Crime and Punishment (88 page)

It turned out later that on this same evening, at about midnight, he had made yet another highly eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain had still not stopped. At twenty minutes to twelve, wet all over, he had gone on foot to the cramped little apartment that belonged to the parents of his fiancée and was situated on Vasily Island, in the Third Line, on Maly Prospect. He had to do a great deal of knocking before they opened up, and was initially the cause of a major commotion; but Arkady Ivanovich could, when he wanted to, be a man of the most charming manners, with the result that the original (though, it must be confessed, thoroughly astute) supposition of the fiancée's parents, that Arkady Ivanovich must somewhere on his route have drunk himself into a condition of such intoxication that he no longer knew what he was doing, was instantly confounded. The enfeebled progenitor was wheeled through in his armchair to see Arkady Ivanovich by the fiancée's wise and soft-hearted mother, who, following her custom, immediately began to ask all sorts of round-about questions. (This woman never asked her questions in a straightforward manner, but would invariably start the ball rolling first with smiles and the rubbing of hands, and then, if it was really quite essential to ascertain something in definite, unambiguous terms – for example: when was Arkady Ivanovich going to fix a date for the wedding? – would begin with the most inquisitive and almost avid questions about Paris and the court life there and only then arrive, in accordance with procedure, at the Third Line of Vasily Island.) At any other time all this would, of course, have aroused great respect, but on the present occasion Arkady Ivanovich
appeared for some reason to be exceptionally impatient, curtly demanding to see his fiancée, even though he had already been informed at the very outset that his fiancée had gone to bed. It need hardly be said that the fiancée made her appearance; Arkady Ivanovich told her straight out that because of something extremely important that had come up, he was compelled to travel away from St Petersburg for a time, and had therefore brought her fifteen thousand silver roubles in bonds and credit notes of various kinds, asking her to accept them from him as a present, and saying that he had long intended to give her this trifle before the wedding. These explanations in no way manifested any particular logical connection between his imminent departure and the gift or the urgent necessity of his coming to present it to them at midnight in the pouring rain, but even so, the whole thing went off quite smoothly. Even the indispensable sighs and exclamations, the questions and expressions of surprise, suddenly became unusually muted and restrained; on the other hand, however, gratitude of the most ardent kind was displayed and was also lent force by the tears of that wisest of mothers. Arkady Ivanovich got up, laughed, kissed his fiancée, patted her on the cheek, assured her he would be back soon and, noticing in her eyes not only a certain childish curiosity but also a very earnest, unspoken question, thought for a moment, gave her another kiss and as he did so experienced a pang of sincere regret within his soul that the gift would immediately be placed under lock and key for safekeeping by that wisest of mothers. He went out, leaving them all in a thoroughly excited condition. But the soft-hearted mama instantly, in a semi-whispered patter, solved some of the more taxing riddles by declaring that Arkady Ivanovich was an important man, a man of business and connections, a wealthy man – heaven only knew what was on his mind, he had decided something and set off, his decision had led him to part with all that money, and consequently there was no cause for wonder. It was, of course, strange his being so wet, but if one considered the English, for example, they were even more eccentric, and in any case none of these society people paid any attention to what was said about them. It was even possible that he went around like that
on purpose in order to show that he was not afraid of anyone. The main thing was, however, that they should not tell anyone about all this, because heaven only knew what might happen then, and the money must be immediately placed under lock and key; and, of course, the best thing about it all was that Fedosya had been sitting in the kitchen, and not on any, any, any account must they breathe a word of it to that old vixen Resslich, and so on, and so forth. They sat up whispering until about two o'clock. The fiancée, however, went back to bed much earlier, astonished and a little sad.

