V
Lebezyatnikov looked worried. ‘I’m here to see you, Sofya Semyonovna. Do forgive me . . . I thought I’d find you here,’ he suddenly addressed Raskolnikov. ‘Now don’t get me wrong . . . I didn’t think anything . . . of that kind . . . But I did think . . . Katerina Ivanovna has gone mad,’ he suddenly informed Sonya,
abandoning Raskolnikov.
Sonya shrieked. ‘Or so, at least, it would appear. Although . . . Well, we don’t know what to do about it, that’s the problem, miss!
She’s back now . . . She was thrown out by someone somewhere, and maybe beaten a bit as well . . . or so it would appear . . . She’d gone tearing over to see Semyon Zakharych’s head of department, but he wasn’t at home; some other general had invited him over for lunch . . . So – can you imagine? – off she ran . . . to this other general and – can you imagine? – simply insisted on being seen by the head, and even, it would appear, while he was still eating.
You can guess what happened next. They threw her out, of course; though she says she called him names and even threw something at him. Perfectly plausible, I suppose . . .
How she got away scot-free I’ll never know! Now she’s busy telling everyone about it – Amalia Ivanovna, too – only it’s hard to understand her when she’s shouting and flailing about . . . Oh yes, she’s yelling about how – now that everyone’s abandoned her – she’ll take to the streets with her children and drag a barrel-organ around, and the children will sing and dance – her, too – and collect money and go and stand under the general’s window every day . . .
“Let them see the noble children of a state official walk the streets like beggars!” she says. She keeps beating the
children – they cry. She’s teaching Lenya to sing “Little Farm” and the little boy to dance, and Polina Mikhailovna, too; she’s ripping up all their clothes and making little hats for them, like actors wear; she wants to carry a basin around with her and bang on it, instead of a musical instrument . . . Won’t listen to a word you say . . . Can you imagine? I mean, really!’ Lebezyatnikov would have gone on and on, but Sonya, who scarcely drew breath as she listened, suddenly grabbed her cape and hat and ran out of the room, putting them on as she went. Raskolnikov went out after her; Lebezyatnikov followed. ‘She’s definitely gone crazy!’ he said to Raskolnikov as they stepped outside. ‘I just didn’t want to scare Sofya Semyonovna, so I said, “It would appear”, but there’s no doubt about it. Consumptives get these tubercles on the 37 brain,I’m told. Shame I know so little about medicine. I tried persuading her of it, but she just won’t listen.’ ‘You told her about the tubercles?’ ‘Not exactly. She’d never have understood anyway. What I’m saying is: if you persuade a man through logic that, in essence, he has nothing to cry about, he’ll soon stop crying.
That much is clear. Why? Is it your belief that he won’t?’ ‘Life would be too easy then,’ replied Raskolnikov. ‘I disagree, sir. It’s a difficult business understanding Katerina Ivanovna, of course, but are you aware that in Paris serious experiments have already been conducted with regard to the possibility of curing the mad through logical persuasion? One professor there, a serious scholar, recently deceased, came up with this notion. His main idea was that the mad do not suffer from any particular disturbance of the organism, but that madness is, as it were, a logical error, an error of judgement, an incorrect view of things. He gradually refuted his patient’s arguments and, I’m told, achieved certain results. Can you
imagine? But since he also used shower-baths the results of this treatment may, of course, be questioned . . . Or so it would appear . . .’ Raskolnikov had long ceased listening. Drawing level with his building, he nodded to Lebezyatnikov and turned in through the arch. Lebezyatnikov came to, looked about him and hurried on.
Raskolnikov entered his garret and stood in the middle of the room. Why had he come back here? He ran his eye over this yellowish, frayed wallpaper, this dust, his couch . . .
From the yard there came a loud, constant banging, as if something somewhere were being knocked in, some nail or other . . . He went over to the window, stood on tiptoe and, with an exceptionally attentive air, scanned the courtyard for a good long while. But the yard was empty and he couldn’t see anyone banging away. To the left, in the side wing, a few windows were open; on the sills were pots with straggly geraniums. Washing hung outside the windows . . .
