– I’ve come to see you for the last time, – muttered Raskolnikov gloomily, although this was only their first meeting – I might not see you again…
– Are you… leaving? – I don’t know… Everything will be decided tomorrow…
– Then… you won’t be at Katerina Ivanovna’s tomorrow? – Sonia’s voice trembled. – I don’t know. Everything will be clear tomorrow morning… But that’s not the point: I came to say just one thing…
He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting while she was still standing before him. – Why are you standing? Please, sit down, – he said, his voice suddenly changing – soft, gentle, and kind. She sat. He looked at her kindly, almost compassionately, for a minute or so. – How thin you are! See how your hand looks – almost transparent. Your fingers like a corpse’s. He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly. – I’ve always been like this, – she said. – Even when you lived at home? – Yes. – Well, naturally! – he said abruptly, and once again his face and voice changed suddenly. He glanced around the room once more. – Do you rent this place from Kapernamev? – he asked.
Sonya silently watched her guest as he scrutinously and boldly surveyed her room, and she began to tremble in fear, as though standing before the judge and master of her fate. — Am I late... Is it eleven o'clock? — he asked, still not raising his eyes to her. — It is — murmured Sonya. — Oh yes, it is! — she suddenly hurried to add, as if her whole future depended on it — the landlord's clock just struck just now... I heard it myself... It is.
It was a large room, but extremely low-ceilinged—the only one the Kapernaumovs rented out, with a locked door located on the left wall. On the opposite side, on the right wall, there was another door, always bolted shut. That led to a separate, adjoining flat with a different number. Sonya’s room resembled a shed and had the shape of a rather irregular quadrilateral, which gave it a somewhat ugly look. The wall with three windows facing the ditch cut across the room at an odd angle, making one corner painfully sharp, receding deep into the room so that, in dim light, it was nearly impossible to see properly; the other corner was unpleasantly obtuse. The whole large room held almost no furniture. In the corner to the right stood a bed; next to it, closer to the door, a chair. Along the same wall as the bed, near the door to the neighbouring flat, was a plain deal table covered with a small blue cloth, and beside it two wicker chairs. Then, on the opposite wall, close to the sharp corner, stood a small wooden chest of drawers, almost lost in the emptiness. That was all. The yellowish, worn-out, and tattered wallpaper had darkened in all the corners—this place must have been damp and stuffy in winter. The poverty was obvious; even the bed had no curtains.
A minute later, Sonia came in with a candle, placed it down, and stood before him, completely flustered, trembling with indescribable anxiety and clearly frightened by his unexpected visit. Suddenly, a flush spread across her pale face, and even tears welled up in her eyes... She felt both distressed and ashamed, yet strangely sweetened by it all. Raskolnikov quickly turned away and sat down on a chair by the table. In a fleeting glance, he took in the room.
Raskolnikov went straight to the house by the canal where Sonia lived. It was a three-storeyed, old, green-coloured building. He found the caretaker and got from him vague directions about where the tailor Kapernaumov lived. Finding a narrow, dark staircase in a corner of the courtyard, he climbed up at last to the second floor and stepped out onto a gallery running along the yard side. While he was wandering in the dark, puzzled as to where Kapernaumov's door might be, suddenly, three steps away from him, a door opened; he grasped it mechanically. – Who’s there? – a woman’s voice asked anxiously. – It’s me… to see you – answered Raskolnikov, stepping into a tiny anteroom. There, on a broken chair, in a bent copper candlestick, a candle was burning. – It’s you! Good Lord! – Sonia cried faintly, freezing on the spot. – Which way to your room? This way? And Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, quickly entered the room.
I won't describe what happened that evening at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's, how Razumikhin returned to them, how he comforted them, how he swore that Rodya needed rest during his illness, gave his word that Rodya would definitely come, would visit every day, that he was deeply, deeply distressed, and that they must not upset him; how he, Razumikhin, would keep an eye on him, arrange a good doctor, the best, even a whole panel of specialists... In short, from that evening on, Razumikhin became like a son and a brother to them. IV
The corridor was dark; they stood by the lamp. For a full minute they stared at each other in silence. Razumikhin remembered this moment for the rest of his life. Raskolnikov's burning, intense gaze seemed to grow stronger with every second, piercing into his soul, into his mind. Suddenly Razumikhin shivered. Something strange had passed between them… As if an idea had slipped through, a hint; something terrible, hideous, suddenly understood by both… Razumikhin turned as pale as a corpse. "Do you understand now?" Raskolnikov suddenly said, his face twisted in pain. "Go back, go to them," he added at once, quickly turned away, and walked out of the house.
“I knew you’d come running after me,” he said. “Go back to them and stay with them… Stay there tomorrow too… and always. I… might come, if I can. Goodbye!”
Without offering his hand, he walked away. “Where are you going? What’s this? What’s wrong with you? This can’t be!” muttered Razumikhin, completely bewildered. Raskolnikov stopped once more. “Once and for all—never ask me anything. I’ve nothing to tell you… Don’t come looking for me. Maybe I’ll come here myself… Leave me be, but look after them… Do you understand me?”
“Oh, Lord!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Mother and sister were in terrible fright; so was Razumikhin. “Rodya, Rodya! Make peace with us, let everything be as before!” exclaimed the poor mother. He slowly turned towards the door and walked out of the room. Dunya caught up with him. “Brother! What are you doing to Mother?” she whispered, her eyes blazing with indignation. He looked at her heavily. “Nothing—I’ll come, I’ll visit!” he mumbled half-aloud, as if not fully conscious of what he meant to say, and left the room. “Callous, spiteful egoist!” Dunya cried out. “He’s not callous—he’s mad! Insane! Can’t you see that? After this, you’re the heartless one!” Razumikhin hissed passionately right into her ear, gripping her hand tightly. “I’ll be back right away!” he shouted to the stunned Pulcheria Alexandrovna, and dashed out of the room. Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the corridor.
I wanted to say… while coming here… I wanted to tell you, Mother… and you, Dunya, that it would be better for us to part ways for a while. I’m not feeling well, I’m unsettled… I’ll come back myself, when… it’s possible. I remember you and love you… Leave me! Leave me alone! I’ve decided this already… I’m sure of it… Whatever happens to me—whether I perish or not—I want to be alone. Forget me entirely… It’s better that way… Don’t ask after me. When necessary, I’ll come myself—or call for you. Perhaps everything will rise again!... But now, while you still love me, let go… Otherwise, I’ll come to hate you—I feel it… Goodbye!
Dunya looked at her brother with incredulous surprise. He held his cap in his hands, ready to leave. "You're either burying me or bidding me farewell forever," he said oddly. He seemed to smile, yet it was as if not a smile at all. "Who knows, perhaps we're seeing each other for the last time," he added unintentionally. He had meant to think it to himself, but somehow it slipped out aloud. "What's wrong with you?" cried the mother. "Where are you going, Rodya?" Dunya asked strangely. "Just... I really must," he replied vaguely, as though hesitating over what he wanted to say. Yet there was a sharp determination in his pale face.
