III
He was hurrying to Svidrigailov. What was he hoping for?
He himself did not know. But this man held some hidden power over him. Having once realized this, he could no longer forget it. Now, moreover, the time had come.
On the way he was tormented by one question in particular: had Svidrigailov been to see Porfiry?
As far as he could tell – and he would have sworn to it – no, he hadn’t! Again and again he asked himself this question, recalling Porfiry’s entire visit, and concluded: no, he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t!
But if he hadn’t yet been to see Porfiry, might he still go?
It seemed to him now that he wouldn’t, not for the time being. Why? He couldn’t have answered this question either, and he certainly didn’t want to start racking his brains over it now. All this was a torment to him, but at the same time it was as if he couldn’t really care less. It was strange – no one, perhaps, would have believed him – but he felt no more than a faint, absent-minded concern about his current, immediate fate. Something else was tormenting him, something far more important, extraordinarily so – about himself and no one else, something different, something crucial. What was more, he felt boundlessly weary at heart, even though his mind was working better that morning than at any time during these recent days.
And was there now any point, after all that had happened, in trying to overcome all these new, paltry obstacles? Was there any point, say, in scheming to stop some Svidrigailov or other from visiting Porfiry; in researching, making enquiries, wasting time on him?
How sick and tired he was of it all!
And yet, here he was hurrying to Svidrigailov. Surely he wasn’t expecting anythingnew from him, any pointers, a way out? How people clutch at straws! Or was it fate, some instinct or other, that was bringing them together? Perhaps it was just weariness, despair; perhaps it wasn’t Svidrigailov he needed but someone else, and Svidrigailov just happened to be there. Sonya? But why go to Sonya now? To beg her tears again? But Sonya terrified him.
Sonya was an implacable sentence, an irrevocable decision.
It was her road or his. Now more than ever he was in no condition to see her. Wasn’t he better off probing Svidrigailov? He found himself admitting that he really did seem to need that man for something, and had done for some time.
And yet, what could they ever have in common? Even their villainy could not be the same. That man, furthermore, was extremely unpleasant, exceptionally depraved (it was obvious), sly and deceitful (how could he not be?) and, perhaps, downright nasty. There were all sorts of stories about him. True, he was going to great lengths for Katerina Ivanovna’s children; but who could say why or what it meant? That man was always plotting.
One other thought kept occurring to Raskolnikov, day in day out, causing him terrible anxiety; so unbearable was it that he even tried to chase it away. He’d think: Svidrigailov was always hovering around him, and was still doing so now; Svidrigailov had learned his secret; Svidrigailov used to have designs on Dunya. What if he still did? It was almost certain that yes,he did. And what if now, having learned his secret and thus gained power over him, he decided to use that power as a weapon against Dunya?
This thought tormented him even during his sleep, but never had it struck him so consciously, so vividly, as it did now, on his way to Svidrigailov. This thought alone was enough to plunge him into dark fury. Firstly, that would change everything, his own situation included: he’d have to
reveal his secret to Dunechka without delay. He would, perhaps, have to give himself up so as to dissuade Dunechka from taking some reckless step. And the letter?
Dunechka had received it only this morning! From whom in Petersburg might she receive a letter? (Surely not Luzhin?) True, he’d left Razumikhin on guard, but Razumikhin didn’t know anything. Perhaps he ought to open up to Razumikhin as well? The very thought disgusted him. ‘In any case, I have to see Svidrigailov as soon as possible,’ he decided definitively. ‘Thankfully, it’s not the details I need so much as the essence of the thing. But if he really is capable of it, if Svidrigailov really is scheming against Dunya – then . . .’ Raskolnikov had become so weary by now, after this whole month, that he had only one answer to such questions: ‘Then I’ll kill him,’ he thought, in cold despair. A heavy feeling pressed down on his heart. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked around: which road had he taken and where had he ended up? He was on ——sky 14 Prospect,some thirty or forty paces from Haymarket, which he’d crossed just now. A tavern took up the whole of the first floor of the building to his left. All the windows were wide open. Judging by the amount of people he could see moving about in them, the tavern was full to bursting.
He could hear a group of professional singers, a clarinet, a violin, the thudding of a Turkish drum, and women shrieking. He was about to turn back, wondering why on earth he’d taken ——sky Prospect, when suddenly, in one of the furthest open windows, at a tea table by the window, with a pipe between his teeth, he spotted Svidrigailov. He was astounded, horrified. Svidrigailov was observing him in silence and, to Raskolnikov’s further astonishment, seemed to be on the point of getting up, so as to slip away before being seen. Raskolnikov instantly pretended not to have seen him and to be looking elsewhere, lost in thought,
while continuing to observe him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was racing. So he was right: Svidrigailov didn’t want to be seen. He’d taken his pipe from his mouth and was just about to hide; but, having got up and moved the table, he must have suddenly noticed that Raskolnikov could see him and was observing him. Something happened between them not unlike the scene of their first encounter in Raskolnikov’s room, while he was sleeping. A roguish grin broke out over Svidrigailov’s face, growing broader and broader. The two men knew that each was observing the other. Eventually Svidrigailov burst into raucous laughter. ‘Well, well! In you come then, if that’s what you’re after.
