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:4 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 pointes5 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's7 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 plaire8 . . . 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.'
'Now why did I think that something like that must be happening to you?' said Raskolnikov suddenly, and was amazed to have said it. He was extremely worked up.
'Well, well! So that's what you thought?' asked Svidrigailov in surprise. 'How extraordinary! But didn't I say we have something in common, eh?'
'No, you never said that!' came Raskolnikov's sharp and heated response.
'I didn't?'
'No!'
'I thought I did. Before, when I walked in and saw you lying there with your eyes closed, pretending, I immediately said to myself, "That's the one!"'
'What do you mean: "the one"? What are you talking about?' cried Raskolnikov.
'What am I talking about? Well, I honestly don't know . . . ,' muttered Svidrigailov frankly, himself in something of a muddle.
For a minute or so they were silent. Each riveted their eyes on the other.
'Nonsense, all of it!' Raskolnikov cried out in vexation. 'So what does she say when she comes?'
'What does she say? Why, the most trivial things, and - funnily enough - that's precisely what makes me so angry. She came in that first time (I was tired: the funeral service, then the hymns and prayers for the deceased, then some food, and at last I was alone in my study, having a smoke and a think), came in through the door and said: "You know, Arkady Ivanovich, what with all the fuss
today you forgot to wind the clock in the dining room." I really did wind that clock myself, once a week, all those seven years, and if I ever forgot she'd be sure to remind me. The very next day I left to come here. At daybreak I walked into the station - I'd hardly slept, I was shattered, bleary-eyed - ordered some coffee and look, there's Marfa Petrovna sitting down next to me with a pack of cards in her hands: "A bit of fortune-telling, Arkady Ivanovich, for the road?" She was a dab hand at that. Well, I'll never forgive myself for not taking her up on her offer! I fled in terror and the next thing I knew the bell rang for the train. Then today, I'd just had a lousy lunch from a cook-shop and my stomach was groaning - I was sitting and having a smoke - when in comes Marfa Petrovna again, done up to the nines in a new green silk dress with an extremely long train: "Hallo, Arkady Ivanovich! How do you like my dress? Aniska couldn't make one like this." (Aniska's our local seamstress, her parents were serfs, she was apprenticed in Moscow - a pretty young thing.) There she was, spinning about in front of me. I had a good look at the dress, then peered into her face: "What a thing to come and see me about, Marfa Petrovna!" "Dearie me, how very touchy you've become!" So I said, just to tease her: "I plan to get married, Marfa Petrovna." "I wouldn't put it past you, Arkady Ivanovich. Doesn't do you much credit, though - your wife barely in the grave and you rushing off to get married. What's more, you're bound to make the wrong choice - you'll both be miserable and only make good people laugh." And off she went with a rustle of her train - or so I thought. Such nonsense, eh?'
'But perhaps you're just lying?' said Raskolnikov.
'I rarely lie,' replied Svidrigailov pensively, as if he hadn't even noticed the rudeness of the question.
'And you'd never seen ghosts before?'
'I . . . I did, but only once, six years ago. I had a house-serf called Filka. We'd only just buried him and I yelled, absent-mindedly, "Filka, my pipe!" and in he came and walked straight over to the cabinet where I keep my pipes. I'm sitting there, thinking, "He's come to get his own back," because we'd had an almighty row shortly before he died. "How dare you," I say, "come in here with holes at your elbows? Get out, you rascal!" He turned, walked out and never came back. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I was about to arrange a memorial service for him, but then I thought better of it.'
'You should see a doctor.'
'I don't need you to tell me I'm unwell, though I honestly couldn't tell you what's wrong with me. I expect I'm five times healthier than you are. My question to you was not: do you or do you not believe that people see ghosts? My question was: do you believe that ghosts exist?'
'No, nothing could make me believe that!' cried Raskolnikov, almost bitterly.
'After all, what do people normally say?' muttered Svidrigailov, as if to himself, looking away and bowing his head a little. 'They say, "You're sick, so what you imagine is mere delirium, mere illusion." But that's hardly logical. I agree that only the sick see ghosts, but this merely proves that you have to be sick to see ghosts, not that they don't exist in themselves.'
'Nonsense!' Raskolnikov irritably insisted.
'You really think so?' Svidrigailov went on, slowly turning his eyes on him. 'But what if we try to reason like so (give me a hand, old boy): ghosts are, as it were, shreds and scraps of the other worlds from which they come. A healthy man, needless to say, has no reason to see them, because no one is more earthbound than he; he should live here and here alone, and live a full, well-ordered life. But, at the first sign of sickness, at the first disturbance of the normal, earthbound order in his organism, the possibility of another world instantly comes to the fore, and the sicker he becomes, the greater his contact with this other world, so that when a man dies completely, he crosses over to it right away. I thought this through a long time ago. If you believe in the life to come, then you can believe this, too.'
'I don't believe in the life to come,' said Raskolnikov.
Svidrigailov was deep in thought.
'What if there's nothing but spiders there or something like that?' he suddenly said.
'The man's insane,' thought Raskolnikov.
'We're forever imagining eternity as an idea beyond our understanding, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Just imagine: what if, instead of all that, there'll just be some little room, some sooty bath-hut, say, with spiders in every corner, and that's it, that's eternity? I have such fancies every now and again, you know.'