– Hurray! – shouted Razumikhin. – Wait, there's a flat here in the same building, from the same landlords. It's separate, self-contained, not connected to the numbered rooms, fully furnished, reasonable rent, three rooms. You can take it for the time being. I'll pawn my watch tomorrow and bring you the money – everything will work out. Most importantly, all three of you can live together, and Rodya can stay with you... But where are you off to, Rodya? – What, Rodya, are you leaving already? – Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked, almost in alarm. – At a moment like this! – cried Razumikhin.
Dunya's eyes were shining. "What you're saying appeals to me very much, Dmitry Prokofyich," she said. "I don't know anything about this, of course," replied Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "maybe it's good, but then again, who can say? It's all so new and uncertain. Of course, we must stay here for some time, at least..."
She looked at Rodya. "What do you think, brother?" Dunya asked. "I think his idea is excellent," he replied. "Of course, we shouldn't dream too soon about a big firm, but five or six books could definitely be published with great success. I myself know of a manuscript that would certainly sell well. And as for whether he can manage the business—there's no doubt about that; he understands the trade. Still, you'll have plenty of time to discuss everything later."
For one of them, I wouldn’t accept less than five hundred just for the idea. And you know, if I told someone else, they might not believe me – such blockheads there are! But as for the actual work – printers, paper, sales, all the business details – leave that to me! I know every nook and cranny. We’ll start small, grow big gradually. At the very least, we’ll have something to live on, and in any case, we’ll surely get our money back.
– Why, why on earth should we let go of our own chance when we already have one of the key tools – our own money? – Razumikhin exclaimed passionately. – Of course, it will take a lot of hard work, but we shall work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Raskolnikov... some publishers today offer a splendid percentage! And the main strength of our plan is that we’ll know exactly what needs translating. We’ll translate, publish, and learn – all at once. Now I can truly be useful, for I have experience. For nearly two years I’ve been moving among publishers and know all their tricks: believe me, they’re no saints! So why, why let a golden opportunity slip by? I myself know, and keep in strict confidence, two or three works – just one idea from any of them, once translated and published, could fetch a hundred rubles per book!
Here, Razumikhin began elaborating on his plan, explaining at length how most of our booksellers and publishers know little about their trade and are therefore usually poor publishers, whereas good publications generally do pay back and yield returns—sometimes quite substantial. It was precisely this kind of publishing venture that Razumikhin was dreaming of. He had been working for others for the past two years and knew three European languages well, although only six days earlier he had told Raskolnikov he was "weak" in German, just to persuade him to take half the translation work along with three rubles advance—he had lied then, and Raskolnikov knew it was a lie.
I see clearly—he simply wants to help me. Last year I didn’t need it, but this year I’ve been waiting for his arrival and have decided to take it. Then you can contribute another thousand from your three, and that will be enough to begin with. We’ll join hands—so, what shall we do?
– But why, why do you want to leave! – he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, pouring out his passionate speech. – What will you do in some small town? Most importantly, you are all together here, and you need each other—oh, how much you need one another! Please understand me! At least stay for some time… Take me as a friend, as a partner, and I assure you, we’ll start an excellent business. Listen, I’ll explain everything to you in detail—my whole plan! This very morning, even before anything had happened, the idea already flashed through my mind. Here’s the thing: I have an uncle (I’ll introduce you—he’s a very kind and respectable old man!), and this uncle has a thousand rupees in savings, but he lives on a pension and doesn’t need the money. For two years now, he’s been urging me to borrow that thousand rupees from him, paying him six percent interest.
“He’s plotting something terrible!” she murmured to herself almost in a whisper, barely suppressing a shudder. Raskolnikov noticed her excessive fear. “It seems I’ll have to see him again more than once,” he said to Duna. “We’ll keep watch! I’ll track him down!” Razumikhin cried energetically. “I won’t take my eyes off him! Rodya gave me permission—he himself told me earlier: ‘Look after your sister.’ And you’ll permit it too, Avdotya Romanovna?”
Duna smiled and extended her hand to him, but concern remained etched on her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at her timidly; yet, the three thousand rubles visibly reassured her. Within a quarter of an hour, everyone was engaged in lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov, though not speaking, listened attentively for a while. Razumikhin was the main speaker.
“Rest her soul, O Lord!” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I shall pray to God for her forever and ever! What would have become of us now, Dunya, without these three thousand? Lord, it’s as if they fell from heaven! Oh, Rodya, this morning we had only three rubles left between us, and Dunyasha and I were just thinking how to pawn the watch somewhere quickly—before he himself even thinks of offering it.”
Dunya was struck far too deeply by Svidrigailov’s proposal. She stood there lost in thought.
– I must admit, I don't understand things clearly. He offers ten thousand, yet says he isn't rich. Declares he wants to go away somewhere, and within ten minutes forgets he even mentioned it. Suddenly says he wants to get married, that they're already finding him a bride... Of course, he must have his motives, and most likely not good ones. But again, it seems rather strange to suppose he'd go about it so foolishly if he had bad intentions towards you... Naturally, I refused the money on your behalf, once and for all. Overall, he struck me as very odd, and... even... showing signs, as if, of some mental instability. Though I could be mistaken—it might simply be a kind of bluff. Marfa Petrovna's death seems to have affected him...
- How do you yourself explain him, Rodya? What was your impression of him?
"What did Svidrigailov tell you?" Dunya approached him. "Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov raised his head:
"He insists on giving you ten thousand roubles, and says he wishes to see you once, in my presence."
"See me! Never in this world!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "How dare he offer her money!"
Then Raskolnikov recounted (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigailov, omitting the part about Marfa Petrovna's ghosts, so as not to go into unnecessary details, and feeling an aversion to having any discussion beyond what was absolutely necessary. "What did you answer him?" Dunya asked. "At first I said I wouldn't tell you anything. Then he declared he would himself, by every means, try to arrange a meeting. He claimed his passion for you was nonsense, and that now he feels nothing for you... He does not want you to marry Luzhin. But in general, he spoke incoherently."
Dunya couldn't help thinking he was still very angry with her, while Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him anxiously.
Everyone was happy; in five minutes they were even laughing. Only Dunya occasionally turned pale and frowned, recalling what had happened. Pulcheria Alexandrovna couldn't have imagined that she would feel happy too. That morning, breaking off with Luzhin had seemed like a terrible disaster. But Razumikhin was overjoyed. He didn’t yet dare to fully express it, but trembled all over as if in fever, as though a five-pood weight had been lifted from his heart. Now he had the right to dedicate his whole life to them, to serve them… Oh, there was so much possible now! Though, he nervously pushed away further thoughts and feared his own imagination. Only Raskolnikov sat in the same place, almost sullen and even absent-minded. He, who had most strongly insisted on Luzhin's removal, now seemed least interested in what had happened.
– No, I, I am the most to blame! – Dunechka said, hugging and kissing her mother – I was tempted by his money, but I swear, brother – I never imagined he was such a dishonourable man. Had I seen him for what he was earlier, I wouldn't have been tempted at all! Don't blame me, brother! – God has saved us! God has saved us! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna kept murmuring, almost unconsciously, as though still not fully grasping what had just happened.
