Dunichka finally could not bear it any longer and left Sonya to wait for her brother in his apartment; she kept thinking that he would come there first. Left alone, Sonya immediately began to be tormented by fear at the thought that he might really commit suicide. Dunja was afraid of the same. But all day long, they kept trying to convince each other with every argument that it could not happen, and they felt calmer while they were together. Now, having just parted, both of them could think of nothing else. Sonya remembered how yesterday Svidrigailov told her that Raskolnikov had two paths – the Vladimirka road or... She also knew his vanity, arrogance, pride, and disbelief. "Could it be that only cowardice and fear of death keep him alive?" she finally thought in despair. Meanwhile, the sun was already setting. She stood sadly by the window, looking intently outside – but all she could see through the window was a solid, unpainted wall of the neighbouring house. At last, when she was completely convinced of the poor fellow’s death – he entered her room.
Sonya was almost ready to cry; she, on the contrary, felt unworthy even to look at Dunya. The beautiful image of Dunya, when she had bowed to her with such attention and respect during their first meeting at Raskolnikov’s, had since remained forever in her soul as one of the most beautiful and unattainable visions in her life.
When he entered Sonya’s room, twilight was already beginning. Sonya had spent the whole day waiting for him in terrible anxiety. They were waiting together with Dunya. She had come to Sonya early in the morning, remembering Svidrigailov’s words from yesterday that Sonya “knows about it.” We won’t go into the details of their conversation and the tears of both women, or how much they understood each other. At least Dunya took one comfort from this meeting: her brother would not be alone. He had come to Sonya first with his confession; in her he sought a person when he needed one; and she would follow him wherever fate led. She did not ask, but she knew it would be so. She looked at Sonya with a kind of reverence that at first almost embarrassed Sonya because of the respectful feeling she showed.
He pondered deeply: "What kind of process could it be that finally, before all of them, he would surrender without argument, surrender with conviction! Well, why not? Of course, it should be so. Haven't twenty years of continuous oppression worn him down completely? Water wears away stone. And why, why live after that? Why do I keep going now, when I myself know that everything will happen exactly as in the book, and not otherwise!"
He had asked himself this question perhaps a hundred times since last night, yet he still walked on. VIII
"I am angry, I see it," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his annoyed gesture towards Dunya. "But why do they love me so much if I am not worthy! Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me, and I myself never loved anyone! But how strange, could it be that in the next fifteen or twenty years my soul will become so resigned that I will whimper before people with reverence, calling myself a robber at every word? Yes, exactly, exactly! That is why they are sending me away now, that is what they want from me... There they go, all bustling up and down the street, and every one of them is already a scoundrel and a robber by nature; worse still – an idiot! But try to send me away, and they will all rage with noble indignation! Oh, how I hate them all!"
Both of them finally stepped outside. It was hard for Dunya, but she loved him! She walked on, but after about fifty steps, she turned back to look at him once more. He was still visible. When she reached the corner, he turned as well; their eyes met one last time. But noticing that she was still looking at him, he impatiently and even somewhat annoyedly waved his hand for her to go on, then quickly turned the corner.
“I have talked a lot with her, and only with her,” he said thoughtfully, “I shared with her many things from my heart, things that later turned out so badly. Don’t worry,” he said to Dunia, “she did not agree, just like you, and I am glad she is no longer here. The main thing, the main thing is that now everything will go differently, it will break in two,” he suddenly cried out, returning again to his sorrow, “everything, everything, but am I ready for that? Do I even want it myself? They say this is for my trial! Why, why all these senseless trials? What good will it do for me to understand better then, crushed by torment, foolishness, and old age weakness after twenty years of hard labour, than I understand now? And why should I live then? Why do I agree to live like this now? Oh, I knew I was a scoundrel when I stood over the Neva river at dawn today!”
He walked over to the table, took a thick, dusty book, opened it, and pulled out a small portrait tucked between the pages, painted in watercolors on ivory. It was a portrait of the landlady’s daughter, his former fiancée, who had died in a fever—the very strange girl who had wanted to enter a convent. For a moment, he gazed at that expressive and delicate little face, kissed the portrait, and handed it to Dunya.
Don’t cry, don’t cry; after all, we are not completely parting!.. Ah, yes! Wait, I forgot!..
– Dunya, my dear! If I am guilty, forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty). Goodbye! Let’s not argue! It’s time, very much time. Please, don’t follow me, I beg you, I still need to stop by... And now, go and sit next to mother immediately. I beg you! This is my last and greatest request to you. Don’t leave her side; I left her in such distress that she might not bear it: she will either die or lose her mind. Stay with her! Razumikhin will be with you; I have spoken to him... Don’t cry for me: I will try to be both brave and honest all my life, even though I am a murderer. Maybe someday you will hear my name. I won’t disgrace you, you’ll see; I will prove it yet… for now, goodbye, – he hurried to finish, noticing again some strange look in Dunya’s eyes at his last words and promises. – Why are you crying like this?
– But this is not it, not at all! Brother, what are you saying! – Ah! Not the right form, not an aesthetically proper form! Well, I simply do not understand: why is bombing people, the proper siege, considered a more respectable form? Fear of aesthetics is the first sign of weakness!.. Never, never have I realized this more clearly than now, and never before have I understood my crime less! Never, never have I been stronger and more convinced than now!.. His pale, exhausted face even flushed. But as he said the last exclamation, his eyes accidentally met Dunya’s, and in that look he saw so much, so much suffering for himself, that he involuntarily came to his senses. He felt that, after all, he had made these two poor women unhappy. After all, he was the cause…
And still, I won’t see it your way: if I had succeeded, I would have been crowned, but now I’m caught in a trap!
— The very thing that everyone sheds, — he caught the words almost in a frenzy, — that flows and has always flowed in the world like a waterfall, poured out like champagne, and for which they crown you in the Capitol and then call you a benefactor of humanity. Just look closely and see! I myself wanted good for people and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds instead of this one foolish act, not even foolish, just awkward, because the whole idea was not as foolish as it seems now, after failure… (After failure, everything seems foolish!) With this foolishness, I only wanted to place myself in an independent position, to make the first step, to gain means, and then everything would have been redeemed with immeasurable, relative benefit… But I, I couldn’t even take the first step, because I am a scoundrel! That’s the whole matter!
Large tears ran down her cheeks. “You are crying, sister, but can you reach out your hand to me?”
“And did you ever doubt it?”
She hugged him tightly. “Isn’t it true that by going to suffer, you are already washing away half of your crime?” she cried, holding him close and kissing him. “Crime? What crime?” he suddenly shouted, in a sudden fury. “That I killed a nasty, harmful louse, an old pawnbroker woman nobody needed, whom killing would forgive forty sins, who sucked the life out of the poor — and that’s a crime? I don’t think about it, nor do I intend to wash it away. And why do they keep poking me from all sides: ‘crime, crime!’ Only now do I clearly see the absurdity of my cowardice, now, when I’ve decided to face this unnecessary shame! Simply out of my own baseness and worthlessness I decide this, and certainly not for any gain, as that… Porfiry suggested!”
