 CRIME IN PUNISHMENT, PART VI, CHAPTER II. Ah, these cigarettes! Poor Ferry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having lighted one. They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I can't give them up. I cough. I begin to have tickling in my throat and difficulty in breathing. You know, I am a coward. I went lately to Dr. B. Dashin. He always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He positively laughed looking at me. He sounded me. Tobacco's bad for you, he said. Your lungs are affected. But how am I to give them up? What is there to take its place? I don't drink. That's the mischief. And I don't. Everything is relative, Rajon Romanovitch. Everything is relative. Why, he's playing his professional tricks again, Roskonyukov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him then. I came to see you the day before yesterday in the evening. You didn't know? Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking around the room. I came into this very room. I was passing by just as I did today, and I thought I'd return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open. I looked round, waited and went out without leaving my name with your servant. Don't you lock your door? Roskonyukov's face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his state of mind. I've come to have it out with you, Rajon Romanovitch, my dear fellow. I owe you an explanation and must give it to you. He continued with a slight smile, just patting Roskonyukov's knee. But almost at the same instant a serious and care-worn look came into his face. To his surprise Roskonyukov saw a touch of sadness in it. He had never seen and never suspected such an expression in his face. Strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rajon Romanovitch. Our first interview too was a strange one, but then—and one thing after another—this is the point. I have perhaps acted unfairly to you. I feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged, and your knees were shaking, and so were mine. And you know, our behavior was unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in any case, gentlemen. That must be understood. Do you remember what we came to? And it was quite in-decorous. What is he up to? What does he take me for? Roskonyukov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on Porfiry. I've decided openness is better between us. Porfiry Petrovitch went on, turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim, and as though disdaining his former wiles. Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolai put a stop to it, or I don't know what we might not have come to. That damn workman was sitting at the time in the next room. Can you realize that? You know that, of course. I am aware that he came to you afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true. I had not sent for anyone. I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I didn't? What shall I say to you? It had all come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely sent for the porters. You notice them as you went out, I daresay. An idea flashed upon me. I was firmly convinced at the time, you see, Rajon Romanovitch. Come, I thought, even if I let one thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of something else. I shan't lose what I want anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rajon Romanovitch, by temperament. It's out of proportion with other qualities of your heart and character, which I flatter myself I have to some extent divined. Of course I did reflect even then that it does not always happen that a man gets up and blurts out his whole story. It does happen sometimes. If you make a man lose all patience, though even then it's rare. I was capable of realizing that. If I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not merely psychological. For if a man is guilty you must be able to get something substantial out of him. One may reckon upon most surprising results indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Rajon Romanovitch, on your temperament above all things. I had great hopes of you at that time. But what are you driving at now? Ruskanyakov murdered at last, asking the question without thinking. What is he talking about, he wondered distractedly. Does he really take me to be innocent? What am I driving at? I've come to explain myself. I consider it my duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole misunderstanding arose. I've caused you a great deal of suffering, Rajon Romanovitch. I'm not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who is proud, imperious, and above all impatient to have to bear such treatment. I regard you in any case as a man of noble character, and not without elements of magnanimity, though I don't agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you this first, frankly and quite sincerely. For above all I don't want to deceive you. When I made your acquaintance I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my saying, so you have a right to. I know you disliked me from the first, and indeed you've no reason to like me. You may think what you like, but I desire now to do all I can to a face that impression and to show you that I am a man of heart and conscience. I speak sincerely. Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Ruskanyakov felt the rush of renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent began to make him uneasy. It's scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail, Porfiry Petrovitch went on. Indeed I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with there were rumors. Through whom, how, and when those rumors came to me, and how they affected you I need not go into. My suspicions were aroused by a complete accident, which might just as easily have not happened. What was it? I believe there is no need to go into that either. Those rumors and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I had made it openly, for one may as well make a clean breast of it. I was the first to pitch on you. The old woman's notes on the pledges and the rest of it, that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred. I happened too to hear of the scene at the office from a man who described it capitalally, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rajan Romanovitch, my dear fellow. How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can't make a horse, a hundred suspicions don't make a proof, as the English proverb says, but that's only from the rational point of view. You can't help being partial, for after all a lawyer is only human. I thought too of your article in that journal. Do you remember? On your first visit we talked of it. I jeered you at the time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rajan Romanovitch, you are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, and earnest, and had felt a great deal I recognized long before. I too have felt the same, so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights with a throbbing heart, nexity, and suppressed enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is dangerous. I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that as a literary amateur I am awfully fond of such first essays full of the heat of youth. There's a mistiness and a cord vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there's a transparent sincerity, a youthful incorruptible pride in the daring of despair in it. It's a gloomy article, but that's what's fine in it. I read your article and put it aside, thinking as I did so. That man won't go the common way. Well, I ask you, after that is preliminary, how could I help being carried away by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything. I am not making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there in it? I reflected. There's nothing in it. That is really nothing, and perhaps absolutely nothing. And it's not at all the thing for the prosecutor to let himself be carried away by notions. Here I have Nikolai on my hands with actual evidence against him. You may think what you like of it, but it's evidence. He brings in his psychology, too. One has to consider him, too, for it's a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you? That you may understand and not blame my malicious behavior on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you. Do you suppose I didn't come to search your room at the time? I did. I did. I was here when you were lying ill in bed. Not officially, not in my own person, but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first suspicion, but... I'm sensed, I thought to myself. Now that man will come. Will come of himself quickly, too. If he's guilty, he's sure to come. Another man wouldn't, but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumihin began discussing the subject with you. We arranged that to excite you, so we purposely spread rumors that he might discuss the case with you. And Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zamiatov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think of flirting out in a restaurant. I killed her. It was too daring, too reckless. I thought to myself, if he is guilty, he will be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought at the time. I was expecting you. But you simply bold Zamiatov over and, well, you see it all lies in this, that this damnable psychology can be taken two ways. Well, I kept expecting you, and so it was, you came. My heart was fairly throbbing. Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you remember? I saw it all playing this daylight, but if I hadn't expected you so specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You see what influence a mood has. Mr. Razumihin, then. Ah, that stone, that stone under which the things were hidden. I seem to see it somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zamiatov, and afterwards you repeated that in my office. And when we began picking your article to pieces, how you explained it. One could take every word of yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning hidden. So in this way, Rajyan Romanovich, I reached the furthest limit, and knocking my head against the post I pulled myself up asking myself what I was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another sense, if you like, and it's more natural so indeed. I couldn't help admitting it was more natural. I was bothered. No, I'd better get hold of some little fact, I said. So when I heard of the bell ringing, I held my breath and was all in a tremor. Here is my little fact, thought I. And I didn't think it over, I simply wouldn't. I would have given a thousand rubles at that minute to have seen you with my own eyes. When you had walked a hundred paces beside that workman after he had called you murderer to your face, you did not dare to ask him a question all the way. And then what about your trembling? What about your bell ringing in your illness and semi-dilarium? And so, Rajyan Romanovich, can you wonder that I played such pranks on you? And what made you come at that very minute someone seemed to have sent you by Jove, and if Nikolai had not parted this? And do you remember Nikolai at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt, and how I met him. I didn't believe in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself, and how could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone, and he began making very, very plausible answers on certain points so that I was surprised in myself, even then I didn't believe his story. You see what it is to be as firm as a rock. No, I thought, Morgan Fre. What does Nikolai got to do with it? Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolai guilty, and had yourself assured him of it. His voice failed him and he broke off. He had been listening in indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through and through him went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for something more definite and conclusive. Mr. Razumihin! cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question from Roskanyukov, who had till then been silent. But I had to put Mr. Razumihin off. To his company three is one. Mr. Razumihin is not the right man besides he is an outsider. He came running to me with a pale face, but never mind him, I bring him in. To return to Nikolai, would you like to know what sort of a type he is, how I understand him that is? To begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but something by way of an artist. Really, don't laugh at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to influence. He has a heart and is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances. He tells stories, they say, so that people come from other villages to hear him. He attends school, too, and laughs till he cries if you hold up a finger to him. He will drink himself senseless, not as regular ice, but at times when people treat him like a child. And he stole, too, without knowing it himself, or how can it be stealing if one picks it up? And do you know he is an old believer or rather a dissenter? There have been wanderers in his family, and he was for two years in his village under the spiritual guidance of a certain elder. I learned all this from Nikolai and from his fellow villagers. And what's more, he wanted to run into the wilderness. He was full of fervor, prayed at night, read the old books, the true ones, and ran himself crazy. Petersburg had a great effect on him. Especially the women and the wine. He responds to everything, and he forgot the elder and all that. I learned that an artist here took a fancy to him and used to go and see him. And now this business came upon him. Well, he was frightened. He tried to hang himself. He ran away. How can one get over the idea that people have a Russian needle proceedings? The very word trial frightened some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good. Well, in prison, it seems. He remembered the venerable elder. The Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know, Rajon Romanovich, the force of the word suffering among some of these people? It's not a question of suffering for someone's benefit, but simply one must suffer. If they suffer at the hands of the authorities, so much the better. In my time there was a very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on the stove at night, and he read himself crazy. And so crazy do you know that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a brick and flung it at the governor. Though he had done him no harm. And the way he threw it, too, aimed at a yard on one side on purpose for fear of hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an officer with a weapon. So he took his suffering. So I suspect now that Nikolai wants to take his suffering, or something of the sort. I know it for certain from facts, indeed. Only he doesn't know that I know. What, you don't admit that there are such fantastic people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influencing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But he'll come and tell me all himself. You think I'll hold out? Wait a bit. He'll take his words back. I am waiting from hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that, Nikolai, and am studying him in detail. And what do you think? He answered me very plausibly on some points. He obviously collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is simply at sea, knows nothing, and doesn't even suspect that he doesn't know. No, Rajon Romanovich. Nikolai doesn't come in. This is a fantastic gloomy business, a modern case. An instant of today when the heart of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood renews, when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams. A heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but resolution of a special kind. He resolved to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his leg shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him and murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn't take the money. And what he did manage to snatch up, he hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell. No. He had to go to the empty lodging half delirious to recall the bell ringing. He wanted to feel the cold shiver over again. Well, that we grant was through illness, but consider this. He is a murderer, but looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others, poses his injured innocence. No, that's not the work of a Nikolai. My dear Rajan Romanovich. All that had been said before, it sounded so like a recantation, that these words were too great a shock. Raskanyakov shuddered as though he had been stabbed. Then who then is the murderer? He asked in a breathless voice, unable to restrain himself. Porfiry Petrovich sank back in his chair as though he were amazed at the question. Who is the murderer? He repeated as though unable to believe his ears. Why you, Rajan Romanovich, you are the murderer! He added, almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction. Raskanyakov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds, and sat down again, without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively. Your lip is twitching just as it did before. Porfiry Petrovich observed almost sympathetically. You've been misunderstanding me, I think, Rajan Romanovich. He added after a brief pause. That's why you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with you. It was not I murdered her. Raskanyakov whispered like a frightened child caught in the act. No, it was you. You, Rajan Romanovich, and no one else. Porfiry whispered sternly, with conviction. They were both silent, and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskanyakov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskanyakov looked scornfully at Porfiry. You archer old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich. Your old method again. I wonder you don't