This sudden, ugly break struck him like a thunderbolt. It was some disgraceful joke, sheer nonsense! He had merely indulged himself a little; he hadn’t even expressed himself fully, had just flirted, got carried away—and it ended so seriously! After all, he had already grown fond of Dunya in his own way; in his dreams he had already ruled over her—and suddenly!.. No! Tomorrow, tomorrow everything must be restored, healed, corrected, and above all, this conceited milk-sop, this boy who caused it all, must be crushed. Painfully, and almost involuntarily, Razumikhin came to mind as well—but soon he calmed down on that front: “As if that fellow could even be compared to me!” But the one he truly feared was Svidrigailov… In short, a great deal of trouble lay ahead.
In fact, here was even more than he had dreamed of: a proud, strong-willed, virtuous girl, raised and educated above himself (he felt this clearly), and precisely such a creature would be slave-like in gratitude to him for life, would worship him and humbly vanish before him, while he would reign over her absolutely and without limit… Just recently, after long deliberation and waiting, he had finally resolved to change his career path altogether, to step into a broader sphere of activity, and along with it, gradually enter higher society, about which he had long been luxuriating in fantasies… In short, he had decided to try his luck in Petersburg. He knew well that with the help of women one could gain “very, very” much. The charm of a lovely, virtuous, educated woman could wonderfully brighten his path, draw people to him, create an aura… and now everything was collapsing!
Dunya was simply essential to him; the thought of giving her up was unthinkable. For a long time now—several years—he had dreamed sweetly of marriage, all the while quietly saving money and waiting. In deepest secrecy, he had savoured the idea of a virtuous, poor (poverty was a must) young, beautiful, noble, and educated girl, one who was terribly frightened, had suffered greatly in life, and clung entirely to him—a girl who would see him as her saviour for life, revere him, obey him, admire him, and him alone. How many scenes, how many delightful episodes, had he created in his imagination around this tempting, whimsical theme, while resting quietly from his duties! And now his dream of so many years was almost coming true: Avdotya Romanovna’s beauty and education had deeply impressed him; her helpless position had excited him to the utmost.
When Peter Petrovich now bitterly reminded Dune that he had decided to marry her despite the bad rumours about her, he spoke with complete sincerity and even felt deep indignation towards such 'shameful ingratitude'. Yet at the time of proposing to Dune, he had already been fully convinced of the absurdity of these rumours—rumours publicly disproved by Marfa Petrovna herself and long abandoned by the entire town, which had passionately defended Dune’s honour. He would not have denied even now that he had known all this back then. And yet, he still greatly valued his decision to raise Dune to his level and considered it an act of noble sacrifice. By reproaching Dune now, he was expressing a secret, cherished thought—one he had often admired himself, unable to understand why others failed to admire it too. When he had first visited Raskolnikov, he had entered with the self-satisfaction of a benefactor ready to reap gratitude and hear very sweet compliments. And certainly, as he now walked down the stairs, he felt profoundly insulted and unappreciated.
The main thing was that until the very last moment, he had never expected such an outcome. He had been confident right up to the end, never imagining it possible that two poor, defenceless women could slip out of his control. His vanity and a certain kind of self-assurance—closer to self-obsession—had greatly reinforced this belief. Having risen from nothing, Pyotr Petrovich had grown painfully fond of admiring himself, placing high value on his intellect and abilities, and sometimes, in private, even gazed appreciatively at his own face in the mirror. But above all else in the world, he loved and cherished the money he had earned through hard work and every possible means: it brought him on par with those who had always stood above him.
– He's got two heads or something! – shouted Razumikhin, jumping up from his chair and ready to pounce. – You are a despicable and wicked man! – said Duna. – Not a word! Not a move! – cried Raskolnikov, restraining Razumikhin; then, stepping almost face to face with Luzhin:
– Kindly leave the room! – he said quietly and distinctly. – Not another word, or else…
For several seconds, Pyotr Petrovich stared at him with a pale, twisted face of rage, then turned and walked out. Rarely had anyone carried away in their heart so much bitter hatred towards another person as this man now felt for Raskolnikov. He blamed him and him alone for everything. Remarkably, even as he descended the stairs, he still fancied that the matter wasn't entirely lost, and as far as the ladies were concerned, was even "very, very" salvageable. III
– I shall leave at once, but just one final word! – he said, hardly in control of himself now – your mother seems to have completely forgotten that I agreed to take you, so to speak, despite the town gossip spreading all over the district about your reputation. By disregarding public opinion for your sake and restoring your good name, surely, most certainly, I could have hoped for some return, even claimed your gratitude… And only now have my eyes been opened! I see clearly now that perhaps, most certainly, I acted rashly in disregarding public opinion…
This last complaint was so typical of Pyotr Petrovich that Raskolnikov, growing pale with anger and struggling to control himself, suddenly burst out laughing. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna lost her composure:
"Expenses? What expenses? Surely you don't mean our trunk? The conductor brought it for us free of charge! Good Lord, we've been nothing but a burden to you! Get a hold of yourself, Pyotr Petrovich—you're the one who's tied us down, not the other way around!"
"Enough, Mother, please, enough!" pleaded Avdotya Romanovna. "Pyotr Petrovich, for heaven's sake, just leave!"
– What right do you have to speak to her like this! – Pulcheria Alexandrovna intervened passionately. – On what grounds can you object? What rights do you even possess? Should I give my Dunya to a man like you? Get out, leave us altogether! We are to blame ourselves for agreeing to such an unjust arrangement, and most of all, I am…
– Nevertheless, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, – Luzhin fumed furiously, – you bound me with your given word, which you are now reneging upon… and finally… finally, I have been, so to speak, drawn into expenses…
– It's shameful, Rodya, – said Duna. – Pyotr Petrovich, please leave at once! – she said to him, turning pale with anger. Pyotr Petrovich clearly did not expect such an ending. He had placed too much faith in himself, in his power, and in the helplessness of his victims. He refused to believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips began to tremble. – Avdotya Romanovna, if I walk out of this door now, after such treatment, mark my words – I shall never return. Think carefully! My word is final. – How dare you! – cried Duna, swiftly rising from her seat – I don’t even want you to come back! – What? So this is how it is? – shouted Luzhin, who until the very last moment had refused to believe in such an outcome, and thus was now completely flustered – Is this how you treat me? But let me tell you, Avdotya Romanovna, I have the right to protest!
- But now, at least, I can't possibly count on that, and especially don't wish to hinder conveying Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov's confidential proposals, entrusted to your brother, which, as I see, are of great, perhaps even very agreeable, importance to you. - Oh my God! - cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Razumikhin could not sit still on his chair. - And aren't you ashamed now, sister? - asked Raskolnikov.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was slightly offended. "You're really taking too much control over us, Pyotr Petrovich. Dunya has already explained the reason your wish couldn't be fulfilled—she had good intentions. And besides, you write to me as if giving orders. Should we really treat every one of your wishes as a command? I would rather say, on the contrary, that you ought to be especially considerate and accommodating towards us now, since we've given up everything and come here trusting you—so we're already nearly in your power as it is."
