Crime and Punishment (37 page)

‘Let 'im sleep. He'll eat later.'

‘All right,' answered Razumikhin.

They tiptoed out and shut the door. Another half hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes and again fell supine, clutching his head . . .

‘Who is he? Who is this man from out of the ground? Where was he and what did he see? He saw everything, there's no doubt about that. So where was he standing, then, and from where was he watching? Why has he only come out now? And how could he see – how's that possible? . . . H'm . . . ,' continued Raskolnikov, growing cold and shuddering. ‘Or what about the jewellery case that Mikolai found behind the door: how's that possible? Evidence? Miss the hundred-thousandth little mark and there you go: evidence the size of an Egyptian pyramid! A fly flew past – a fly saw! How's it all possible?'

And suddenly, with a sense of loathing, he felt how weak he'd become, how physically weak.

‘I should have known it,' he thought with a bitter grin, ‘and how did I dare – knowing how I am,
sensing
in advance
how I'd be – take an axe and steep myself in blood? I simply must have known beforehand . . . Ha! But I did know beforehand!' he whispered in despair.

Every now and again he paused, rooted to the spot by some thought:

‘No, those people are made differently. A true
master
, to whom
everything is permitted, sacks Toulon, unleashes slaughter in Paris,
forgets
an army in Egypt,
expends
half a million lives marching on Moscow, then laughs it all off with a quip in Vilno;
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and he even has idols erected to him after his death – so
everything
really is permitted. Such people are made not of flesh but of bronze!'
30

A sudden, extraneous thought almost reduced him to laughter:

‘Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo
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 – and a scraggy, horrid pen-pusher's widow, a hag, a moneylender with a red box beneath her bed; it's a bit much even for the likes of Porfiry Petrovich to digest! . . . Not to mention the rest of them! . . . Aesthetics will intervene: would a Napoleon really go crawling under the bed of some “old hag”! Please!'

For minutes at a time he felt almost delirious, succumbing to a mood of feverish exaltation.

‘The hag's neither here nor there!' he thought impetuously. ‘Maybe she's the mistake here – maybe it's not about her at all! She was only the sickness . . . I was in such a hurry to step right over . . . I didn't murder a person, I murdered a principle! Yes, I murdered the principle all right, but I didn't step over; I remained on this side . . . All I managed to do was kill. I didn't even manage that, as it turns out . . . Principle? What was Razumikhin, such a silly boy, berating the socialists for just now? Hardworking folk, trading folk; concerned with “general happiness” . . . No, I'm only given one life and that's my lot: I don't want to sit around waiting for “universal happiness”. I want to live myself or else I'd rather not live at all. Well? I just didn't feel like walking past a hungry mother, gripping a rouble in my pocket and waiting for “universal happiness”. As if to say: “Look at me carrying my little brick for universal happiness
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 – so my heart is at peace.” Ha-ha! Why did you have to leave me out, of all people? I've only got one life, after all, and I also want . . . Oh, I'm an aesthetic louse, that's all there is to it,' he suddenly added with a volley of laughter, like a madman. ‘Yes, I really am a louse,' he went on, clutching at this thought with grim delight, rummaging around in it, toying and amusing himself with it, ‘if for no other reason than because, firstly, here I am talking about it, secondly, because I've been bothering all-gracious Providence this whole month, summoning her as my witness to the fact that I set out on this venture not for my own carnal desires, but with a splendid and pleasing purpose in mind – ha-ha! Thirdly, because I intended to observe in my actions the highest possible degree of justice, to weigh and to measure, to tot it all up; of all the lice in the world I chose the most
utterly useless and, having killed her, intended to take from her the precise amount I needed for the first step, no more and no less (so the rest really would have gone to the monastery, in accordance with her will – ha-ha!) . . . Because, because I'm a louse, pure and simple,' he added, gnashing his teeth, ‘because I myself may be still fouler and more horrid than the louse I killed, and because I
sensed in advance
that this is what I would tell myself
after
the murder! Can any horror compare to it? So vulgar! So vile! . . . Oh, how I understand the “prophet”, with his sword, on horseback. Allah commands, so obey, O “quivering” creature!
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How right the “prophet” is when he lines up a top-notch battery
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across the street and fires a salvo at the righteous and the guilty, without even deigning to explain himself! Submit, quivering creature, and –
do not desire
 . . . for desiring is not your business! . . . Oh, never, never will I forgive the old hag!'

His hair was damp with sweat, his trembling lips caked, his gaze riveted to the ceiling.