get sick of it. Oh, stop that. What is that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether you can visit or not is nothing to me now, for myself. I am convinced without it. If so, what did you come for? Raskanyakov asked irritably. I ask you the same question again. If you consider me guilty, why don't you take me to prison? Oh, that's your question. I will answer your point for point. In the first place, to arrest you so directly is not to my interest. How so? If you are convinced you are... Ah, what if I am convinced? That's only my dream for the time. Why should I put you in safety? You know that's it, since you asked me to do it. If I confront you with that lurkman, for instance, and you say to him, were you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to be drunk, and you were drunk, too. Well, what could I answer, especially as your story is a more likely one than his? But there's nothing but psychology to support his evidence. That's almost unseemly with his ugly mug, while you hit the mark exactly for the rascal is an inveterate drunkard notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly several times already that that psychology can be taken in two ways, and that the second way is stronger and looks far more probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you, and though I shall put you in prison and indeed have come quite contrary to etiquette to inform you of it beforehand, yet I tell you frankly also contrary to etiquette that it won't be to my advantage. Well, secondly, I have come to you because... Yes? Yes, secondly, Raskonyukov was listening breathless. Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation. I don't want you to look upon me as a monster as I have genuine liking for you. You may believe me or not. And in the third place I have come to you with a direct and open proposition that you should surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to my advantage too for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part or not? Raskonyukov thought a minute. Listen, poor Fury Petrovich, you said just now you have nothing but psychology to go on. Yet now you've gone on mathematics. Well, what if you are mistaken yourself now? No, Rodjan Romanovich, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even then. Providence sent it me. What little fact? I won't tell you what, Rodjan Romanovich. And in any case, I haven't the right to put it off any longer. I must arrest you. So think it over. It makes no difference to me now, and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rodjan Romanovich. Raskonyukov smiled malignantly. It's not simply ridiculous. It's positively shameless. Why, even if I were guilty, which I don't admit, what reason should I have to confess when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison? Ah, Rodjan Romanovich, don't put too much faith in words. Perhaps prison will not be altogether a restful place. That's only theory and my theory. And what authority am I for you? Perhaps too even now I am hiding something from you. I can't lay bare everything. And how can you ask what advantage? Don't you know it would lessen your sentence? You would be confessing in a moment when another man has taken the crime on himself and has so muddled the whole case. Consider that. I swear before God that I will still arrange that your confession shall come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these psychological points of a suspicion against you, so that your crime will appear to have been something like an aberration. For truth it was an aberration. I am an honest man, Rodjan Romanovich, and will keep my word. Roskonyakov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again. But his smile was sad and gentle. No, he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances with Porfiry. It's not worth it. I don't care about lessening the sentence. That's just what I was afraid of. Porfiry cried warmly and as it seemed, involuntarily. That's just what I feared that you wouldn't care about the mitigation of sentence. Roskonyakov looked sadly and expressively at him. Ah, don't disdain life, Porfiry went on. You have a great deal of it still before you. How can you say you don't want a mitigation of sentence? You're an impatient fellow. A great deal of what lies before me? Of life. What sort of profit are you? Do you know much about it? Seek an issue find. This may be God's means for bringing you to him. It's not forever, the bondage. The time will be shortened, left Roskonyakov. Why is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that you are afraid of it without knowing it because you are young. But anyway, you shouldn't be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing. Ugh, hang it. Roskonyakov whispered with loathing and contempt, as though he did not want to speak aloud. He got up again, as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in evident despair. Hang it, if you like. You've lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering you, but how long has your life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original. It turned out something base, that's true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base, and you didn't deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at their torture while he cuts their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering too is a good thing. Suffer. Maybe Nikolai is right in wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe in it, but don't be over-wise. Fling yourself straight into life without deliberation, don't be afraid. The flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank, how can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before you. I know that you take all my words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of you some time. That's why I speak. It's as well that you only killed the old woman. If you'd invented another theory, you might have perhaps done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something, but keep a good heart and have less fear. Are you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it'd be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfill the demands of justice. I know you don't believe it, but indeed life will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need now is fresh air. Fresh air. Fresh air. Roskonyukov positively started. But who are you? What profit are you from the height of what majestic calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom? Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that's all. A man perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for you. Though who knows, maybe your life too will pass off and smoke and come to nothing. Calm, what does it matter? That you will pass into another class of men. It's not comfort you regret with your heart. What of it that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It's not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the son and all will see you. The son has before all to be the son. Why are you smiling again? Am I being such a shiller? I bet you're imagining that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Perhaps I am. Perhaps you'd better not believe my word, perhaps you'd better never believe it altogether. I made that way, I confess it, but let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how far I am a base sort of man and how far I am honest. When do you mean to arrest me? Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Take it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It's more in your interest, believe me. And what if I run away? Ask Raskonyukov with a strange smile. No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable buzzer-center would run away. The flunk you have another man's thought, for you've only to show him the end of your little finger and he'll be ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you've ceased to believe in your theory already. What will you run away with? And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you. And what you need more than anything in life is a definite position and atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have if you ran away? You'd come back to yourself. You can't get on without us. And if I put you in prison, believe in there a month or two or three. Remember my word. You'll confess of yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand that you are coming in with a confession. I am convinced that you will decide to take your suffering. You don't believe my words now, but you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rajon Romanovich, is a great thing. Never mind my having grown fat. I know all the same. Don't laugh at it. There's an idea in suffering. Nikolai is right. Now you won't run away, Rajon Romanovich. Roskonyakov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich also rose. Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine if only we don't have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air. He, too, took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich, please don't take up the notion that I have confessed to you today, Roskonyakov pronounced with sullen insistence. You're a strange man, and I have listened to you from simple curiosity. But I have admitted nothing. Remember that. Oh, I know that. I'll remember. Look at him. He's trembling. Don't be uneasy, my dear fellow. Have it your own way. Walk about a bit. You won't be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request to make of you. He added, dropping his voice. It's an awkward one, but important. If anything were to happen, though indeed I don't believe in it, and think you're quite incapable of it, yet in case you were taken during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to the business in some other way, in some fantastic fashion, laying hands on yourself. It's an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for it. Do leave a brief but precise note. Only two lines, and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we meet. Good thoughts and sound decisions to you. Porphyry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskonyukov. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he calculated that Porphyry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room. End of Part 6, Chapter 2 He hurried to Svirigailovsk. What he had to hope from that man he did not know, but that man had some hidden power over him. Having once recognized this, he could not rest, and now the time had come. On the way, one question particularly worried him. Had Svirigailov been to Porphyry's? As far as he could judge, he would swear to it that he had not. He pondered again and again, went over Porphyry's visit. No, he hadn't been. Of course he hadn't. But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present, he fancied he couldn't. Why? He could not have explained, but if he could, he would not have wasted much thought over it at the moment. It all worried him, and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to say, none would have believed it perhaps, but he only felt a faint vague anxiety about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety tormented him. It concerned himself, but in a different, more vital way. Moreover, he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was working better that morning than it had done up late. And was it worthwhile, after all that had happened, to contend with these new trivial difficulties? Was it worthwhile, for instance, to maneuver that Svidery Gailov should not go to Porphyry's? Was it worthwhile to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over anyone like Svidery Gailov? Oh, how sick he was of it all! And yet he was hastening to Svidery Gailov. Could he be expecting something new from him, information, or means of escape? Man will catch at straws. Was it destiny, or some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair. Perhaps it was not Svidery Gailov, but some other whom he needed, and Svidery Gailov had simply presented himself by chance. Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as an irrevocable sentence. He must go his own way, or hers. At that moment especially, he did not feel equal to seeing her. No, would it not be better to try Svidery Gailov? And he could not help inwardly owing that he had long felt that he must see him, for some reason. But what could they have in common? Their very evil doing could not be of the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant, evidently depraved, undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such stories were told about him. It is true, he was befriending Katerina Ivanova's children. But who could tell with what's motive, and what it meant? The man always had some design, some project. There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late about Raskolnikov's mind, and causing him great uneasiness. It was so painful that he made distinct effort to get rid of it. He sometimes thought that Svidery Gailov was talking his footsteps. Svidery Gailov had found out his secret, and had had designs on Dunia. What if he had them still? Wasn't it practically certain that he had? And what if, having learned his secret, and so having gained power over him, he were to use it as a weapon against Dunia? This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never presented itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidery Gailov. The very thought moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would transform everything, even his own position. He would have at once to confess his secret to Dunia. Would he have to give himself up, perhaps, to prevent Dunia from taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dunia had received a letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Lutin, perhaps? It's true Ratsumehin was there to protect her, but Ratsumehin knew nothing of the position. Perhaps it was his duty to tell Ratsumehin. He thought of it with repugnance. In any case, he must seize Videry Gailov as soon as possible. He decided finally. Thank God the details of the interview were of little consequence. If only he could get at the root of the matter. But if Svidery Gailov were capable, if he were intriguing against Dunia, then... Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that month that he could only decide such questions in one way. Then I shall kill him. He thought in cold despair. A sudden anguish oppressed his heart. He stood still in the middle of the street and began looking about to see where he was and which way he was going. He found himself in ex-prospect, thirty or forty paces from the hay market, through which he had come. The whole second story of the house on the left was used as a tavern. All the windows were wide open, judging from the figures moving at the windows. The rooms were full to overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarinets and violin, and a boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear women shrieking. He was about to turn back, wondering why he had come to the ex-prospect, when suddenly, at one of the end windows, he saw Svidery Gailov sitting at a tea table, right in the open window, with a pipe in his mouth. Rashkolnikov was dreadfully taken aback, almost terrified. Svidery Gailov was silently watching and scrutinizing him, and what struck Rashkolnikov at once seemed to be meaning to get up and slip away unobserved. Rashkolnikov at once pretended not to have seen him, but to be looking absentmindedly away, while he watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently, yet it was evident that Svidery Gailov did not want to be seen. He took the pipe out of his mouth and was on the point of concealing himself, but as he got up and moved back his chair, he seemed to have become suddenly aware that Rashkolnikov had seen him and was watching him. What had passed between them was much the same as what happened at their first meeting in Rashkolnikov's room. A sly smile came into Svidery Gailov's face and grew broader and broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other. At last Svidery Gailov broke into a loud laugh. Well, well, come in if you want me. I am here. He shouted from the window. Rashkolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svidery Gailov in a tiny back room, adjoining the saloon in which the merchants, clerks, and numbers of people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the desperate bowling of the chorus of seniors. The click of billet balls could be heard in the distance. On the table before Svidery Gailov stood an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne. In the room he found also a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking red-cheeked girl of 18, wearing a tucked-up striped shirt and a Tarelli's hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some servant's whole song in a rather husky control, too, to the accompaniment of the organ. Come, that's enough. Svidery Gailov stopped her at Rashkolnikov's entrance. The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully. She had sung her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in her face. Hey, Philip, a glass, shouted Svidery Gailov. I won't drink anything, said Rashkolnikov. As you like, I didn't mean it for you. Drink, Katya. I don't want anything more today. You can go. He poured her out a full glass and laid down a yellow note. Katya drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down, in twenty drops, took the note and kissed Svidery Gailov's hand, which he allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and a boy trialed after her with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street. Svidery Gailov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything about him was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing. The waiter, Philip, was by now an old friend and very