"This isn't quite fair, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at this moment when the three thousand left to us by Marfa Petrovna in her will has just been announced—it seems very timely, judging by the new tone being used with me," he added sarcastically. "Judging by this remark, one might indeed suppose that you were counting on our helplessness," Dunya retorted sharply.
– You see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna, – he said, – can there possibly be any agreement here? I trust now that this matter is finally settled and clarified once and for all. I shall take my leave, so as not to interrupt the pleasant family reunion or the sharing of private confidences. (He rose from his chair and picked up his hat.) Before I go, I must dare to mention that in future I hope to be spared such meetings and, so to speak, awkward situations. And I particularly request, most respected Pulcheria Alexandrovna, that you kindly keep this in mind, especially since my letter was addressed to you and not to anyone else.
– I beg your pardon, sir, – replied Luzhin, trembling with anger, – in my letter I described your character and conduct solely in compliance with the request of your sister and mother, who asked me to inform them how I found you and what impression you made on me. As regards what I mentioned in my letter, find me even a single unjust line – that you didn’t spend the money, or that in that family, however unfortunate, there were no unworthy individuals? – In my opinion, with all your virtues, you aren’t worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl whom you’re so ready to condemn. – So then, you would actually introduce her into the society of your mother and sister? – I’ve already done so, if you must know. I seated her beside mother and Dunya today. – Rodya! – exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dunya blushed; Razumikhin frowned. Luzhin smiled sarcastically and haughtily.
"You wrote," said Raskolnikov sharply, without turning to Luzhin, "that yesterday I gave the money not to the widow of the man who was crushed, as actually happened, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen until yesterday). You wrote this to create conflict between me and my family, and added foul remarks about the behaviour of a girl you know nothing about. This is all gossip and meanness."
– I don’t recall exactly, – faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, – I conveyed it as I understood. I don’t know how Rodya passed it on to you… Perhaps he exaggerated something. – Without your suggestion, he couldn’t have exaggerated. – Peter Petrovich, – said Pulcheria Alexandrovna with dignity, – the proof that Dunya and I did not take your words in bad part is the fact that we…
– That’s right, Mama! – Dunya approved. – So I’m to blame again! – Luzhin took offence. – You keep blaming Rodyon, Peter Petrovich, but you yourself wrote something untrue about him in your letter just now, – Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage. – I don’t recall having written anything untrue, sir.
Forgive me, I've forgotten your surname—) he bowed politely to Razumikhin—insulted me by distorting a thought I had shared with you privately, during our conversation over coffee, namely, that in my opinion, marrying a poor young woman who has already experienced life's hardships is, in marital terms, more advantageous than marrying one who has known only comfort, as it is more beneficial for moral development. Your son deliberately exaggerated my words to the point of absurdity, accusing me of malicious intentions—and in my view, basing this accusation precisely on your own correspondence. I would consider myself fortunate if, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, you could possibly convince me otherwise, thereby greatly reassuring me. Kindly inform me, in exactly what terms did you relay my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovich?"
"Love for one's future life partner, for one's husband, should surpass love for a brother," he said sententiously. "At any rate, I cannot stand on equal footing... Although earlier I insisted that in your brother's presence I neither wish nor can express everything I came to say, nevertheless I now intend to turn directly to your highly respected mother for a necessary explanation regarding a certain very important and, for me, deeply offensive matter. Your son," he addressed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "yesterday, in the presence of Mr. Razumikhin (or... so I believe?
“Avdotya Romanovna,” Luzhin said, bristling, “your words carry far too much implication for my liking—indeed, I must say they are even offensive—considering the honourable position I hold in relation to you. Not to mention the strange and insulting comparison you've drawn, placing me on the same level as… an arrogant young man, your words themselves suggest the possibility that I might break the promise given to you. You say, ‘either you or him’? In doing so, you clearly show how little regard you have for me… I simply cannot accept this, given the understanding and… the obligations existing between us.”
“How dare you!” Dunya flared up. “I am weighing your interests against everything that has until now been precious to me, everything that has made up my very life, and yet you’re offended because I’m not valuing you more?”
Raskolnikov smiled silently and sarcastically; Razumikhin shuddered all over. But Pyotr Petrovich did not accept the rebuttal. On the contrary, with every word he grew only more tenacious and irritable, as if getting into the spirit of it.
And as for you: how much do you value me, how dear am I to you—are you truly my husband?"
"Oh, please let go of this touchiness, Pyotr Petrovich," Dunya interrupted feelingly. "Be the wise and noble man I've always believed you to be, and want to believe you are. I've given you a great promise; I am your fiancée. Trust me in this matter, and believe me, I am capable of judging impartially. The fact that I'm taking on the role of judge is as much a surprise to my brother as it is to you. When I invited him today, after your letter, to come for our meeting, I told him nothing of my intentions. Understand that if you two don't reconcile, then I must choose between you—either you or him. That's how the question stands, from both your sides. I don't want to, and must not, make a mistake in my choice. For your sake, I'd have to break with my brother; for my brother's sake, I'd have to break with you. Now I want and can find out for certain: is he truly my brother?
– There are certain insults, Avdotya Romanovna, that cannot be forgotten, no matter how willing one is to forgive. Everything has its limits, beyond which it is dangerous to cross; for once crossed, one cannot turn back. – That's not exactly what I meant, Pyotr Petrovich, – Dounia interrupted somewhat impatiently – please understand clearly that our entire future now depends on whether all this is cleared up and settled as quickly as possible. I'm speaking plainly from the start: I cannot look at it any other way. And if you value me even slightly, then, however difficult it may be, this entire matter must end today. I repeat, if my brother is at fault, he will ask for forgiveness. – I'm surprised you put the question like this, Avdotya Romanovna, – Luzhin grew increasingly irritated – while cherishing you, so to speak adoring you, I may still very much dislike someone from your family. Aspiring to the honour of your hand, I cannot at the same time accept obligations that are utterly incompatible...
"My request that your brother not be present during our meeting has not been fulfilled solely due to my insistence," said Dounia. "You wrote that you were insulted by my brother. I think this must be cleared up at once, and you two should reconcile. And if Rodya truly insulted you, then he is the one who should apologise."
At once, Pyotr Petrovich became emboldened.
Pyotr Petrovich took out his watch and glanced at it. 'It is time for me to attend to some business, and thus I shall not be in the way,' he added with a slightly offended air, and began rising from his chair. 'Do stay, Pyotr Petrovich,' said Dounia. 'You intended to spend the evening with us. Besides, you yourself wrote that you wished to discuss something with Mama.'
'Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,' replied Pyotr Petrovich in a weighty tone, sitting down again but still holding his hat in hand. 'I did indeed wish to have a word with you, and with your highly respected mother, on matters of great importance. But just as your brother cannot discuss certain proposals made by Mr Svidrigailov in my presence, so too I am unwilling and unable to discuss certain—very, very important—matters in the presence of others. Moreover, my serious and most earnest request has not been fulfilled...'
