'I must have forgotten,' replied Raskolnikov with astonishment.
'I believe you. I told you twice. The address imprinted itself automatically in your memory. You took this turning automatically as well, unaware that you were heading in exactly the right direction. Even when I was speaking to you about it, I didn't think you'd understood me. You do give yourself away, Rodion Romanych. And another thing: I'm convinced that Petersburg is full of people who walk around talking to themselves. People who are halfway mad. If we had any scholars worth the name, then doctors, jurists and philosophers could carry out priceless studies in this city, each according to his specialism. Where else would you find so many dark, drastic, strange influences on the soul of man? Consider the influence of the climate alone! And yet this is the administrative centre of all Russia; the whole country should reflect its character. But that's not the point now. The point is that I've observed you on several occasions. You leave your building, still holding your head up. Twenty or so paces later, you've already lowered it and clasp your hands behind your back. You're looking but no longer seeing, whether ahead of you or to the sides. Eventually, you begin to move your lips and talk to yourself. From time to time you even free one of your arms and declaim something. And in the end you stop for an age in the middle of the street. It's simply no good, sir. You might be noticed by someone else as well, and you wouldn't want that. In the end, it's all the same to me, and I can't cure you, but you must understand me.'
'Do you know I'm being followed?' asked Raskolnikov with a searching look.
'No, I don't know anything,' Svidrigailov replied with apparent surprise.
'Then let's leave me out of it,' mumbled Raskolnikov, frowning.
'All right then, we'll leave you out of it.'
'Perhaps you should tell me, seeing as you come here to drink and seeing as you yourself have twice suggested I come to see you here, why, when I was looking through the window from the street just now, you hid and wanted to leave? I saw it quite clearly.'
'Heh-heh! And why, when I was standing on your threshold, did you lie on your sofa with your eyes closed and pretend you were sleeping, when you weren't sleeping at all? I saw it quite clearly.'
'I might have had . . . reasons . . . as you know yourself.'
'And I may have had my reasons, though you'll never know them.'
Raskolnikov lowered his right elbow onto the table, supported his chin with the fingers of his right hand and fixed his eyes on Svidrigailov. For about a minute he studied his face, which had always fascinated him, even before. It was a strange sort of face, not unlike a mask: white and bright red, with cherry red lips, a light blond beard and, still, a full head of blond hair. His eyes were a little too blue somehow, and their gaze a little too heavy and static. There was something terribly unpleasant about this beautiful and, for its age, exceptionally youthful face. Svidrigailov was foppishly dressed in light, summery clothes, and sporting especially stylish linen. On one hand he wore an enormous ring with an expensive stone.
'Do I really have to deal with the likes of you as well?' said Raskolnikov, coming out into the open in a sudden fit of impatience. 'You may be the most dangerous person there is, if you put your mind to it, but I refuse to put myself through any more of this. I'll show you right now that I value myself less than you must think. I've come to tell you frankly that if you still harbour your old intentions towards my sister and if, to that end, you're planning to exploit any recent revelations, then I'll kill you before you manage to throw me in jail. I give you my word: you know I'll honour it. Secondly, if you have something you want to tell me - I've had that impression all along - then say it now, because time is precious and very soon, perhaps, it will be too late.'
'But why this great hurry - where do you have to go?' asked Svidrigailov, examining him with some curiosity.
'We each have our own steps to take,' said Raskolnikov, with gloomy impatience.
'Only a minute ago you were urging openness, yet you refuse to answer the first question I ask you,' Svidrigailov remarked with a smile. 'You always think I'm plotting something, hence all these suspicious glances. Well, that's quite understandable in your situation. But however much I want us to become closer, I'm not going to burden myself with the task of trying to persuade you otherwise. The game, by heaven, is not worth the candle, and in any case there was nothing in particular that I was planning to speak to you about.'
'So why did you need me so badly? Why were you always running after me?'
'Simply to observe you - I found you curious. The fantastical nature of your situation, that's what I liked about you! On top of that, you're the brother of a person who interested me greatly, not to mention the fact that this person was always talking about you, from which I concluded that you wield considerable influence over her. Isn't that enough? Heh-heh-heh! Although I admit that I find your question extremely complex and it's hard for me to give you an answer. I'll give you an example. You're not just here on some errand or other, are you? It's because you're after something a little bit new. Isn't that right? Isn't it?' Svidrigailov insisted with a roguish grin. 'So try imagining that I myself, while still on my way to Petersburg, on the train, was counting on you to tell me something a little bit new as well and on my managing to borrow something from you! See how rich we are!'
