"He robbed, that's the whole reason. He took the money and the belongings. But, according to his own conscience, he didn’t use the money or the things; he hid them somewhere under a stone, where they still lie. But that’s because he didn’t dare to use them. "Is it even possible that he could steal, rob? That he could even think about it?" Dunya cried out, jumping up from her chair. "You know him, you have seen him! Can he really be a thief?"
She was clearly belittling Svidrigailov; she forgot all her fear.
“No, not on that, but on his own words. For two evenings in a row, he came to Sofia Semenovna’s place. I showed you where they sat. He gave her his full confession. He is a murderer. He killed the old pawnbroker woman, the official’s widow, from whom he himself had pawned things; he also killed her sister, a shopkeeper named Lizaveta, who accidentally came in during the murder of her sister. He killed them both with the axe he brought with him. He killed them to rob them, and he robbed them; took money and some belongings… He told all this word for word to Sofia Semenovna, who alone knows the secret but did not take part in the murder by word or deed, and, on the contrary, was as horrified as you are now. Rest assured, she will not betray him.”
“That cannot be!” Dunja murmured with pale, deathly lips; she was gasping, “It cannot be, there is no reason, no slightest cause… It’s a lie! A lie!”
— Needless to say, you are a brave young woman. By God, I thought you would ask Mr. Razumikhin to accompany you here. But he was neither with you nor anywhere near; I was watching closely. That was courageous of you—you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovich, it seems. Yet, there is something divine about you… As for your brother, what can I say? You have just seen him yourself. What do you think? — You aren’t basing your judgment on this alone, are you?
“Here is your letter,” she began, placing it on the table. “Is it really possible what you write? You are hinting at a crime supposedly committed by your brother. You hint too clearly; now you dare not deny it. Know this: I had heard that foolish story even before you, and I don’t believe a single word of it. It’s a vile and ridiculous suspicion. I know the whole story and how and why it was made up. You cannot have any proof. You promised to prove it: so speak! But know beforehand, I do not believe you! I do not believe you!”
Dunya spoke quickly, almost stumbling over her words, and for a moment her face flushed. “If you did not believe it, would you have risked coming to me alone? Why did you come? Out of mere curiosity?”
“Don’t torment me, speak, speak!”
He led Avdotya Romanovna back to his first room, which served as his hall, and invited her to sit on a chair. He himself sat at the other end of the table, at least a fathom away from her, but probably in his eyes the same flame was already glowing that had once so frightened Dunya. She shivered and looked around again with disbelief. The gesture was involuntary; she obviously did not want to show distrust. But the secluded nature of Svidrigailov’s apartment finally struck her. She wanted to ask if at least his wife was home, but she did not ask... out of pride. Moreover, there was another suffering in her heart, far greater than fear for herself. She was unbearably tormented.
“Look here, see this second large room. Notice this door, it’s locked. There’s a chair by the door, just one chair in both rooms. I brought it from my flat to make it easier to listen. Right now, behind that door stands Sofia Semyonovna’s table; she used to sit there and talk with Rodion Romanovich. And I was eavesdropping here, sitting on the chair, two evenings in a row, each time for about two hours — so surely, I could find out something, don’t you think?”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“Yes, I was eavesdropping; now come to my place, there’s nowhere to sit here.”
Svidrigailov occupied two furnished, fairly spacious rooms. Dunya looked around with suspicion but did not notice anything unusual either in the decor or the arrangement of the rooms, although one might have noticed something—for example, that Svidrigailov’s apartment was somehow situated between two almost unoccupied flats. The entrance to his place was not directly from the corridor but through two nearly empty rooms belonging to the landlady. From his bedroom, Svidrigailov unlocked a door that had been locked with a key and showed Dunya another empty apartment that was rented out. Dunya paused at the threshold, not understanding why she was being invited to see it, but Svidrigailov quickly explained:
– Though I know you are a man… without honour, I am not afraid of you at all. Go ahead, – she said, apparently calm, but her face was very pale. Svidrigailov stopped outside Sonia’s apartment. – Let me check if she is home. No one’s there. Bad luck! But I know she might come back very soon. If she went out, it must be to visit a lady about her orphans. Their mother has passed away. I got involved there too and took charge. If Sofya Semyonovna doesn’t return within ten minutes, I will send her to you myself, if you want, even today; here is my number. These are my two rooms. Behind this door lives my landlady, Mrs. Resslich. Now look here, I will show you my main documents: from my bedroom this door leads to two completely empty rooms that are rented out. Here they are… you need to look at this quite carefully…
Svidrigailov’s face twisted into a condescending smile; but he was no longer in the mood to smile. His heart was pounding, and his breath caught in his chest. He deliberately spoke louder to hide his growing agitation; yet Dunya did not notice this particular unrest—she was too irritated by his remark that she feared him like a child, and that he was so frightening to her.
