Crime and Punishment (61 page)

‘Judging by some of the words and phrases you've been using in the course of your account, I notice that even now you have the most pressing designs on Dunya – shameful ones, needless to say.'

‘Really? I came out with words and phrases like that, did I?' asked Svidrigailov with the most artless alarm, paying not the faintest attention to Raskolnikov's description of his intentions.

‘You're still coming out with them now. I mean, what are you so scared of? What was it that suddenly frightened you just now?'

‘Me? Scared and frightened? Frightened of you? If anything, it's you who should be scared of me,
cher ami
.
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Can we really not find anything better to talk about . . . ? But I must be a bit tipsy. I almost said something careless again. Damn this wine! Hey, bring me some water!'

He grabbed the bottle and unceremoniously tossed it out of the window. Filipp brought some water.

‘Such nonsense,' said Svidrigailov, soaking a towel and applying it to his head. ‘I can silence you with a single word and smash all your suspicions to smithereens. Are you aware, for example, that I'm getting married?'

‘You've told me that before.'

‘I have? I'd forgotten. But at the time I couldn't say for sure, never having seen my fiancée. It was merely an intention. Now my fiancée is already in hand – the deal's been done – and were it not for a piece of urgent business I'd take you over there right now, as I need your advice about something. Damn it all! Only ten minutes left. See, look at the clock. But I'll still tell you this story, because it's a rather curious thing, my marriage, in its own way . . . Now where are you off to? Leaving again?'

‘No, I won't be leaving now.'

‘You won't be leaving at all? We'll see about that! I really will take you over there and show her to you, only not now – you'll have to go soon. You to the left, me to the right. Do you know that Resslich woman? That same Resslich I'm renting a room from – eh? Are you listening? No, what are you . . . ? I mean that woman whose little girl is said to have, you know, in the water, in winter – well, are you listening? Are you? So she's the one who cooked all this up for me. “You must be bored,” she says. “Have some fun.” I really am a gloomy, dull sort. You think I'm cheerful? I'm not, I'm gloomy. I just sit harmlessly in the corner and three days might pass before you get a word out of me. That Resslich's a handful, I can tell you. Can you believe it? She thinks I'll get bored, drop my wife and go away, so she'll get the wife and put her into circulation; among our class, that is – the posher the
better. There's this invalid father, she says, a retired civil servant, sits in his armchair and hasn't moved his legs in three years. There's also a mother, she says, a sensible lady. The son's got a position somewhere out in the sticks – no help from him. One daughter's married and stays away, then there's two little nephews to take care of (as if they didn't have enough on their plate already), plus the girl they've taken out of school before finishing, their last daughter, just sixteen next month, which, as it happens, is also the date she can be given away. To me. So off we went. It's simply hilarious over there. I introduce myself: landowner, widower, bearer of a well-known surname, well-connected, moneyed . . . So what if I'm fifty and she's only fifteen? Who cares about that? All rather tempting, isn't it? Rather tempting, eh? Ha-ha! You should have seen me chatting away to Papa and Mama! The very sight of me would have been worth good money. Out she comes, curtseying and wearing – can you imagine? – a short little frock, like a bud still waiting to open; and blushes and lights up like the dawn (they'd told her, of course). I don't know whether women's faces do much for you, but for me, these sixteen years, these still-childish eyes, this shyness and these bashful tears – for me, that's better than any beauty, not to mention the fact that she herself is simply exquisite. That lovely fair hair of hers, done up in those sweet little lamb's curls, those chubby little lips, those little legs – just adorable! . . . Well, we were introduced. I announced I was in a hurry on account of certain domestic circumstances and the very next day – that is, the day before yesterday – we were blessed. Now, as soon as I arrive, I sit her on my knees and just keep her there . . . So there she is, lighting up like the dawn, and there am I, showering her with kisses. Mama, needless to say, keeps telling her that this is your husband and this is the done thing. In short, bliss! And actually, being a fiancé, as I am now, is probably even better than being a husband!
La nature et la vérité
,
17
you might call it! Ha-ha! We've talked a couple of times and she's certainly not stupid. Sometimes she'll steal a glance at me – and it burns like fire. You know, her sweet little face is like Raphael's
Madonna
. The
Sistine
Madonna
,
18
after all, has a quite fantastical face, the face of a sorrowing holy fool – don't you think? Well, it's a bit like that. No sooner were we blessed than I lavished fifteen hundred roubles on her the very next day: a set of diamonds and another of pearls, as well as a silver beauty case – about this size, containing all sorts of
goodies. It was enough to make even the Madonna's face glow. Yesterday, when I sat her on my knees – without so much as a by-your-leave – she flushed bright red and out spurted little tears, which she tried to hide, though she was burning inside. Everyone went out for a moment and we were left to our own devices; suddenly she threw herself on my neck (the first time she'd done so), wrapped her two little arms around me, kissed me and vowed to be an obedient, faithful and loving wife, to make me happy, to devote her whole life to me, every single minute, to sacrifice everything, everything, and in return desired
my respect and nothing more
. “Nothing else,” she said. “No presents, nothing!” Wouldn't you agree that to hear such an intimate confession from a sixteen-year-old angel like her, wearing a little tulle dress and her hair done up in curls, blushing with girlish shame and weeping with enthusiasm – wouldn't you agree that it's all rather tempting? Not to be sneezed at, eh? So . . . so listen to me . . . Let's go and see my fiancée . . . Only not now!'