'Borrow what from me?'
'What can I say? How do I know? You see the sort of hole I spend my days in, and I enjoy it; or rather, I don't exactly enjoy it but I have to sit somewhere, don't I? Take poor Katya - I mean, did you see her? . . . If only I were a glutton, say, or a gourmet going from club to club, but I'll eat anything, even this!' (He pointed towards the corner, where, on a tin plate on a small table, lay the remains of some revolting dish of steak and potatoes). 'Have you eaten, by the way? I've had a bite and that's all I want. I never drink wine, for example. Unless it's champagne, and even then only one glass all evening, which is more than enough to give me a headache. I just ordered some now to perk myself up, because I've somewhere to go and you've caught me in a very particular mood. That's why I was hiding like a schoolboy - I thought you'd spoil my plans. But it would seem' - he took out his watch - 'that I have an hour to spend with you; it's half past four now. Believe me, I'd take anything: the life of a landowner, say, or father or uhlan or photographer or journalist . . . but look, I've got nothing, no specialist skills at all! It even gets a bit boring sometimes. I really did think you would have something new to tell me.'
'Who are you anyway and why are you here?'
'Who am I? You know who I am: a nobleman, did two years in the cavalry, then gadded about here in Petersburg, then married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. My life in a nutshell!'
'You're a gambler, aren't you?'
'Nonsense. A card sharp, not a gambler.'
'So you were a card sharp?'
'I was.'
'You must have taken a few beatings, I suppose?'
'Occasionally. And?'
'So a duel was always a possibility . . . how invigorating.'
'I won't disagree with you; in any case, philosophizing is not my strong suit. I'll admit: I came here more for the women.'
'With Marfa Petrovna barely in the grave?'
'I suppose,' smiled Svidrigailov with winning candour. 'And? You seem to think there's something wrong with the way I talk about women?'
'You mean, do I think there's anything wrong with depravity?'
'Depravity? So that's what you're getting at! But I'll take your questions in turn and start with the women. I'm in the mood for talking. So tell me: why should I hold back? Why give up on women, when it's about the only thing I enjoy? At least it gives me something to do.'
'So depravity is the only reason you're here?'
'And what if it is? People have a thing about depravity. But I like a straight question. At least there's something constant about depravity, something founded on nature and not subject to fantasy, something that's always afire in the blood, like
burning coal, something which may take you a very long time, even with the passing of the years, to put out. Gives people something to do, wouldn't you say?'
'What have you got to be so pleased about? It's a sickness, and a dangerous one.'
'So that's what you're driving at! I agree it's a sickness, like everything that goes too far - and here you simply have to go too far - but actually, everyone's different, that's the first point, and secondly, yes of course, you should always know when enough is enough (even if you're a scoundrel), but what's a man to do? If it weren't for this, you might end up having to shoot yourself. I agree that no decent man can entirely avoid boredom, but still . . .'
'And would you be able to shoot yourself?'
'Well, really!' parried Svidrigailov with disgust. 'Kindly refrain from talking about that,' he continued hastily and without so much as a hint of his previous swagger. Even his face seemed to change. 'It's an unforgivable weakness of mine, I'll admit, but what can I do? I fear death and I don't like to hear it discussed. Did you know that I'm a bit of a mystic?'
'Ah! The ghosts of Marfa Petrovna! Still visiting, are they?'
'Don't mention them, please. Haven't seen any yet in Petersburg and to hell with them anyway!' he cried with an air of irritation. 'No, I'd rather we talked about . . . although . . . H'm! Shame there's so little time and I can't stay with you longer! I could have told you a thing or two.'
'A woman, is it?'
'Yes, a woman, just a random case . . . but I don't mean that.'
'So the loathsomeness of all this no longer affects you? You no longer have the strength to stop?'
