Crime and Punishment (38 page)

‘Now why did I think that something like that must be happening to you?' said Raskolnikov suddenly, and was amazed to have said it. He was extremely worked up.

‘Well, well! So that's what you thought?' asked Svidrigailov in surprise. ‘How extraordinary! But didn't I say we have something in common, eh?'

‘No, you never said that!' came Raskolnikov's sharp and heated response.

‘I didn't?'

‘No!'

‘I thought I did. Before, when I walked in and saw you lying there with your eyes closed, pretending, I immediately said to myself, “That's the one!”'

‘What do you mean: “the one”? What are you talking about?' cried Raskolnikov.

‘What am I talking about? Well, I honestly don't know . . . ,' muttered Svidrigailov frankly, himself in something of a muddle.

For a minute or so they were silent. Each riveted their eyes on the other.

‘Nonsense, all of it!' Raskolnikov cried out in vexation. ‘So what does she say when she comes?'

‘What does she say? Why, the most trivial things, and – funnily enough – that's precisely what makes me so angry. She came in that first time (I was tired: the funeral service, then the hymns and prayers for the deceased, then some food, and at last I was alone in my study, having a smoke and a think), came in through the door and said: “You know, Arkady Ivanovich, what with all the fuss today you forgot to wind the clock in the dining room.” I really did wind that clock myself, once a week, all those seven years, and if I ever forgot she'd be sure to remind me. The very next day I left to come here. At daybreak I walked into the station – I'd hardly slept, I was shattered, bleary-eyed – ordered some coffee and look, there's Marfa Petrovna sitting down next to me with a pack of cards in her hands: “A bit of fortune-telling, Arkady Ivanovich, for the road?” She was a dab hand at that. Well, I'll never forgive myself for not taking her up on her offer! I fled in terror and the next thing I knew the bell rang for the train. Then today, I'd just had a lousy lunch from a cook-shop and my stomach was groaning – I was sitting and having a smoke – when in comes Marfa Petrovna again, done up to the nines in a new green silk dress with an extremely long train: “Hallo, Arkady Ivanovich! How do you like my dress? Aniska couldn't make one like this.” (Aniska's our local seamstress, her parents were serfs, she was apprenticed in Moscow – a pretty young thing.) There she was, spinning about in front of me. I had a good look at the dress, then peered into her face: “What a thing
to come and see me about, Marfa Petrovna!” “Dearie me, how very touchy you've become!” So I said, just to tease her: “I plan to get married, Marfa Petrovna.” “I wouldn't put it past you, Arkady Ivanovich. Doesn't do you much credit, though – your wife barely in the grave and you rushing off to get married. What's more, you're bound to make the wrong choice – you'll both be miserable and only make good people laugh.” And off she went with a rustle of her train – or so I thought. Such nonsense, eh?'

‘But perhaps you're just lying?' said Raskolnikov.

‘I rarely lie,' replied Svidrigailov pensively, as if he hadn't even noticed the rudeness of the question.

‘And you'd never seen ghosts before?'

‘I . . . I did, but only once, six years ago. I had a house-serf called Filka. We'd only just buried him and I yelled, absent-mindedly, “Filka, my pipe!” and in he came and walked straight over to the cabinet where I keep my pipes. I'm sitting there, thinking, “He's come to get his own back,” because we'd had an almighty row shortly before he died. “How dare you,” I say, “come in here with holes at your elbows? Get out, you rascal!” He turned, walked out and never came back. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I was about to arrange a memorial service for him, but then I thought better of it.'

‘You should see a doctor.'

‘I don't need you to tell me I'm unwell, though I honestly couldn't tell you what's wrong with me. I expect I'm five times healthier than you are. My question to you was not: do you or do you not believe that people see ghosts? My question was: do you believe that ghosts exist?'

‘No, nothing could make me believe that!' cried Raskolnikov, almost bitterly.

‘After all, what do people normally say?' muttered Svidrigailov, as if to himself, looking away and bowing his head a little. ‘They say, “You're sick, so what you imagine is mere delirium, mere illusion.” But that's hardly logical. I agree that only the sick see ghosts, but this merely proves that you have to be sick to see ghosts, not that they don't exist in themselves.'