Svidrigailov meanwhile was, on the very stroke of midnight, crossing —kov Bridge
³
towards the St Petersburg Side. The rain had stopped, but there was a roaring wind. He was beginning to shiver, and for a single moment he looked at the black water of the Little Neva with a kind of especial curiosity. Standing there above the water, however, he soon began to feel very cold; he turned round and walked over to —oy Prospect.
⁴
He strode along the endless —oy Prospect for a very long time, almost half an hour, several times losing his foothold in the darkness on the wooden paving-slabs, but never once giving up his search for something on the right-hand side of the street. Somewhere along here, at the end of the street, he had while passing recently noticed a hotel which although built of wood was quite a large one; its name, as far as he could remember, was something like The Adrianopolis. He had not been out in his reckonings: in a godforsaken district like this the hotel was such an evident landmark that it was quite impossible not to see it, even in the darkness. It was a long, blackened wooden building in which, the late hour notwithstanding, lights were still burning; the place appeared to be quite busy. He went inside and asked the ragamuffin who met him in the passage for a room. After giving Svidrigailov a quick look up and down, the ragamuffin shook himself into life and instantly led him off to a distant room, stuffy and narrow, somewhere right at the end of the passage, in a corner, under the staircase. This was the only room to be had; all the others were occupied. The ragamuffin gave him an inquiring look.

‘Do you serve tea?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What food have you got?’

There's veal, sir, vodka, sir,
zakuski
, sir.’

‘Bring me tea and some veal.’

‘And you don't want anything else?’ the ragamuffin asked in positive bewilderment.

‘No, that's all, that's all.’

The ragamuffin went off, thoroughly disappointed.

‘This must be a good place,’ Svidrigailov thought. ‘How is it I didn't know about it? I probably also look like someone who was on his way back from a
café chantant
but got involved in some episode
en route
. In any case, it would be interesting to find out who's staying here and spending the night.’

He lit a candle and examined the room in more detail. It was a little cell, so tiny that Svidrigailov almost had to stoop in it, with one window; the bed was very dirty; a simple painted chair and table took up almost all the remaining space. The walls looked as though they had been knocked together out of boards, covered in shabby wallpaper so dusty and tattered that while it was still possible to guess its colour (yellow), none of the pattern could be deciphered at all. One portion of the wall and the ceiling had been cut obliquely, as is usually done in attic rooms, but above this sloping portion ran the staircase. Svidrigailov put the candle down, seated himself on the bed and began to ponder. But a strange and ceaseless whisper, which was coming from the cell next door and sometimes rose almost to a cry, at last drew his attention. This whisper had been going on incessantly ever since he had come in. He listened: someone was shouting at someone else, and reproaching whoever it was almost in tears, but only one voice was audible. Svidrigailov got up, shielded the candle with his hand, and in the wall a chink of light instantly appeared: he stepped over to it and began to look. In a room that was slightly larger than his own, there were two male guests. One of them, in his shirtsleeves, his head covered in abundant curls and his face red and inflamed stood in the pose of an orator, his legs splayed apart in order to keep his balance; beating his breast, he was reproaching the other in emotional tones for the fact that he was destitute and did not even possess
a civil service rank, that he had dragged him out of the mire and could tell him to go any time he felt like it, and that all this was being witnessed by none but the finger of the Almighty. The companion who was the object of these reproaches was sitting on a chair and had the look of a man who badly wanted to sneeze, but could not for the life of him do so. From time to time he gazed at the orator with a sheeplike and lacklustre stare, but he evidently had not the slightest conception of what it was all about, and it was doubtful whether he could even hear any of it. A guttering candle stood on the table, together with an almost empty decanter of vodka, vodka-glasses, a loaf of bread, tumblers, cucumbers and a tea-service the tea in which had long ago been drunk. Having given this scene his careful scrutiny, Svidrigailov indifferently moved away from the chink and sat down again on the bed.