'Laying claim to strength as well, are you? Heh-heh-heh! This time you've really surprised me, Rodion Romanych, although I knew this would happen. And there you are telling me about depravity and aesthetics! You're a Schiller, an idealist! That's just as it should be, of course, and it would be a surprise if it were any different, but still, there's something strange about it all when it actually happens . . . Ah, what a shame there's so little time - you're an exceptionally intriguing individual! Do you like Schiller, by the way? I simply adore him.'
'What a show-off you are!' said Raskolnikov, with a certain disgust.
'Whatever next?' replied Svidrigailov, roaring with laughter. 'Well all right, if you must. But what's wrong with a bit of showing off if it's not doing anyone any harm? I've lived at Marfa Petrovna's in the country for seven long years, so when I manage to collar an intelligent man like you - intelligent and highly intriguing - I'm only too glad to have the chance to talk. Besides, I've drunk half a glass of this stuff and it's already slightly gone to my head. But the main thing is a certain circumstance, which has really put the wind in my sails, but about which I will say . . . nothing. But where are you off to?' Svidrigailov suddenly asked in alarm.
Raskolnikov was about to get up. He felt oppressed, stifled and somehow embarrassed about having come here. He'd satisfied himself that Svidrigailov was the shallowest and most contemptible villain in the world.
'Dear oh dear! You must stay a bit longer,' Svidrigailov implored him. 'Order yourself some tea at least. Really, sit down and I'll stop talking rubbish - about myself I mean. I'll tell you a story. Wouldn't you like me to tell you the story of how I was once "saved" (as you might put it) by a woman? In fact, it'll be a reply to your first question, because the individual in question is your sister. May I? It'll kill the time.'
'All right, but I hope you'll . . .'
'Oh, don't you worry! Not to mention the fact that even a man as abominable and shallow as me can feel only the deepest respect for Avdotya Romanovna.'
IV
'You perhaps know (in fact, I told you myself),' Svidrigailov began, 'that I did some time in debtor's prison here, for an enormous sum, without the slightest prospect of being able to pay. I won't bore you with the details of how Marfa Petrovna bought me out. Are you aware of the degree of stupefaction to which a woman can be brought by love? She was an honest woman and far from stupid (though completely uneducated). Just imagine: this same, jealous, honest woman decided to condescend, after many dreadful outbursts and reproaches, to a sort of contract with me, one she upheld for the duration of our marriage. You see, she was significantly older than me, and besides, she was forever sucking on cloves. I was enough of a pig at heart, and honest enough in my own way, to tell her frankly that I could never be entirely faithful. This admission worked her up into a frenzy, but something about my rough candour seemed to appeal to her: "He doesn't want to deceive me himself, then, if he's telling me this now" - for a jealous woman, nothing could be more important. After many tearful scenes, a kind of unwritten contract was established between us: first, I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always remain her husband; second, I would never wander off without her permission; third, I would never take a regular mistress; fourth, Marfa Petrovna would permit me, in exchange, to look in on the housemaids every now and again, though never without her secret knowledge; fifth, God forbid that I should ever love a woman of our own class; sixth, if, God forbid, I should succumb to some great and serious passion, I should reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. This last point, however, never caused Marfa Petrovna undue concern. She was an intelligent woman, so she could hardly see me as anything but a depraved skirt-chaser incapable of true love. But an intelligent woman and a jealous woman are two very different entities - and therein lies the problem. Still, with some people, in order to judge them without bias, one must begin by renouncing various preconceptions and one's habitual attitude towards the people and objects that ordinarily surround us. I'm entitled to count on your judgement more than that of anyone else. I expect you've already heard a great many absurd and ridiculous things about Marfa Petrovna. She did indeed possess some quite ridiculous habits. But I will tell you frankly that I sincerely regret the countless sorrows of which I was the cause. Well, that ought to do as a perfectly acceptable oraison funebre from a dear-beloved husband to his dear-beloved wife. In the event of an argument between us, I would tend to say nothing and avoid becoming irritated, and this gentlemanly conduct almost always attained its purpose; it had an effect on her - in fact, she liked it; and there were occasions when she was even proud of me. Nevertheless, your dear sister proved too much for her. Why oh why did she risk welcoming such a beauty into her home - as a governess! My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was a fiery and impressionable woman and she herself simply fell in love - literally fell in love - with Avdotya Romanovna. But your sister's a fine one, too! I had no doubt, from the moment I saw her, that there was trouble ahead and - can you imagine? - decided that I wouldn't so much as look at her. But Avdotya Romanovna took the first step herself - can you believe it? And can you believe that Marfa Petrovna even chastised me at first for never saying a word about your dear sister, for being so indifferent to her own incessant, besotted praise of Avdotya Romanovna? God knows what she was after! Well, you won't be surprised to hear that Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna everything there is to know about me. She had the most unfortunate trait of telling the world all our family secrets and constantly complaining about me to all and sundry; a new and beautiful friend like Avdotya Romanovna was too good an opportunity to miss! I suspect that they spoke of nothing but me, and there can be little doubt that Avdotya Romanovna became acquainted with all those dark, mysterious tales that people associate me with . . . You, I dare say, will also have heard something in this line?'