He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the couch.
Never in all his life had he felt so dreadfully alone!
Yes, he felt once again that perhaps he really could come to hate Sonya, and precisely now, after making her more miserable. Why had he gone to beg her tears? Why was it so necessary for him to prey on her? The shame of it! ‘I’ll stay on my own!’ he said with sudden decisiveness. ‘And she won’t visit me in prison!’ Five minutes later he lifted his head and smiled strangely. A strange thought – ‘Perhaps I’ll be better off in Siberia’ – had suddenly occurred to him.
He couldn’t remember how long he sat in his room, his mind crowded with uncertain thoughts. Suddenly the door opened and Avdotya Romanovna walked in. She stopped and looked at him from the threshold, as he had at Sonya before; and only then did she come through and sit down
opposite him, on the chair she’d sat in yesterday. He looked at her in silence, as if he weren’t even thinking. ‘Don’t be cross, brother, I’ll only stay a minute,’ said Dunya. The expression on her face was pensive, but not stern. Her gaze was clear and soft. He saw that this one, too, had come to him with love. ‘Brother, I know everything now,everything. Dmitry Prokofich explained everything to me. You’re being hounded and tormented, all because of some stupid, vile suspicion . . . Dmitry Prokofich told me there’s no danger whatsoever and you needn’t be so horrified by it all. That’s not what I think and Icompletely understand that you must be seething inside, and that this indignation may leave a permanent scar. This is what scares me. I do not and dare not judge you for abandoning us, and forgive me for reproaching you before. I can fully imagine how I would feel if such a terrible misfortune were to befall me: I, too, would turn away from everyone. I won’t tell Mother anythingabout that, but I will talk about you constantly and say on your behalf that you will come very soon. Don’t torture yourself about her.I’ll reassure her; but don’t torture her, either – come round once, at least. She’s your mother, remember that! But the only reason I’ve come now’ (Dunya started getting up) ‘is to say that if, by any chance, you should need me for anything or you should need . . . my entire life, or anything . . . just call for me and I’ll come.
Goodbye!’ She turned round sharply and made towards the door. ‘Dunya!’ Raskolnikov stopped her, getting up and walking towards her. ‘This Razumikhin, Dmitry Prokofich, is
a very good man.’ Dunya coloured slightly. ‘And?’ she asked after waiting a minute or so. ‘He’s a business-like, hard-working, honest man, capable of great love . . . Goodbye, Dunya.’ She flushed all over, then suddenly panicked:
‘Brother, what are you saying? Surely we’re not parting for good? Why all these . . . instructions?’ ‘Never mind . . . Goodbye . . .’ He turned and walked away from her towards the window. She waited a moment, looked at him anxiously and left in great alarm.
No, he hadn’t been cold towards her. There’d been a moment (the very last) when he was seized by the urge to hug her close andtake his leave of her, and eventell her, but he couldn’t bring himself even to give her his hand. ‘She’ll only shudder when she remembers how I hugged her just now – she’ll say her kiss was stolen! ‘Willthis one be able to cope or won’t she?’ he added a few minutes later, still thinking to himself. ‘No, she won’t cope. Notpeople like her! They never can . . .’ And he thought of Sonya.
A fresh breeze came in through the window. Outside it was no longer quite so bright. He grabbed his cap and went out.
He, of course, could not and would not pay any heed to his sick condition. But this continuous anxiety and all this dread in his soul could not pass without consequence. And if he was not yet laid up with a high fever, then perhaps it was only because this inner, continuous anxiety was keeping him on his feet and in his senses, albeit in a somewhat artificial, temporary way.
He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. Some particular anguish had begun to communicate itself to him lately. There was nothing particularly caustic or scalding about it; instead, it was somehow constant and eternal, presaging year on year of this cold, deadening anguish, some kind of eternity on ‘one square yard’. In the evening this sensation usually began to torment him even more. ‘With such idiotic, purely physical ailments that all depend on some sunset or other, how can you avoid doing
something stupid? Never mind Sonya, you’ll end up going to Dunya!’ he muttered with loathing.