“Brother, brother, what are you saying! But you have spilled blood!” Dunya cried out in despair.
As if a fire flashed in his dimmed eyes; it seemed he was almost glad that he still had some pride left. “Don’t you think, sister, that I just chickened out?” he asked with a wicked grin, looking into her face. “Oh, Rodion, enough!” Dunya exclaimed bitterly. There was silence for about two minutes. He sat with his head down, staring at the ground; Dunya stood at the other end of the table, looking at him with pain. Suddenly he stood up:
“It’s late, time. I’m going now to betray myself. But I don’t even know why I’m going to betray myself.”
— Thank God! That’s exactly what we were afraid of, me and Sofya Semyonovna! So you still believe in life: thank God, thank God! Raskolnikov gave a bitter smile. — I didn’t believe before, but now, together with mother, holding each other, we cried; I don’t believe, but I asked her to pray for me. God knows how it happens, Dunya, and I don’t understand it at all. — You went to see mother? You told her, didn’t you? — Dunya exclaimed in horror. — Did you really decide to tell her? — No, I didn’t say it with words; but she understood a lot. She heard you talking nonsense at night. I’m sure she already understands half of it. Maybe I was wrong to visit. I don’t even know why I went at all. I’m a lowly man, Dunya. — A lowly man, but ready to suffer! You are going to do it, aren’t you? — I am. Right now. Yes, to avoid this shame, I wanted to drown myself, Dunya, but I thought, standing above the water, that if I considered myself strong until now, then I shouldn’t be afraid of shame now, — he said, going ahead. — Is this pride, Dunya? — Pride, Rodion.
Raskolnikov entered the room and, exhausted, sat down on a chair. “I feel weak somehow, Dunya; terribly tired; and I wish I could fully control myself at least for this moment.”
He looked at her with disbelief. “Where were you all night?”
“I don’t remember well; you see, sister, I was finally trying to make up my mind and walked near the Neva many times; that I remember. I even wanted to end it there, but… I couldn’t bring myself to do it…” he whispered, looking at Dunya with disbelief again.
The evening was fresh, warm, and clear; the weather had been bright since morning. Raskolnikov was walking to his apartment; he was in a hurry. He wanted to finish everything before sunset. Until then, he did not want to meet anyone. As he climbed up to his apartment, he noticed Nastasia, who had broken away from the samovar, watching him closely and following him with her eyes. "Is there someone here for me?" he wondered. With disgust, Porfiry appeared to him in a vision. But when he reached his room and opened the door, he saw Dunya. She was sitting all alone, deep in thought, and it seemed she had been waiting for him for a long time. He stopped at the threshold. She stood up from the sofa in fear and straightened before him. Her gaze, fixed on him without moving, showed horror and unbearable sorrow. From that look alone, he immediately understood that she knew everything. "Well, should I come in or leave?" he asked distrustfully. "I have been sitting with Sofya Semyonovna all day; we were both waiting for you. We thought you would definitely come here."
Raskolnikov moved towards the door, but she grabbed hold of him and looked into his eyes with a desperate gaze. Her face was twisted with horror. "Enough, mother," Raskolnikov said, deeply regretting that he had thought to come. "Not forever? It’s not forever, is it? You will come, you will come tomorrow?"
"I will come, I will come. Goodbye."
At last, he broke free.
“Rodya, my dear, my firstborn,” she said, weeping, “you are just the same as when you were little—coming to me, hugging and kissing me just like before. Even when your father and I were poor, you comforted us simply by being with us. And after I buried your father, how many times we’ve cried together at his grave, holding each other just like now. I’ve been crying for a long time, because a mother’s heart senses trouble ahead. The very first time I saw you that evening, remember, just after we arrived here, I guessed everything from your look alone. My heart trembled then, and today, when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought—this must be the fateful hour. Rodya, Rodya, you’re not leaving now, are you?”
“No.”
“You will come back?”
“Yes… I will come back.”
“Rodya, don’t be angry, I dare not ask more. I know I shouldn’t, but just say two words—are you going far away?”
“Very far.”
“What is it there—service, career, or something like that for you?”
“Whatever God wills… just pray for me…”
Yes, he was glad, very glad, that there was no one around, that they were alone with his mother. It was as if his heart had softened all at once after that terrible time. He fell before her, kissed her feet, and both, embracing, wept. And this time she did not wonder or ask questions. She had long understood that something terrible was happening to her son, and now some dreadful moment had come for him.
— I’m going. — That’s what I thought! And I can come with you if you need. And Dunya; she loves you, she truly loves you, and Sofya Semyonovna too—maybe she should come with us if needed; you see, I would gladly take her instead of my own daughter. Dmitry Prokofich will help us get ready together… but… where exactly are you going? — Farewell, mother. — What! Today, of all days! — she cried out, as if losing him forever. — I cannot stay, I must go, it’s very important... — And I cannot come with you? — No, but you should kneel and pray to God for me. Your prayers might reach Him. — Let me cross you and bless you! Like this, like this. Oh God, what are we doing!
“What’s wrong with you, Rodion, I don’t know,” she said at last. “All this time I thought we were just bothering you, but now I see clearly that you are facing some great sorrow, and that’s why you are so sad. I have sensed this for a long time, Rodion. Forgive me for speaking about it; I keep thinking about it and cannot sleep at night. Last night, even your sister was restless all through, talking about you in her delirium. I overheard something but understood nothing. All morning, I walked around as if before an execution, waiting for something, feeling it was coming—and now it has! Rodion, Rodion, where are you going? Are you travelling somewhere?”
“Mama, no matter what happens, no matter what you hear about me, no matter what anyone tells you about me, will you still love me as you do now?” he suddenly asked, from the fullness of his heart, as if not thinking about his words or weighing them. “Rodya, Rodya, what is wrong with you? How can you even ask that! Who would say anything about you to me? And I wouldn’t believe anyone who came, I would simply send them away.”
“I have come to assure you that I have always loved you, and now I am glad that we are alone, even glad that Dunya is not here,” he continued with the same passion, “I have come to tell you straight that even though you may be unhappy, still know that your son loves you more than himself, and everything you thought about me—that I am cruel and don’t love you—that was not true. I will never stop loving you… Well, that’s enough; I thought it had to be done this way and start with this…”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna silently embraced him, held him close to her chest, and wept quietly.
Then Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly burst into tears. "Again me! Don’t look at me like that, you fool! Oh Lord, why am I just sitting here," she cried, jumping up, "there’s coffee, and I haven’t even offered you any! What selfishness an old woman has. Just a moment, just a moment!"
"Mother, please stop, I’m going now. I didn’t come for that. Please, listen to me."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna timidly stepped closer to him.