Luzhin put on a bitter expression and sat back with dignified silence.
– It's the absolute truth – Luzhin blurted out. – Well then, what next? – Dunyasha urged. – Then he said he isn't wealthy himself and all his property goes to his children, who now live with their aunt. Then he mentioned he stayed somewhere near me, but where exactly? – I don’t know, I didn’t ask…
– But what, what does he intend to offer Dunyasha? – a frightened Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked. – Did he tell you? – Yes, he did. – Well? – I’ll say it later. – Raskolnikov fell silent and turned to his tea.
"Peter Petrovich, please," said Dunya, "let's not speak of Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me so uneasy."
"Svidrigailov was here just now," suddenly said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time. Everyone exclaimed at once and turned to him. Even Peter Petrovich was agitated. "An hour and a half ago, when I was asleep, he came in, woke me up, and introduced himself," Raskolnikov continued. "He was quite free and easy, cheerful, and fully expects that we'll get along. Among other things, he asked me particularly to arrange a meeting with you, Dunya, and wants me to act as a mediator. He has some proposal for you, the nature of which he shared with me. Moreover, he positively informed me that Marfa Petrovna, a week before her death, managed to leave you, Dunya, three thousand roubles by will, and you can receive this money very shortly."
"Thank God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. "Dunya, pray for her soul, pray!"
“I see, Avdotya Romanovna, that you’ve suddenly become quite inclined to defend him,” observed Luzhin, curling his lips into an ambiguous smile. “Indeed, he’s a crafty and charming man when it comes to women, as the tragic case of Marfa Petrovna—so strangely deceased—clearly shows. I merely wished to guide you and your mother with my advice, given his fresh and undoubtedly forthcoming attempts. As far as I’m concerned, I’m fully convinced that this man will surely land back in debtors’ prison. Marfa Petrovna never really intended to settle anything substantial on him, especially keeping her children in mind, and if she did leave him something, it would be only the barest essentials—something insignificant, temporary, hardly enough to last a year for a man of his habits.”
– I've heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself. – Precisely so, madam, but what led him to this violent death was the constant system of persecution and harsh demands imposed by Mr. Svidrigilov. – I don't know about that, – replied Dunya coldly. – I only heard a rather strange story, that this Philip was some sort of hypochondriac, a household philosopher. People said he was "read himself to death," and that he hanged himself more from mockery than from beatings by Mr. Svidrigilov. He treated people well in my presence, and they even liked him, though indeed some also blamed him for Philip's death.
shamefully assaulted by Svidrigailov. True, everything remained deeply unclear. The tip came from another German woman, a notorious character with no credibility whatsoever. In fact, thanks to Marfa Petrovna's efforts and money, no actual complaint ever materialised. It all ended with just a rumour. Still, that rumour carried great weight. Of course, Avdotya Romanovna, you must have also heard, while staying with them, about the incident involving a serf named Fyodor, who died from beatings some six years ago, back in the days of serfdom.
I'm only repeating what I heard myself, in strict confidence, from the late Marfa Petrovna. It must be noted that from a legal standpoint, this matter is quite murky. There lived here—and I believe still lives—a certain woman named Resslich, a foreigner, a petty moneylender, involved in other questionable dealings. With this Resslich, Mr. Svidrigailov had long maintained certain very close and mysterious relations. A distant relative of hers, I believe a niece, a deaf-mute girl of about fifteen, or even fourteen, lived under her roof. This Resslich hated the child bitterly, scolded her for every morsel of food, and even beat her cruelly. One day, the girl was found hanged in the attic. It was officially ruled a suicide. After the usual formalities, the case was dropped. But later, a complaint surfaced—though, mind you, it was never formally filed—that the child had been...
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened attentively. "Are you telling the truth—do you have definite information about this?" asked Dunya, sternly and impressively.
I have strong grounds to suspect that Marfa Petrovna, who unluckily came to love him so deeply eight years ago and paid off his debts, also helped him in another serious matter: solely through her efforts and sacrifices, a criminal case involving brutal and, so to speak, grotesque murder was hushed up right at the beginning—something for which he could very well have ended up in Siberia. That's the kind of man he is, if you really want to know.
About this, one cannot be certain. I have accurate information. I don't deny that he might have accelerated matters, so to speak, through the moral impact of the insult; but regarding his conduct and overall moral character, I agree with you. I don't know if he is wealthy now or what exactly Marfa Petrovna left him; I will know this very soon. But certainly, if he has even modest financial means here in St. Petersburg, he will immediately return to his old ways. He is the most depraved and morally ruined man among such types!
– Exactly so, and certainly not without some purpose, considering the haste of his departure and the circumstances preceding it. – Good heavens! Is he not going to leave Dunya in peace even here? – exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – It seems to me there's nothing much to worry about, neither for you nor for Avdotya Romanovna, of course, unless you yourselves choose to have any sort of connection with him. As far as I am concerned, I am keeping watch, and right now I'm trying to find out where he is staying... – Oh, Pyotr Petrovich, you can't imagine how frightened you've made me now! – continued Pulcheria Alexandrovna. – I've seen him only twice, and he struck me as dreadful, absolutely dreadful! I'm convinced he was the cause of the late Marfa Petrovna's death.
– Marfa Petrovna has passed away, you’ve heard? – she began, resorting to her trusted tactic. – Indeed, I have heard, madam. I was informed at the very first rumour and even came here today to let you know that Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov left immediately for Petersburg right after his wife’s funeral. At least, that’s what my most reliable sources confirm. – To Petersburg? Here? – Dunya asked anxiously, exchanging a glance with her mother.
– Oh no, Mr. Pyotr Petrovich, we were quite distressed, – Pulcheria Alexandrovna quickly said with particular emphasis – and if God Himself hadn't sent us Dmitry Prokofyevich yesterday, I believe we would have been utterly lost. Here he is, Dmitry Prokofyevich Razumikhin, – she added, introducing him to Luzhin. – Indeed, had the pleasure… yesterday, – muttered Luzhin, casting an unfriendly glance at Razumikhin, then frowned and fell silent. In general, Mr. Pyotr Petrovich belonged to that class of people who appear extremely courteous in society and particularly pride themselves on their politeness, yet the moment anything goes against their wishes, they instantly lose all composure and resemble nothing so much as sacks of flour rather than lively, sociable gentlemen. Everyone fell silent again: Raskolnikov stubbornly kept quiet, Avdotya Romanovna did not wish to break the silence just yet, and Razumikhin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna grew anxious once more.
– What can one do—our national highways are quite long. The so-called 'Mother Russia' is vast... I, for my part, could not possibly hasten to the meeting yesterday despite my best intentions. I hope, however, that everything proceeded without much trouble?