Someone called his name. He looked round.
Lebezyatnikov rushed towards him. ‘I was at your place just now. I’ve been looking for you.
Can you imagine? She’s done what she said she’d do and taken the children off with her! Sofya Semyonovna and I had a real job finding them. She’s banging away on a frying pan, forcing the children to sing and dance. They’re crying.
They stop at crossroads and outside shops. Silly commoners run after them. Let’s go.’ ‘And Sonya?’ asked Raskolnikov anxiously, hurrying after Lebezyatnikov. ‘In a complete frenzy. Not Sofya Semyonovna, I mean, but Katerina Ivanovna; although Sofya Semyonovna is in a frenzy, too. But Katerina Ivanovna is in a perfect frenzy. I’m telling you, she’s completely mad. They’ll end up at the police station. You can imagine the effect that will have on . . . They’re by the Ditch now, near ——sky Bridge, not far at all from Sofya Semyonovna’s place. Close by.’ By the Ditch, not far from the bridge and only two buildings before Sonya’s, a small throng had gathered – mainly little boys and girls. Katerina Ivanonvna’s hoarse, frayed voice was audible even from the bridge. It was indeed a strange spectacle, more than capable of grabbing the interest of the street. Katerina Ivanovna, wearing her old dress, thedrap de dames shawl and a ruined straw hat scrunched up horribly on one side, really was in a frenzy.
She was tired and gasping for breath. Never had her worn- out, consumptive face expressed more suffering (not to mention the fact that outside, in the sun, a consumptive always looks more sickly and disfigured than at home); but her excitement did not abate and she grew more irritable by the minute. She kept rushing over to the children, shouting at them, urging them on, teaching them right there, in front of everyone, how to dance and what to sing,
trying to make them understand why all this was necessary, despairing at their dimness, hitting them . . . Then, suddenly abandoning them, she would rush over to the crowd. If she noticed anyone watching who was even remotely well-dressed, she would immediately set about explaining to that person what these children ‘from a noble, one might even say aristocratic household’ had been driven to. If she heard laughter in the crowd or some pointed remark, she’d immediately pounce on the impudent offenders and give them a piece of her mind. Some really were laughing, others were shaking their heads, and all were curious to have a good look at the crazy woman with the terrified children. The frying pan which Lebezyatnikov had mentioned was nowhere to be seen – Raskolnikov, at least, had not seen it – but instead of banging a pan, Katerina Ivanovna was marking time with her dry palms as she made Polechka sing and Lenya and Kolya dance. Not only that, she even started singing along herself, but every time she did so an excruciating coughing fit would cut her short on the second note and she would plunge into despair once more, cursing her cough and even crying. But nothing infuriated her more than the tears and terror of Kolya and Lenya. Efforts really had been made to dress the children up as street singers. The boy’s head was wrapped in a turban of red and white material, to make him resemble a Turk. No such outfit was found for Lenya; all she had was the late Semyon Zakharych’s red worsted cap (or rather, nightcap), pierced with a fragment of the white ostrich feather that once belonged to Katerina Ivanovna’s grandmother and had been kept until now in the trunk, as a family curiosity. Polechka was wearing her usual little dress. She was looking at her mother timidly, in bewilderment, never leaving her side, gulping back tears, suspecting her mother’s derangement and nervously looking about her. The street and the crowd had given her a dreadful fright. Sonya walked after Katerina Ivanovna
everywhere, crying and pleading with her again and again to go back home. But Katerina Ivanovna was implacable. ‘Stop it, Sonya! Stop it!’ she shouted in great haste, gasping and coughing. ‘You don’t even know what you’re asking – just like a child! I’ve already told you I won’t be going back to that woman, that German drunk. Let everyone – all Petersburg – watch the children of a noble father go begging, a father who was a loyal and faithful servant all his life and who, one might say, died at his post.’ (Katerina Ivanovna had already managed to concoct this fantasy for herself and believe in it blindly.) ‘All the better if that useless general sees us. Anyway, you’re being silly, Sonya. What will we eat now, tell me that? We’ve tortured you enough – I won’t stand for any more! Oh, Rodion Romanych, it’s you!’ she shrieked, catching sight of Raskolnikov and rushing towards him. ‘Please make this fool of a girl understand that this is the cleverest thing we can do! Even organ-grinders make a living, and as for us, we’ll be singled out straight away – everyone will see we’re a poor noble family of orphans reduced to beggary, and that poxy general will lose his position, you’ll see! We’ll stand under the general’s window each day, and when the Tsar goes by in his carriage I’ll fall to my knees, push this lot out in front of me, point at them and cry: “Protect us, Father!”