— Dunya is not at home, Amma? — No, Rodion. I rarely see her at home these days; she leaves me all alone. Dmitry Prokofich, God bless him, comes by to keep me company and talks only about you. He loves and respects you, my friend. As for your sister, I won’t say she is very disrespectful to me. I am not complaining. She has her own nature, I have mine; she has some secrets, and I have none from you. Of course, I firmly believe that Dunya is very clever and, besides, she loves both you and me… but I don’t know where all this will lead. Now you have made me happy, Rodion, by coming, and she’s out wandering; when she comes back, I will say: “Your brother was here without you, so where have you been spending your time?” Don’t spoil me too much, Rodion: if you can come — come, if not — no worries, I will wait. After all, I will still know that you love me, and that is enough for me. I will read your writings, hear about you from everyone, and now and then — you will come yourself to check on me. What could be better? After all, you came now to comfort your mother, I see that…
It’s just that for now, you don’t want to, and you are busy with far more important matters…
– But, Rodion, no matter how foolish I may be, I can still see that very soon you will be one of the foremost people, if not the very foremost, in our academic world. And how dare they think you were mad! Ha-ha-ha! You don’t even know—they really thought that! Ah, lowly worms, how could they understand what intelligence is! And even Dunya almost believed it—imagine that! Your late father sent poems twice to journals—first some verses (I still have the notebook, I’ll show you someday), and then a whole story (I even begged him to let me copy it), and how we both prayed that it would be accepted—but it wasn’t! I, Rodion, was miserable six or seven days ago, looking at your clothes, wondering how you live, what you eat, and what you wear. But now I see that I was foolish again, because if you want, you will get everything at once through your mind and talent.
“Let me see, mother.”
Raskolnikov took the newspaper and glanced briefly at his article. Despite how much it clashed with his situation and state of mind, he felt that strange, bitter-sweet sensation that an author experiences when seeing his work printed for the first time, especially at the age of twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines, he frowned, and a terrible sadness gripped his heart. All the inner struggles of the past months came flooding back at once. With disgust and frustration, he threw the paper onto the table.
And I was shocked when I saw it: ‘That fool,’ I thought to myself, ‘that’s what he’s up to, that’s the key to everything!’ Maybe he has new thoughts in his head, something he’s been considering lately; and here I am, bothering and confusing him. I read it, my friend, and of course, I don’t understand much; but that’s how it should be—what do I know?”
“No, no!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna jumped up, interrupting him. “You thought I’d start questioning you right now, like some old woman, don’t worry. I understand everything, really, I do. Now I’ve learned how things work around here, and honestly, I see who’s smarter. I’ve decided once and for all: why should I try to understand your thoughts and demand explanations from you? Maybe you have all sorts of important plans and ideas in your head; am I supposed to push you and ask, ‘What are you thinking about?’ I mean... Oh Lord! Why am I pacing back and forth like a madwoman? You know, Rodion, I’ve read your article in the magazine for the third time already—Dmitry Prokofich brought it to me.
He knocked on the door; his mother opened it for him. Dunya was not at home. Even the maid was not around at that time. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was first struck silent by joyful surprise; then she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room. “Well, here you are!” she began, stumbling over her words with happiness. “Don’t be angry with me, Rodion, for greeting you so foolishly, with tears: I’m laughing, not crying. Do you think I’m crying? No, I’m happy, but I have this silly habit—tears just fall. Ever since your father died, I’ve been crying over everything. Sit down, my dear, you must be tired, I can see. Oh, how dirty you are.”
“I was in the rain yesterday, mother…” Raskolnikov began.
That same day, but in the evening, around seven o’clock, Raskolnikov approached the apartment of his mother and sister—the very apartment in the Bakaleev house where Razumikhin had arranged for them to stay. The entrance to the staircase was from the street. Raskolnikov came closer, still holding back his pace and hesitating as if unsure whether to enter or not. But he would not turn back for anything; his decision was made. “Besides, it doesn’t matter, they don’t know anything yet,” he thought, “and they already consider me a strange man…” His suit was awful: all dirty, soaked from the rain all night, torn and worn out. His face was almost disfigured from fatigue, bad weather, physical exhaustion, and nearly a day-long struggle with himself. He had spent the entire night alone, God knows where. But at least, he had made up his mind.
“W-why are you here, here of all places?” he said, still not moving or changing his position. “Nothing much, brother, greetings!” Svidrigailov replied. “There’s no place here.”
“I’m, brother, going to foreign lands.”
“Foreign lands?”
“To America.”
“To America?”
Svidrigailov took out a revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows. “W-why, why, these days (jokes) there’s no place here!”
“Why not?”
“Because there is no place.”
“Well, brother, that doesn’t matter. It’s a good place; if anyone asks you, just say you went to America.”
He pressed the revolver to his right temple. “W-why, it’s not allowed here, there’s no place here!” Achilles jumped, his pupils growing wider and wider. Svidrigailov released the hammer.
He glanced at him and walked on. A tall watchtower flashed to his left. “Ah!” he thought, “This is the place—why go to Petrovsky? At least with an official witness…” He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into [–skaya] Street. Here stood a large house with a watchtower. At the locked large gates of the house stood a small man, leaning on them with his shoulder, wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat and wearing a copper Achilles helmet. With a drowsy glance, he coldly looked askance at the approaching Svidrigailov. On his face was the age-old grumpy sorrow that had so bitterly marked every single face of the Jewish people without exception. Both Svidrigailov and Achilles silently regarded each other for some time. At last, Achilles found it strange that the man was not drunk but stood three steps away, staring straight at him and saying nothing.
A milky, thick fog lay over the city. Svidrigailov walked along the slippery, dirty wooden pavement towards the Malaya Neva. He imagined the water of the Malaya Neva, which had risen high overnight, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, wet grass, wet trees and bushes, and finally, that very bush... With annoyance, he began to look at the houses to think about something else. There was no passerby or carriage driver on the avenue. The brightly yellow wooden houses with closed shutters looked dull and dirty. The cold and dampness pierced his whole body, and he started to shiver. Occasionally, he came across signs for shops and vegetable stalls and read each one carefully. The wooden pavement had ended now. He was level with a large stone house. A dirty, shivering little dog with its tail tucked ran across his path. A dead-drunk man in a greatcoat lay face down across the sidewalk.
“A nightmare all night long!” He rose angrily, feeling completely shattered; his bones ached. Outside, there was a thick fog, making it impossible to see anything. It was nearly five o’clock; he had overslept! He got up and put on his jacket and coat, still damp. Feeling for his revolver in his pocket, he took it out and adjusted the cap; then he sat down, took a notebook from his pocket, and wrote a few lines in large letters on the first, most visible page. After rereading them, he leaned on the table and thought deeply. The revolver and notebook lay there by his elbow. The awakened flies buzzed around the untouched portion of veal standing on the table. He stared at them for a long time and finally, with his free right hand, began trying to catch one fly. He struggled for a long time but couldn’t catch it. At last, realizing what he was doing, he snapped out of it, shivered, stood up, and decisively left the room. A minute later, he was outside.
He lay on the same bed, wrapped in the blanket just as before; the candle was not lit, and outside the windows, the full daylight shone bright.