‘Nonsense!' Raskolnikov irritably insisted.

‘You really think so?' Svidrigailov went on, slowly turning his eyes on him. ‘But what if we try to reason like so (give me a hand, old boy): ghosts are, as it were, shreds and scraps of the other worlds from
which they come. A healthy man, needless to say, has no reason to see them, because no one is more earthbound than he; he should live here and here alone, and live a full, well-ordered life. But, at the first sign of sickness, at the first disturbance of the normal, earthbound order in his organism, the possibility of another world instantly comes to the fore, and the sicker he becomes, the greater his contact with this other world, so that when a man dies completely, he crosses over to it right away. I thought this through a long time ago. If you believe in the life to come, then you can believe this, too.'

‘I don't believe in the life to come,' said Raskolnikov.

Svidrigailov was deep in thought.

‘What if there's nothing but spiders there or something like that?' he suddenly said.

‘The man's insane,' thought Raskolnikov.

‘We're forever imagining eternity as an idea beyond our understanding, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Just imagine: what if, instead of all that, there'll just be some little room, some sooty bath-hut, say, with spiders in every corner, and that's it, that's eternity? I have such fancies every now and again, you know.'

‘And you can't imagine anything more comforting or more just than that!' Raskolnikov cried out with a sickening feeling.

‘More just? But who's to say: perhaps that is just – in fact, that's exactly how I'd arrange things myself!' Svidrigailov replied, with an indeterminate smile.

A chill suddenly came over Raskolnikov when he heard this outrageous reply. Svidrigailov lifted his head, looked straight at him and suddenly roared with laughter.

‘This takes some beating, don't you think?' he shouted. ‘Half an hour ago we'd never even set eyes on one another; we're meant to be enemies; we've got unfinished business between us; and now look, we've dropped our business and plunged head-first into literature! Well, wasn't I right to say we're birds of a feather?'

‘Be so kind,' Raskolnikov persisted irritably, ‘as to explain yourself without further delay and tell me why you are honouring me with a visit . . . and . . . and . . . I'm in a hurry, no time to spare, I've got to go out . . .'

‘By all means. Your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is marrying Mr Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich, yes?'

‘Could we please avoid all questions concerning my sister and any
mention of her name? I fail to understand how you even dare utter her name in my presence – if, that is, you are who you say you are?'

‘But it's her I've come to speak about – how can I not mention her?'

‘Fine. Just get on with it!'

‘I dare say you've already formed an opinion about this Mr Luzhin, to whom I am related through my wife, assuming you've spent even half an hour in his company or heard anything reliable and accurate about him. He's no match for Avdotya Romanovna. As I see it, Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself in this matter very nobly and without forethought, for the sake of . . . of her family. I had the impression from all I'd heard about you that, from your side, you'd be only too glad to see this marriage collapse without anyone's interests being jeopardized. Now that I've met you in person, I'm even quite certain of it.'

‘From your side, this is all very naive; sorry, I meant to say insolent,' said Raskolnikov.

‘Which is your way of saying that I am only in this for myself. You shouldn't worry, Rodion Romanovich. If this really were the case, I'd hardly be so blunt about it – I'm not a complete fool. In fact, let me share with you a certain psychological quirk of mine. Before, while justifying my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said that I myself was the victim. Well, you ought to know that I feel no love at all now, none whatsoever – in fact, this seems strange even to me, because I really did feel something before . . .'

‘From idleness and depravity,' interrupted Raskolnikov.

‘I am indeed a depraved and idle man. But then your dear sister has so many points in her favour that I could hardly fail to be somewhat taken with her. But it's all nonsense, as I can now see for myself.'

‘And when did you see this exactly?'

‘I've been aware of it for some time, but I became fully convinced only two days ago, almost at the very moment I arrived in Petersburg. Back in Moscow, I still thought I was coming here to win Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to vie with Mr Luzhin.'

‘Forgive me for interrupting you, but please be so kind as to turn, without delay, to the purpose of your visit. I'm in a hurry, I have to go out . . .'

