'You to the right, me to the left, or vice versa, but in any case - adieu, mon plaisir,21 till next we meet!'
And, turning right, he walked off towards Haymarket.
V
Raskolnikov followed him.
'Now what?' cried Svidrigailov, turning round. 'Didn't I say . . . ?'
'You won't shake me off now - that's what.'
'Wha-a-at?'
The two men stopped and for a minute or so each looked at the other, as if sizing him up.
'All these half-drunken stories of yours,' Raskolnikov snapped, 'leave me in no doubt whatsoever that not only have you not abandoned your disgraceful designs on my sister - you're more wrapped up in them than ever. I know that my sister received a letter this morning. All through our meeting you couldn't sit still . . . Even if you have managed to unearth a wife along the way, it doesn't mean a thing. I should like to ascertain for myself . . .'
Raskolnikov himself could scarcely have said what it was that he wanted now and what it was that he needed to ascertain.
'Well I never! And if I call the police?'
'Go on!'
Once again, they stood facing each other for a minute or so. Eventually a change came over Svidrigailov's face. Assured that Raskolnikov was not frightened by his threat, he suddenly assumed the most cheerful and friendly air.
'Aren't you a character? I deliberately avoided mentioning that business of yours, although, needless to say, I'm consumed with curiosity. A quite fantastical business. I was going to leave it for next time, but really - even a dead man would lose his composure talking to you . . . Off we go then, but let me warn you: I'm only going home for a minute, to grab some money; then I'm locking up the apartment and taking a cab to the Islands for the whole evening. Do you still want to follow me?'
'Only as far as the apartment, and not to yours, but Sofya Semyonovna's, to apologize for missing the funeral.'
'As you like, but Sofya Semyonovna isn't in. She's taken all the children off to a certain lady, a distinguished old woman and an acquaintance of mine from times past, who runs a few orphanages22 here and there. I charmed this lady by bringing her money for Katerina Ivanovna's three mites. Not only that, I donated further funds to her institutions. Lastly, I told her Sofya Semyonovna's story in every detail, concealing nothing. The effect was indescribable. That's why Sofya Semyonovna was asked to come immediately, today, directly to ----aya Hotel, where my lady is temporarily residing before returning to her dacha.'
'Never mind - I'll still call by.'
'As you wish, but count me out. Anyway, what's it to me? Ah, we're already home. I'm convinced you look at me so suspiciously because I was so very tactful and I still haven't troubled you with any questions . . . Is that right? It struck you as rather extraordinary. I'm sure of it! Fancy being tactful after that!'
'And listening in at doors!'
'Ah, I see!' laughed Svidrigailov. 'Yes, it would have been rather surprising if, after everything, you'd let that pass without comment. Ha-ha! I do have some idea of the sort of pranks you got up to then . . . over there . . . and which you told Sofya Semyonovna about yourself. But still, what am I to make of it? Perhaps I'm hopelessly behind the times and no longer capable of understanding anything. Explain, my dear boy, for the love of God! Enlighten me about the latest principles.'
'You couldn't have heard a thing - these are all lies!'
'Oh, I don't mean that (although I did hear something). No, I mean the way you never stop sighing! As if you've got Schiller squirming about inside you. And then they tell us not to listen in at doors. In that case, go and tell the authorities that look, a peculiar thing's happened to me: something went a bit wrong with the theory. If you're convinced one mustn't listen in at doors, but it's all right to bash old hags with whatever comes to hand, whenever the mood takes you, then you'd better get yourself off to America23 or somewhere! Run, run, young man! There might still be time. I'm being sincere. No money, is that it? I'll give you some for the journey.'
'That's the last thing on my mind,' interrupted Raskolnikov with disgust.
'I understand (still, you mustn't overexert yourself: no need to talk too much if you don't want to). I understand what kind of problems are in vogue now: moral problems, I suppose? Problems to do with being a citizen, a man? Forget about them. What good are they to you now? Heh-heh! Because you're still a citizen and a man?24 But if that's the case, there was no need to poke your nose in. You should have stuck to what you know. So shoot yourself - or don't you want to?'
'You seem to be taunting me on purpose, to shake me off . . .'
