'I know this theory of his. I read his article in the journal about people to whom all is permitted . . . Razumikhin brought it to me . . .'
'Mr Razumikhin? An article by your brother? In a journal? Such an article exists? I didn't know. Well, well, that must be interesting! But where are you off to, Avdotya Romanovna?'
'I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,' said Dunechka faintly. 'Which way to her room? She may be back already. I just have to see her now. Maybe she can . . .'
Avdotya Romanovna couldn't finish; she literally ran out of breath.
'Sofya Semyonovna won't be back before dark. That's my guess. She should have come by now, or else not until very late . . .'
'Ah, so you're a liar, a fibber! Damn you! You were lying all along! I don't believe you! I don't! I don't!' shouted Dunechka hysterically, losing all self-control.
She dropped almost unconscious into the chair hurriedly provided by Svidrigailov.
'Avdotya Romanovna, whatever's the matter? Wake up! Here's some water. Take a sip at least . . .'
He splashed her with water. Dunechka started and came round.
'Well that shook her up!' Svidrigailov muttered to himself with a frown. 'Avdotya Romanovna, you mustn't worry! He has friends, you know. We'll save him. We'll rescue him. Shall I take him abroad? I have money and I can get a passport certificate within three days. And as for his murder, well, there's plenty of time for him to make amends and smooth everything over. You mustn't worry. He may still turn out a great man. But what's the matter? How are you feeling now?'
'You wicked man! And you even have the nerve to laugh at me. Let me go . . .'
'But where are you off to?'
'To see him. Where is he? Do you know? Why's this door locked? We came in by this door and now it's locked. When did you manage to lock it?'
'I couldn't let the entire floor hear what we were saying. I'm not laughing at you in the slightest. I'm just sick of talking like this. Where will you go in such a state? Or do you want to give him up? You'll work him up into a rage, then he'll do it himself. He's being followed, you know; they're already onto him. You'll merely end up betraying him. Just have patience. I saw him and spoke to him only moments ago. He can still be saved. Have a seat and we'll think it through. That's why I brought you here - to talk this over in private and think it through. Just sit down, I say!'
'How on earth can you save him? How can he be saved?'
Dunya sat down. Svidrigailov sat next to her.
'That all depends on you, on you alone,' he began, eyes flashing, almost in a whisper, stuttering and even swallowing some of his words in his emotion.
Dunya shrank back in alarm. He, too, was shaking all over.
'You . . . One word from you and he is saved! I . . . I will save him. I have money and friends. I'll pack him off right away and I myself will get a passport, two passports. One for him, one for me. I have friends, people who can get things done . . . Well? I'll get you a passport, too . . . and one for your mother . . . What do you need Razumikhin for? I love you just as much . . . I love you boundlessly. Let me kiss the hem of your dress! Please! Please! I can't bear to hear it rustle. Say "Do that" and I'll do it! I'll do everything. I'll do what can't be done. Whatever you believe in, I'll believe in. I'll do everything, everything! Just don't look at me like that, don't! You're killing me, do you know that . . . ?'
He'd even started raving. Something had suddenly come over him, like a rush to the head. Dunya leapt to her feet and ran to the door.
'Open up! Open up!' she shouted through the door, calling out to anyone who would hear and shaking the door. 'Open up! There must be someone!'
Svidrigailov got to his feet and pulled himself together. His still-quivering lips slowly forced out a malicious, mocking smile.
'There's no one at home,' he said softly and slowly. 'The landlady's gone out and you're wasting your breath, getting worked up for no reason.'
'Where's the key? Open the door. Open it now, you vile man.'
'I've lost it and can't find it anywhere.'
'Ha! So this is assault!' cried Dunya, turning pale as death and running over to a corner, where she shielded herself with a little table lying close by. She didn't shout, but she fastened her eyes on her tormentor and followed his every move. Svidrigailov also stood motionless, facing her from the other end of the room. He'd even managed to regain his self-control, or so at least it seemed. But his face was as pale as before. The mocking smile had not left it.