“What are you afraid of?” he said calmly. “This is a city, not a village. And in the village, you did me more harm than I did you, but here…”
“Has Sofya Semyonovna been warned?”
“No, I haven’t said a word to her, and I’m not even sure if she’s home now. Though, probably she is. Today she buried a relative—it’s not the kind of day for visiting. For now, I don’t want to tell anyone about this, and in fact, I partly regret telling you. Here, the slightest carelessness is like a report against you. I live right here in this building, and here we are. That’s the building’s caretaker; he knows me very well; see, he’s greeting me. He sees that I’m with a lady, and of course, he has already noticed your face. That might be useful if you’re really afraid and suspicious of me. Sorry for speaking so bluntly. I live separately from the tenants. Sofya Semyonovna lives with me, wall to wall, also separate from the tenants. The whole floor is tenants. So why are you afraid, like a child? Or am I really that frightening?”
– First of all, this cannot be said out here on the street; secondly, you must listen to Sofya Semyonovna; thirdly, I will show you some documents… Well, and finally, if you refuse to come in with me, I will give up on any explanations and leave immediately. At the same time, I ask you not to forget that a very curious secret about your beloved brother is completely in my hands. Dunya stopped hesitantly and looked at Svidrigailov with a piercing gaze.
But he seemed to approach mysteriously and cautiously. He did not step onto the bridge but stopped to the side on the pavement, trying with all his might to avoid being seen by Raskolnikov. He had long noticed Dunya and began making signs to her. It seemed to her that his gestures were pleading with her not to call her brother or disturb him, but rather to come to him. So Dunya did. She quietly slipped past her brother and approached Svidrigailov. “Let’s go quickly,” Svidrigailov whispered to her. “I don’t want Rodion Romanovich to know about our meeting. I warn you, I was sitting not far from here, in a tavern, where he found me himself, and I barely got away from him. For some reason, he knows about my letter to you and suspects something. Surely you didn’t tell him? And if not you, then who?”
“We’ve already turned the corner,” interrupted Dunya, “now our brother won’t see us. I must tell you, I won’t go any further with you. Tell me everything here; all this can be said out on the street.”
As was his habit, once alone, he fell into deep thought from about twenty steps away. Upon reaching the bridge, he stopped by the railing and began to look at the water. Meanwhile, Avdotya Romanovna stood right above him. He had met her at the entrance to the bridge but had passed by without really seeing her. Dunechka had never seen him like this on the street before and was struck with fear. She stopped, unsure whether to call out to him or not. Suddenly, she noticed Svidrigailov hurrying over from the Sennaya side.
Svidrigailov was already sitting in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions, at least at that moment, were unfair. Without saying a word, he turned and started walking back towards Sennaya Square. If he had looked back even once along the way, he would have seen how Svidrigailov, after moving no more than a hundred steps, paid the coachman and got off onto the pavement himself. But he could see nothing now, having already turned the corner. A deep disgust pulled him away from Svidrigailov. "And I could have expected anything from this crude villain, this lustful debauchee and scoundrel—even for a moment!" he exclaimed involuntarily. Yet Raskolnikov’s judgment was made too hastily and lightly. There was something about Svidrigailov’s whole demeanour that gave him at least some originality, if not mystery. As for his sister in all this, Raskolnikov remained firmly convinced that Svidrigailov would not leave her alone. But thinking and rethinking all this became too heavy and unbearable!
The bureau locks up, the apartment locks up, and we are back on the staircase. Well, shall we hire a carriage? I’m going to the Islands. Would you like a ride? Here, I’m taking this carriage to Yelagin, what do you say? Refuse? Can’t handle it? Let’s take a ride, no problem. Looks like rain is coming, no worries, we’ll put the cover down…
– What a character, isn’t he? Well, we have arrived, please step onto the staircase. See, here is the entrance to Sofia Semenovna’s place, look, there’s no one! Don’t believe me? Ask Kapernaumov; she gives them the key. And here she is herself, madame de Kapernaumov, right? What? (she’s a bit hard of hearing) gone? Where to? Well, now you heard it, haven’t you? She’s not here and won’t be until late, maybe evening. Now, let’s go to my place. You wanted to come to me too, didn’t you? Well, here we are at my place. Madame Resslikh is not at home. That woman is always busy, but a good woman, I assure you… maybe she would have been of use if you were a bit more sensible. Now, please look: I’m taking this five-percent bond from the bureau (I have plenty more of these!), and today I will sell this one to the moneychanger. Well, saw that? I have no more time to waste.