Here I am!’ he shouted from the window.
Raskolnikov went up to the tavern.
He found him in a very small back room with only one window; it adjoined a large saloon, where, seated around twenty little tables and deafened by the desperate singing of the chorus, merchants, civil servants and all sorts were drinking tea. From somewhere there came the clicking of billiard balls. On the little table in front of Svidrigailov stood an open bottle of champagne and a half-filled glass.
The room also contained a boy playing a small hand organ, and a strapping, red-cheeked girl wearing a tucked-up, striped skirt and a Tyrolean hat with ribbons – she was a singer, aged eighteen or so, who, despite the chorus in the next room, was performing some maudlin song in a hoarse contralto, accompanied by the young boy on the hand organ . . . ‘All right, that’ll do,’ Svidrigailov interrupted her when Raskolnikov came in.
The girl broke off her song at once and lingered in deferential anticipation. There had been a hint of seriousness and deference in her expression even while she was singing her doggerel rhymes. ‘Hey, Filipp, a glass!’ shouted Svidrigailov.
‘I’m not drinking,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘As you wish. It’s not for you anyway. Have a drink, Katya! I won’t be needing you any more today, so off you go!’ He poured her a full glass of wine and took out a yellow banknote. Katya drained the glass in one go – without a break, in twenty gulps, as women do – took the note, kissed Svidrigailov’s hand, with the latter’s gravest consent, and went out, with the little boy in tow. Both had been brought in off the street. Svidrigailov had been in Petersburg for less than a week, yet he was already on a patriarchal footing with all and sundry. He was also on familiar terms with the servant at the tavern, Filipp, who fawned on him. The door to the saloon was kept locked.
Svidrigailov was very much at home in this room and probably spent whole days in it. The tavern was filthy and shabby, even by average standards. ‘I was looking for you,’ Raskolnikov began, ‘but why did I suddenly turn into ——sky from Haymarket just now? I never turn off there or take this street. I always turn right from Haymarket. And anyway, this isn’t the way to your place. I turned and there you were! How strange!’ ‘Why don’t you call a spade a spade? It’s a miracle!’ ‘Because it might be mere chance.’ ‘What is it about these people?’ Svidrigailov guffawed. ‘They’ll never admit a miracle, even if it’s what they believe inside! I mean, you say yourself it “might” be mere chance.
And how very chicken-hearted people are about their opinion – it beggars belief, Rodion Romanych! I don’t mean you. You’ve got your own opinion and you weren’t too afraid to have one. That’s why I became interested in you.’
‘Nothing else?’ ‘Isn’t that enough?’ There was no mistaking Svidrigailov’s excitement, however faint (he’d drunk no more than half a glass). ‘If you ask me, you came to see me before you discovered that I’m capable of having what you call my own opinion,’
Raskolnikov remarked. ‘Well, things were different then. We each have our own steps to take. But as for the miracle – well, what can I say?
You must have slept through the last two or three days. I suggested this tavern to you myself and there’s nothing remotely miraculous about the fact that you came straight here. I explained the entire route to you, the precise location and the hours at which I may be found here.
Remember?’ ‘I must have forgotten,’ replied Raskolnikov with astonishment. ‘I believe you. I told you twice. The address imprinted itself automatically in your memory. You took this turning automatically as well, unaware that you were heading in exactly the right direction. Even when I was speaking to you about it, I didn’t think you’d understood me. You do give yourself away, Rodion Romanych. And another thing: I’m convinced that Petersburg is full of people who walk around talking to themselves. People who are halfway mad.
If we had any scholars worth the name, then doctors, jurists and philosophers could carry out priceless studies in this city, each according to his specialism. Where else would you find so many dark, drastic, strange influences on the soul of man? Consider the influence of the climate alone! And yet this is the administrative centre of all Russia; the whole country should reflect its character. But that’s not the point now. The point is that I’ve observed you on several occasions. You leave your building, still holding your head up. Twenty or so paces later, you’ve already lowered it and clasp your hands behind your back. You’re looking but no longer seeing, whether ahead of you or to the sides. Eventually, you begin to move your lips and talk to yourself. From time to time you even free one of your arms and declaim something. And in the end you stop for an age in the middle of the street. It’s simply no good, sir.