He is the father of all orphans, he is merciful, he will protect us, you’ll see; and as for this lousy general . . .
38 Lenya!Tenez-vous droite!And you, Kolya, you’ll be dancing again in a minute. What are you whimpering about? There, he’s whimpering again! What are you so scared of, you stupid little boy? Lord! What am I to do with them, Rodion Romanych? If only you knew how dim they are! What on earth is one to do with them?’ And, on the verge of tears (which did nothing to stem her relentless, unceasing patter), she pointed at the whimpering children. Raskolnikov wanted to convince her
to go back and even said, as a sop to her vanity, that it was unseemly for her to walk the streets like an organ-grinder, seeing as she was preparing to be headmistress of a boarding school for girls of the nobility . . . ‘A boarding school? Ha-ha-ha! That would be nice!’ cried Katerina Ivanovna, her laughter immediately yielding to a fit of coughing. ‘No, Rodion Romanovich, that dream is gone! Everyone’s abandoned us! . . . And as for that lousy general . . . Do you know, Rodion Romanych, I threw an inkpot at him – there was one on the table, in the lobby, next to the sheet you have to sign, so I signed, threw it and ran off. Oh, the scum! But never mind. From now on I’m going to feed this lot myself – I won’t bow down to anyone!
We’ve put her through enough misery!’ (She pointed at Sonya.) ‘Polechka, how much have you all collected? Show me! What? Just two copecks? Oh, the beasts! They never give anything, just run after us with their tongues hanging out! Now what’s this halfwit got to laugh about?’ (She pointed at a man in the crowd.) ‘Kolya’s dimness is to blame for all this – he’s hard work, that boy! Yes, Polechka?
Speak to me in French,parlez-moi français. I taught you, didn’t I? I’m sure you remember a few phrases! . . .
Otherwise who’s to know you’re from a noble family, that you’re well-brought-up children and nothing like other organ-grinders? This isn’t some puppet show we’re 39 performing, you know, somePetrushkaor other! We’ll sing something noble – aromance . . . Oh yes – so what are we going to sing? You keep interrupting me and we . . . You see, Rodion Romanovich, the reason we stopped here was to choose what to sing – something even Kolya can dance to . . . because, as you can well imagine, we haven’t prepared any of this. We need to agree on what we’re doing, practise till everything’s perfect, then head off to Nevsky Prospect, where the public is far more discerning and we’ll be 40 noticed right away. Lenya knows “Little Farm”. . . “Little
Farm” and nothing else – they’re all at it! We should be singing something far nobler . . . Any ideas, Polya? You, at least, should help me out! My memory’s gone, clean gone, or else I’d remember! We can hardly sing “The Hussar Leaning on His Sabre” can we? Oh, let’s sing that French 41 song “Cinq sous”!I taught you, didn’t I? The main thing is it’s in French, so they’ll see straight away that you’re gentry children and that will be so much more touching . . .
Or even “Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre”, as it’s perfect for children and is sung as a lullaby in every aristocratic household.
Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre, 42Ne sait quand reviendra . . .’
she began singing . . . ‘Actually, no – let’s have “Cinq sous!”
Come on, Kolya, hands on hips, look lively, and Lenya, you spin round the other way, while Polechka and I sing along and clap!
Cinq sous, cinq sous, 43Pour monter notre ménage . . .