‘Mother, sister, how I loved them! So why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them. I physically hate them. I can't bear to have them near me . . . I went up to Mother earlier and kissed her, I remember . . . Embracing her, thinking that if she found out . . . would I really tell her? Wouldn't put it past me . . . H'm!
She
must be just like me,' he added, making an effort to think, as if struggling in the grip of delirium. ‘Oh, how I hate the hag now! I expect I'd murder her all over again if she came to! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she have to turn up? . . . Strange, though – why do I almost never think of her, as if I'd never murdered her? . . . Lizaveta! Sonya! Poor things, meek, meek-eyed . . . So sweet! . . . Why don't they cry? Why don't they groan? . . . Always giving . . . and their meek, quiet gaze . . . Sonya, Sonya! Quiet Sonya!'

Oblivion came over him; it seemed strange to him that he couldn't remember how he'd ended up in the street. It was already late evening. The dusk was gathering, the full moon shone ever more brightly, but somehow it felt even more stifling than usual. People thronged the streets; craftsmen and employees were making their way home; others were out for a walk; it smelled of mortar, dust, stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, sad and preoccupied. He clearly recalled that he'd left home with the intention of doing something and doing it quickly, but what that was he couldn't remember. Suddenly he stopped and caught sight of a man on the opposite side of the street, on the pavement, standing there, waving to him. He crossed the street towards
him, but the man suddenly turned and walked off as if nothing had happened, with his head down and without turning round or giving any sign of having called him over. ‘Well maybe he didn't?' thought Raskolnikov, but set off after him all the same. When he was only ten paces away, he suddenly recognized him – and took fright; it was the tradesman from before, with the same dressing gown and the same hunch. Raskolnikov kept his distance; his heart was pounding; they turned into a lane – and still the man did not look round. ‘Does he know I'm following him?' Raskolnikov wondered. The tradesman entered the gates of a big building. Raskolnikov hurried up to the gates and stared: would he glance back? Would he call him? And, indeed, after walking right through the archway and coming out into the yard, the man suddenly turned round and seemed to wave to him once more. Raskolnikov immediately followed him into the yard, but the tradesman was no longer there. So he must have taken the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. And indeed, someone's measured, unhurried footsteps could still be heard from two flights up. Strange: the staircase was somehow familiar! There was the window on the first floor – moonlight streamed through it, sadly and mysteriously – and here was the second floor. Ha! The very same apartment the workmen had been decorating . . . How had he not recognized the place straight away? The footsteps of the man walking ahead of him died away: ‘So he must have stopped or found somewhere to hide.' Here was the third floor. Should he carry on? Such silence . . . almost frightening . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and disturbed him. God, how dark! The tradesman was surely hiding in some corner or other. Ah! The apartment was wide open to the stairs. He thought for a moment, and went in. The entrance hall was very dark and empty; not a soul, as though everything had been taken out. Softly-softly, on tiptoe, he went through to the living room: the entire space was flooded in bright moonlight. Nothing had changed: the chairs, the mirror, the yellow couch, the little pictures in their frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon stared through the windows. ‘The silence comes from the moon,' thought Raskolnikov, ‘and the moon must be posing a riddle.' He stood and waited for a long while, and the quieter the moon, the louder the pounding of his heart, until it even began to hurt. Silence. Suddenly, a short dry crack, like the snapping of a twig, then everything went dead once more. A fly, waking up, suddenly hit a pane in full flight
and began buzzing plaintively. At that very same moment, in the corner, between the small cupboard and the window, he noticed what seemed to be a lady's velvet coat hanging on the wall. ‘What's that coat doing here?' he wondered. ‘Wasn't here before . . .' He stole up to it and sensed there might be someone hiding behind it. He carefully moved the coat to one side with his hand and saw a chair, and on the chair in the corner was the old hag, all curled up with her head bowed down, making it impossible for him to see her face, but it was her. He stood over her. ‘She's afraid!' he thought, gently freeing the axe from the loop and striking the old woman on the crown, once, twice. How strange: she didn't even twitch from the blows, as if she were made of wood. Frightened, he bent down and looked closer: but she, too, just bent her head down further. So he bent all the way to the floor and looked up from there into her face, looked up and went as numb as a corpse: the old woman was sitting there laughing – yes, she was almost bursting with soft, inaudible laughter, doing all she could to keep him from hearing. Suddenly he had the impression that the bedroom door had opened a fraction and that laughs and whispers were coming from there as well. He was seized with rage: he began hitting the old woman on the head as hard as he could, but with each blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder still, while the hag simply rocked with mirth. He wanted to run, but the entrance hall was already packed with people, the doors on the staircase were wide open, and on the landing and all the way down the stairs there was nothing but people, a row of heads, all watching – but biding their time in silence . . . His heart clenched, and his legs were rooted to the spot . . . He wanted to scream – and woke up.