'You said "assault" just now, Avdotya Romanovna. If it's assault, then you can see for yourself that I've taken precautions. Sofya Semyonovna's out; the Kapernaumovs are far away - five locked rooms between us. Lastly, I'm at least twice as strong as you, and besides, I've nothing to fear, because you can hardly go and complain about it later. You wouldn't really want to betray your brother, would you? No one would believe you anyway: what was she doing visiting a man who lives on his own? So even if you do sacrifice your brother you won't prove a thing: assault is very hard to prove, Avdotya Romanovna.'
'Scoundrel!' whispered Dunya indignantly.
'As you please, but note that everything I've said was purely hypothetical. My personal conviction is that you are absolutely right: assault is a loathsome thing. All I was trying to say was that you would have nothing at all on your conscience, even if . . . even if you felt like saving your brother of your own free will, in the way I'm suggesting. It would simply mean that you had yielded to circumstance, or, I suppose, to force, if we really have to use such words. Think about it: the fate of your brother and mother is in your hands. I'll be your slave . . . my whole life long . . . I'll be waiting right here . . .'
Svidrigailov sat down on the couch, about eight paces away. Dunya no longer had the slightest doubt: he was utterly determined. Besides, she knew him . . .
Suddenly, she took a revolver from her pocket, cocked it and rested her hand with the revolver on the little table. Svidrigailov leapt to his feet.
'Aha! I see!' he cried in astonishment, but grinning with malice. 'Well, that changes everything! You're making this a great deal easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna! And where did you find the revolver? Don't tell me it's from Mr Razumikhin? Ha! That revolver's mine! An old friend! I was looking high and low for it! Our shooting lessons in the country, which I was so honoured to give you, weren't wasted after all.'
'The revolver doesn't belong to you - it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, the woman you murdered, you wicked man! There was nothing you could call your own in her house. I took it when I began to suspect what you're capable of. Take one step towards me and I'll kill you, I swear!'
Dunya was in a frenzy. She held the revolver at the ready.
'And your brother? I'm just curious,' asked Svidrigailov, still motionless.
'Report him if you want! Stay right there! Don't move! I'll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know you did. You're a murderer yourself!'
'Are you quite sure I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?'
'It was you! You hinted as much yourself. You told me about the poison . . . I know you made a trip to get it . . . You had it ready . . . It must have been you . . . you wretch!'
'Even if this were true, then only because of you . . . You would have been the cause in any case.'
'Liar! I've always hated you, always . . .'
'Now now, Avdotya Romanovna! You must have forgotten how, in the midst of all your lecturing, you were already bending and softening . . . I could tell by your eyes. Don't you remember, that evening, that moon, the piping of the nightingale?'
'Liar!' (Fury flashed in Dunya's eyes.) 'Liar, slanderer!'
'I'm lying? Well, perhaps I am. Or I did. Women aren't to be reminded of this sort of thing.' (He grinned.) 'You'll shoot, I know it, my pretty little beast! So shoot!'
Dunya raised the revolver and stared at him, deathly pale, her lower lip white and trembling, her big black eyes flashing like fire, her mind made up; taking aim, she waited for his first move. Never had he seen her so beaut
iful. The fire that blazed from her eyes as she raised the revolver seemed to scorch him, and his heart clenched with pain. He took one step. A shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and struck the wall behind him. He stopped and gave a quiet laugh:
'Stung by a wasp! Went straight for the head . . . What's this? Blood!' He took out a handkerchief to wipe away the blood trickling down his right temple; the bullet must have brushed against the skin of his skull. Dunya lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov less in fear than in crazed bewilderment. She herself no longer seemed to understand what on earth she'd done or what on earth was happening!
'Oh well, you missed! Have another go, I'm waiting,' said Svidrigailov softly, still grinning, though in a dismal sort of way. 'Carry on like this and I'll grab you before you cock the gun!'
Dunechka shuddered and hurriedly cocked and lifted the revolver.