Cuh-cuh-cuh!’ (Once again, the coughs came thick and fast.) ‘Straighten that dress, Polechka, your shoulders are showing,’ she observed between coughs, out of breath. ‘Now more than ever you have to look decent and dainty, so that everyone can see you’re gentry. Didn’t I say that your bodice should have been cut a bit longer and made from two widths? It was you, Sonya, who kept saying, “Shorter, shorter,” and now look, the child’s a disgrace . . . But what are you all crying about again? Such stupid children! Come on then, Kolya, I’m waiting – oh, what an insufferable boy!
Cinq sous, cinq sous . . .
Not another soldier! Well, what do you want?’
A policeman really was squeezing through the crowd.
But at the very same time a respectable-looking civil servant of about fifty, wearing uniform, a greatcoat and a decoration around his neck (which particularly pleased Katerina Ivanovna and impressed the policeman), came up and silently handed a green, three-rouble banknote to Katerina Ivanovna. His face expressed sincere compassion.
Katerina Ivanovna accepted it and made a courteous, even ceremonious, bow. ‘I thank you, kind sir,’ she began loftily. ‘The reasons prompting us to . . . Now take the money, Polechka. See, there are noble, generous souls, ready, at a moment’s notice, to help a poor gentlewoman in distress. You see before you, kind sir, well-born orphans with, one might say, the most aristocratic connections . . . Meanwhile, that poxy general just sat there eating hazel grouse . . . and stamping his feet at me for having disturbed him . . . “Your Excellency,” I say, “protect the orphans,” I say, “knowing the late Semyon Zakharych so very well and bearing in mind the fact that his own daughter was slandered so viciously by that scoundrel, that scum of the earth, on the very day of his death . . .” Not that soldier again! Protect us!’ she screamed at the civil servant. ‘Why does he have to keep pestering me? We only came here to get away from another one, on Meshchanskaya Street . . . Mind your own business, you stupid man!’ ‘But this is forbidden in public, ma’am. Please cease this disgraceful behaviour.’ ‘You’re the disgrace! I’m no different from an organ- grinder, so mind your business!’ ‘Organ-grinders need a licence, since you mention it, but you’re making a public nuisance of yourself. Where are you lodging, ma’am?’ ‘A licence!’ yelled Katerina Ivanovna. ‘I buried my husband today and you talk about licences!’
‘Madam, madam, please calm down,’ the civil servant began. ‘Let’s go – I’ll accompany you . . . It’s unseemly here, with all this crowd . . . You’re not well . . .’ ‘Kind sir, you know nothing!’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna. ‘We’re off to Nevsky – Sonya, Sonya! Where has she got to?
Crying as well! What’s wrong with you all? . . . Kolya, Lenya, where are you off to?’ she suddenly cried in alarm. ‘Oh, stupid children! Kolya, Lenya, where on earth are they going?’ What had happened was that Kolya and Lenya, frightened out of their wits by the crowd and the whims of their crazy mother, and seeing that a soldier was just about to take them off somewhere, suddenly, as if with one mind, grabbed each other by the hand and took to their heels.
Poor Katerina Ivanovna set off after them, yelling and weeping. It was a ghastly, pitiful thing to see her running, weeping, gasping. Sonya and Polechka rushed after her. ‘Bring them back, Sonya! Bring them back! Oh, stupid, ungrateful children! . . . Polya, catch them! . . . It was for
you that I . . .’ At full tilt, she stumbled and fell. ‘She’s badly hurt – she’s bleeding! O Lord!’ cried Sonya, bending over her.
Everyone came running, everyone crowded round.
Raskolnikov and Lebezyatnikov were among the first to arrive; the civil servant also hurried over, followed by the policeman, grumbling ‘My oh my!’ and gesturing as if to say – what a nuisance this is going to be. ‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’ he shouted at the
crowd.
‘She’s dying!’ cried a voice. ‘She’s mad!’ came another. ‘God save us!’ said one woman, crossing herself. ‘Did they catch the little mites? Well I never – here they come, the eldest has caught ’em . . . All very peculiar!’