'And you can't imagine anything more comforting or more just than that!' Raskolnikov cried out with a sickening feeling.
'More just? But who's to say: perhaps that is just - in fact, that's exactly how I'd arrange things myself!' Svidrigailov replied, with an indeterminate smile.
A chill suddenly came over Raskolnikov when he heard this outrageous reply. Svidrigailov lifted his head, looked straight at him and suddenly roared with laughter.
'This takes some beating, don't you think?' he shouted. 'Half an hour ago we'd never even set eyes on one another; we're meant to be enemies; we've got unfinished business between us; and now look, we've dropped our business and plunged head-first into literature! Well, wasn't I right to say we're birds of a feather?'
'Be so kind,' Raskolnikov persisted irritably, 'as to explain yourself without further delay and tell me why you are honouring me with a visit . . . and . . . and . . . I'm in a hurry, no time to spare, I've got to go out . . .'
'By all means. Your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is marrying Mr Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich, yes?'
'Could we please avoid all questions concerning my sister and any mention of her name? I fail to understand how you even dare utter her name in my presence - if, that is, you are who you say you are?'
'But it's her I've come to speak about - how can I not mention her?'
'Fine. Just get on with it!'
'I dare say you've already formed an opinion about this Mr Luzhin, to whom I am related through my wife, assuming you've spent even half an hour in his company or heard anything reliable and accurate about him. He's no match for Avdotya Romanovna. As I see it, Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself in this matter very nobly and without forethought, for the sake of . . . of her family. I had the impression from all I'd heard about you that, from your side, you'd be only too glad to see this marriage collapse without anyone's interests being jeopardized. Now that I've met you in person, I'm even quite certain of it.'
'From your side, this is all very naive; sorry, I meant to say insolent,' said Raskolnikov.
'Which is your way of saying that I am only in this for myself. You shouldn't worry, Rodion Romanovich. If this really were the case, I'd hardly be so blunt about it - I'm not a complete fool. In fact, let me share with you a certain psychological quirk of mine. Before, while justifying my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said that I myself was the victim. Well, you ought to know that I feel no love at all now, none whatsoever - in fact, this seems strange even to me, because I really did feel something before . . .'
'From idleness and depravity,' interrupted Raskolnikov.
'I am indeed a depraved and idle man. But then your dear sister has so many points in her favour that I could hardly fail to be somewhat taken with her. But it's all nonsense, as I can now see for myself.'
'And when did you see this exactly?'
'I've been aware of it for some time, but I became fully convinced only two days ago, almost at the very moment I arrived in Petersburg. Back in Moscow, I still thought I was coming here to win Avdotya Romanovna's hand and to vie with Mr Luzhin.'
'Forgive me for interrupting you, but please be so kind as to turn, without delay, to the purpose of your visit. I'm in a hurry, I have to go out . . .'
'With the greatest pleasure. After arriving here and deciding to undertake a certain . . . voyage, I conceived a desire to make the necessary preliminary arrangements. My children will remain with their aunt; they are rich and have no need of me personally. I'm not much of a father anyway! For myself I've taken only that which Marfa Petrovna gave me a ye
ar ago. That's all I need. Forgive me, I'm just about to turn to the business at hand. Before my voyage, which may indeed come to pass, I want to have done with Mr Luzhin. It's not that I dislike him so much, but that, were it not for him, I'd never have had that row with Marfa Petrovna, when I learned about her concocting this marriage. I wish to see Avdotya Romanovna now so that, through your good offices and - why not? - in your presence, I can explain to her, firstly, that not only does she stand to gain nothing from Mr Luzhin, but she will lose out very badly, and that's a fact. Next, having begged her forgiveness for all this recent unpleasantness, I would request that she permit me to offer her ten thousand roubles and thereby alleviate her parting with Mr Luzhin, a parting which, I am sure, she would not mind too much herself, were it only possible.'
'You're properly, properly mad!' cried Raskolnikov, less angry than astonished. 'How dare you speak like that?'
'I knew you'd start yelling. But, firstly, though I may not be rich, these ten thousand roubles are going spare. I've no need of them, no need at all. If Avdotya Romanovna says no, then I dare say I'll find an even more idiotic use for them. That's one thing. Secondly, my conscience is quite untroubled. I'm making this offer without any ulterior motive. You don't have to believe me, but later both you and Avdotya Romanovna will see this for yourselves. The fact of the matter is that I really did cause your much-esteemed sister a certain amount of trouble and unpleasantness; therefore, experiencing sincere remorse, I have a heartfelt wish, not to buy my way out by paying for the unpleasantness, but purely and simply to do something to benefit her, because, after all, it's not as if I've claimed some prerogative only to commit evil. If there were even the tiniest hint of forethought in my offer, I would hardly make it so bluntly; nor would I offer a mere ten thousand, when only five weeks ago I offered her more. Besides, I may be about to marry a certain young girl in the very nearest future, so all suspicions of any possible designs against Avdotya Romanovna ought thereby to be quashed. I will conclude by saying that, in marrying Mr Luzhin, Avdotya Romanovna is taking exactly the same money, only from another hand . . . Now don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich - think about it calmly and coolly.'