'I have. Luzhin even accused you of being responsible for the death of a child. Is that true?'
'Kindly avoid such vulgar topics,' Svidrigailov snapped back with peevish disgust. 'If you are so very desperate to find out about all this nonsense, I'll tell you about it another time, but now . . .'
'There was also talk about a servant of yours in the country - you were responsible for something there, too, apparently.'
'Please - enough!' Svidrigailov interrupted with obvious impatience.
'I don't suppose that's the same servant who came to f
ill your pipe after he died . . . the one you told me about yourself?' asked Raskolnikov with mounting irritation.
Svidrigailov looked closely at Raskolnikov, who thought he caught in this glance the briefest flash of malicious mockery, but Svidrigailov managed to restrain himself and replied with great courtesy:
'The very same. I see that you, too, are unusually interested in all this, and I'll consider it my duty, at the first available opportunity, to satisfy your curiosity on all counts. Damn it all! I see that I really could be taken for some character from a novel. Judge for yourself how grateful I should be to the late Marfa Petrovna for telling your dear sister so many mysterious and intriguing things about me. I dare not judge what impression this must have made on her, but it was certainly to my advantage. For all Avdotya Romanovna's natural disgust towards me, and despite my habitually dismal and repulsive appearance, she ended up taking pity on me, a washed-up man. And when a girl's heart is moved to pity, she thereby puts herself, as everyone knows, in the gravest possible danger. We all know what comes next: she'll want to "save" him and knock some sense into him, and resurrect him and exhort him towards more noble goals, and restore him to new life and activity - the usual fantasies. I immediately twigged that the bird was flying into the net all by herself and prepared myself accordingly. You seem to be frowning, Rodion Romanych? Not to worry, sir. As you know, it all blew over. (Damn it, I'm drinking a lot today!) You know, it's always been a source of regret to me, right from the beginning, that fate did not allow your sister to be born in the second or third century AD, as the daughter of a ruling prince or governor, or of some proconsul or other in Asia Minor. She would, no doubt, have been among the martyrs; and she would, no doubt, have smiled at having her breast burned with white-hot tongs. She'd have sought this out herself, while in the fourth or fifth century she'd have retreated into the Egyptian desert for thirty years, living off roots, raptures and visions. She craves nothing else and demands to suffer some agony or other for someone or other, and if you don't give her this agony quickly she'll probably throw herself out of the window. I've heard about a certain Mr Razumikhin. A sensible sort, I'm told (as his name suggests - must be a seminarian).15 Let him take care of your sister. In short, I think I've understood her and I'm rather proud of the fact. But back then . . . well, as you know yourself, one is always a bit more frivolous at the beginning of an acquaintance, a bit more foolish, liable to get things wrong, not to see them as they really are. Why does she have to be so pretty, damn it? It's hardly my fault! In short, for me it all began with the most irrepressible surge of lust. Avdotya Romanovna is appallingly chaste - it's unheard of, unprecedented. (Note that I am telling you this simply as a fact. Your sister is almost morbidly chaste, for all her breadth of mind, and it'll do her nothing but harm.) At this point a girl turned up on the estate, Parasha, black-eyed Parasha, a housemaid newly brought in from another village. I'd never seen her before - a very pretty little thing, but incredibly stupid: she made a terrible racket with her sobbing and wailing, and ended up causing a scene. Once, after lunch, Avdotya Romanovna caught me alone on one of the paths in the garden and, eyes flashing, demanded that I leave poor Parasha alone. It was virtually our first tete-a-tete. I, needless to say, considered it an honour to satisfy her wish, tried my best to look stricken and abashed, and, in short, carried it off rather well. A relationship began: mysterious conversations, admonitions, exhortations, supplications, entreaties, even tears - can you believe it? - even tears! The things a passion for propaganda can do to a girl! I, of course, blamed everything on my fate, affected a terrible thirst for enlightenment and, finally, deployed the greatest and surest method for conquering a woman's heart, a