But when Katerina Ivanovna was properly examined, it transpired that she hadn’t hurt herself against the stones, as Sonya thought; the blood that was staining the road purple was gushing up from her chest. ‘I’ve seen this before, gentlemen,’ the civil servant muttered to Raskolnikov and Lebezyatnikov. ‘It’s consumption. The blood just gushes up and chokes you. I saw it happen to a woman I know, a relative, just recently – about a pint of it . . . just like that . . . Still, what should we do now? She’ll die any minute.’ ‘This way, this way, to my room!’ Sonya pleaded. ‘I live right here! . . . That building there, the second one along . . . To my place – quick! Quick!’ she begged everyone, rushing from one person to another. ‘Send for a doctor . . .
O Lord!’ Thanks to the civil servant, this was quickly arranged, and even the policeman helped carry Katerina Ivanovna.
She was brought into Sonya’s room more dead than alive and placed on the bed. The bleeding continued, but it seemed as if she were beginning to come round. Sonya was immediately followed into her room by Raskolnikov, Lebezyatnikov, the civil servant and the policeman, the latter having first dispersed the crowd, from which a few accompanied them right to the door. Kolya and Lenya, trembling and crying, were led in by Polechka. The Kapernaumovs came over too: there was Kapernaumov himself, lame and crooked, a strange-looking man with unruly, bristly hair and whiskers; his wife, with her permanently frightened look; and several of their children, with faces frozen in perpetual surprise and mouths hanging open. Amidst all these another person suddenly appeared – Svidrigailov. Raskolnikov looked at him in astonishment, wondering how he’d got there and unable to recall his face in the crowd.
There was talk of doctors and priests. The civil servant, while whispering to Raskolnikov that there was little need
for a doctor now, instructed that one be sent for.
Kapernaumov himself hurried off to fetch him.
Meanwhile, Katerina Ivanovna got her breath back and for a time the bleeding abated. She fixed her sick, though steady and piercing gaze on pale, trembling Sonya, who was wiping beads of sweat from Katerina Ivanovna’s brow; eventually, she asked to be lifted up. They sat her up on the bed, supporting her on both sides. ‘And the children?’ she asked in a weak voice. ‘Did you bring them, Polya? Oh, stupid ones! . . . Why did you have to run away? . . . Ahh!’ Her parched lips were still covered in blood. She cast her eyes around her: ‘So this is how you live, Sonya! The first time I’ve ever been here . . . Now of all times . . .’ Her eyes were full of pain as she looked at her: ‘We’ve sucked you dry, Sonya . . . Polya, Lenya, Kolya, come here . . . So, Sonya, here they all are, take them . . . from my hands to yours . . . You’ll get no more from me! . . .
The dance is over! Ahh! . . . Lower me back down. Let me
die in peace, at least . . .’ They lowered her onto the pillow again. ‘What’s that? A priest? Don’t bother . . . As if you’ve got money for that! . . . There’s no sins on me! . . . God should forgive me without all that . . . He knows how I’ve suffered! . . . And if he won’t forgive me – fine!’ A restless delirium was steadily gaining hold of her. Now and then she would startle, cast her eyes around and briefly recognize everyone; but awareness instantly gave way to delirium. Her breathing was hoarse and laboured; a kind of gurgle seemed to come from her throat. ‘“Your Excellency!” I say to him,’ she yelled, stopping for breath after every word. ‘That Amalia Ludwigovna . . . Ah!
Lenya, Kolya! Arms on hips, look lively,glissé glissé,pas de 44 basque!Beat those little feet . . . Look graceful, child!
Du hast Diamanten und Perlen . . .
Then what? Now there’s a song . . .
Du hast die schönsten Augen, 45Mädchen, was willst du mehr?
How could I forget?Was willst du mehr?, indeed! Whatever next? . . . Oh yes, and this:
46In the midday heat, in a vale in Dagestan . . .
Ah, how I loved that song . . . I simply adored it, Polechka! . . . Your father, you know . . . sang it when he was courting . . . Oh, days! . . . Now there’s a song for us! But then what?