‘In short, it's the monstrous difference in age and education that excites your lust! Are you really going ahead with this marriage?'

‘Why on earth not? Most definitely. Every man must look after himself and no one has more fun than the man who deceives himself best. Ha-ha! What are you doing charging at virtue with a battering ram? Be merciful, father. I'm just a sinner. Heh-heh-heh!'

‘And yet, you've taken care of Katerina Ivanovna's children. Although . . . although, you had your own reasons for doing so . . . It all makes sense now.'

‘I've always been fond of children, very fond of them,' Svidrigailov laughed. ‘In fact, I can tell you a particularly interesting story on precisely this topic, one still unfolding now. On the very first day after my arrival I did a tour of the local dives – after waiting a whole seven years I just plunged straight in. I expect you've noticed that I'm in no hurry to take up with my usual crowd – my old friends and acquaintances. In fact, I'll get by without them for as long as I can. In the country, you know, at Marfa Petrovna's, it was sheer agony remembering all these mysterious nooks and crannies where you can find whatever you want if you know your way around. Damn it all! The masses get drunk; the educated youth, having nothing to do, burns itself out with unfeasible dreams and fantasies, and deforms itself with theories; the Yids have poured in from God knows where and are hiding the money; and the rest is debauchery. From the moment I
arrived the city breathed all over me with its familiar smell. One evening I went along to a so-called dance – a quite disgusting dive (for me, the filthier the better) – and there was cancan dancing, of course, like nothing I'd ever seen; in my day it didn't even exist. Progress, I suppose. Suddenly, I see a young girl, thirteen or so, in the prettiest outfit, dancing with a virtuoso, face to face. And her mother's right there, sitting on a chair by the wall. Just imagine the kind of cancan they do there! The girl's embarrassed, blushes, eventually takes offence and starts crying. The virtuoso sweeps her up and starts spinning her about and posing in front of her. All around people are laughing loudly – I love our public at such moments, even the cancan sort – laughing and shouting, “Good on you! That's the way! It's no place for a child!” Well, what do I care whether their attempts to put their own minds at rest make the least bit of sense? I immediately chose my spot, sat down near the mother and began going on about how I'm not from here either and what boors people are in this town: not a clue how to distinguish true qualities and nurture respect where respect is due. I let it be known that I have plenty of money, offered them a lift in my carriage, took them home and became acquainted (they're sub-renting a tiny room somewhere – they've only just arrived). I was solemnly informed that both she and her daughter could consider it nothing but an honour to count me their acquaintance; learned they hadn't two roubles to rub together and had come to petition for something in some department; offered my services and my money; learned they'd gone to that dive under the misapprehension that they really did teach dancing there; offered, for my part, to assist with the young maiden's upbringing, with learning French and dancing. They were overjoyed, considered it an honour, and we're still on friendly terms now . . . Let's go if you like . . . Only not now.'

‘Enough! Enough of your vile anecdotes, you depraved, lecherous man!'

‘What a Schiller we have here – our very own Schiller!
Où va-t-elle la vertu se nicher?
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You know, I'm going to have to tell you more stories like this, just to hear you squeal. Such fun!'

‘I'm sure. Don't you think I find myself ridiculous at this moment?' muttered Raskolnikov spitefully.

Svidrigailov roared with laughter. Eventually, he called Filipp, paid and began getting up.

‘Drunk, that's what I am. Well,
assez causé
!
'
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he said. ‘What fun!'

‘I'm sure – for you of all people,' shrieked Raskolnikov, also getting up. ‘Who if not a clapped-out lecher like you would enjoy relating such adventures, while intending to do something equally monstrous – especially in circumstances like these and speaking to a man like me . . . ? Stirs the blood.'

‘Well, if that's the case,' Svidrigailov replied, examining Raskolnikov with a certain astonishment, ‘if that's the case, then you yourself are a cynic to reckon with. Your potential, at any rate, is immense. You may apprehend a great deal . . . and do a great deal, for that matter. Well, there we are. I'm truly sorry not to have had a longer chat with you, though you won't get away from me . . . Just wait a little . . .'

Svidrigailov left the tavern. Raskolnikov followed. Svidrigailov wasn't actually all that tipsy; it had gone to his head for no more than an instant, and the effects were fading by the minute. He was very worried about something, something terribly important, and he was frowning. The anticipation of something was clearly troubling and disturbing him. In the last few minutes his behaviour towards Raskolnikov had suddenly changed, and with every moment that passed he became ruder and more derisive. Raskolnikov noted all this and also became anxious. He'd begun to find Svidrigailov very suspicious and decided to follow him.

They stepped out onto the pavement.

‘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.

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 orphanages
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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 America
23
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.