Five years old!” Svidrigailov whispered in real horror, “What… what is this?” But now she fully turned to him with her burning face, reaching out her hands… “Ah, cursed one!” Svidrigailov shouted in terror, raising his hand over her… But at that very moment, he woke up.
“He dared to get involved again!” he suddenly decided with a heavy, bitter feeling. “What nonsense!” Frustrated, he took a candle to go find the ragged child at any cost and leave this place quickly. “Ah, the girl!” he thought with a curse, already unlocking the door, but then he stopped to look at the girl once more—was she sleeping, and how was she sleeping? He gently lifted the blanket. The girl was sleeping a deep and peaceful sleep. She was warmed under the blanket, and a rosy flush spread across her pale cheeks. But strangely, this flush seemed brighter and stronger than an ordinary child’s blush. “This is a feverish blush,” Svidrigailov thought; it was definitely a flush from wine, as if she had been given a whole glass to drink. Her red lips seemed to burn and swell; but what was this? Suddenly, it seemed to him that her long black eyelashes twitched and fluttered, as if lifting, and from beneath them peeked a sly, sharp, almost mischievous eye, as if the girl was not asleep but pretending. Yes, that was it: her lips parted in a smile; the corners of her lips twitched, still holding back. But then she stopped holding back completely; it was laughter, clear laughter; something cheeky and provocative shone in that face, no longer childlike; it was corruption, the face of a courtesan, the cheeky face of a sold courtesan from the French women. Now, without hiding at all, both her eyes opened wide: they looked at him with a fiery and shameless gaze, calling him, laughing… There was something infinitely ugly and offensive in that laugh, in those eyes, in the whole disgusting expression on the child’s face. “What!
Her torn little shoes, on her bare feet, were so wet as if they had been lying all night in a puddle. After undressing her, he laid her on the bed, covered her, and wrapped her completely in a blanket. She immediately fell asleep. When he finished everything, he became gloomy and thoughtful again.
The girl suddenly became lively and quickly babbled something to him in her childish language. There was something about “mamasi” and that “mamasi plibiet,” about a cup that she “lyazbilya” (broke). The girl spoke without stopping; from all these stories, it was barely possible to guess that she was an unloved child, whose mother, probably a constantly drunk cook, maybe from the local guesthouse, had beaten and frightened her; that the girl had broken her mother’s cup and was so scared that she ran away since the evening; she probably hid somewhere outside for a long time, in the rain, then finally got here, hid behind the cupboard, and sat in this corner all night, crying, trembling from dampness, from darkness, and from fear that she would be badly punished for all this. He took her in his arms, went to his room, sat her on the bed, and began to undress her.
He walked for a long time along the entire long and narrow corridor, finding no one, and was about to call out loudly when suddenly, in a dark corner between an old cupboard and a door, he noticed something strange, something that seemed alive. He bent down with his candle and saw a child – a girl about five years old, no more, in a soaked dress like a rag mop uses, trembling and crying. She didn’t seem afraid of Svidrigailov, but looked at him with dull surprise in her big black eyes and occasionally sobbed, like children who have cried for a long time but have stopped and even comforted themselves, yet now and then suddenly sob again. The girl’s face was pale and exhausted; she was stiff from the cold. “How did she get here? So she hid here and didn’t sleep all night.” He began to ask her questions.
"Ah, the signal! The water is rising," he thought, "by morning it will flood the lower parts, spill onto the streets, flood the cellars and basements, the cellar rats will float up, and in the rain and wind, people will start, cursing and drenched, carrying their rubbish up to the higher floors... But what time is it now?" Just as he thought this, nearby, ticking and seeming to hurry with all its might, the wall clock struck three. "Ah, and in an hour it will be dawn! Why wait? I’ll go now, straight to Petrovsky: I’ll find a big bush somewhere, drenched with rain, so that just brushing the shoulder will spray millions of drops all over my head..." He stepped away from the window, locked it, lit a candle, pulled on his waistcoat and coat, put on his hat, and went out into the corridor with the candle to find some ragged man sleeping in a little room among all the junk and candle stubs, pay him for the room, and leave the inn. "The very best moment, couldn’t choose better!"
Svidrigailov woke up, got out of bed, and stepped toward the window. Feeling along, he found the latch and opened it. The wind rushed fiercely into his cramped little room, covering his face and his chest—clad only in a single shirt—with a frosty chill. Below the window, there seemed to be some kind of garden, perhaps even a place for entertainment; likely during the day, songbirds sang there, and tea was served on small tables. But now, droplets flew in from the trees and bushes, and it was as dark as a cellar, so he could barely make out dark shapes marking the outlines of objects. Svidrigailov leaned forward, resting his elbows on the windowsill, and for about five minutes, he stared unblinkingly into this gloom. Suddenly, amid the darkness and night, the sound of a cannon shot rang out, followed by another.
The coffin was lined with white grodjenap* and trimmed with thick white ruffles. Garlands of flowers wrapped around it on all sides. A girl lay in it, dressed in a white tulle gown, with her hands folded and pressed to her chest, as if carved from marble. But her loose hair, light blonde hair, was wet; a wreath of roses circled her head. The strict, already stiff profile of her face was also like carved marble, but the smile on her pale lips was full of a strange, adult sorrow and great complaint. Svidrigailov knew this girl; there was no image or burning candles near the coffin, and no prayers were heard. This girl was a suicide—a drowned girl. She was only fourteen, but her heart was already broken, and it destroyed itself, hurt by an insult that shocked and amazed her young, childlike mind, flooding her angelically pure soul with undeserved shame and tearing out one last cry of despair—unheard and boldly mocked in the dark night, in the darkness, in the cold, in the damp thaw, while the wind howled…
*Note: "grodjenap" is a historical fabric term; here it is kept as is due to lack of an exact English equivalent.
He got up and sat down on the edge of the bed, with his back to the window. "Better not to sleep at all," he decided. It was cold and damp by the window; without getting up, he pulled the blanket over himself and wrapped himself in it. He did not light any candles. He was not thinking about anything, nor did he want to; but dreams came one after another, flickering fragments of thoughts without beginning or end, and without connection. It was as if he was falling into a half-sleep. Whether it was the cold, the darkness, the dampness, or the wind howling outside the window and shaking the trees, something stubbornly imaginative and longing grew in him—but all he could see were flowers. He imagined a beautiful landscape; a bright, almost hot day, a festive day, Trinity Day. A rich, luxurious village bungalow, in English style, all surrounded by fragrant flower beds, bordered by rows of flowers running all around the house; a porch covered with climbing plants, crowded with rose beds; a bright, cool staircase covered with a luxurious carpet, adorned with rare flowers in Chinese vases. He especially noticed bouquets of white and delicate daffodils in water jars on the windowsills, bending on their bright green, thick, and long stems with a strong, pleasant fragrance. He did not even want to leave them, but he went up the stairs and entered a large, high hall, and again everywhere, by the windows, near the open doors to the terrace, on the terrace itself, there were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly cut fragrant grass, the windows were open, fresh, light, cool air entered the room, birds chirped below the windows, and in the middle of the hall, on tables covered with white satin cloths, stood a coffin.