Then what . . . ? I’ve forgotten again . . . Well, remind me!’ She was terribly agitated and kept trying to lift herself up.
Eventually, in a dreadful, hoarse, breaking voice she began to sing, shrieking and gasping at every word, and looking ever more frightened:
‘In the midday heat . . . in a vale . . . in Dagestan!
With lead in my breast!
Your Excellency!’ she suddenly howled with lacerating force, drenched in tears. ‘Protect the orphans! Remember the late Semyon Zakharych’s bread and salt! . . . The aristocratic Semyon Zakharych, one might even say! . . .
Ahh!’ she said with a start, regaining her senses and casting her eyes over everyone with a sort of horror, before suddenly recognizing Sonya. ‘Sonya, Sonya!’ she said, meekly and tenderly, as if astonished to see her before her.
‘Sonya, darling, you’re here too?’ They lifted her up again. ‘Enough! . . . It’s time! . . . Goodbye, poor creature! . . .
This nag’s been ridden too hard! . . . She’s had it!’ she cried in despair and hatred, and her head fell back heavily onto the pillow.
She fell unconscious once more, but only briefly. Her pale, yellow, shrivelled face fell right back, her mouth opened wide, and a spasm stretched out her legs. She gave a deep, deep sigh and died.
Sonya fell on her corpse, wrapped her arms around her and froze, pressing her head tight against the dead woman’s shrivelled bosom. Polechka fell at her mother’s feet and kissed them, sobbing uncontrollably. Kolya and Lenya, still unsure of what exactly had happened, but sensing something quite dreadful, grabbed one another’s little shoulders with both hands and, staring into each other’s eyes, suddenly opened their mouths together and began to scream. Both were still in their outfits: one wearing a turban, the other a skullcap with an ostrich feather.
And how did this ‘certificate of distinction’ suddenly materialize on the bed, next to Katerina Ivanovna? It lay right there, by the pillow; Raskolnikov could see it.
He withdrew to the window. Lebezyatnikov hurried over
to him. ‘Dead!’ said Lebezyatnikov. ‘Rodion Romanovich, I have two urgent things to tell you,’ said Svidrigailov, walking over. Lebezyatnikov immediately made way and faded tactfully into the background. Svidrigailov led the astonished Raskolnikov even further off into the corner. ‘I’ll take care of all this – the funeral and so on. I told you I had some money going spare – so why not use it? I’ll find decent orphanages for those two mites and for Polechka, and put one thousand five hundred aside for each of them, until they come of age, so Sofya Semyonovna won’t have the slightest cause for anxiety. And I’ll save her from ruin as well, because she’s a good girl, is she not? Well then, sir, be so kind as to tell Avdotya Romanovna that this is the use to which her ten thousand have been put.’ ‘And the purpose of all this charity?’ asked Raskolnikov.
‘Dear dear! Aren’t we mistrustful!’ laughed Svidrigailov. ‘I told you this money was going spare. What if it’s simply for reasons of humanity – can’t you accept that? I mean, she was no “louse”’ (he jabbed his finger in the general direction of the deceased), ‘she wasn’t some hag of a moneylender. I mean, really, “should Luzhin live and commit his abominations or should she die?” And, but for my help, “Polechka, say, will go the same way . . .”’ He said this with a sort ofwinking, merrily roguish air, never once taking his eyes off Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov turned white and a chill came over him as he heard his own words once spoken to Sonya. He immediately shrank back and stared wildly at Svidrigailov. ‘H-how . . . do you know?’ he whispered, scarcely able to breathe. ‘Because I live right here, on the other side of the wall, at Madame Resslich’s. She’s a very old and devoted friend.
Neighbours, sir.’ ‘You?’ ‘Yes, me,’ Svidrigailov went on, swaying with mirth, ‘and let me assure you, on my honour, dearest Rodion Romanovich, that I find you quite fascinating, astonishingly so. Didn’t I tell you we’d become close? Didn’t I predict it?
Well, now we have. And you’ll see what an accommodating fellow I am. You’ll see that I’m not so very hard to get along with . . .’