obsequious. The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidery Gailov was at home in this room, and perhaps spent whole days in it. The tavern was dirty and wretched, not even second rate. I was going to see you and looking for you, Rashkolnikov began. But I don't know what made me turn from the hay market into the ex-prospect just now. I never take this turning. I turn to the right from the hay market, and this isn't the way to you. I simply turned, and here you are. It's strange. Why don't you say at once it's a miracle? Because it may be only chance. Oh, that's the way with all you folk, laughed Svidery Gailov. You won't admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it's a miracle. Here you say that it may be only chance, and what cowards they all are here, about having an opinion of their own. You can't fancy. Rodion Romanovich, I don't mean you. You have an opinion of your own, and are not afraid to have it. That's how it was. You attracted my curiosity. Nothing else? Well, that's enough, you know. Svidery Gailov was obviously accelerated. But only slightly so. He had not had more than half a glass of wine. I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having what you call an opinion of my own. Observed Rashkornikov. Oh, well, it was a different matter. Everyone has his own plans, and a purport of the miracle. Let me tell you that I think you have been asleep for the last two or three days. I told you of this tavern myself. There is no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told you where it was, and the hours you could find me here. Do you remember? I don't remember. And said Rashkornikov with surprise. I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically, and yet precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware of it. When I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovich. And another thing. I'm convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves as they walk. This is a town of crazy people. If only we had scientific men. Doctors, lawyers, and philosophers might make most valuable investigation in Petersburg, each in his own line. There are few places where there are so many gloomy, strong and queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere influences of climate mean so much, and it's the administrative center of all Russia, and its character must be reflected on the whole country. But that is neither here nor there now. The point is that I have several times watched you. You walk out of your house, holding your head high, twenty paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind your back. You look and evidently see nothing before nor beside you. At last, you begin moving your lips and talking to yourself. And sometimes you weigh one hand and the claim, and at last stand still in the middle of the road. That is not all the thing. Someone may be watching you besides me, and it won't do you any good. It's nothing really to do with me, and I can't cure you. But of course, you understand me. Do you know that I am being followed? asked Raskolnikov, looking inquisitively at him. No, I know nothing about it, said Friedrich Galov, seeming surprised. Well then, let us leave me alone. Raskolnikov muttered, frowning. Very good. Let us leave you alone. You had better tell me, if you come here to drink and directed me twice to come here to you. Why did you hide, and try to get away just now when I looked at a window from the street? I saw it. Hehe. And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and pretended to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in your doorway? I saw it. I may have had. Reasons? You know that yourself. And I may have had my reasons, though you don't know them. Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Zvere Galov. For a full minute he scrutinized his face, which hadn't pressed him before. It was a strange face, like a mask, white and red, with bright red lips, with a flaxen beard, and still sick flaxen hair. His eyes were somehow too blue, and their expressions somehow too heavy and fixed. There was something awfully unpleasant in that handsome face, which looked so wonderfully young for his age. Zvere Galov was smartly dressed in light summer clothes, and was particularly dainty in his linen. He wore a huge ring with a precious stone in it. Have I got to bother myself about you, too, now? Zvere Raskolnikov suddenly, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. Even though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to injure me, I don't want to put myself out any more. I will show you at once that I don't prize myself as you probably think I do. I've come to tell you at once that if you keep to your former intentions with regard to my sister, and if you think to derive any benefit in that direction from what has been discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked up. You can reckon on my own word. You know that I can keep it. And in the second place, if you want to tell me anything, for I keep fencing all this time that you have something to tell me, make haste and tell it, for time is precious, and very likely it will soon be too late. Why in such haste? asked Zvere Rigalov, looking at him curiously. Everyone has his plans. Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently. You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first question you refused to answer. Zvere Rigalov observed with a smile. You keep fancying that I have aims of my own, and so you look at me with suspicion. Of course, it's perfectly natural in your position. But though I should like to be friends with you, I shouldn't trouble myself to convince you of the contrary. The game isn't worth the candle, and I wasn't intending to talk to you about anything special. What did you want me for, then? It was you who came hanging about me. Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation, I liked the fantastic nature of your position. That's what it was. Besides, you are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that person I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I gathered that you had a great influence over her. Isn't that enough? I still must admit that your question is rather complex, and it's difficult for me to answer. Here you, for instance, have come to me not only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing something new. Isn't that so? Isn't that so? Persist its ridicule with a sly smile. Well, can't you fancy, then, that I, too, on my way here in the train was reckoning on you, and you're telling me something new, and on my making some profit out of you? You see what rich men we are. What profit could you make? How can I tell you? How do I know? You see, in what that tavern I spend all my time, and it's my enjoyment, that's to say, it's no great enjoyment. But one must sit somewhere. That poor Katya now, you saw her, if only I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand. But you see I can eat this. He pointed to a little table in the corner, where the remnants of a terrible-looking beef steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish. Have you dined, by the way? I've had something, and one nothing more. I don't drink, for instance, at all, except for champagne. I never touch anything, and not more than a glass of that all the evening, and even that is enough to make my headache. I ordered it just now to wind myself up, for I am just going off somewhere, and you see me in a peculiar state of mind. That was why I hit myself just now like a schoolboy, for I was afraid you would hinder me. But I believe. He pulled out his watch. I can spend an hour with you. It's half past four now. If only I'd been something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist. I'm nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively bored. I really thought you would tell me something new. But what are you, and why have you come here? What am I? You know a gentleman. I served for two years in the cavalry. Then I knocked about here in Petersburg. Then I married Marfa Petrovna, and lived in the country. There you have my biography. You are a gambler, I believe? No, a poor sort of gambler. A cardsharper. Not a gambler. You have been a cardsharper, then? Yes, I've been a cardsharper, too. Didn't you get trashed sometimes? It did happen. Why? Why, you might have challenged them. Altogether, it must have been lively. I won't contradict you. And besides, I have no hand at philosophy. I confess that I hastened here for the sake of the women. As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna? Quite so. Spried regal of smile with engaging candor. What of it? You seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about women. You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice? Vice? Oh, that's what you are after. But I'll answer you in order. First, about women in general. You know I am fond of talking. Tell me, what should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up women, since I have a passion for them? It's an occupation, anyway. So, you hope for nothing here but vice? Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on it being vice. But anyway, I like a direct question. In this vice, at least there is something permanent, founded indeed upon nature, and not dependent on fantasy. Something present in the blood, like an ever-burning ember, for ever setting one on fire, and maybe not to be quickly extinguished even with years. You'll agree, it's an occupation of a sort. That's nothing to rejoice at. It's a disease, and a dangerous one. Oh, that's what you think, is it? I agree. It is a disease, like everything that it sees moderation. And, of course, in this one must succeed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in one way or another. And in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate and prudent. However mean it may be. But what am I to do? If I hadn't this, I might have to shoot myself. I am ready to admit that a decent man ought to put up what's being bored. But yet, and could you shoot yourself? Oh, come. This red regal of Perid would disgust. Please don't speak of it. He added hurriedly, and with none of the bragging tone he had shown in all the previous conversation. His face was quite changed. I admit it's an unpardonable wickedness, but I can't help it. I am afraid of death, and I dislike it's being talked of. Do you know that I am, to a certain extent, a mystic? Ah, the apparitions of Martha Petrovna. Do they still go on visiting you? Oh, don't talk of them. There have been no more when Petersburg confound them. He cried with an air of irritation. Let's rather talk of that, though. Hmm. I have not much time, and can't stay long with you. It's a pity. I should have found plenty to tell you. What's your engagement? A woman? Yes, a woman. A casual incident. No, that's not what I want to talk of. And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn't that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself? And do you pretend to strength, too? You surprise me just now, Rodion Romanovich, though I knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to me about vice and aesthetics. You, a Shilla. You, an idealist. Of course, that's all as it should be. And it would be surprising if it were not so. Yet it is strange in reality. Ah, what a pity I have no time, for you're a most interesting type. And, by the way, are you fond of Shilla? I am awfully fond of him. But what a braggart you are, Raskolnikov said with some disgust. Upon my word I am not, answered Shridhiralov, laughing. However, I won't dispute it. Let me be a braggart. Why not brag, if it hurts no one? I spent seven years in the country with Martha Petrovna. So now when I come across an intelligent person like you, intelligent and highly interesting, I am simply glad to talk. And besides, I've drunk that half-gas of champagne, and it's gone to my head a little. And besides, there's a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously. But about that, I will keep quiet. Where are you off to? he asked in alarm. Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled. And as it were, he let ease at having come here. He felt convinced that Shridhiralov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth. Ah, sit down, stay a little. Shridhiralov begged. Let them bring you some tea, anyway. Stay a little. I won't talk nonsense about myself, I mean. I'll tell you something. If you like, I'll tell you how a woman tried to save me, as you would call it. It would be an answer to your first question, indeed, for the woman was your sister. May I tell you? It will help to spend the time. Tell me. But I trust that you—oh, don't be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me, Avdotsia Romanova, can only excite the deepest respect. You know, perhaps, yes, I told you myself, Petyansov Dragailov, that I was in a debtor's prison here, for an immense sum, and had not any expectation of being able to pay it. There is no need to go into particulars how Marfa Petrovna bought me out. Do you know, to what a point of insanity a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest woman, and very sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you believe that this honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysteric and reproaches, condescended to enter into a kind of contract with me, which she kept throughout our married life. She was considerably older than I, and besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There was so much Swedishness in my soul and honesty, too, of a sort, as to tell her straight out that I couldn't be absolutely faithful to her. This confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her, if I warned her like this beforehand, and for a jealous woman, you know, that's the first consideration. After many tears, an unwritten contract was drawn up between us. First, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband. Secondly, that I would never absent myself without her permission. Thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent mistress. Fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a free hand with the maid servants, but only with her secret knowledge. Fifthly, God forbid my fallen in love with a woman of our class. Sixthly, in case I, which God forbid, should be visited by a great serious passion, I was bound to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible woman, and so she could not help looking upon me as a desolate profligate incapable of real love. But a sensible woman and a jealous woman are two very different things, and that's where the trouble came in. But to judge some people impartially, we must renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to the ordinary people about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment rather than in anyone else's. Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She certainly had some very ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I feel rather sorry for the innumerable wows of which I was the cause. Well, and that's enough, I think, by way of a decorous or Asian fernabre for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarreled, I usually held my tongue and did not irritate her, and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed to attain its subject. It influenced her, it pleased her indeed. There were times when she was positively proud of me. But your sister she couldn't put up with anyway. And however she came to risk taking such a beautiful creature into her house as a governess. My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impressionable woman, and simply fell in love herself, literally fell in love with your sister. Well, little wonder, look at Avdotya Romanovna. I saw the danger at the first glance, and what do you think? I resolved not to look at her even. But Avdotya Romanovna herself made the first step. Would you believe it? Would you believe it, too, that Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me at first, for my persistent silence about your sister, for my careless reception of her continual adoring praises for Avdotya Romanovna? I don't know what it was she wanted. Well, of course Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of telling literally everyone, all our family secrets, and continually complaining of me. How could she fail to confine in such a delightful new friend? I expect they talked of nothing else but me, and no doubt Avdotya Romanovna heard all those dark mysterious rumors that were current about me. I don't mind betting that you, too, have heard something of this sort already. I have. Lucian charged you with this, having caused the death of a child. Is that true? Don't refer to those vulgar tales, I bet, said Svetriy Galov with disgust and annoyance. If you insist on wanting to know all about this idea, see, I will tell you one day, but now I was told, too, about some footman of yours in the country whom you treated badly. I beg you to drop the subject, Svetriy Galov interrupted again with obvious impatience. Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe? You told me about it yourself, Raskolnikov felt more and more irritated. Svetriy Galov looked at him attentively, and Raskolnikov fancied he caught a flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svetriy Galov restrained himself and answered very civilly. Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Up on my soul. I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some people. Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotya Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any case it worked in my interest. With all Avdotya Romanovna's natural aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect, she did at last feel pity for me. Pity for a lost soul. And if once a girl's heart is moved to pity, it's more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want to save him, to bring him to his senses, and lift him up, and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness. Well, we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw it once that the bird was plying into the cage of herself. And I, too, made ready. I think you're frowning, Radion Romanovich. There is no need. As you know, it all ended in smoke. Hang it all. What a lot I am drinking. Do you know I always, from the very beginning, regretted that it wasn't your sister's fate to be born in the second or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigned prince or some governor or proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who would endure a martyrdom and would have smiled when they branded her bosom with hot pincers. And she would have gone to it of herself. And in the fourth or fifth century, she would have walked away into the Egyptian desert and would have stayed there 30 years, living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face some torture for someone, and if she can't get her torture, she will throw herself out of the window. I have heard something of a Mr. Razumihin. He is said to be a sensible fellow. His son him suggested indeed. He is probably a divinity student. Well, he'd better look after your sister. I believe I understand her, and I am proud of it. But at the beginning of an acquaintance, as you know, one is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One doesn't see clearly. Hang it all. Why is she so handsome? It's not my fault. In fact, it began on my side with the most irresistible physical desire. Avdoti Ramanna is awfully chaste. Incredibly and phenomenally so. Take note, I tell you this about your sister as a fact. She is almost morbidly chaste, in spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in her way. They happened to be a girl in the house, then, Parasha, a black-eyed wench whom I had never seen before. She had just come from another village. Very pretty, but incredibly stupid. She burst into tears, wailed, so she could be heard all over the place, and caused candle. One day after dinner Avdoti Ramanna followed me into the avenue in the garden, and with flashing eyes insisted on my living poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves. I, of course, was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact, played my part not badly. Then came interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplications, even tears. Would you believe it? Even tears! Think what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to. I, of course, threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting for light, and finally resorted to the most powerful weapon in the subjection of the female heart, a weapon which never fails one. It's the well-known resource. Flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth, and nothing easier than flattery. If there is a hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all to the last note is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still a satisfaction. And, however coarse the flattery, at least half will be sure to seem true. That's so for all stages of development and classes of society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can never remember without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her husband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little trouble. And the lady really had principles of her own anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting the pressure of the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach myself for having snatched it by force and would declare that she had resisted, so that I could never have gained anything but for my being so unprincipled. I maintained that she was so innocent that she could not foresee my flattery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she was innocent, chased and faithful to all her duties and obligations, and had succumbed quite by incidents. And how angry she was with me when I explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on the side of flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her property settled on me during her lifetime. I am drinking an awful lot of wine now, and talking too much. I hope you wouldn't be angry if I mention now that I was beginning to produce the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient, and spoiled it all. Avdotya Romanovna had several times, and one time in particular, been greatly displeased by the expression of my eyes. Would you believe it? There was sometimes a light in them which frightened her, and grew stronger and stronger, and more unguarded till it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in the coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me. Parasha came onto the scene again, and not she alone. In fact, there was a tremendous to-do. Ah, Hrdeon Romanovich, if you could only see how your sister's eyes can flush sometimes. Never mind my being drunk at this moment and having had a whole glass of wine, I am speaking the truth. I assure you that this glance has haunted my dreams. The very rustle of her dress was more than I could stand at last. I really began to think that I might become epileptic. I could never have believed that I could be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential indeed to be reconciled, but by then it was impossible. And imagine what I did then, toward a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought by frenzy. Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Hrdeon Romanovich. I reflected that Avdutya Romanovna was after all a beggar. Ah, excuse me, that's not the word. But does it matter if it expresses the meaning that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and you to keep? Ah, hang it, you're frowning again. And I resolved to offer her all my money, thirty thousand rubles I could have realized then, if she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of course, I should have vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about her at that time that if she had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat and to marry herself, it would have been done at once. But it ended in the catastrophe of which you know already. You can fancy how frantic I was when I heard that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that scoundrely attorney, Luzhan, and had almost made a match between them, which would really have been just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? I noticed that you have begun to be very attentive. You interesting young man. Svidrigalov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed. Raskolnikov so clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him. And he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He was very suspicious of Svidrigalov. Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have come to Petersburg with designs on my sister. He said directly to Svidrigalov in order to irritate him further. Oh, nonsense, said Svidrigalov, seeming to rouse himself. Why, I told you, besides your sister, can't endure me. Yes, I am certain that she can't. But that's not the point. Are you so sure that she can't? Svidrigalov screwed up his eyes and smiled mockingly. You're right. She doesn't love me. But you can never be sure of what has passed between husband and wife, or lover and mistress. There is always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is only known to those two. Will you answer for it that Avdotya Romanovna regarded me with a version? From some words you've dropped, I notice that you still have designs, and, of course, evil ones, on dunia, and mean to carry them out promptly. What, have I dropped words like that? Svidrigalov asked innaiv dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet bestowed on his designs. Why? You're dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What are you so afraid of now? Me? Afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather be afraid of me, Charmy. But what nonsense. I've drunk too much, though. I see that. I was almost saying too much again. Dumb the wine. Hi there, waiter. He snatched up the champagne bottle and flying it without ceremony out of the window. Philip brought the water. That's all nonsense, said Svidrigalov, wetting a towel and putting it to his head. But I can answer you in one word and annihilate all your suspicions. Do you know that I'm going to get married? You told me so before. Did I? I've forgotten. But I couldn't have told you so for certain, for I hadn't even seen my betrothed. I only meant to. But now I really have a betrothed, and it's a settled thing. And if it weren't that I have business that can be put off, I would have taken you to see them at once, for I should like to ask you advice. Hand it. Only ten minutes left. See, look at the watch. But I must tell you, for it's an interesting story, my marriage, in its own way. Where are you off to? Going again? No, I'm not going away now. Not at all? We shall see. I will