There was an instant silence. Pyotr Petrovich slowly took out a batiste handkerchief, scented with perfume, and blew his nose with the air of a man who, though virtuous, felt somewhat offended in his dignity—and firmly resolved to demand an explanation. As he had stood in the hallway, it had occurred to him not to remove his coat and simply leave, thereby sternly and impressively punishing both ladies so as to make them feel the full weight of his displeasure. But he hesitated. Moreover, this man disliked uncertainty; here, something needed clarifying—if his instructions had been so blatantly disregarded, then something must be amiss, and it was better to learn the truth first. There would always be time to punish later—and the power to do so remained firmly in his hands. “Hope your journey went smoothly?” he formally addressed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “Thank God, Pyotr Petrovich.”
“Most pleasing to hear. And Avdotya Romanovna—did you not tire?”
“I’m young and strong—I won’t tire—but for Mama, it was very hard,” Dunyasha replied.
Pyotr Petrovich entered and bowed to the ladies quite courteously, though with doubled solemnity. However, he looked as if slightly flustered and still hadn’t gathered his wits. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, appearing equally flustered, immediately rushed to seat everyone around the round table where the samovar was steaming. Dunya and Luzhin sat opposite each other at either end of the table. Razumikhin and Raskolnikov ended up facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna—Razumikhin closer to Luzhin, and Raskolnikov beside his sister.
“Of course, that’s right!” replied Raskolnikov. “But what will you say tomorrow?” he thought to himself. Strangely enough, it had never once occurred to him before: “What will Razumikhin think when he finds out?” Having thought this, Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He was scarcely interested in Razumikhin’s current account of his visit to Porfiry—so much had passed since then, and so much had changed! In the hallway, they bumped into Luzhin: he had arrived exactly at eight o’clock and was searching for the room number, so all three entered together—but without looking at each other or bowing. The young men went ahead, while Pyotr Petrovich, out of propriety, lingered briefly in the entryway, removing his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna immediately came out to greet him at the threshold. Dunya greeted her brother.
If you were actually in danger, or something serious was going on, sure, then it matters. But you? You’ve got nothing to do with it—just ignore them. Later, we’ll laugh at them; if I were you, I’d even start tricking them. Think how ashamed they’ll feel later! Spit on them now—you can beat them up later, but for now, let’s just laugh!
– Well, listen to my answer, – he began. I came to see you, you were asleep. Then we had lunch, and after that I went to Porfiry’s. Zametov was there the whole time. I tried to start talking, but nothing came out right. I just couldn’t bring myself to speak plainly. They clearly don’t understand—and can’t understand—but they’re not the least bit embarrassed. I pulled Porfiry aside to the window and started talking, but again, for some reason, it didn’t work out: he looked away, and I looked away too. Finally, I shoved my fist in his face and told him I’d smash him, like family. He just stared at me. I spat and left—that’s all. Very stupid. I didn’t say a word to Zametov. But here’s the thing: I thought I’d messed things up, but as I was walking down the stairs, an idea suddenly struck me—like a flash: why are we even bothering?
– Who knows! Maybe I am mad after all, and everything that happened these past days—perhaps it was all just in my imagination…
– Oh, Rodya! They’ve upset you again!... What did he say? Why did he come? Raskolnikov didn’t answer. Razumikhin thought for a minute.
– It was Svidrigailov, that landlord whose household had wronged Dunya when she worked there as a governess. She left after suffering his advances, thrown out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. That very Marfa Petrovna later begged Dunya’s forgiveness, and now suddenly passed away. It was about her they were speaking earlier. I don’t know why, but I’m terribly afraid of this man. He arrived right after his wife’s funeral. He’s very strange and seems determined to do something… He seems to know something… We must protect Dunya from him… That’s what I wanted to tell you, do you hear? – Protect her? But what could he possibly do against Avdotya Romanovna? Still, thank you, Rodya, for telling me this… We will, we certainly will protect her! Where is he staying? – I don’t know. – Why didn’t you ask? Oh dear, what a pity! No matter, I’ll find out! – Have you seen him? – asked Raskolnikov after a brief silence. – Yes, I noticed him—clearly noticed him. – You actually saw him? You saw him clearly? – Raskolnikov insisted. – Yes, I remember clearly—I’d recognise him among a thousand; I’ve always had a good memory for faces. They fell silent again.
– Well, who was that? – asked Razumikhin, just as they stepped out onto the street.
– What journey? – Why, that ‘voyage’… You yourself mentioned it. – A voyage? Ah, yes… Indeed, I did mention a voyage to you… Well, that’s a broad subject… Though if only you knew what it is you’re asking about! – he added, suddenly bursting into loud, short laughter. – I might end up getting married instead of going on that voyage; they’re matchmaking for me. – Here? – Yes. – When on earth did you manage that? – But I’d very much like to meet Avdotya Romanovna once. I’m asking you seriously. Well froodbye… Ah, yes! I almost forgot! Please tell your sister, Rodion Romanovich, that in Marfa Petrovna’s will she’s been left three thousand. It’s absolutely true. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and I was present. Avdotya Romanovna can receive the money in about two or three weeks. – Are you telling the truth? – I am. Do pass it on. Well froodbye… I’m staying quite close by, you know. As Svidrigailov was leaving, he bumped into Razumikhin at the door. II
It was almost eight o’clock; both hurried towards Bakaleyev’s so as to arrive before Luzhin.
– By chance, sir... I somehow feel there's something in you that suits me perfectly. Don't worry, I'm not bothersome; I've lived with card-sharpers, didn't irritate Prince Svirshey, my distant relative and a high official, managed to write about Raphael's Madonna in Mrs. Prilukova's album, lived seven years non-stop with Marfa Petrovna, once stayed at Viazemsky's house near Sennaya, and perhaps I'll even fly in Berg's balloon one day. – Well then, sir. May I ask, are you leaving on a journey soon?
– Quite possible. – Oh, but that's not the case, sir. Still, if not, then so be it. But ten thousand is indeed a fine sum, handy when needed. In any case, I'd request you to pass on my words to Avdotya Romanovna. – No, I won't pass it on. – Then, Rodion Romanovich, I'll have no choice but to seek a personal meeting myself, and thus, trouble you. – But if I do pass it on, you won't seek a personal meeting? – Honestly, I can't say for sure. I'd very much like to meet, just once. – Don't count on it. – A pity. Though, you don't really know me yet. Perhaps, we might grow closer. – You think we might grow closer? – Why not? – Svidrigailov said with a smile, stood up, and picked up his hat. – I don't mean to trouble you overly. When I came here, I wasn't counting on much, though earlier this morning your face did strike me... – Where did you see me this morning? – Raskolnikov asked uneasily.
Saying this, Svidrigailov remained extremely calm and composed. "Please finish," said Raskolnikov. "In any case, this is unacceptably bold."
"Not at all. After this, a man can do nothing but harm to another man in this world, and yet has no right to offer the smallest good, all because of empty formalities. It's absurd. For instance, if I were to die and leave that sum to your sister by will, would she refuse to accept it then?"