'Keep away from me!' she said in despair. 'I'll shoot again, I swear . . . I'll . . . kill you!'
'Oh well . . . hard not to kill at three paces. And if you don't kill me . . . then . . .' His eyes flashed, and he took another two steps.
Dunecka shot - a misfire!
'You didn't load it properly. Never mind! You've got another percussion cap there. Load it - I can wait.'
He was standing two paces away, waiting and looking at her with wild determination, with inflamed, passionate, heavy eyes. Dunya realized that he would sooner die than let her go. And . . . and, of course, she couldn't fail to kill him, not now, not at two paces!
Suddenly, she threw the revolver aside.
'She's thrown it down!' said Svidrigailov in astonishment, drawing a deep breath. He seemed to feel a weight instantly lift from his heart, and not merely, perhaps, the burden of mortal fear - if he could sense any such thing at that moment. It was a release from some other, more sorrowful and dismal feeling, which he himself could not have named.
He came up to Dunya and gently wrapped his arm around her waist. She didn't resist but, trembling from top to toe, looked at him with imploring eyes. He was about to say something, but succeeded only in twisting his lips.
'Let me go!' Dunya implored.
Svidrigailov shuddered: something in her tone had suddenly changed.
'So you don't love me?' he asked quietly.
Dunya shook her head.
'And . . . you can't? Ever?' he whispered despairingly.
'Never!' whispered Dunya.
There followed a moment of dreadful, dumb struggle in Svidrigailov's soul. The look he gave her was indescribable. Suddenly, he withdrew his hand, turned aside, quickly walked away to the window and stood before it.
Another moment passed.
'Here's the key!' (He took it from the left pocket of his coat and placed it on the table behind him, without looking at Dunya or turning towards her.) 'Take it and go, now!'
He stared stubbornly out of the window.
Dunya walked up to the table to take the key.
'Now! Now!' repeated Svidrigailov, still not moving or turning round. But there must have been something dreadful in the way he said it.
Dunya heard it, grabbed the key, rushed to the door, quickly unlocked it and fled from the room. A minute later, half-crazed, beside herself, she was running along the Ditch in the direction of ----y Bridge.
Svidrigailov stood by the window for another three minutes or so; eventually, he turned round slowly, looked about him and passed his palm gently across his forehead. A strange smile twisted his face, a pitiful, sad, feeble smile, a smile of despair. The blood, already dry, stained his palm. He looked at it angrily. Then he wetted a towel and cleaned his temple. The gun, which Dunya had thrown aside and which had ended up by the door, suddenly entered his field of vision. He picked it up and examined it. It was a small, old-fashioned three-shot revolver. There were two charges left in it and one cap. Fine for one more shot. He thought for a moment, thrust the revolver into his pocket, took his hat and went out.
VI
He spent that entire evening until ten o'clock going from one tavern, one den, to another. Katya turned up again, too, singing another maudlin song about how some man, 'a wretch and a bully',
Started kissing Katya.
Svidrigailov saw to it that Katya and the organ-grinder and the chorus singers and the waiters, as well as a pair of clerks, all had plenty to drink. He'd got mixed up with the clerks for no better reason than their crooked noses: one man's curved to the right, the other's to the left. This made a great impression on Svidrigailov. Eventually, they dragged him off to a pleasure garden, where he paid for their admission and drinks. The garden contained a slender, three-year-old fir tree and three little bushes. In addition a 'Vauxhall'28 had been set up - essentially a drinking den, though it served tea as well, and there were also several green tables and chairs. A chorus of atrocious singers and a German drunk from Munich - a kind of clown, with a red nose, though for some reason utterly miserable - were entertaining the public. The clerks got into an argument with some other clerks and were about to start a fight. They'd chosen Svidrigailov to arbitrate. He'd been doing so for about a quarter of an hour already, but there was so much shouting that it was impossible to make head or tail of it all. The likeliest thing was that one of them had stolen something and had even managed to palm it off on one of the Jews knocking around; but, having sold it, was in no hurry to share the spoils with his friend. The stolen object, it transpired, was a teaspoon belonging to the Vauxhall. Its absence was noticed and the whole business was rapidly getting out of hand. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, got up and left the garden. It was around ten. He hadn't touched a drop all this time and had only ordered tea, for the sake of form more than anything. It was a stifling, gloomy evening. By ten o'clock terrible storm clouds had gathered from all sides; there was a clap of thunder and the rain gushed forth like a waterfall. It fell not in drops but in jets, lashing the ground. One flash of lightning followed another and you could count to five before the afterglows faded. Soaked to the skin, he arrived home, locked the door, opened his bureau, took out all his money and ripped up two or three sheets of paper. Then, having pocketed the money, he was on the point of changing his clothes, but, after looking out of the window and bending an ear to the thunder and rain, he dismissed the idea, took his hat and walked out, leaving the apartment unlocked. He went straight over to Sonya's. She was at home.