He drew deep breaths – but how strange! It was as if the dream still continued: the door was wide open, and there was a complete stranger standing on the threshold, studying him closely.

Raskolnikov hadn't fully opened his eyes yet, and instantly closed them again. He lay prone, without stirring. ‘Am I still dreaming?' he wondered, and again raised his eyelids a fraction: the stranger was standing on the same spot, still staring at him. Suddenly he stepped warily over the threshold, closed the door carefully behind him, walked over to the table, waited for a minute or so – his eyes fixed on him throughout – and softly, noiselessly sat down on the chair beside the couch. He placed his hat on its side, on the floor, and leant with both hands on his cane, resting his chin on his hands. Clearly, he was
prepared to wait a very long time. Insofar as could be seen through blinking eyelids, this man was no longer young, solidly built and with a thick, light beard that was all but white . . .

Some ten minutes passed. Though it was still light, evening was closing in. In the room there was complete silence. No sounds even from the stairs. Only the buzzing and knocking of some big fly as it struck the pane in mid-flight. Eventually it became unbearable: Raskolnikov suddenly raised himself and sat up on the couch.

‘Well, go on: what do you want?'

‘Just as I thought: you weren't sleeping, merely pretending,' came the stranger's peculiar reply and easy laugh. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov . . .'

‘Am I really still dreaming?' Raskolnikov wondered once more. Warily and mistrustfully, he examined his unexpected guest.

‘Svidrigailov? Nonsense! Impossible!' he finally said out loud, bewildered.

The guest seemed not in the least surprised by this exclamation.

‘Two reasons bring me here: in the first place, I was keen to meet you in person, having heard a great deal about you, for some time now, from a most intriguing and favourable source; secondly, I cherish the hope that you will not shrink from assisting me in a venture that bears directly on the interests of your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna. Without your approval, she may very well refuse to allow me anywhere near her now, owing to a certain prejudice, but with your assistance I may, on the contrary, reckon . . .'

‘You reckon wrongly,' interrupted Raskolnikov.

‘They arrived only yesterday, did they not, sir?'

Raskolnikov did not reply.

‘I know it was yesterday. I only arrived two days ago myself. Well, sir, here's what I'll say to you on this score, Rodion Romanovich. I see no need to explain myself, but permit me to ask: what is there about all this, really, that is so very criminal on my part, if we leave all prejudices to one side and take a sensible view of things?'

Raskolnikov continued to study him in silence.

‘The fact, sir, that I persecuted a defenceless girl in my own home and “insulted her with my beastly propositions”? (I'm getting ahead of myself!) But suppose for a moment that I, too, am a man,
et nihil humanum
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..., in short, that I, too, am apt to be tempted and to fall in love (such things, of course, are beyond our control), then everything may be explained in the most natural way. The only question is this: am I a monster or myself a victim? What's that? A victim? Well, in proposing that my dear
objet
make off with me to America or to Switzerland, I may have been nurturing the most respectful feelings, and even intending to arrange our reciprocal happiness! . . . Is not reason
the servant of passion? I dare say I came out of it even worse, for pity's sake!'

‘That's hardly the point,' interrupted a disgusted Raskolnikov. ‘You're simply repugnant, whether or not you're right, which is why people don't want to have anything to do with you and send you packing – so get out!'

Svidrigailov suddenly roared with laughter.

‘Well I never . . . You're not easily flummoxed, are you?' he said with the most candid laugh. ‘I had half a mind to trick you, but no, you put your finger on the nub right away!'

‘You're still trying to trick me now.'

‘Well, what of it? What of it?' repeated Svidrigailov, laughing without inhibition. ‘Is this not, as they say,
bonne guerre
?
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Such tricks are entirely permissible! . . . You rather interrupted me, though, and I'll say it again: there would have been no unpleasantness at all, were it not for the incident in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . .'

‘Oh yes, Marfa Petrovna – another of your victims, I'm told,' Raskolnikov rudely interrupted.