– I knew you would shout; but first, though I'm not wealthy, these ten thousand roubles are completely free—entirely, absolutely not needed by me. If Avdotya Romanovna refuses, I may as well spend them on something even more foolish. That's point one. Second, my conscience is perfectly at ease; I'm making this offer without any ulterior motive. Believe me or not, but later both you and Avdotya Romanovna will see the truth. The whole matter is that I've indeed caused some trouble and inconvenience to your respected sister; therefore, feeling sincere remorse, I sincerely wish—not to buy myself off, not to pay compensation for the unpleasantness, but simply, straightforwardly, to do something beneficial for her, on the grounds that surely I'm not entitled only to cause harm. If there were even a millionth part of calculation in my proposal, I wouldn't offer so directly; nor would I offer merely ten thousand, when just five weeks ago I offered her more. Besides, I may very, very soon marry a young lady, and thus any suspicion of designs against Avdotya Romanovna will vanish altogether. Finally, let me say that by marrying Mr. Luzhin, Avdotya Romanovna would take the very same sum—only from another man... Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich; please judge calmly and coolly.
– You really, truly are mad! – cried Raskolnikov, less angry than astonished. – How dare you speak like that!
– With the greatest pleasure. Having come here, and now deciding to undertake a certain… journey, I wished to make the necessary preliminary arrangements. My children are with my sister-in-law; they are well provided for, and I am of no personal use to them. What sort of father am I anyway? I have taken for myself only what Marfa Petrovna gifted me a year ago. That is enough for me. Forgive me, I now come directly to the point. Before this journey—which may or may not happen—I wish to settle matters with Mr. Luzhin. Not that I particularly dislike him, but it was through him, after all, that my quarrel with Marfa Petrovna arose, when I discovered that she had arranged this marriage. I now wish, through your kind mediation, and perhaps even in your presence, to meet Avdotya Romanovna and explain to her, first, that she will gain no benefit whatsoever from Mr. Luzhin, but, on the contrary, will surely suffer clear loss. Secondly, after asking her forgiveness for the recent unpleasantness, I would like to request permission to offer her ten thousand rupees, thereby making it easier for her to break off with Mr. Luzhin—a break, I am convinced, she would not be averse to herself, were only the opportunity to arise.
– I began noticing it earlier, but was finally convinced the other day, almost at the very moment of my arrival in Petersburg. Still, back in Moscow, I had imagined I was coming to win the hand of Avdotya Romanovna and to rival Mr. Luzhin. – Excuse me for interrupting, but kindly be so good as to shorten it and come straight to the point of your visit. I’m in a hurry; I need to leave right away…
– This is very naive of you; excuse me, I meant to say—bold, – said Raskolnikov. – You mean to imply that I'm acting for personal gain. Don't worry, Rodion Romanovich, had I been, I wouldn't have spoken so openly; I'm not that much of a fool. Let me share with you a psychological oddity on this matter. Earlier, while justifying my affection for Avdotya Romanovna, I claimed to be a victim myself. Well, know this—now I feel no love at all, n-not the slightest, so much so that it even surprises me, because truly, I did feel something once…
– From idleness and indulgence, – interrupted Raskolnikov. – Indeed, I am an idle and indulgent man. Still, your sister possesses so many qualities that naturally, I couldn't help being somewhat impressed. But now I see it was all nonsense. – When did you realise that?
I am certain that you have already formed your opinion about this Mr. Luzhin, my wife’s relative, if you’ve spent even half an hour with him or heard anything accurate and true about him. Avdotya Romanovna is not his match. In my view, Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself most generously—and imprudently—for… for her family. From everything I’d heard about you, it seemed to me that you, on your part, would be very pleased if this marriage could be broken off without harming anyone’s interests. Now, having met you personally, I am even more convinced of this.
– Please do me a favour, – Raskolnikov continued irritably, – allow me to ask you to explain yourself quickly and tell me why you’ve honoured me with your visit… and… and… I’m in a hurry, I have no time, I need to leave for the yard…
– Very well, very well. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is getting married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich? – Can’t we somehow avoid any mention of my sister and not bring up her name? I don’t even understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if you truly are Svidrigailov? – But I came precisely to speak about her—how could I avoid mentioning her? – Fine; speak, but make it quick!
A sudden chill seized Raskolnikov at this grotesque reply. Svidrigailov raised his head, stared intently at him, and suddenly burst into laughter. — No, just think about this — he cried — half an hour ago we’d never even seen each other, we consider ourselves enemies, there’s an unresolved matter between us; yet here we’ve dropped all that and plunged straight into literature! Isn’t it true, I said, that we’re cut from the same cloth?
“I don’t believe in the afterlife,” said Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov sat in thought. “What if, over there, it’s just spiders, or something like that?” he suddenly said. “He’s mad,” thought Raskolnikov. “We always imagine eternity as an idea—a thing impossible to grasp, something vast, immense! But why must it necessarily be vast? And what if, instead of all that, there’s just a little room—like a village bathhouse, all sooty, with spiders in every corner—and that’s eternity. Sometimes I imagine it exactly like that.”
“And surely, surely nothing more comforting and just comes to your mind than this?” cried Raskolnikov, with painful emotion. “Just? Who knows—perhaps this is justice. And you know, I’d make it exactly like that on purpose!” replied Svidrigailov, smiling vaguely.
– No? You think so? – continued Svidrigailov, slowly looking at him. – But what if we reason like this (just help me out): “Ghosts are, so to speak, fragments and scraps of other worlds, their beginnings. A healthy person, of course, has no need to see them, because a healthy person is the most earthly being, and thus must live solely by this earthly life, for completeness and order. But as soon as one falls slightly ill, as soon as the normal earthly order in the body is disturbed, the possibility of another world immediately begins to manifest; and the sicker one becomes, the more connections with that other world there are—so that when a person dies completely, they pass straight into the other world.” I’ve long pondered this. If you believe in the afterlife, then you can also believe in this reasoning.
– Usually, how do they say? – muttered Svidrigailov, as if to himself, looking away and tilting his head slightly. – They say: “You’re ill, therefore what you see is merely a nonexistent delirium.” But there’s no strict logic here. I agree that ghosts appear only to the sick; but that merely proves that ghosts can appear only to the sick, not that they don’t exist in themselves. – Of course not! – Raskolnikoff insisted irritably.
“No, I’ll never believe it!” Raskolnikov cried out, almost angrily.
– Well, perhaps you’re lying after all? – replied Raskolnikov. – I rarely lie, – answered Svidrigailov, thoughtfully, as if not even noticing the rudeness of the question. – And before this, had you ever seen ghosts? – N… no, only once in my life, six years ago. I had a servant named Filka; he’d just been buried, and I shouted, forgetting myself: “Filka, bring me my pipe!” – and in he came, straight to the shelf where my pipes are kept. I was sitting there, thinking: “He’s come to get back at me,” because we’d had a terrible quarrel right before his death. “How dare you,” I said, “come to me with a torn elbow—out, you scoundrel!” He turned around, left, and never came back. I didn’t tell Marfa Petrovna about it then. I even thought of ordering a memorial service for him, but felt ashamed. – Go see a doctor. – That’s something I understand even without you, that I’m not well—though I honestly don’t know why; in my opinion, I’m probably five times healthier than you. But that’s not what I asked you—I asked whether you believe or not that ghosts appear? I asked you: do you believe ghosts exist?