method which never lets you down and works on absolutely everyone, without exception. The method is well known: flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than candour, and nothing easier than flattery. Candour that contains even the faintest false note results in immediate dissonance and a scene is sure to follow. Flattery, even if it contains false notes and nothing else, is always welcome and heard with pleasure; a vulgar kind of pleasure, perhaps, but pleasure nonetheless. And however crude this flattery may be, at least half of it will always seem true. This holds for all social groups, whatever their level of education. Even vestal virgins can be seduced by flattery - to say nothing of ordinary people. I can't help laughing when I recall how I once seduced a certain lady who was deeply devoted to her husband, her children and her own virtue. What fun that was - and how easily done! She really was a lady of virtue, at least in her own way. My tactics were simple enough: to appear crushed by her chastity and prostrate myself before it at every turn. I flattered her shamelessly and no sooner would I win a squeeze of her hand or even a glance than I'd immediately berate myself that I'd taken it from her by force while she'd resisted, resisted to such a degree that she would never have granted me anything had I myself not been so ridden with vice; she, in her innocence, hadn't seen it coming and had yielded without meaning to, unaware of having done so, etcetera, etcetera. In short, I had my way, while my lady remained perfectly convinced that she was blameless and chaste, that she was performing all her duties and obligations, and that her ruin had come about quite inadvertently. How very angry she was with me when I eventually told her that, in my sincere opinion, she'd been seeking pleasure no less than I had. Poor Marfa Petrovna also yielded to flattery all too easily, and had I but wanted to I could, of course, have transferred her entire estate to myself while she was still alive. (Dear me! I'm drinking and talking far too much.) I trust you won't be angry if I now mention that this method was beginning to have the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I went and ruined everything through my own stupidity and impatience. Even before then (I remember one occasion in particular) she'd taken a violent dislike to the expression of my eyes - can you believe that? In short, they'd begun to burn, ever more intensely and ever more recklessly, with a fire that frightened her and that she eventually came to detest. I won't go into the details; we went our separate ways. Then I committed another stupidity. I set about mocking all this propaganda and oratory in the most vulgar way imaginable. Parasha came back into the picture, and not just her. Sodom, in a nutshell. Oh, if you could but see, Rodion Romanych, at least once in your life, your dear sister's eyes flash as only they know how! Never mind that I'm drunk now and that I've had a whole glass of champagne - I'm telling the truth. I used to dream of that look, I assure you. By the end, even the rustling of her dress was too much for me. Really, I thought an epileptic fit was just around the corner. I'd never imagined reaching such a state of frenzy. In short, I needed to resign myself, but this was no longer possible. So can you imagine what I went and did then? The idiocy to which a man can be reduced by rage! Never undertake anything in a rage, Rodion Romanych. Calculating that Avdotya Romanovna was more or less a beggar (oh dear, I'm sorry, not what I meant to . . . but doesn't it all come to the same thing?), in short, that she was living by the fruits of her own labour and supporting both her mother and you (damn it, you're frowning again . . . ), I made up my mind to offer her all the money I had (even then, that came to about thirty thousand) in the hope that she would elope with me, if only to Petersburg. Naturally I'd have sworn eternal love, bliss, etcetera. Believe it or not, I was so besotted by that point that if she'd said, "Cut Marfa Petrovna's throat or poison her and marry me," I'd have done so without a second thought! But the upshot of it all was the catastrophe you already know about, and you can judge for yourself how furious I must have been on learning that Marfa Petrovna had found that scum of a clerk, Luzhin, and all but fixed up a wedding - one that, in the end, would have come to the same thing as what I was proposing. Would it not? Would it not, I say? I can't help noticing that you've started listening very attentively . . . What an interesting young man . . .'