Sonya wasn't alone; all around her were Kapernaumov's four little children. She'd made them tea. She welcomed Svidrigailov in respectful silence, looking in astonishment at his dripping clothes, but not saying a word. The children fled the room in complete horror.
Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonya to sit next to him. Timidly, she prepared to listen.
'You know, Sofya Semyonovna, I may be leaving for America,' said Svidrigailov, 'and as this is probably the last time we'll see each other I've come to make one or two arrangements. You saw that lady today, didn't you? I know what she said to you. No need to repeat it.' (Sonya almost reacted, then blushed.) 'There's more to people like that than meets the eye. As far as your little sisters and brother are concerned, their future really is settled and I've given the money due to each of them to the appropriate person for safe keeping. But I'll give you the receipts in any case. There you go! Well, that's that dealt with. Here are three five per cent bonds, worth three thousand all told. They're for you, for you and no one else, and do let's keep it between ourselves, whatever anyone else may say to you. You'll need them, Sofya Semyonovna. You can't carry on with that sordid life, and anyway, you no longer have to.'
'You're my benefactor, sir, and I'm so very indebted to you, as are the orphans, and the deceased,' Sonya hastily put in, 'and if I have not yet thanked you enough, then . . . don't think me . . .'
'That'll do, that'll do.'
'And as for this money, Arkady Ivanovich, I'm very grateful to you, but really, I've no need of it now. Don't think me ungrateful, but I will always be able to support myself. If you are so very kind
, sir, this money . . .'
'It's for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please, the less said the better - I've no time. You'll need it. There are two paths open to Rodion Romanovich: a bullet to the head or the Vladimirka29 to Siberia.' (Sonya gave him a wild look and started shaking.) 'Don't worry, I know everything - I heard it all from him - and I'm the soul of discretion. I won't tell anyone. That was good advice you gave him to go and give himself up. He'll be much better off that way. And if it's the Vladimirka - you'll follow him, I suppose? Won't you? Won't you? Well in that case you'll be needing this money. You'll need it for him, understand? Giving it to you is the same as giving it to him. Besides, haven't you just promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay off the debt? I heard you. What on earth are you doing, Sofya Semyonovna, taking on all these contracts and obligations without a moment's thought? After all, it was Katerina Ivanovna who owed that German, not you, so why should you care? You won't last long if you carry on like that. Well, miss, if anyone asks you - tomorrow, say, or the day after - anything at all about me (and I'm sure they will), don't mention this visit of mine and, whatever you do, don't show the money to anyone or say I gave it to you. Well, goodbye.' (He got up from his chair.) 'My compliments to Rodion Romanych. By the way, why not give that money to Mr Razumikhin for the time being? Do you know Mr Razumikhin? Of course you do. He's all right, that boy. Take it over to him tomorrow or . . . whenever the time comes. Until then, keep it well out of sight.'
Sonya also jumped up from her chair and looked at him in alarm. She was desperate to say something, to ask something, but for the first few minutes she didn't dare, and anyway, she didn't know how to begin.