CUSTOMS AND TRADITIONS OF GREAT BRITAIN 23 page

out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I

needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone

to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I

am utterly a louse," he added, grinding his teeth, "is that I am

perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and _I felt

beforehand_ that I should tell myself so _after_ killing her. Can

anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The

abjectness! I understand the 'prophet' with his sabre, on his steed:

Allah commands and 'trembling' creation must obey! The 'prophet' is

right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up

the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It's for you to

obey, trembling creation, and not _to have desires_, for that's not for

you!... I shall never, never forgive the old woman!"

His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his

eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

"Mother, sister--how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate

them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't bear them near me....

I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.... To embrace her

and think if she only knew... shall I tell her then? That's just what

I might do.... _She_ must be the same as I am," he added, straining

himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. "Ah, how I hate

the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life!

Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in?... It's strange though, why is it

I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn't killed her? Lizaveta!

Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes.... Dear women! Why don't

they weep? Why don't they moan? They give up everything... their eyes

are soft and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!"

He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't remember

how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen

and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a

peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the

street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other

people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and

stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was

distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do

something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he

stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street,

beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and

walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to

him. "Stay, did he really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried

to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and

was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long

coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating;

they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. "Does he

know I am following him?" thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the

gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in

to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yard

the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at

once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have

gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard

slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely

familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone

through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he

reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were

at work... but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps

of the man above had died away. "So he must have stopped or hidden

somewhere." He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a

stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The sound of his own

footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be

hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he

hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as

though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour

which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the

chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the

frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows.

"It's the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought

Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more

silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was

painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp

crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly

flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At

that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little

cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is that cloak

here?" he thought, "it wasn't there before...." He went up to it quietly

and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved

the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent

double so that he couldn't see her face; but it was she. He stood over

her. "She is afraid," he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the

noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange

to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was

frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too,

bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up

into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old

woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing

her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door

from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and

whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the

old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe

the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old

woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the

passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the

landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of

heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation.

Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they

would not move.... He tried to scream and woke up.

He drew a deep breath--but his dream seemed strangely to persist:

his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the

doorway watching him intently.

Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them

again. He lay on his back without stirring.

"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly

perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching

him.

He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after

him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on

Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he

put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane

and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait

indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen

glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost

whitish beard.

Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There

was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs.

Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was

unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.

"Come, tell me what you want."

"I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger answered

oddly, laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, allow me to

introduce myself...."

PART IV

CHAPTER I

"Can this be still a dream?" Raskolnikov thought once more.

He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.

"Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in

bewilderment.

His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.

"I've come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make

your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about

you that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope

that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the

welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she

might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me,

but with your assistance I reckon on..."

"You reckon wrongly," interrupted Raskolnikov.

"They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?"

Raskolnikov made no reply.

"It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well,

let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don't consider it necessary

to justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there particularly

criminal on my part in all this business, speaking without prejudice,

with common sense?"

Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.

"That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and 'insulted her

with my infamous proposals'--is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But

you've only to assume that I, too, am a man _et nihil humanum_... in a

word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which

does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the

most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself

a victim? And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my

passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished

the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting

our mutual happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why,

probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone!"

"But that's not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. "It's

simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don't

want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!"

Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh.

"But you're... but there's no getting round you," he said, laughing in

the frankest way. "I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right

line at once!"

"But you are trying to get round me still!"

"What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigailov, laughing openly. "But this

is what the French call _bonne guerre_, and the most innocent form of

deception!... But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I

repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for

what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna..."

"You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?" Raskolnikov

interrupted rudely.

"Oh, you've heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, though.... But

as for your question, I really don't know what to say, though my own

conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don't suppose that I am in

any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical

inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy

dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing

else. But I'll tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on

my way here in the train, especially: didn't I contribute to all that...

calamity, morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the

sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the

question."

Raskolnikov laughed.

"I wonder you trouble yourself about it!"

"But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice

with a switch--there were no marks even... don't regard me as a cynic,

please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that;

but I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased

at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to

the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to

sit at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides,

she had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the

letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her

first act was to order the carriage to be got out.... Not to speak

of the fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be

insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances

of it with everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to

be insulted, have you noticed that? But it's particularly so with women.

One might even say it's their only amusement."

At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so

finishing the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of prudence

made him linger for a moment.

"You are fond of fighting?" he asked carelessly.

"No, not very," Svidrigailov answered, calmly. "And Marfa Petrovna and

I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always

pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not

counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first

time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the

country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you

suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver?

Ha, ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years

ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I've forgotten

his name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having

thrashed a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in

those days, that very year I believe, the 'disgraceful action of the

_Age_' took place (you know, 'The Egyptian Nights,' that public reading,

you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth,

where are they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German,

I feel no sympathy with him, because after all what need is there

for sympathy? But I must say that there are sometimes such provoking

'Germans' that I don't believe there is a progressive who could quite

answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that point of view

then, but that's the truly humane point of view, I assure you."

After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again.

Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his

mind and able to keep it to himself.

"I expect you've not talked to anyone for some days?" he asked.

"Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an

adaptable man?"

"No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man."

"Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that

it? But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered," he replied,

with a surprising expression of simplicity. "You know, there's

hardly anything I take interest in," he went on, as it were dreamily,

"especially now, I've nothing to do.... You are quite at liberty to

imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as

I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I'll confess

frankly, I am very much bored. The last three days especially, so I am

delighted to see you.... Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you

seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there's

something wrong with you, and now, too... not this very minute, I mean,

but now, generally.... Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't scowl! I am

not such a bear, you know, as you think."

Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.

"You are not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "I fancy indeed that

you are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to

behave like one."

"I am not particularly interested in anyone's opinion," Svidrigailov

answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, "and therefore why

not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our

climate... and especially if one has a natural propensity that way," he

added, laughing again.

"But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, 'not

without connections.' What can you want with me, then, unless you've

some special object?"

"That's true that I have friends here," Svidrigailov admitted, not

replying to the chief point. "I've met some already. I've been lounging

about for the last three days, and I've seen them, or they've seen me.

That's a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned not a poor

man; the emancipation of the serfs hasn't affected me; my property

consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not

fallen off; but... I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long

ago. I've been here three days and have called on no one.... What a town

it is! How has it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of

officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there's a great deal I didn't

notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels.... My only

hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!"

"Anatomy?"

"But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed,

maybe--well, all that can go on without me," he went on, again without

noticing the question. "Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?"

"Why, have you been a card-sharper then?"

"How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best

society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding,

you know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian

society the best manners are found among those who've been thrashed,

have you noticed that? I've deteriorated in the country. But I did get

into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then

Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for

thirty thousand silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united

in lawful wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure.

You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For

seven years I never left the country. And, take note, that all my life

she held a document over me, the IOU for thirty thousand roubles, so

if I were to elect to be restive about anything I should be trapped at

once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible in

that."

"If it hadn't been for that, would you have given her the slip?"

"I don't know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I

didn't want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go

abroad, seeing I was bored, but I've been abroad before, and always

felt sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the

sea--you look at them and it makes you sad. What's most revolting is

that one is really sad! No, it's better at home. Here at least one

blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone

perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole, because _j'ai le vin

mauvais_ and hate drinking, and there's nothing left but wine. I have

tried it. But, I say, I've been told Berg is going up in a great balloon

next Sunday from the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a

fee. Is it true?"

"Why, would you go up?"

"I... No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigailov really seeming to be deep in

thought.

"What does he mean? Is he in earnest?" Raskolnikov wondered.

"No, the document didn't restrain me," Svidrigailov went on,

meditatively. "It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly

a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my name-day

and made me a present of a considerable sum of money, too. She had a

fortune, you know. 'You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch'--that

was actually her expression. You don't believe she used it? But do

you know I managed the estate quite decently, they know me in the

neighbourhood. I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved,

but afterwards she was afraid of my over-studying."

"You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?"

"Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you

believe in ghosts?"

"What ghosts?"

"Why, ordinary ghosts."

"Do you believe in them?"

"Perhaps not, _pour vous plaire_.... I wouldn't say no exactly."

"Do you see them, then?"

Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly.

"Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he said, twisting his mouth

into a strange smile.

"How do you mean 'she is pleased to visit you'?"

"She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the

funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to

come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on

the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two

hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone."

"Were you awake?"

"Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for

a minute and goes out at the door--always at the door. I can almost hear

her."

"What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to

you?" Raskolnikov said suddenly.

At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much

excited.

"What! Did you think so?" Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. "Did you

really? Didn't I say that there was something in common between us, eh?"

"You never said so!" Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.

"Didn't I?"

"No!"

"I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut,

pretending, I said to myself at once, 'Here's the man.'"

"What do you mean by 'the man?' What are you talking about?" cried

Raskolnikov.

"What do I mean? I really don't know...." Svidrigailov muttered

ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.

For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other's faces.

"That's all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. "What does she

say when she comes to you?"

"She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and--man

is a strange creature--it makes me angry. The first time she came in (I

was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch

afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and

began to think), she came in at the door. 'You've been so busy to-day,

Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining-room clock,'

she said. All those seven years I've wound that clock every week, and if

I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way

here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I'd been asleep, tired out,

with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and

there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of

cards in her hands. 'Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady

Ivanovitch?' She was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never

forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and,

besides, the bell rang. I was sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a

miserable dinner from a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden

Marfa Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress

with a long train. 'Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my

dress? Aniska can't make like this.' (Aniska was a dressmaker in the

country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in Moscow, a

pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress,

and then I looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. 'I wonder

you trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.' 'Good

gracious, you won't let one disturb you about anything!' To tease her

I said, 'I want to get married, Marfa Petrovna.' 'That's just like you,

Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a

bride when you've hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good

choice, at least, but I know it won't be for your happiness or hers, you

will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.' Then she went out and

her train seemed to rustle. Isn't it nonsense, eh?"

"But perhaps you are telling lies?" Raskolnikov put in.

"I rarely lie," answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, apparently not

noticing the rudeness of the question.

"And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?"

"Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had

a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting 'Filka, my

pipe!' He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat

still and thought 'he is doing it out of revenge,' because we had a

violent quarrel just before his death. 'How dare you come in with a hole

in your elbow?' I said. 'Go away, you scamp!' He turned and went out,

and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted

to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed."

"You should go to a doctor."

"I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know

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