He threw off the pillow, but in an instant, he felt something jump into his chest, rustling over his body, and now behind his back, under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up. The room was dark. He lay on the bed, wrapped in the blanket as before, while the wind howled outside the window. “What a nuisance!” he thought with annoyance.
He was already drifting off; the feverish tremor was subsiding when suddenly something seemed to run under the blanket along his arm and leg. He shuddered. “Ugh, damn, it’s almost like a mouse!” he thought. “That’s because I left the veal on the table…” He really didn’t want to expose himself, get up, or feel the cold, but again something unpleasant brushed against his leg. He threw off the blanket and lit a candle. Shaking from the fever’s chill, he bent down to check the bed—there was nothing. He shook the blanket, and suddenly a mouse jumped onto the sheet. He lunged to catch it, but the mouse didn’t run off the bed. Instead, it darted in zigzags, slipping out from under his fingers, running over his arm, and then suddenly slipping under the pillow.
He just couldn’t sleep. Little by little, the recent image of Dunya began to appear before him, and suddenly a shiver ran through his body. "No, I must stop this now," he thought, coming to himself, "I need to think about something else. It’s strange and funny: I have never really hated anyone much, never even wished for revenge especially, and yet that’s a bad sign, a bad sign! I never liked arguing or losing my temper either – also a bad sign! And how much I promised her the other day – ugh, damn it! And maybe she would have crushed me somehow…" He fell silent again and clenched his teeth: once more, the image of Dunya appeared before him exactly as she was when, after the first shot, she was terribly frightened, lowered the revolver, and looked at him pale, so much so that he twice almost grasped her, and she wouldn’t have even raised her hands to protect herself if he hadn’t reminded her himself. He remembered how at that moment he actually felt sorry for her, as if his heart was being squeezed... "Ah! To hell with it! These thoughts again, I must stop all this, stop it!"
Suddenly, for some reason, he recalled how recently, just an hour before carrying out the plan concerning Dunya, he had advised Raskolnikov to entrust Razumikhin with her protection. "Really, I suppose I said that more out of my own fiery spirit at the time, just as Raskolnikov guessed. But that rascal, Raskolnikov! He’s been through a lot. He might turn into a great scoundrel someday, once the nonsense blows over, but for now, he just wants to live! When it comes to that point, these people are scoundrels. Well, to hell with it—let them do as they please; what do I care?"
By the way, why don’t I put out the candle?” (He blew it out.) “The neighbours have settled down,” he thought, seeing no light in yesterday’s crack. “Now, Marfa Petrovna, you would be most welcome — it’s dark, the place is suitable, and the moment original. But now, you won’t come…”
The ragged man who had rushed in with tea and veal couldn’t help but ask once more, “Do you need anything else?” After hearing another negative reply, he finally left. Svidrigailov grabbed the tea to warm himself and drank a glass, but couldn’t eat a single bite due to a complete loss of appetite. It seemed a fever was coming on. He took off his coat and jacket, wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay down on the bed. It annoyed him: “It would have been better to be healthy this time,” he thought, and smirked. The room was stuffy, the candle burned dimly, the wind howled outside, a mouse scratched somewhere in the corner, and the whole room smelled faintly of mice and something leathery. He lay there, as if dreaming: one thought replaced another, and it seemed he really wanted to latch his imagination onto something in particular. “There must be a garden under the window,” he thought, “trees rustling; how I hate the sound of trees at night, in a storm, in the dark — such a terrible feeling!” He recalled how, recently, passing by Petrovsky Park, he had even thought of it with disgust. Then he remembered the bridge over the –kov, and the Little Neva, and he felt cold again, just like before when he stood above the water. “I’ve never loved water in my life, even in landscapes,” he thought again and suddenly smirked at a strange thought: “Now it should all be the same to me — all this aesthetics and comfort — but here I am, being picky like a wild animal choosing its spot… in a similar situation. I should have turned off at Petrovsky back then! Probably it seemed dark and cold, heh-heh! Could have used some pleasant sensations!
Occasionally, with a dull and sheepish gaze, he looked at the speaker but clearly had no understanding of what was being said and probably heard nothing. On the table, a candle was burning down, there was an almost empty decanter of vodka, glasses, bread, cups, cucumbers, and dishes with long-finished tea. After carefully observing this scene, Svidrigailov turned away from the crack indifferently and sat down on the bed.
He listened closely: someone was scolding and almost tearfully reproaching another, but only one voice could be heard. Svidrigailov stood up, shielded the candle with his hand, and immediately a crack of light appeared on the wall; he went closer and looked through. In a room slightly larger than his own, two visitors were present. One of them, without a coat, with extremely curly hair and a red, inflamed face, stood in an orator’s pose, legs apart to keep balance, pathetically reproaching the other for being a beggar and not even wearing a rank badge, saying he had pulled him out of the mud and that he could throw him out whenever he wanted, and that only the finger of the Almighty saw all this. The reproached friend sat on a chair, looking like a man desperately wanting to sneeze but unable to do so.
He lit a candle and examined the room more closely. It was a tiny cell, so small that it was barely tall enough for Svidrigailov to stand, with a single window; the bed was very dirty, and a simple painted table and chair took up almost all the space. The walls looked as if they were roughly made from planks with worn-out wallpaper, so dusty and torn that the yellow color could still be guessed, but no pattern was recognizable. One part of the wall and ceiling was cut at an angle, as is usual in attics, but here a staircase ran above that slant. Svidrigailov placed the candle down, sat on the bed, and fell into thought. But a strange and continuous whispering, sometimes rising almost to a shout, in the neighbouring cell finally caught his attention. The whispering had not stopped since he entered.
"A good place, it must be," thought Svidrigailov, "how did I not know about it? I probably also look like someone coming back from a small roadside eatery, but with a more expensive story behind me. Still, I wonder, who stays here and spends the night?"
“Is there any tea?” asked Svidrigailov. “That is available, sah.”
“What else do you have?”
“Veal, vodka, and snacks, sah.”
“Bring some veal and tea.”
“Will you need anything else, sah?” the ragged man asked, somewhat puzzled. “No, nothing at all!”
The ragged man left, completely disappointed.
Meanwhile, Svidrigailov was crossing the wooden bridge over the Small Neva towards the Petersburg side right at midnight. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still blowing. He began to shiver and for a moment looked at the dark water of the Small Neva with a strange curiosity, even as if asking a question. But soon he felt very cold standing by the water; he turned and started walking along the avenue. He had been walking for a long time along the endless avenue, almost half an hour, often losing his way in the darkness on the wooden pavement, but he kept searching with curiosity along the right side of the avenue. Somewhere near the end of the avenue, he noticed a wooden hotel he had recently passed by—a large one—and as far as he remembered, its name was something like Adrianopol. He was right in his guess: this hotel, in such a remote place, was such a noticeable point that it was impossible not to find it, even in the dark. It was a long, darkened wooden building, and despite the late hour, lights were still glowing inside and there was some activity. He went in and asked a ragged man he met in the corridor for a room. The ragged man looked at Svidrigailov, shivered, and immediately led him to a distant room, stuffy and cramped, somewhere at the very end of the corridor, in a corner under the stairs. But there was no other room; all were occupied. The ragged man looked at him questioningly.