You might be noticed by someone else as well, and you
wouldn’t want that. In the end, it’s all the same to me, and I can’t cure you, but you must understand me.’ ‘Do you know I’m being followed?’ asked Raskolnikov with a searching look. ‘No, I don’t know anything,’ Svidrigailov replied with apparent surprise. ‘Then let’s leave me out of it,’ mumbled Raskolnikov, frowning. ‘All right then, we’ll leave you out of it.’ ‘Perhaps you should tell me, seeing as you come here to drink and seeing as you yourself have twice suggested I come to see you here, why, when I was looking through the window from the street just now, you hid and wanted to leave? I saw it quite clearly.’ ‘Heh-heh! And why, when I was standing on your threshold, did you lie on your sofa with your eyes closed and pretend you were sleeping, when you weren’t sleeping at all? I saw it quite clearly.’ ‘I might have had . . . reasons . . . as you know yourself.’ ‘And I may have had my reasons, though you’ll never know them.’ Raskolnikov lowered his right elbow onto the table, supported his chin with the fingers of his right hand and fixed his eyes on Svidrigailov. For about a minute he studied his face, which had always fascinated him, even before. It was a strange sort of face, not unlike a mask: white and bright red, with cherry red lips, a light blond beard and, still, a full head of blond hair. His eyes were a little too blue somehow, and their gaze a little too heavy and static. There was something terribly unpleasant about this beautiful and, for its age, exceptionally youthful face.
Svidrigailov was foppishly dressed in light, summery clothes, and sporting especially stylish linen. On one hand he wore an enormous ring with an expensive stone. ‘Do I really have to deal with the likes of you as well?’ said Raskolnikov, coming out into the open in a sudden fit
of impatience. ‘You may be the most dangerous person there is, if you put your mind to it, but I refuse to put myself through any more of this. I’ll show you right now that I value myself less than you must think. I’ve come to tell you frankly that if you still harbour your old intentions towards my sister and if, to that end, you’re planning to exploit any recent revelations, then I’ll kill you before you manage to throw me in jail. I give you my word: you know I’ll honour it. Secondly, if you have something you want to tell me – I’ve had that impression all along – then say it now, because time is precious and very soon, perhaps, it will be too late.’ ‘But why this great hurry – where do you have to go?’ asked Svidrigailov, examining him with some curiosity. ‘We each have our own steps to take,’ said Raskolnikov, with gloomy impatience. ‘Only a minute ago you were urging openness, yet you refuse to answer the first question I ask you,’ Svidrigailov remarked with a smile. ‘You always think I’m plotting something, hence all these suspicious glances. Well, that’s quite understandable in your situation. But however much I want us to become closer, I’m not going to burden myself with the task of trying to persuade you otherwise. The game, by heaven, is not worth the candle, and in any case there was nothing in particular that I was planning to speak to you about.’ ‘So why did you need me so badly? Why were you always running after me?’ ‘Simply to observe you – I found you curious. The fantastical nature of your situation, that’s what I liked about you! On top of that, you’re the brother of a person who interested me greatly, not to mention the fact that this person was always talking about you, from which I concluded that you wield considerable influence over her.
Isn’t that enough? Heh-heh-heh! Although I admit that I find your question extremely complex and it’s hard for me
to give you an answer. I’ll give you an example. You’re not just here on some errand or other, are you? It’s because you’re after something a little bit new. Isn’t that right? Isn’t it?’ Svidrigailov insisted with a roguish grin. ‘So try imagining that I myself, while still on my way to Petersburg, on the train, was counting on you to tell me somethinga little bit new as well and on my managing to borrow something from you! See how rich we are!’ ‘Borrow what from me?’ ‘What can I say? How do I know? You see the sort of hole I spend my days in, and I enjoy it; or rather, I don’t exactly enjoy it but I have to sit somewhere, don’t I? Take poor Katya – I mean, did you see her? . . . If only I were a glutton, say, or a gourmet going from club to club, but I’ll eat anything, even this!’ (He pointed towards the corner, where, on a tin plate on a small table, lay the remains of some revolting dish of steak and potatoes). ‘Have you eaten, by the way? I’ve had a bite and that’s all I want. I never drink wine, for example. Unless it’s champagne, and even then only one glass all evening, which is more than enough to give me a headache. I just ordered some now to perk myself up, because I’ve somewhere to go and you’ve caught me in a very particular mood. That’s why I was hiding like a schoolboy – I thought you’d spoil my plans.
But it would seem’ – he took out his watch – ‘that I have an hour to spend with you; it’s half past four now. Believe me, I’d take anything: the life of a landowner, say, or father or uhlan or photographer or journalist . . . but look, I’ve got nothing, no specialist skills at all! It even gets a bit boring sometimes. I really did think you would have something new to tell me.’ ‘Who are you anyway and why are you here?’ ‘Who am I? You know who I am: a nobleman, did two years in the cavalry, then gadded about here in Petersburg, then married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. My life in a nutshell!’