“I’m not thinking about that at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. “I understand (but don’t bother yourself too much; if you like, you don’t have to say much); I understand what questions are running through your mind: moral ones, perhaps? Questions of a citizen and a human being? But you don’t care about them; what use are they to you now? Heh-heh! Because you are still both a citizen and a human being? Well then, you shouldn’t have interfered; no need to take on what’s not your business. Just shoot yourself; or don’t you want to?”
“You seem to be deliberately trying to provoke me, just so I leave you alone now…”
– I’m not talking about that, not about that (though I have heard a thing or two), no, I mean you keep sighing and sighing! Schiller himself would be embarrassed by you every minute. And now, don’t eavesdrop even by the door. If that’s the case, then go ahead and report to the authorities that, well, something like this happened to me: a small mistake in theory. But if you’re convinced that you must not eavesdrop by the door, yet it’s perfectly fine to exploit old ladies as you please, then hurry up and leave for America! Run, young man! Maybe there’s still time. I’m telling you sincerely. No money? I’ll give you some for the journey.
— No need, I will come in anyway. — As you wish, but I am not your friend; and what of it! Here we are at home now. Tell me, I am sure you look at me suspiciously because I have been so discreet and haven’t troubled you with questions… you see? You thought it was something unusual; I bet you did! Well then, be as delicate as that afterwards. — And eavesdrop at the door! — Ah, you mean that! — Svidrigailov laughed — yes, I would have been surprised if, after everything, you had missed that. Ha-ha! I may have understood something from what you then… well… said to Sofya Semyonovna yourself, but still, what is this? Maybe I am an old-fashioned person and can’t understand anything. Please explain, for God’s sake, dear fellow! Enlighten me with your modern ideas. — You couldn’t have heard anything, you are lying!
– It’s up to you, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She took all the children to live with a certain lady, a distinguished elderly lady, an old acquaintance of mine who manages some orphanages. I impressed this lady by giving her money for all three of Katerina Ivanovna’s children, and also donated more funds to the orphanages; finally, I told her Sofya Semyonovna’s whole story, even with all the details, hiding nothing. The effect was indescribable. That is why Sofya Semyonovna was supposed to appear today, straight at the – hotel, where my mistress is temporarily staying, coming from her summer house.
Raskolnikov himself could hardly say what exactly he wanted now or what he wished to be sure of personally. “So! Do you want me to call the police right now?”
“Call them!”
They stood facing each other for another minute. Finally, Svidrigailov’s expression changed. Seeing that Raskolnikov was not afraid of the threat, he suddenly took on the most cheerful and friendly look. “Well then! I purposely didn’t talk to you about your case, though, of course, I’m curious. It’s a fantastic matter. I was going to leave it for another time, but really, you could provoke even a dead man… Well, let’s go, but I’ll say in advance: only home for a minute to grab some money; then I’ll lock the apartment, hire a carriage, and spend the whole evening on the Islands. Where do you want to go with me?”
“For now, I’m going home, but not to you— to Sofya Semyonovna, to apologise for not attending the funeral.”
“From all your half-drunk stories,” Raskolnikov cut him off sharply, “I have concluded that you have not only abandoned your vile schemes against my sister, but are more involved in them than ever. I know that this morning my sister received some letter. You have never been able to stay in one place... You might have found some wife along the way, for all I care; but that means nothing. I want to be sure myself...”
Svidrigailov left the tavern. Raskolnikov followed him. However, Svidrigailov was not very drunk; the intoxication had only struck him for a moment and was fading with every passing minute. He was deeply troubled by something very important and frowned. Some kind of expectation seemed to unsettle and worry him. In the last few minutes with Raskolnikov, he suddenly changed and grew rougher and more mocking by the minute. Raskolnikov noticed all this and felt uneasy too. Svidrigailov became very suspicious to him; he decided to follow him. They stepped onto the pavement. “You go right, and I’ll go left—or maybe the other way around—just adieu, mon plaisir, until a joyful meeting!”
And he walked right towards Sennaya. V
Raskolnikov followed him. “What’s this!” Svidrigailov shouted, turning around. “I think I told you…”
“That means I’m not going to leave you now.”
“Wha-a-at?”
They both stopped and stared at each other for a moment, as if measuring one another.
"Well, if that’s the case," Svidrigailov replied with some surprise, looking at Raskolnikov, "then you yourself are quite a decent cynic. At least you contain a great deal of material. You can be very aware, very… well, you can do a lot too. But still, enough. I sincerely regret that I haven’t talked with you more, but you won’t leave me… Just wait a moment…"
“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?”