'What a funny man you are. Well, here's our staircase already - make yourself at home! Here's Sofya Semyonovna's door, and look - no one in! Don't believe me? Ask the Kapernaumovs; she leaves them the key. And here's Madame de Kapernaumov herself. What? (She's a bit deaf.) She's gone out? Where? There, do you see now? She's not in and she might not be back until late evening. So let's go to mine. You wanted to go to my place, too, didn't you? Well, here we are. Madame Resslich's out. That woman's always got her hands full, but she's a good sort, I assure you . . . She could be of real use to you if only you were a little more sensible. So, see for yourself: I'm taking this five per cent bond from the bureau (look how many I've got!) - it's going straight to the money changer. See that? Right, enough time-wasting. I'm locking the writing desk, locking the apartment, and here we are on the stairs again. Why don't we hire a cab? I'm off to the Islands, after all. What do you say to a ride? Take this carriage right here and go to Yelagin, eh? You're refusing? All a bit too much for you? Come on, it's just a ride. Is that rain on its way? Never mind, we'll raise the hood . . .'
Svidrigailov was already seated in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that, for the moment at least, his suspicions were unfounded. Without saying a word in reply, he turned and walked back in the direction of Haymarket. Had he looked back even once, he would have seen Svidrigailov, after travelling no more than a hundred yards, settle his fare and step back onto the pavement. But he no longer could: he'd already turned the corner. A wave of deep disgust had borne him away from Svidrigailov. 'To think that I could ever, even for one second, have expected something from this crude and evil man, from this lecherous scoundrel!' came his involuntary cry. In truth, Raskolnikov delivered his verdict all too hastily and lightly. There was something about Svidrigailov which, at the very least, gave him a certain originality, if not mystery. And as for the place of his sister in all this, Raskolnikov remained utterly convinced that Svidrigailov would not leave her in peace. But it was becoming far too painful to keep thinking about it all, to keep turning it over in his mind!
As was his habit, he, once left alone, fell deep in thought after about twenty paces. Stepping onto the bridge, he paused by the railings and began staring at the water. Standing right over him, meanwhile, was Avdotya Romanovna.
Their paths had crossed at the beginning of the bridge, but he'd walked straight past her without noticing. It was the first time Dunechka had seen him walking the streets in this state and she took a bad fright. She stopped, unsure whether to call out to him or not. Suddenly, she noticed Svidrigailov hurrying over from the general direction of Haymarket.
But there was something secretive and wary about his approach. He didn't step onto the bridge, but stayed off to one side on the pavement, making every effort not to be seen by Raskolnikov. He'd noticed Dunya long before and began gesturing to her. She thought he was entreating her not to call out to her brother, but to leave him in peace and go over to him.
Dunya did just that. She slipped past her brother and came up to Svidrigailov.
'Quick, off we go,' Svidrigailov whispered to her. 'I don't want Rodion Romanych to know of our meeting. I should warn you: I've just been with him not far from here, in a tavern - he found me there himself and I had a job getting rid of him. Somehow he knows about my letter to you and suspects something. Surely it can't have been you who told him? And if not you, who?'
; 'All right, we've turned the corner,' Dunya interrupted, 'my brother won't see us now. I'll go no further with you. Tell me everything here. It can all be said outside.'
'Firstly, this certainly cannot be said outside. Secondly, you ought to hear what Sofya Semyonovna has to say as well. Thirdly, I have one or two papers to show you . . . Oh yes, and last of all, if you don't agree to come up to mine, I'll refuse to say anything more and I'll walk away right now. What's more, please bear in mind that one particularly intriguing secret of your dear beloved brother lies entirely in my hands.'
Dunya hesitated and looked piercingly at Svidrigailov.
'Now what are you so afraid of?' he calmly remarked. 'This is the city not the countryside. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you, while here . . .'
'Has Sofya Semyonovna been warned?'
'No, I didn't say a word to her and I'm not even sure she's home now. Though I expect she is. She buried a close relation of hers today: hardly a day for paying social calls. I don't want to tell anyone about this for the time being and I even rather regret telling you. Here, the slightest indiscretion is equivalent to a tip-off. I live right here, in this building; we're approaching it now. Here's our caretaker; knows me very well; there, he's bowing to me. He sees I'm walking with a lady and, needless to say, he's taken note of your face - you'll be glad to know that if you're very scared and suspicious of me. Forgive me for speaking so crudely. I'm sub-renting a room. Sofya Semyonovna and I live wall to wall - she's sub-renting, too. The whole floor's rented out. So why are you so scared, like a child? Or am I really so terrifying?'