Of course, it was strange that he was soaking wet, but the English, for example, are even more eccentric, and all these high society people do not care what others say about them and are not formal. Perhaps he even does it on purpose to show he fears no one. And most importantly, not a word of this must be told to anyone, because God knows what might come of it, and the money should be locked up quickly, and, of course, the best part was that Fedosya stayed in the kitchen, and most certainly, absolutely, absolutely must not tell that sly woman Resslik anything, and so on, and so forth. They stayed and whispered until about two o’clock. The bride, however, went to bed much earlier, surprised and a little sad.
Arkady Ivanovich stood up, laughed, kissed the bride, patted her cheek, confirmed he would come soon, and, noticing in her eyes a childish curiosity but also a very serious, silent question, thought for a moment, kissed her again, and immediately inwardly regretted that the gift would be locked away by the most prudent of mothers. He left, leaving everyone in an extraordinarily excited state. But the compassionate mother immediately, in a half-whisper and rapid speech, resolved some very important doubts—namely, that Arkady Ivanovich was a great man, a man with business and connections, a rich man—God knows what was in his head, he decided to leave and decided to give the money, so there was nothing to be surprised at.
Arkady Ivanovich plainly told her that he must leave Saint Petersburg for a very important matter for a while, and so he had brought her fifteen thousand silver rubles in various bills, asking her to accept them as a gift from him, since he had long intended to give her this trifle before the wedding. The logical connection between the gift and the immediate departure, as well as the necessity of coming in the rain at midnight, was, of course, entirely absent in these explanations, but the matter, nevertheless, went very smoothly. Even the necessary sighs and exclamations, questions and surprises, were suddenly unusually moderate and restrained; but the gratitude expressed was the most heartfelt, even supported by tears from the most sensible mother.
(This woman never asked direct questions but first used smiles and hand rubs, and then, if she really needed to know something for sure—like when Arkady Ivanovich planned to set the wedding date—she would start with the most curious and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, before eventually arriving at the Third Line on Vasilyevsky Island.) At any other time, all this would have commanded much respect, but this time Arkady Ivanovich was especially impatient and flatly insisted on seeing the bride, even though he was told right at the start that she had already gone to bed. Of course, the bride appeared.
It turned out later that on the very same evening, around midnight, he made another rather eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain was still pouring. Completely drenched, he entered at twenty minutes past eleven the cramped apartment of his fiancée’s parents on Vasilyevsky Island, in the Third Line, on Malyy Prospekt. He barely managed to knock and at first caused quite a stir; but Arkady Ivanovich, when he wanted, was a man with very charming manners, so the initial (though quite clever) guess of the prudent fiancée’s parents—that Arkady Ivanovich had probably already been drinking somewhere earlier and had forgotten himself—immediately fell apart. The compassionate and sensible mother of the bride, rolling her husband in his chair towards Arkady Ivanovich, immediately began her usual indirect questioning.
Sonya also jumped up from her chair and looked at him with fear. She really wanted to say something, to ask something, but in those first moments she didn’t dare, nor did she know how to begin. “How can you... how can you go out now in such heavy rain?”
“Well, if you’re planning to go to America, you can’t be afraid of the rain, hehe! Farewell, dear Sofia Semyonovna! Live well and live long, you will be useful to others. By the way... please tell Mr. Razumikhin that I sent my regards. Be sure to say: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov sends his respects. Definitely.”
He left, leaving Sonya amazed, frightened, and with a vague, heavy suspicion.
Katerina Ivanovna still owes that German woman, not you, so you could have ignored her. You can’t live like that in this world. Now, if anyone asks you—tomorrow or the day after—about me or concerning me (and they will ask you), don’t mention that I came by, and don’t show or tell anyone about the money I gave you. Well, goodbye now. (He stood up from the chair.) Give my respects to Rodion Romanovich. By the way, keep the money with Mr. Razumikhin until the right time. You know Mr. Razumikhin? Of course, you do. He’s a decent young man. Take it to him tomorrow or when the time comes. Until then, hide it well.
– Listen, Sofia Semyonovna, and please, no long talks—I myself don’t have much time. You will need it. Rodion Romanovich has two paths: either a bullet to the forehead or the Vladimirka road. (Sonya looked at him wildly and trembled.) Don’t worry, I know everything—from him personally, and I’m not a talker; I won’t tell anyone. It was you who taught him well back then, so he would confess himself. It will be much better for him that way. Well, if he chooses the Vladimirka road—he will take it, and you will follow him, right? Isn’t that so? Well, if that’s the case, then money will be needed. For him, you understand? Giving it to you is the same as giving it to him. Besides, you promised to pay Amalia Ivanovna’s debt; I heard about that. Why do you, Sofia Semyonovna, take on such contracts and obligations so carelessly?
“I am so much indebted to you, both as an orphan and because of the late lady,” Sonya hurriedly said, “and if until now I have not thanked you enough, then… please don’t think badly of me…”
“Oh, come now, come now.”
“And these money, Arkady Ivanovich, I am very grateful to you, but I do not need them anymore. I can always look after myself alone, please don’t think I am ungrateful: if you are so kind and generous, then this money…”
You will need them because, Sofya Semyonovna, living as before is harsh, and you won’t have any more need.”
“I, Sofya Semyonovna, might go to America,” Svidrigailov said, “and since this is probably the last time we’ll see each other, I’ve come to give some instructions. You saw that lady today, didn’t you? I know what she said to you, no need to repeat it.” (Sonya made a small movement and blushed.) “That kind of people have a certain look. As for your sisters and your brother, they are all properly settled, and the money owed to them has been given by me, with receipts, to trusted hands. You should keep those receipts yourself, just in case. Here, take them! Well, that’s settled now. Here are three five-percent bonds, worth three thousand in total. Take them for yourself, truly for yourself, and let it stay between us, so no one knows, no matter what you might hear.
She was not alone; around her were four little children of Kapernumov. Sofya Semenovna was giving them tea. She greeted Svidrigailov silently and respectfully, looking with surprise at his soaked clothes, but said nothing. The children immediately ran away in indescribable terror. Svidrigailov sat at the table and asked Sonya to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen.
Lightning flashed every minute, and one could count up to five times during each flash. Soaked through to the skin, he reached home, locked himself in, opened his bureau, took out all his money, and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he wanted to change his clothes, but after looking out the window and listening to the storm and rain, he waved his hand, took his hat, and went out without locking the apartment. He went straight to Sonia’s place. She was home.