‘So you've heard about that as well? Difficult not to, I suppose . . . Regarding your comment – well, I don't know how best to put it, although my personal conscience on this score is entirely untroubled. That is, you really mustn't think I have anything to fear: everything was done by the book and with complete precision. The medical investigation revealed the cause of death to be a stroke brought on by bathing straight after a heavy meal and the consumption of nigh on a bottle of wine, and there was little else it could have revealed . . . No sir, here's what I found myself thinking about for a while, especially en route, in the train: might I have done anything to facilitate this whole . . . misfortune – in a moral sense, through being irritable or something like that? But I concluded that this, too, was positively impossible.'

Raskolnikov laughed.

‘A fine way of worrying!'

‘Why are you laughing? Consider this: I only struck her twice with a little whip; it didn't even leave any marks . . . Now please don't think me a cynic; I know perfectly well how beastly this was of me, etcetera, etcetera; but I also know full well that Marfa Petrovna probably welcomed this “enthusiasm” of mine. The story about your dear sister had been flogged to death. This was already the third day Marfa Petrovna had had to spend at home; she could hardly show up in town empty-handed
and she'd already bored everyone to tears with that letter of hers (you heard about how she went round reading it?). Then, all of a sudden, out of a clear blue sky, these two whippings! Harness the carriage, quick! . . . I won't even mention the fact that there are times when women find it very, very pleasurable to be insulted, for all their apparent indignation. That goes for everyone, actually; humankind in general is terribly fond of being insulted, have you noticed? But it's particularly true of women. One might even say it's their sole amusement.'

At one point Raskolnikov was on the verge of getting up and walking out. But a certain curiosity, even a kind of forethought, held him back for a moment.

‘Are you fond of fighting?' he asked absently.

‘Not particularly, no,' came Svidrigailov's calm reply. ‘In fact, Marfa Petrovna and I hardly ever fought. We lived in great harmony and she was always perfectly satisfied with me. As for the whip, throughout our entire seven years together I used it no more than twice (if we exclude a third, highly ambiguous occasion): the first was two months after our wedding, straight after we'd arrived in the country, and now this very recent incident. And I dare say you thought me a monster, a reactionary, a serf-driver? Heh-heh . . . By the way, do you happen to recall, Rodion Romanovich, how a few years ago, back in the days of beneficent free speech, a certain nobleman – I've forgotten his surname! – was shamed in every town and journal for giving that German lass a good thrashing in a railway carriage? That was the same year, I believe, of “The Scandal of
The Age
”
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(you know, the
Egyptian Nights
, that public reading, remember? Those black eyes! O, where are you, golden days of our youth?). Well, sir, here's what I think: towards the gentleman who gave the German lass a thrashing I feel not one whit of sympathy, because, after all, there's . . . well, no cause for sympathy! But I must also mention that one occasionally comes across “German lasses” who lead one on to such an extent that, it seems to me, there is not a single apostle of progress who could vouch entirely for his own behaviour. Nobody considered the topic from this perspective at the time, yet it is precisely this perspective that is truly humane. Yes indeed, sir!'

Saying this, Svidrigailov suddenly burst out laughing again. Raskolnikov could see that before him was a man who had set his mind on something and who kept his thoughts to himself.

‘It's been several days, I suppose, since you last spoke to anyone?' he asked.

‘More or less. Well, you must be surprised to find me so very accommodating.'

‘No, I'm surprised to find you so excessively accommodating.'

‘Just because I'm not offended by the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But . . . what's there to be offended about? You asked, I answered,' he added with a strikingly ingenuous air. ‘After all, there's nothing much that particularly interests me, if truth be told,' he went on with a pensive air. ‘Nothing that really occupies me, particularly now . . . Still, you're entitled to think I'm currying favour for my own ends, especially as the business in hand relates to your dear sister, as I told you myself. But I'll be frank with you: I'm bored sick! Especially these past three days. In fact, I'm even pleased to see you . . . Now don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich, but you yourself strike me as awfully strange somehow. Really, there's something about you; and precisely now, not right this minute, but now in general . . . All right, all right, I won't – no need to frown! I'm less of a bear than you think.'

Raskolnikov looked at him sullenly.

‘A bear might be the last thing you are,' he said. ‘In fact, you look to me like a man of the best society or, at any rate, that you can behave decently enough if you need to.'

‘Well, I'm not much interested in anyone's opinion,' replied Svidrigailov dryly, even with a hint of arrogance, ‘so why not play the boor every now and again, especially when that costume suits our climate so well and . . . and especially if you are naturally inclined that way yourself,' he added with another laugh.