Svidrigailov's face twisted into a patronizing smile; but he was in no mood for smiling. His heart was thumping and his breath felt trapped in his chest. He was deliberately talking louder to hide his mounting agitation; but Dunya hadn't yet noticed this special excitement; she was far too annoyed by his remark about her being scared of him, like a child, and finding him so terrifying.
'Even though I know you to be a man . . . without honour, I'm not frightened of you in the least. You go first,' she said calmly enough, though her face was very pale. Svidrigailov paused outside Sonya's apartment.
'Let me check if she's home. She's not. Curses! But I know she may be back any moment. If she's gone out, then it's only to see a certain lady about her orphans. Their mother's died. I got involved in that, too, and made a few arrangements. If Sofya Semyonovna doesn't return in the next ten minutes, I'll send her over to you, today if you wish; and here's me. My two rooms. My landlady, Mrs Resslich, lives the other side of the door. Now take a look here, I'll show you my chief documents: the door you see here connects my bedroom with two completely empty rooms that are rented out. Here they are . . . You need to look at this a bit more attentively . . .'
Svidrigailov occupied two furnished and fairly spacious rooms. Dunechka looked around mistrustfully, but she didn't notice anything special about either the decor or the arrangement of the rooms, even though there were one or two things that might have been noticed, such as the fact that Svidrigailov's apartment somehow nestled between two almost uninhabited apartments. It was entered not directly from the corridor but through two of the landlady's rooms, both virtually empty. In his bedroom, Svidrigailov unlocked a door and showed Dunechka another almost empty apartment. Dunechka hesitated on the threshold, failing to understand why she was being asked to look, but Svidrigailov hurried to explain:
'Here, take a look over here, the second of the large rooms. Note the door: it's locked. Next to the door there's a chair, just one chair for both rooms. I brought it over from my rooms, so I could listen in comfort. On the other side of the door, right now, is Sofya Semyonovna's table. That's where she and Rodion Romanych sat and talked. And I was listening in, sitting right here on the chair, two evenings in a row, a couple of hours each time. I must have learned a thing or two, wouldn't you say?'
'You were listening in?'
'Yes, I was listening in. Now back to mine - there's nowhere to sit here.'
He led Avdotya Romanovna back into his first room, which he used as a drawing room, and offered her a chair. He himself sat down at the other end of the table some three or four paces away, but the same flame that had once given Dunechka such a fright must already have been flickering in his eyes. She shuddered and cast another mistrustful look around the room. She did so without meaning to - she evidently wished to keep her mistrust to herself. But the isolation of Svidrigailov's apartment eventually struck home. She felt like asking whether his landlady was in or not, but she didn't . . . out of pride. Besides, there was another, immeasurably greater source of pain in her heart than fear for herself. Her torment was too much to bear.
'Here's your letter,' she began, placing it on the table. 'Is what you write really possible? You hint at a crime supposedly committed by my brother. Your hints are all too obvious - and don't you dare deny it. You may as well know that I'd already heard about this idiotic tale and I don't believe a word of it. What a foul and ridiculous thing to suspect. I know the story, how and why it was invented. You haven't a shred of proof. It's impossible. You promised to prove it. Well? Speak! But know in advance that I don't believe you! I don't!'
Dunechka said this in a breathless hurry and for an instant the colour rushed to her face.
'If you didn't believe it, would you really ever risk coming here alone? Then why have you come? Out of mere curiosity?'
'Don't torment me - just speak!'
'You're gutsy, no doubt about that. Honest to God, I thought you'd ask Mr Razumikhin to accompany you here. But I couldn't see him anywhere near you. How brave! Means you wanted to spare Rodion Romanych. Although everything about you is divine . . . As for your brother, well, what can I say? You've just seen him yourself. How did he seem?'
'And is that all you have to go on?'