The ragamuffin, who had returned with the tea and veal, could not resist asking once more whether he ‘wanted anything else’, and, on again receiving a negative reply, beat a definitive retreat. Svidrigailov fell upon the tea in eagerness, anxious to warm himself, and drank a glass of it, but was unable to eat a single morsel, as he had completely lost his appetite. He was showing clear signs of incipient feverishness. He took off his overcoat and jacket, wrapped himself up in a blanket and lay down on the bed. He was annoyed: ‘It would have been better not to be ill on this occasion at least,’ he thought, and smiled a sardonic smile. The room was airless, the candle was burning dimly, the wind roared outside, somewhere in a corner a mouse was scrabbling, and the whole place seemed to have a reek of mice and of something leathery. He lay and seemed to lose himself in reverie: thought followed thought. It seemed to him that he would very much like to have been able to fix his imaginings on some one thing in particular. ‘There must be some sort of garden under this window,’ he thought. ‘It's the trees that are making that roaring noise; how I detest the roaring of trees at night, in darkness and storm – a horrible sound!’ And he remembered how, as he had made his way earlier past Petrovsky Park he had thought about it with positive loathing. That reminded him of —kov Bridge and the Little Neva, and
again he found himself feeling cold, as he had done earlier, standing above the water. ‘I've never ever cared for water, not even in landscapes,’ he thought, and he suddenly smiled his sardonic smile again as a certain curious thought occurred to him: ‘I mean, all those questions of aesthetics and comfort oughtn't to matter a damn to me now, yet lo and behold, I'm as choosey as a wild animal selecting a place for itself… in a similar situation. I should have taken the turning into Petrovsky Park back earlier! It must have seemed too dark and cold at the time, hee-hee! I was hardly in need of agreeable sensations!… Speaking of which, why don't I douse the candle?’ (He blew it out.) ‘Those characters next door have gone to bed,’ he thought, no longer seeing any light in the chink he had peeped through just now. ‘You know, Marfa Petrovna, this would be a good time for you to come visit me – it's dark, the place is eminently suitable, and the moment quite inspired. And yet you won't do it…’

For some reason he suddenly recalled how earlier that day, an hour before carrying out his plan concerning Dunya, he had told Raskolnikov he thought it would be a good thing if he were to entrust her to the care of Razumikhin. ‘I probably said that just to give myself a cheap thrill, as Raskolnikov guessed. But that Raskolnikov's a scoundrel. He's got a lot on his conscience. He may eventually become a proper scoundrel, when he's put all the nonsense behind him, but for the present he's
far too fond of life
! As far as that point's concerned that crowd are bastards. Well, let the devil do with them as he pleases, it's no business of mine.’

He was still unable to get to sleep. Little by little the image of Dunya as he had seen her earlier began to rise up before him, and suddenly a shiver passed through his body. ‘No, I must forget about that now,’ he thought, regaining clarity for a moment. ‘I must think about something else. It's a strange and ludicrous fact that I've never felt any great hatred for anyone, never even wanted to take my revenge, and I mean, that's a bad sign, a bad sign! Neither have I ever been given to argument or losing my temper – that's another bad sign! All those things I was promising her earlier, the devil take it! But after all, perhaps
she'd have made a new man of me somehow…’ He fell silent again and gritted his teeth: again the image of Dunya appeared before him exactly as she had been when, having fired her first shot, she had suddenly been horribly afraid, had lowered the revolver and looked at him in such numb immobility that he would have had time to assault her twice without her so much as raising a hand in her own defence, had he not suggested it to her himself. He remembered how in that instant he had felt sorry for her, felt as though his heart would break… ‘Ach! To the devil! The same thoughts again! I must forget, forget all that!…’

By now he was beginning to lose consciousness: the fevered shivering had subsided; suddenly he felt something run under the blanket and cross his arm and leg. He gave a violent shudder: The devil damn me if that's not a mouse!’ he thought. ‘I've left the veal out on the table…’ The last thing he wanted was to take off the blanket, get up and feel cold, but again something unpleasant suddenly fluttered across his leg; he tore the blanket from him and lit the candle. Shaking with feverish cold, he stooped down to examine the bed – there was nothing; he gave the blanket a shake, and suddenly a mouse leapt out of it on to the sheet. He lunged at it in an attempt to catch it, but the mouse did not leave the bed, flickered zigzags in all directions, slipped from under his fingers, ran across his hand and suddenly ducked away under the pillow; he turfed the pillow off, but instantly felt something slither on to his chest and then flit across his midriff and down his back, under his shirt. He gave a nervous spasm and woke up. The room was in darkness, he was lying on the bed, still huddled in the blanket as he had been before, and the wind was howling outside the window. ‘What a revolting business!’ he thought with annoyance.