Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 43 page

are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please

himself, it's nothing to do with me."

He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia's image rose before him,

and a shudder ran over him. "No, I must give up all that now," he

thought, rousing himself. "I must think of something else. It's queer

and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly

desired to avenge myself even, and that's a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad

sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper--that's

a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too--Damnation!

But--who knows?--perhaps she would have made a new man of me

somehow...."

He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia's image

rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time,

she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that

he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand

to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that

instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his

heart...

"Aie! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!"

He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly

something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He

started. "Ugh! hang it! I believe it's a mouse," he thought, "that's the

veal I left on the table." He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the

blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over

his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking

with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing.

He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet.

He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without

leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and

suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one

instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down

his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up.

The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket

as before. The wind was howling under the window. "How disgusting," he

thought with annoyance.

He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the

window. "It's better not to sleep at all," he decided. There was a cold

damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the

blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of

anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another,

incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his

mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or

the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees

roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling

on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright,

warm, almost hot day, a holiday--Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country

cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with

flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was

surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with

rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed

particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant

narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was

reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came

into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere--at the windows,

the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself--were flowers.

The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows

were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were

chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table

covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was

covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of

flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a

white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as

though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was

a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of

her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her

pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal.

Svidrigailov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle

beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself.

She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed

herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish

soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn

from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on

a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....

Svidrigailov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the

window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously

into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with

his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been

something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too,

probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of

rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as

in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of

objects. Svidrigailov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill,

gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed

by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. "Ah, the

signal! The river is overflowing," he thought. "By morning it will be

swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and

cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain

and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is

it now?" And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on

the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.

"Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I'll go out at once

straight to the park. I'll choose a great bush there drenched with rain,

so that as soon as one's shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on

one's head."

He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his

waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle,

into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep

somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay

him for the room and leave the hotel. "It's the best minute; I couldn't

choose a better."

He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding

anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner

between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object

which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little

girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her

clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of

Svidrigailov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big

black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been

crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child's face

was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. "How can she have come here?

She must have hidden here and not slept all night." He began questioning

her. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby

language, something about "mammy" and that "mammy would beat her," and

about some cup that she had "bwoken." The child chattered on without

stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a

neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service

of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken

a cup of her mother's and was so frightened that she had run away the

evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the

rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and

spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness

and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his

arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing

her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as

wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had

undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in

the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he

sank into dreary musing again.

"What folly to trouble myself," he decided suddenly with an oppressive

feeling of annoyance. "What idiocy!" In vexation he took up the candle

to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away.

"Damn the child!" he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again

to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully.

The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket,

and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed

brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. "It's a flush

of fever," thought Svidrigailov. It was like the flush from drinking, as

though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were

hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long

black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a

sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little

girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in

a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to

control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin,

a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite

unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the

shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they

turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited

him.... There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that

laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. "What,

at five years old?" Svidrigailov muttered in genuine horror. "What does

it mean?" And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding

out her arms.... "Accursed child!" Svidrigailov cried, raising his hand

to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.

He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not

been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows.

"I've had nightmare all night!" He got up angrily, feeling utterly

shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could

see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up,

put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his

pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his

pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few

lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his

elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some

flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on

the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began

trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it.

At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he

started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he

was in the street.

A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigailov walked along the

slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing

the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island,

the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the

bush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think

of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street.

The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with

their closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and

he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read

each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and

came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with

its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead

drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower

stood up on the left. "Bah!" he shouted, "here is a place. Why should

it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness

anyway...."

He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where

there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of

the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them,

wrapped in a grey soldier's coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his

head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigailov. His

face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly

printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both,

Svidrigailov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes

without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man

not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a

word.

"What do you want here?" he said, without moving or changing his

position.

"Nothing, brother, good morning," answered Svidrigailov.

"This isn't the place."

"I am going to foreign parts, brother."

"To foreign parts?"

"To America."

"America."

Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his

eyebrows.

"I say, this is not the place for such jokes!"

"Why shouldn't it be the place?"

"Because it isn't."

"Well, brother, I don't mind that. It's a good place. When you are

asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America."

He put the revolver to his right temple.

"You can't do it here, it's not the place," cried Achilles, rousing

himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.

Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER VII

The same day, about seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on

his way to his mother's and sister's lodging--the lodging in Bakaleyev's

house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from

the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still

hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back:

his decision was taken.