He had been judging for about fifteen minutes, but they shouted so loudly that it was impossible to understand anything. Most likely, one of them had stolen something and even sold it immediately to a passing Jew; but after selling, he refused to share with his companion. Finally, it turned out the sold item was a teaspoon that belonged to the station. The station people noticed it was missing, and the matter began to get troublesome. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, stood up, and left the garden. It was around ten o’clock. He himself had not drunk a single drop of wine during the whole time and had only asked for tea at the station, mostly out of habit. Meanwhile, the evening was sultry and gloomy. By ten, terrible clouds gathered from all sides; thunder roared, and rain poured down like a waterfall. Water didn’t fall in drops but lashed the ground in whole streams.
Svidrigailov had been giving drinks to Katya, the hurdy-gurdy player, the singers, the footmen, and two scribes of some sort. He got involved with these scribes mainly because both had crooked noses: one’s nose bent to the right, the other’s to the left. This struck Svidrigailov. Eventually, they took him to some sort of entertainment garden, where he paid for them and the entrance. In that garden, there was a thin little three-year-old pine tree and three bushes. Besides that, there was a “station,” essentially a drinking spot, but you could also get tea there, and there were a few green tables and chairs. A chorus of awful singers and a drunk German from Munich, like a clown with a red nose but strangely very gloomy, entertained the crowd. The scribes got into a quarrel with some other scribes and almost started a fight. Svidrigailov was chosen as their judge.
Svidrigailov stood by the window for about three more minutes; finally, he slowly turned around, looked around the room, and quietly ran his palm over his forehead. A strange smile twisted his face—pitiful, sad, weak—a smile of despair. Blood, already drying, stained his palm; he looked at the blood with anger, then wet a towel and washed his temple. The revolver, thrown aside by Dunya and landing near the door, suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a small, pocket-sized, three-shot revolver of an old design; it still had two bullets and one cap left. He could fire just once. He thought for a moment, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat, and went out. VI
All evening until ten o’clock, he wandered through various taverns and back alleys, moving from one place to another. Somewhere along the way, he found Katya again, who was singing another servant’s song about how someone, “a scoundrel and a tyrant,”
began to kiss Katya.
"Hurry! Hurry!" repeated Svidrigailov, still standing without moving or turning around. But in that "hurry," there was clearly a terrible tone. Dunya understood it, grabbed the key, rushed to the door, quickly unlocked it, and burst out of the room. A minute later, like a madwoman, out of her mind, she ran to the ditch and sprinted towards the bridge.
He approached Dunya and quietly wrapped his arm around her waist. She didn’t resist, but trembling like a leaf, looked at him with pleading eyes. He wanted to say something, but his lips only twitched, and he couldn’t speak. “Let me go!” Dunya pleaded. Svidrigailov shuddered; this was different from the way she had spoken before. “Don’t love me then?” he asked softly. Dunya shook her head. “And… can’t you?… Ever?” he whispered in despair. “Never!” Dunya whispered back. A moment of terrible, silent struggle passed in Svidrigailov’s soul. He looked at her with an inexpressible gaze. Suddenly, he withdrew his hand, turned away, quickly walked to the window, and stood there. Another moment passed. “Here is the key!” (He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and placed it on the table behind him, without looking or turning to Dunya.) “Take it; leave quickly!”
He kept staring stubbornly out the window. Dunya stepped forward to the table to take the key.
"She gave up!" Svidrigailov said with surprise, taking a deep breath. It was as if something had suddenly lifted from his heart, and perhaps it was not just the heaviness of mortal fear; though at that moment, he probably did not even feel fear. It was a relief from another, more sorrowful and dark feeling, one he himself could hardly fully understand.
– Well then, missed! Shoot again, I’m waiting, – Svidrigailov said quietly, still smiling, but darkly, – I’ll catch you before you pull the trigger! Dunya flinched, quickly cocked the gun and raised the revolver again. – Leave me alone! – she said desperately, – I swear, I’ll shoot again… I… will kill! – Well then… at three steps, you can’t miss. But if you don’t kill… then… – His eyes flashed, and he took two more steps forward. Dunya fired, misfire! – Carelessly loaded. Never mind! You still have a cap. Fix it, I’ll wait. He stood just two steps away, waiting, looking at her with wild determination, a burning, heavy gaze. Dunya understood he would rather die than let her go. “And… and surely now she will kill him, just two steps away!..”
Suddenly, she threw down the revolver.
“A wasp bit me! Right in the head… What is this? Blood!” He took out a handkerchief to wipe the blood, a thin trickle running down his right temple; probably the bullet had just grazed the skin of his skull. Dunya lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov, not so much in fear as in some wild confusion. She seemed to no longer understand what she had done or what was happening!
“Hey there, Avdotya Romanovna! Seems like you’ve forgotten how, in the heat of the propaganda, you were already leaning in and fainting… I saw it in your eyes; remember that evening, under the moonlight, with the nightingale still singing?”
“You lie!” (fury flashed in Dunya’s eyes) “You lie, you slanderer!”
“Am I lying? Well, maybe I am. Lied. Women shouldn’t be reminded of such things.” (He smirked.) “I know you’ll shoot, you pretty little beast. So go ahead, shoot!”
Dunya raised the revolver, pale as death, her trembling lower lip white, her large black eyes shining like fire. She looked at him, determined, measuring and waiting for his first move. He had never seen her so beautiful. The fire flashing from her eyes as she raised the revolver seemed to burn him, and his heart clenched painfully. He took a step, and the shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and hit the wall behind him. He stopped and laughed quietly:
– And what about your brother? Just asking out of curiosity, – Svidrigailov said, still standing in the same place. – Report if you want! Don’t move! Don’t step down! I’ll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know, you’re the murderer yourself!.. – Are you absolutely sure that I poisoned Marfa Petrovna? – You! You yourself hinted at it; you talked to me about poison… I know you went after it… you had it ready… It was definitely you… scoundrel! – Even if that were true, it would be because of you… after all, you would be the cause. – You lie! I have always hated you, always…
Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa, about eight steps away from Dunya. For her, there was no longer the slightest doubt about his unwavering determination. Besides, she knew him well... Suddenly, she pulled a revolver from her pocket, cocked it, and rested her hand with the gun on the table. Svidrigailov jumped up. “Aha! So that’s how it is!” he exclaimed in surprise, but with a wicked smile. “Well, this changes everything! You’re making things very easy for me yourself, Avdotya Romanovna! And where did you get this revolver? Could it be from Mr. Razumikhin? Ha! The revolver is mine! An old friend! And I was looking for it back then! Our village shooting lessons, which I had the honour of giving you, were not wasted after all.”
“It’s not your revolver, but Marfa Petrovna’s—the one you killed, villain! You had nothing of your own in her house. I took it when I began to suspect what you were capable of. Take even one step, and I swear I will kill you!”
Dunya was in a frenzy. She kept the revolver ready.