take you there. I'll show you my betrothed, only not now. For you'll soon have to be off. You have to go to the right and I to the left. Do you know that, Madame Rislitch, the woman I am lodging with now, I know what you're thinking, that she's the woman whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come, are you listening? She arranged it all for me. Your board, she said, you want something to fill up your time. For you know, I am a gloomy, depressed person. Do you think I am light-hearted? No, I am gloomy. I do no harm, but sit in a corner without speaking a word for three days at a time. And that, Rislitch, is a sly hussy, I tell you. I know what she has got in her mind. She thinks I shall get sick of it, abandon my wife and depart. And she'll get cold of her and make a profit out of her, in her class, of course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken-down retired official who had been sitting in a chair for the last three years with his legs paralyzed. The mama, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a son serving in the provinces, but he doesn't help. There is a daughter who is married, but she doesn't visit them. And they have two little nephews on their hands, as though their own children were not enough. And they've taken from school their youngest daughter, a girl who'll be sixteen in another month, so that she can be married. She was for me. We went there. How fun it was! I present myself a landowner, a widow, a well-known name, with connections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty and she is not sixteen? Who thinks of that? But it's fascinating, isn't it? It is fascinating, ha-ha. You should have seen how I talked to the papa and mama. It was worse pain to have seen me at that moment. She comes in. Kurt says you can fancy stealing a short frock and an open bud. Flushing like a sunset, she had been told no doubt. I don't know how you feel about female faces, but to my mind, these sixteen years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears of bashfulness are better than beauty. And she is a perfect little picture, too. Fair-haired little curls, like a lamps, full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charmer. Well, we made friends. I told them I was in a hurry owing to domestic circumstances, and the next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were betrothed. When I go now, I take her in my knee at once and keep her there. Well, she flushes like a sunset, and I kiss her every minute. Her mama, of course, impresses on her that this is her husband and that this must be so. It's simply delicious. The present betrothed condition is perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called Lanature Elevated Ha Ha. I have talked to her twice. She is far from a fool. Sometimes she steals a look at me that positively scorches me. Her face is like Raphael's Madonna. You know, the sixteen Madonna's face has something fantastic in it. The face of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven't you noticed it? Well, she is something in that line. The day after we've been betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of fifteen hundred rubles, a set of diamonds, and another of pearls, and a silver dressing case as much as this, with all sorts of things in it, so that even my Madonna's face glowed. I sat her on my knee yesterday, and I suppose rather to unceremoniously. She flushed crimson, and the tears started, but she didn't want to show it. When we were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on my neck, for the first time of her own accord. Put her little arms around me, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, would make me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in return is my respect, that she wants nothing, nothing more from me, no presents. You'll admit that to hear such a confession alone, from an angel of sixteen in a muslin frog with little curls, with a flush of maiden shyness in her cheeks, and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes, is rather fascinating. Isn't it fascinating? It's worth paying for, isn't it? Well, listen, we'll go to see my betrothed, only not just now. The fact is this monstrous difference in age and development excites your sensuality. Will you really make such a marriage? Why, of course. Everyone thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily, who knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha. But why are you so keen about virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful man, ha-ha-ha. But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna, though, though you had your own reasons, I understand it all now. I am always fond of children, very fond of them, loves with regalov. I can tell you one curious instance of it. The first day I came here, I visited various haunts. After seven years I seemingly rushed at them. You probably noticed that I am not in a hurry to renew acquaintance with my old friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought of these places where anyone who knows his way about can find a great deal. Yes, upon my soul. The peasants have vodka. The educated young people shed out from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and visions, and are crippled by theories. Jews have sprung up and are amassing money, and all the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From the first hour the town raked off its familiar outdoors. I chanced to be in a frightful den. I liked my den's dirty. It was a den, so called, and there was a can-can, such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you have progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely dressed, dancing with a specialist in that line, with another one, Vizavi. Her mother was sitting on a chair by the wall. You can't fancy what a can-can that was. The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and began to cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and performing before her. Everyone laughed, and I like your public, even the can-can public. They laughed and shouted, serve her right, serve her right, shouldn't bring children. Well, it's not my business whether that consoling reflection was logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat down by the mother, and began by saying that I, too, was a stranger, and that people here were ill-bred, and that they couldn't distinguish decent folks and treat them with respect, gave her to understand that I had plenty of money offered to take them home in my carriage. I took them home and got to know them. They were lodging in a miserable little hall, and had only just arrived from the country. She told me that she and her daughter could only regard my acquaintance as an owner. I found out that they had nothing of their own, and had come to town upon some legal business. I proffered my services and money. I learned that they had gone to the dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class. I offered to assist in the young girl's education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted with enthusiasm as an owner, and we are still friendly. If you like, we'll go and see them, only not just now. Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved, vile, sensual men. Shiller! You are a regular shiller, all a virtue, vettel, senish. But, you know, I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure of hearing your outcries. I dare say, I can see I am ridiculous myself, muttered Raskolnikov angry. Svirigailov laughed heartedly. Finally, he called Philip, paid his bill, and began dating up. I say, but I'm drunk. Assekoze, he said, it's been a pleasure. I should rather think it must be a pleasure, cried Raskolnikov dating up. No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn out profligate to describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his mind, especially under such circumstances, and to such a man as me. It's stimulating. Well, if you come to that, Svirigailov answered, scrutinizing Raskolnikov with some surprise. If you come to that, you are a through cynic yourself. You have planted to make you so, anyway. You can understand a great deal, and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely regret not having had a more talked with you, but I shan't lose side of you. Only wait a bit. Svirigailov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after him. Svirigailov was not, however, very drunk. The wine had affected him for a moment, but he was passing off every minute. He was preoccupied with something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes, and he was rudder and more sneering every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became very suspicious of Svirigailov and resolved to follow him. They came out onto the pavement. You go to the right and I to the left, or, if you like, the other way. Only I do, Mont Blésir, may we meet again. And he walked to the right towards the Haye market.