‘With the greatest pleasure. After arriving here and deciding to undertake a certain . . . voyage, I conceived a desire to make the necessary preliminary arrangements. My children will remain with their
aunt; they are rich and have no need of me personally. I'm not much of a father anyway! For myself I've taken only that which Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That's all I need. Forgive me, I'm just about to turn to the business at hand. Before my voyage, which may indeed come to pass, I want to have done with Mr Luzhin. It's not that I dislike him so much, but that, were it not for him, I'd never have had that row with Marfa Petrovna, when I learned about her concocting this marriage. I wish to see Avdotya Romanovna now so that, through your good offices and – why not? – in your presence, I can explain to her, firstly, that not only does she stand to gain nothing from Mr Luzhin, but she will lose out very badly, and that's a fact. Next, having begged her forgiveness for all this recent unpleasantness, I would request that she permit me to offer her ten thousand roubles and thereby alleviate her parting with Mr Luzhin, a parting which, I am sure, she would not mind too much herself, were it only possible.'

‘You're properly, properly mad!' cried Raskolnikov, less angry than astonished. ‘How dare you speak like that?'

‘I knew you'd start yelling. But, firstly, though I may not be rich, these ten thousand roubles are going spare. I've no need of them, no need at all. If Avdotya Romanovna says no, then I dare say I'll find an even more idiotic use for them. That's one thing. Secondly, my conscience is quite untroubled. I'm making this offer without any ulterior motive. You don't have to believe me, but later both you and Avdotya Romanovna will see this for yourselves. The fact of the matter is that I really did cause your much-esteemed sister a certain amount of trouble and unpleasantness; therefore, experiencing sincere remorse, I have a heartfelt wish, not to buy my way out by paying for the unpleasantness, but purely and simply to do something to benefit her, because, after all, it's not as if I've claimed some prerogative only to commit evil. If there were even the tiniest hint of forethought in my offer, I would hardly make it so bluntly; nor would I offer a mere ten thousand, when only five weeks ago I offered her more. Besides, I may be about to marry a certain young girl in the very nearest future, so all suspicions of any possible designs against Avdotya Romanovna ought thereby to be quashed. I will conclude by saying that, in marrying Mr Luzhin, Avdotya Romanovna is taking exactly the same money, only from another hand . . . Now don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich – think about it calmly and coolly.'

Saying this, Svidrigailov was himself exceptionally cool and calm.

‘Please hurry up and finish,' said Raskolnikov. ‘If nothing else, you're being unforgivably rude.'

‘Not in the least. If that's the case, then man can do nothing but evil to man, and is actually denied the right to do even a crumb of good, all because of empty formalities. It's absurd. Say, for example, I died and left this sum to your dear sister in my will, are you saying that she would still refuse it then?'

‘Very possibly.'

‘Not a chance, sir. But have it your way if you must. Only, ten thousand can be a fine thing. In any case, kindly pass on what I've said to Avdotya Romanovna.'

‘No, I won't.'

‘In that case, Rodion Romanovich, I shall be obliged to seek a personal meeting and, thereby, to make a nuisance of myself.'

‘And if I do pass this on, you won't seek a personal meeting?'

‘H'm, how should I put it? I'd be very keen to see her once.'

‘Don't pin your hopes on it.'

‘Shame. Still, you don't know me. We may even become close.'

‘You think we might become close?'

‘Why ever not?' said Svidrigailov with a smile, getting up and taking his hat. ‘After all, I wasn't actually all that keen to disturb you, and, walking over here, I wasn't expecting too much from our meeting, although just this morning I was struck by your features . . .'

‘Where did you see me this morning?' asked Raskolnikov anxiously.

‘By chance, sir . . . I can't help feeling that you and I are somehow well-matched . . . Now don't worry, I'm really no bother: I've got along with card sharps; and I've stayed the right side of Prince Svirbey, a distant relative of mine and a grandee; and I've scribbled something about Raphael's
Madonna
in Mrs Prilukova's album; and I've spent seven years cooped up with Marfa Petrovna; and I've bedded down in times past at Vyazemsky's house on Haymarket;
9
and, who knows, I might just go flying in Berg's balloon.'