"Besides, it doesn't matter, they still know nothing," he thought, "and

they are used to thinking of me as eccentric."

He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a

night's rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the

inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all

the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a

decision.

He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not

at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria

Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by

the hand and drew him into the room.

"Here you are!" she began, faltering with joy. "Don't be angry with

me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not

crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I've got

into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I've been like that ever

since your father's death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you

must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are."

"I was in the rain yesterday, mother...." Raskolnikov began.

"No, no," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, "you thought I

was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don't be

anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I've learned the ways

here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I've made up my

mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to

give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have,

or what ideas you are hatching; so it's not for me to keep nudging your

elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why

am I running to and fro as though I were crazy...? I am reading your

article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch

brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: 'There,

foolish one,' I thought, 'that's what he is busy about; that's the

solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may

have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I

worry him and upset him.' I read it, my dear, and of course there was a

great deal I did not understand; but that's only natural--how should I?"

"Show me, mother."

Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous

as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and

bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he

sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only

a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed

with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding

months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger.

"But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you

will very soon be one of the leading--if not the leading man--in the

world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You

don't know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures,

how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but

believing it--what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to

magazines--the first time poems (I've got the manuscript and will show

you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it

out) and how we prayed that they should be taken--they weren't! I was

breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your

clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish

I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and

talent. No doubt you don't care about that for the present and you are

occupied with much more important matters...."

"Dounia's not at home, mother?"

"No, Rodya. I often don't see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri

Prokofitch comes to see me, it's so good of him, and he always talks

about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don't say that

Dounia is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has

her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and

I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia

has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me... but I don't

know what it will all lead to. You've made me so happy by coming now,

Rodya, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I'll tell

her: 'Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all

this time?' You mustn't spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can,

but if you can't, it doesn't matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway,

that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what

you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you'll

come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you've come now to

comfort your mother, I see that."

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

"Here I am again! Don't mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I

sitting here?" she cried, jumping up. "There is coffee and I don't offer

you any. Ah, that's the selfishness of old age. I'll get it at once!"

"Mother, don't trouble, I am going at once. I haven't come for that.

Please listen to me."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.

"Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are

told about me, will you always love me as you do now?" he asked suddenly

from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and

not weighing them.

"Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?

Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn't believe

anyone, I should refuse to listen."

"I've come to assure you that I've always loved you and I am glad

that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out," he went on with the same

impulse. "I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you

must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all

you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn't care about you, was

all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you.... Well, that's enough:

I thought I must do this and begin with this...."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her

bosom and weeping gently.

"I don't know what is wrong with you, Rodya," she said at last. "I've

been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see

that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that's why you are

miserable. I've foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking

about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister

lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I

caught something, but I couldn't make it out. I felt all the morning

as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting

something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You

are going away somewhere?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need

me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly--and Sofya

Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon

her as a daughter even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together.

But... where... are you going?"

"Good-bye, mother."

"What, to-day?" she cried, as though losing him for ever.

"I can't stay, I must go now...."

"And can't I come with you?"

"No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will

reach Him."

"Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That's right, that's

right. Oh, God, what are we doing?"

Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that

he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful

months his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her

feet and both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not

question him this time. For some days she had realised that something

awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had

come for him.

"Rodya, my darling, my first born," she said sobbing, "now you are just

as when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and

kiss me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us

simply by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we

wept together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I've been crying

lately, it's that my mother's heart had a foreboding of trouble. The

first time I saw you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived

here, I guessed simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day

when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had

come. Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away to-day?"

"No!"

"You'll come again?"

"Yes... I'll come."

"Rodya, don't be angry, I don't dare to question you. I know I mustn't.

Only say two words to me--is it far where you are going?"

"Very far."

"What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?"

"What God sends... only pray for me." Raskolnikov went to the door, but

she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked

with terror.

"Enough, mother," said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come.

"Not for ever, it's not yet for ever? You'll come, you'll come

to-morrow?"

"I will, I will, good-bye." He tore himself away at last.

It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning.

Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all

before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the

stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him

intently. "Can anyone have come to see me?" he wondered. He had a

disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dounia. She

was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had

been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from

the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him,

betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at

once that she knew.

"Am I to come in or go away?" he asked uncertainly.

"I've been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you.

We thought that you would be sure to come there."

Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair.

"I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this

moment to be able to control myself."

He glanced at her mistrustfully.

"Where were you all night?"

"I don't remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 685