‘I heard, though, that you know a lot of people here. You are, as they say, well connected. So what do you need me for, if not for some specific purpose?'

‘You're quite right to say that I know people,' Svidrigailov rejoined, leaving the main point unanswered. ‘I've met some already. After all, I've been loafing about for three days. There are people I recognize and people who seem to recognize me. Hardly surprising, I suppose: I'm well turned-out and considered a man of means; even the peasant reforms passed us by:
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all woods and water-meadows, so our income's safe and sound. But . . . I won't go there; I was already sick of it then, so I've been walking around for three days without telling anyone . . . And just look at this city! How did we ever invent such a thing, tell me that? A city of pen-pushers and seminarians of every stripe! Honestly, there's so much that escaped my attention back then, eight or so years
ago, when I was knocking about here . . . Anatomy's my only hope now, honest to God!'

‘What anatomy?'

‘And as for all these clubs of yours, and Dussots and
pointes
5
and, for that matter, progress – well, we'll leave that to others,' he went on, ignoring the question again. ‘Besides, who wants to be a card sharp?'

‘So you were a card sharp too?'

‘But of course! There was a whole group of us, utterly respectable, eight or so years ago. It passed the time, and you should have seen how well-mannered we all were, some of us poets, some – capitalists. Actually it's a general rule, in Russian society, that the best-mannered people are the ones who've taken a few beatings – have you noticed? It's only when I moved to the country that I let myself go. Still, some Greek from Nezhin almost landed me in prison back then for my debts. That's when Marfa Petrovna turned up, haggled a bit and ransomed me for thirty thousand pieces of silver. (I owed seventy thousand in all.) We were lawfully wed and she promptly took me off to her place in the country, like some precious jewel. She's five years older than me, after all. Loved me rotten. Seven years I spent cooped up on her estate. And don't forget that she kept those thirty thousand hanging over me for the rest of her life – she had this document against me, signed by a third party; the slightest hint of rebellion and she'd have sprung the trap! She wouldn't have thought twice! Women see no contradiction in such things.'

‘Would you have bolted, but for the document?'

‘How can I put it? The document scarcely inhibited me. I was in no hurry to go anywhere, and actually it was Marfa Petrovna who, seeing me bored, wanted to take me abroad on a couple of occasions. No thanks! I'd travelled abroad before and I'd always been miserable. It's all right, I suppose, but you look at the sunrise, the Gulf of Naples, the sea, and you can't help feeling sad. And the most disgusting thing is that you really are sad! No, you're better off in the motherland: here, at least, you can always blame everything on someone else. I suppose I might agree to an expedition to the North Pole, because
j'ai le vin mauvais
,
6
and I hate drinking anyway, though wine is all that's left. I've tried. Now tell me: I hear that on Sunday, in the Yusupov Gardens, Berg's
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going up in a huge balloon and inviting people to join him for a fee – is that true?'

‘Why, would you go?'

‘Me? No . . . I just . . . ,' muttered Svidrigailov, who really did seem deep in thought.

‘Is he serious?' wondered Raskolnikov.

‘No, the document didn't inhibit me,' Svidrigailov ruminated, ‘and it was my choice to stay cooped up on the estate. Besides, it's almost a year since Marfa Petrovna returned it to me on my name day and gave me a tidy sum while she was at it. She had money, you know. “See how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich?” – those were her exact words. You don't believe me? Actually, you know, I learned to run the estate pretty well. People know who I am. I started ordering books as well. Marfa Petrovna approved at first, then started worrying that too much studying would do me harm.'

‘You miss Marfa Petrovna a great deal, it seems.'

‘Me? Perhaps. Perhaps I do. By the way, do you believe in ghosts?'

‘What ghosts?'

‘Ordinary ghosts, what else?'

‘You do, I suppose?'

‘I suppose not,
pour vous plaire
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 . . . Or rather . . .'

‘You've been seeing them?'

Svidrigailov gave him a strange look.

‘Marfa Petrovna is fond of paying visits,' he said, twisting his mouth into a peculiar smile.

‘How do you mean “is fond of paying visits”?'

‘Well, she's already come three times. The first time I saw her was on the day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. The day before I left to come here. The second was the day before yesterday, en route, at daybreak, Malaya Vishera Station; and the third was a couple of hours ago, in my lodgings, in the main room. I was alone.'

‘And awake?'

‘Wide awake. All three times. She comes, talks for a minute or so, and leaves through the door; always through the door. There's even a sort of noise.'