‘You’re a gambler, aren’t you?’ ‘Nonsense. A card sharp, not a gambler.’
‘So you were a card sharp?’ ‘I was.’ ‘You must have taken a few beatings, I suppose?’ ‘Occasionally. And?’ ‘So a duel was always a possibility . . . how invigorating.’ ‘I won’t disagree with you; in any case, philosophizing is not my strong suit. I’ll admit: I came here more for the women.’ ‘With Marfa Petrovna barely in the grave?’ ‘I suppose,’ smiled Svidrigailov with winning candour. ‘And? You seem to think there’s something wrong with the way I talk about women?’ ‘You mean, do I think there’s anything wrong with depravity?’ ‘Depravity? So that’s what you’re getting at! But I’ll take your questions in turn and start with the women. I’m in the mood for talking. So tell me: why should I hold back? Why give up on women, when it’s about the only thing I enjoy?
At least it gives me something to do.’ ‘So depravity is the only reason you’re here?’ ‘And what if it is? People have a thing about depravity.
But I like a straight question. At least there’s something constant about depravity, something founded on nature and not subject to fantasy, something that’s always afire in the blood, like burning coal, something which may take you a very long time, even with the passing of the years, to put out. Gives people something to do, wouldn’t you say?’ ‘What have you got to be so pleased about? It’s a sickness, and a dangerous one.’ ‘So that’s what you’re driving at! I agree it’s a sickness, like everything that goes too far – and here you simply have to go too far – but actually, everyone’s different, that’s the first point, and secondly, yes of course, you should always know when enough is enough (even if you’re a scoundrel),
but what’s a man to do? If it weren’t for this, you might end up having to shoot yourself. I agree that no decent man can entirely avoid boredom, but still . . .’ ‘And would you be able to shoot yourself?’ ‘Well, really!’ parried Svidrigailov with disgust. ‘Kindly refrain from talking about that,’ he continued hastily and without so much as a hint of his previous swagger. Even his face seemed to change. ‘It’s an unforgivable weakness of mine, I’ll admit, but what can I do? I fear death and I don’t like to hear it discussed. Did you know that I’m a bit of a mystic?’ ‘Ah! The ghosts of Marfa Petrovna! Still visiting, are they?’ ‘Don’t mention them, please. Haven’t seen any yet in Petersburg and to hell with them anyway!’ he cried with an air of irritation. ‘No, I’d rather we talked about . . . although . . . H’m! Shame there’s so little time and I can’t stay with you longer! I could have told you a thing or two.’ ‘A woman, is it?’ ‘Yes, a woman, just a random case . . . but I don’t mean that.’ ‘So the loathsomeness of all this no longer affects you?
You no longer have the strength to stop?’ ‘Laying claim to strength as well, are you? Heh-heh-heh!
This time you’ve really surprised me, Rodion Romanych, although I knew this would happen. And there you are telling me about depravity and aesthetics! You’re a Schiller, an idealist! That’s just as it should be, of course, and it would be a surprise if it were any different, but still, there’s something strange about it all when it actually happens . . .
Ah, what a shame there’s so little time – you’re an exceptionally intriguing individual! Do you like Schiller, by the way? I simply adore him.’ ‘What a show-off you are!’ said Raskolnikov, with a certain disgust.
‘Whatever next?’ replied Svidrigailov, roaring with laughter. ‘Well all right, if you must. But what’s wrong with a bit of showing off if it’s not doing anyone any harm? I’ve lived at Marfa Petrovna’s in the country for seven long years, so when I manage to collar an intelligent man like you – intelligent and highly intriguing – I’m only too glad to have the chance to talk. Besides, I’ve drunk half a glass of this stuff and it’s already slightly gone to my head. But the main thing is a certain circumstance, which has really put the wind in my sails, but about which I will say . . . nothing.
But where are you off to?’ Svidrigailov suddenly asked in alarm.
Raskolnikov was about to get up. He felt oppressed, stifled and somehow embarrassed about having come here.
He’d satisfied himself that Svidrigailov was the shallowest and most contemptible villain in the world. ‘Dear oh dear! You must stay a bit longer,’ Svidrigailov implored him. ‘Order yourself some tea at least. Really, sit down and I’ll stop talking rubbish – about myself I mean.
I’ll tell you a story. Wouldn’t you like me to tell you the story of how I was once “saved” (as you might put it) by a woman? In fact, it’ll be a reply to your first question, because the individual in question is your sister. May I? It’ll
kill the time.’ ‘All right, but I hope you’ll . . .’ ‘Oh, don’t you worry! Not to mention the fact that even a man as abominable and shallow as me can feel only the deepest respect for Avdotya Romanovna.’