Aniska could never sew one like this.’ (Aniska—that’s our village seamstress, a former serf girl, trained in Moscow—quite a pretty young thing.) She stands there, twirling in front of me. I examined the dress, then looked her straight in the face: ‘Really, Marfa Petrovna,’ I said, ‘must you bother me with such nonsense?’ – ‘Oh my dear, good heavens, can’t I even visit you now?’ I said, just to tease her: ‘Marfa Petrovna, I’m thinking of getting married.’ – ‘That’s just like you, Arkady Ivanovich. No honour in it—no sooner have you buried your wife than you rush straight off to wed again. And what if you don’t even choose well? I know you—you’ll neither please her nor yourself, you’ll only make decent folk laugh.’ And off she went, her train swishing as if on purpose. Ridiculous, isn’t it?
Arrived at the station at dawn—had dozed a bit during the night, all stiff, eyes heavy with sleep—had some coffee; look, suddenly Marfa Petrovna sits beside me, a deck of cards in her hands: ‘Shall I not tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovich?’ She was quite skilled at fortune-telling, you know. Well, and I’ll never forgive myself now for not letting her! Ran off, frightened, and just then, true enough, the bell rang. Today, after a wretched meal from the caterer, with a heavy stomach, I’m sitting, smoking—suddenly Marfa Petrovna again, walks in all dressed up, in a brand-new silk green dress, with a long trailing train: ‘Good day, Arkady Ivanovich! What do you think of my dress?
– She? Just imagine—about the most trivial of things, and you’ll marvel at human nature: it’s precisely this that irritates me. The first time she came in (I was tired, you see—funeral service, requiem for the departed, then the memorial meal, snacks, finally alone in my study, lit a cigar, lost in thought)—she walks through the door: ‘Arkady Ivanovich,’ she says, ‘today, what with all your busy work, you forgot to wind the clock in the dining room.’ And indeed, for seven years I’d wound that clock myself every week, and if I forgot, she’d always remind me. The next day I was off here.
– I thought I said it aloud. Just now, when I came in and saw you lying there with your eyes closed, pretending – I immediately said to myself, 'This must be the very man!'
– What do you mean, 'the very man'? What are you talking about? – cried Raskolnikov. – What about? Well, to tell the truth, I don't know what about... – mumbled Svidrigailov honestly, seeming confused even to himself. They sat in silence for a minute, staring intently at each other. – All this is nonsense! – Raskolnikov exclaimed irritably. – What exactly does she tell you when she comes?
— Why, I somehow always thought something like this was bound to happen with you! — Rascolnikov suddenly said, and at the very same moment he was surprised that he had said it. He was in a state of great agitation. — Oh? You thought so? — Svidrigailov asked, surprised. — Really? Didn’t I say there’s some common point between us? — You never said that! — Rascolnikov replied sharply and eagerly. — I didn’t? — No!
– You seem to miss Marfa Petrovna terribly? – Me? Perhaps. Honestly, perhaps. By the way, do you believe in ghosts? – What kind of ghosts? – Ordinary ghosts, the usual kind! – Do you believe in them? – Well, yes and no, just to please you... I mean, it's not exactly no... – Have they appeared to you? Svidrigailov gave him a strange look. – Marfa Petrovna has been visiting me, – he said, twisting his mouth into a peculiar smile. – What do you mean, visiting? – Well, she's come three times. First, I saw her on the very day of the funeral, about an hour after we left the cemetery. That was the day before I left for here. The second time, three days ago, at dawn, on the journey, at Malaya Vishera station. And the third time, about two hours ago, in the room at the lodgings where I'm staying – I was alone. – While you were awake? – Completely. All three times, wide awake. She comes in, speaks for a minute, and then walks out through the door – always through the door. It's even as if you hear it.
– No, the document didn't restrain me – mused Svidrigailov – it was I myself who didn't leave the village. In fact, about a year ago, on my name day, Marfa Petrovna returned the document to me and even gave me a considerable sum as a gift. She had capital of her own. "You see how much I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich," – indeed, those were her exact words. You don't believe she could have said that? But you know, I actually became a respectable landowner in the village; I'm known in the district. I also subscribed to books. At first Marfa Petrovna approved, but later she began to worry that I'd become too learned.
— And if it weren’t for the document, would you have been allowed to travel? — I’m not sure how to answer. That document hardly constrained me at all. I didn’t want to go anywhere, and Marfa Petrovna herself invited me abroad twice, seeing that I was bored. But really! I’ve traveled abroad before, and it always made me feel queasy. Not that I’m sad exactly, but when dawn breaks over the Bay of Naples, the sea stretches out, and you look at it — somehow, you feel melancholy. The worst part is, you’re genuinely saddened by something! No, it’s better here at home: at least you can blame everyone else and excuse yourself. Maybe now I’d even join an expedition to the North Pole—j’ai le vin mauvais, and drinking disgusts me, yet aside from wine, there’s nothing left. I’ve tried. By the way, they say Berg is flying in a giant balloon in Yusupov Garden this Sunday—he’s inviting passengers for a fee. True? — Well, would you go? — Me? No… just thinking aloud—muttered Svidrigailov, seemingly lost in thought. “What’s up with him, really?” Raskolnikov wondered.
And notice this—she kept that document against me, in someone else’s name, for the entire thirty thousand, so that if ever I thought of rebelling in any way—snap, straight into the trap! And she would’ve done it too! With women, you see, all these things can live together peacefully.
– How could it be otherwise? We were quite a crowd—perfectly respectable folks, about eight years ago; we used to have a good time. All well-mannered people, you know, poets, capitalists. And generally speaking, in Russian society, those who've been punished tend to have the best manners—have you noticed that? Actually, I’ve now sunk into village life. But still, they did lock me up back then for debt—over some buckwheat flour from Nezhin. That's when Marfa Petrovna appeared, bargained a bit, and bought me out for thirty thousand silver roubles. (I owed only seventy thousand in total.) We got married properly, and she took me straight off to her village like some precious treasure. She was five years older than me. Very much in love with me. I didn’t leave the village for seven years.
– To which anatomy? – As for those clubs, Dussauts, your points or perhaps even progress—well, let’s keep that away from us—continued he, again not noticing the question. – And really, is it worth being a cheat? – And have you yourself been a cheat?
“You’re right—I do have acquaintances,” Svidrigailov picked up, avoiding the main point. “I’ve already run into a few; it’s my third day wandering around. I recognize people, and they seem to recognize me too. Of course, I’m decently dressed and considered no pauper—our peasant reform bypassed us after all: forests and floodplain meadows still yield steady income. But… I won’t go there. I was already fed up long before; I’ve been walking for three days now without confessing to anyone… And then this city! How on earth did it come together, pray tell? A city of clerks and every sort of seminarian! Honestly, eight years ago when I loafed around here, I hadn’t noticed half of this… Now I’m banking solely on anatomy, I swear!”