– As you wish, but note, I was only speaking hypothetically. In my personal belief, you are absolutely right: violence is a disgrace. I only meant that nothing will remain on your conscience, even if… even if you wanted to save your brother voluntarily, as I am suggesting. You would simply be yielding to circumstances, or to force, if that word must be used. Think about it; the fate of your brother and your mother is in your hands. I will be your servant… for life… I will be waiting here…
“You just said ‘violence,’ Avdotya Romanovna. If it’s violence, then you can judge for yourself that I took precautions. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home; it’s very far to the Kapernaumovs, five locked rooms away. Besides, I am at least twice as strong as you, and I have nothing to fear, because you can’t complain later either: you surely wouldn’t really betray your own brother, would you? And no one would believe you anyway: why on earth would a young woman go alone to a lonely man’s flat? So even if you sacrifice your brother, you won’t prove anything here either: violence is very hard to prove, Avdotya Romanovna.”
“Scoundrel!” Dunya whispered angrily.
“Ah! So this is violence!” cried Dunya, turning as pale as death, and rushed to a corner, quickly hiding behind a nearby table. She did not scream; instead, she fixed her gaze on her tormentor and watched his every move keenly. Svidrigailov also remained still, standing opposite her at the other end of the room. He had even composed himself, at least outwardly. But his face was still pale. A mocking smile never left his lips.
He was beginning to rave. Something suddenly seemed to hit him, as if a sudden blow struck his head. Dunya jumped up and rushed to the door. “Open up! Open up!” she shouted through the door, calling for someone and shaking the door with her hands. “Open it! Is there really no one?”
Svidrigailov stood up and regained his composure. A cruel, mocking smile slowly formed on his still trembling lips. “There’s no one home,” he said quietly and deliberately, “the mistress has gone out, and it’s useless to shout like that—you’re only troubling yourself for nothing.”
“Where is the key? Open the door now, right now, you low person!”
“I lost the key and can’t find it.”
— You… just one word from you, and he will be saved! I… I will save him. I have money and friends. I will send him away immediately, and I will take the passport, two passports. One for him, the other for me. I have friends; I have business contacts… Want me to get you a passport too… for your mother… why do you need Razumikhin? I love you as well… I love you endlessly. Let me kiss the edge of your dress, please, let me! I cannot bear to hear it rustle like that. Tell me: say do this, and I will do that! I will do everything. I will do the impossible. Whatever you believe in, I will believe too. I will do everything, everything! Don’t look at me like that! Do you know that you are killing me…
— To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in through this door, and now it’s locked with a key. When did you manage to lock it? — We couldn’t shout to all the rooms about what we talked here. I’m not mocking you; I’m just tired of speaking like this. Where do you think you’ll go like this? Or do you want to betray him? You’ll drive him mad, and he’ll betray himself. Know that they are already watching him, they have already caught his trail. You will only give him away. Wait: I have just seen him and spoken to him; he can still be saved. Wait, sit down, let’s think this over together. I called you for this reason — to talk privately and think carefully. Please, sit down! — How can you save him? Is it even possible to save him? Dunya sat down. Svidrigailov sat beside her. — It all depends on you, on you alone, — he began with shining eyes, almost whispering, stumbling and hardly pronouncing some words from excitement. Dunya recoiled from him in fear. He was trembling all over too.
“It had a strong effect!” Svidrigailov muttered to himself, frowning. “Avdotya Romanovna, please calm down! Know that he has friends. We will save him, help him out. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have the money; I can get a ticket in three days. As for what he has done, he will still do many good deeds, and all this will be forgiven; please, calm yourself. He might yet become a great man. Now, how are you? How do you feel?”
“Cruel man! He is still mocking us. Let me go...”
“Where are you going? Where?”
– I know his theory. I read his article in the magazine about people who are allowed to do anything… Razumikhin used to bring it to me…
– Mr Razumikhin? Your brother’s article? In a magazine? There is such an article? I didn’t know that. Well, it must be very interesting! But where are you going, Avdotya Romanovna? – I want to see Sofya Semyonovna, – Dunya said in a weak voice. – How do I get to her? Maybe she has come; I absolutely must see her now. Let her... Avdotya Romanovna could not finish her sentence; her breath literally stopped. – Sofya Semyonovna won’t return before night. I think so. She was supposed to come very soon, but if not, then very late…
– Ah, so you are lying! I see… you lied… you lied all along!.. I don’t believe you! I don’t believe! I don’t believe! – Dunya shouted in a real frenzy, completely losing her mind. She almost fainted and fell onto a chair, which Svidrigailov quickly put under her. – Avdotya Romanovna, what is wrong with you? Come to yourself! Here is some water. Take a sip…
He splashed some water on her. Dunya shivered and came to.
But those matters are mostly for scholars, who, you see, are in their own way rather narrow-minded, so it’s even improper for a layperson to get involved. However, you know my views well; I don’t blame anyone at all. I am a bit of a coward myself, and I stand by that. We have spoken about this many times. I was even fortunate enough to interest you with my opinions... You look very pale, Avdotya Romanovna!
— Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, now everything has become confused, though, in fact, it never was particularly clear. Russian people are generally broad-minded, Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land, and extremely prone to the fantastic, to disorder; but the trouble is to be broad without special genius. Do you remember how much we talked about this very thing, just the two of us, sitting on the terrace in the garden every evening after dinner? You even reproached me for this broadness. Who knows, maybe we spoke like this at the very time when he was lying here, lost in his thoughts. In our educated society, there are hardly any sacred traditions, Avdotya Romanovna—only what someone might piece together from books or draw from chronicles.
– And what about remorse? So you deny that it involves any moral feeling? But is it really like that?
There was also a little personal theory—a sort of theory—that people are divided, you see, into material and into special people, that is, those people for whom, because of their high status, the law is not written, but on the contrary, they themselves make laws for the rest of the people, the material, the riffraff. Nothing much, just a theory like any other. Napoleon fascinated him terribly—actually, what fascinated him was that many brilliant people did not look at single evil but stepped over it without thinking. He seemed to imagine that he too was a brilliant man—that is, he was sure of it for some time. He suffered a lot and still suffers from the thought that he could compose the theory, but to step over without thinking—he is not able to, so he is not a brilliant man. Well, for a young man with pride, that is humiliating, especially in our age...
– It’s a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. You see, it’s a kind of theory, the same matter by which I conclude, for example, that a single evil is permissible if the main goal is good. One evil and a hundred good deeds! Of course, it’s also painful for a young man with virtues and excessive pride to know that there would have been, say, only about three thousand, and the whole career, the entire future of his life’s purpose would have formed differently—but those three thousand do not exist. Add to that the irritation of hunger, of a cramped room, of rags, of the sharp awareness of the beauty of his social position—and at the same time, of his sister’s and mother’s position. Above all, vanity, pride, and vanity again; but God knows, maybe even with good tendencies... I don’t blame him, please don’t think that; it’s not my business.
– Here, Avdotya Romanovna, there are thousands and millions of combinations and permutations. A thief steals, but at least he knows himself that he’s a scoundrel; but I heard about a nobleman who broke into the post office—who knows, maybe he really thought he was doing a righteous deed! Of course, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, just like you, if someone else had told me. But I believed my own ears. He explained everything to Sofya Semyonovna; at first, she didn’t believe her ears either, but finally she believed her own eyes. After all, he himself told her personally. – What kind of… reasons!