'No, I have his own words to go on. This is where he came two evenings in a row to see Sofya Semyonovna. I showed you where they sat. He confessed everything to her. He's a murderer. He murdered a civil servant's old widow, a moneylender he used to pawn things with. He killed her sister, too, a clothes-dealer, Lizaveta by name, who happened to walk in during her sister's murder. He murdered them both with an axe he brought with him. He murdered them in order to rob them, and rob them he did; he took the money and some items . . . He said this in so many words to Sofya Semyonovna, who alone knows the secret, though she had no part in the murder in word or deed - on the contrary, she was as appalled as you are now. Don't worry: she won't betray him.'
'It can't be true!' mumbled Dunechka through pale, numb lips; she was gasping. 'It can't. There's not the slightest reason, not the slightest cause . . . Lies! Lies!'
'Robbery - that's the whole reason. He took the money and the items. True, by his own account he made no use of the money or the things and buried them under a stone somewhere - they're still there now. But that's because he didn't dare to.'
'Is that likely? That he stole, robbed? That he could even have such an idea?' cried Dunya, leaping from her chair. 'You know him. You've seen him. How could he ever be a thief?'
She was almost imploring Svidrigailov; her fear was quite forgotten.
'The combinations and possibilities here are endless, Avdotya Romanovna. A thief goes thieving but knows in his own mind he's a scoundrel. I've even heard of one fine gentleman who robbed a mail coach.25 Who knows? He probably thought it was a perfectly respectable thing to do! Needless to say, I wouldn't have believed it either, just like you, if I'd heard it at second hand. But I believed my own ears. He even gave all his reasons to Sofya Semyonovna. She wouldn't believe her own ears at first, but eventually she believed her own eyes. After all, he was telling her himself.'
'Reasons . . . ? What reasons?'
'It's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. What we have here is - how can I put it? - a kind of theory, the kind of business where I might decide, for example, that a single wicked deed can be permitted if the overall aim is good. One evil deed for a hu
ndred good ones! Not to mention, of course, that it's rather galling for a gifted young man with an exceptionally high opinion of himself to know that three thousand roubles or so would be enough to change the direction of his entire career, his entire future and purpose in life - only he hasn't got these three thousand roubles. Add to this the irritation caused by hunger, cramped lodgings, rags and tatters, a vivid awareness of his social status, in all its beauty, and that of his mother and sister. And above all, vanity, pride and vanity, although, who's to say there aren't some good traits mixed in as well . . . ? So please don't think I'm blaming him. It's none of my business anyway. There was also a theory at work - nothing special, as theories go - according to which people may be divided - don't you know? - into human material and those who are somehow exceptional; that's to say, people who, on account of their lofty status, are outside the law, and not only that, who themselves write the law for the others - for the material, I mean . . . the rubbish. Nothing special, as mini-theories go; une theorie comme une autre.26 Napoleon really turned his head; or rather, the fact that a great many men of genius have turned a blind eye to isolated acts of evil, stepping right over them without a second thought. He seems to have fancied that he, too, is a man of genius - or at least, he was sure of it for a time. He was greatly pained - and still is - by the thought that he may have managed to come up with a theory, but as for taking that step without a second thought - that was beyond him. So how can he be a man of genius? What could be more demeaning for a young man with a high opinion of himself, especially in our day and age . . . ?'
'And the voice of conscience? Are you denying him all moral sense? Is he really like that?'
'Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, nowadays all the waters are muddied; although, come to think of it, things were never terribly orderly. Russians are a broad people, Avdotya Romanovna, as broad as their land, and they have an exceptional propensity for the fantastical and the disorderly; but breadth without genius is a recipe for disaster. Do you remember how often the two of us talked like this, on this very subject, out on the terrace in the evenings, after dinner? In fact, it was precisely this breadth you reproached me with. Who knows, while we were talking he may have been lying on his bed here, thinking his thoughts. After all, Avdotya Romanovna, our educated society has no truly sacred traditions to call its own: not unless someone cobbles something together from books . . . or digs something out of the Chronicles.27 But that's just scholars, fools in their own way, and it's all rather embarrassing for a man of society. But anyway, you know my views. I've no intention of accusing anyone. I prefer to keep my hands clean. But we've discussed this more than once. I even had the good fortune of interesting you in my opinions . . . You're very pale, Avdotya Romanovna!'
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